LIFE issues
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Never in a thousand years would I love having my back scratched. I’d much rather be given a book of poetry.
LOVING TO BE LOVED
But he wasn’t. He didn’t really understand why I needed to give him the book. Finally, after a long silence, as he tried to find the right words, Bernie suggested that I didn’t need to buy him gifts. We were poor and we needed the money for other things. I was slightly stunned. In my family we often bought each other little gifts. It was what you did. It was one of the ways we showed love and care for each other, as well as by being
© istockphoto/Rebecca Grabill
Karen Holford
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I wrapped the tiny book of contemporary love poetry in white tissue paper, tied it with a blue ribbon and placed the package in my husband’s backpack. All day I imagined him finding the present, excitedly tearing off the tissue and being touched by my kindness and thoughtfulness. When Bernie came home that evening he didn’t mention the book. All through supper he talked about his day and I talked about mine. We were both students at a University in the Midwest of America, thousands of miles away from home. Bernie had a permit to work on the campus and I wasn’t allowed to work at all, even though I was studying too. We’d only been married a few months and I wanted to keep our romance alive, somehow. We had very little money and some days we only had food to eat because of a charitable food run, where we could go and get a free bag full of supermarket throwaways: bananas with bruises, unsold perishables and past-their-best potatoes. But the book was in the 50% off basket, and I thought Bernie would be as delighted as I’d have been if he’d done the same for me.
with each other, and helping each other. It was my turn to be quiet: to think things through. If Bernie didn’t want me to give him gifts, how was I going to show that I loved him in a way that would mean something to him? Bernie spent the evening studying and writing an essay at the kitchen table. Just before bedtime he stretched his bent arms out to either side and wriggled his back around to loosen the knotted muscles in his shoulders. ‘Karen, you couldn’t scratch my back for me, could you?’ ‘OK, where does it itch?’ ‘Oh, nowhere in particular. I just like having my back scratched.’ Scratch his back? Whoever wanted their back scratched? Especially if there wasn’t an itch! But I scratched his back anyway. He wanted me to scratch all over his upper back, with my fingernails, and especially around his shoulder blades. Weird. But he seemed to like it. ‘Mmmm, that’s better. Thanks. I just love having my back scratched.’ He loved having his back scratched! I was stunned! Never in a thousand years would I love having my back scratched. I’d much rather be given a book of poetry. I thought about our strange differences as I tried to fall asleep. I woke for a few moments, several hours later when the night was darkest and deeply silent, and a candle of light flickered through my thoughts. I was trying to love Bernie the way I liked to be loved, with tiny treats and surprises, when what he really wanted was a good old back scratch! Years later we read Gary Chapman’s bestselling book, The Five Love Languages, and we understood more about our differences. We each wrote a list of twenty times when we felt especially loved by the other person, and then we went over the list