A Saint Among Men

My name is Mike, and if there’s one thing you ought to know about me, it’s this: I am, without question, one of the most patient, understanding, and considerate husbands alive today. Some men lose their tempers when life at home doesn’t go as smoothly as they’d like. Not me. No, sir. I take pride in handling things with tact and grace.

Take my marriage, for example. My wife, Pat, and I have been together for decades. We’ve weathered our share of storms—kids, mortgages, car payments, the whole nine yards. A few years ago, I retired after a long and noble career in office administration. I thought retirement would be a well-deserved reward, a chance to finally relax and enjoy the fruits of my labor.

And I did relax. I golfed three, sometimes four times a week. I had lunches at the club with my buddies, long afternoons spent practicing my swing, evenings watching sports, and leisurely mornings where the alarm clock was no longer my enemy. Retirement was, as they say, the golden years.

But for Pat… well, let’s just say her golden years turned out a bit differently.

When I stepped away from work, Pat stepped right in. To keep us afloat financially—and to maintain our excellent health insurance—she had to take on not one but two jobs. One full-time, one part-time. I didn’t push her into it, mind you. She volunteered. That’s just the kind of woman she is: hardworking, dedicated, selfless. The backbone of our household.

Now, some men might feel guilty about a setup like this. Not me. I’ve always believed in balance. My role, as I saw it, was to keep the home running smoothly while Pat focused on her career. I became the anchor, the calm at the center of the storm. And I like to think I’ve managed that role beautifully.

Still, as the years passed, I began noticing something. My wife wasn’t quite the same as she used to be. I don’t mean emotionally—we’re as strong as ever in that department. No, I mean physically. She seemed slower, less energetic, a little more fragile around the edges. Time, it turns out, isn’t always kind.

And that’s where my patience really shines.

For instance, when we both arrive home in the evenings, I’m often starving. Golfing is hard work, after all. You walk the course, you carry the clubs, you sweat under the sun—it takes a toll. So naturally, by dinnertime, I’m ready for a hearty, home-cooked meal. Pat, however, usually says she needs thirty minutes to rest before starting dinner.

Do I complain? Do I raise my voice? Absolutely not. I tell her, “Take your time, honey. Wake me when it’s ready.” I stretch out in my recliner, close my eyes, and let her have the space she needs. Not every husband would be so considerate.

I remember the early years of our marriage. Pat used to jump right into the kitchen after work, cheerful and energetic, whipping up dinner like it was second nature. Dishes were cleaned promptly after meals, the counters sparkled, and everything had a rhythm. Nowadays, though, the dishes sometimes sit in the sink for hours.

Again, I don’t nag. That’s not my style. I simply offer gentle reminders. A few encouraging words here and there: “You know, sweetheart, those dishes won’t wash themselves.” Or, “A clean kitchen is a happy kitchen.” She always seems motivated after that.

That’s the kind of man I am. Supportive. Positive. Uplifting.

Another thing I’ve noticed is how stressed she gets about paying bills. Back in the day, she handled them with ease. She’d balance the checkbook, write the checks, seal the envelopes, and get everything mailed out without breaking a sweat. Now she sighs, groans, mutters under her breath about deadlines and late fees. She says it’s too much to do on her lunch break.

But I’ve found solutions. I tell her not to worry, not to rush. “Spread it out over a few days,” I suggest. “Skip lunch if you have to. Think of it as multitasking. And besides,” I add with a wink, “skipping a meal here and there might help you keep your figure.”

She doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humor, but deep down, I know she understands I’m just trying to help.

Even yard work has become a challenge for her. Mowing the lawn used to be one of her favorite activities. She’d throw on a pair of old sneakers, push the mower around with gusto, and then collapse on the porch with a tall glass of lemonade. These days, she tires halfway through and has to take breaks.

And you know what? That’s fine. I don’t push her. I tell her to grab a cold glass of lemonade to cool off. Then, since she’s already in the kitchen, I’ll say, “Why don’t you make one for me, too?” Sharing is caring, after all.

The truth is, I may sound like I’m bragging, but not every man could handle these situations with the same level of maturity. I don’t see myself as a saint, but if other people happen to see me that way, who am I to argue?

My buddies at the golf course often complain about their wives—nagging, mood swings, little arguments over chores or spending. I tell them they’re doing it all wrong. “You’ve got to encourage, not criticize,” I say. “Offer solutions instead of complaints.”

That’s the philosophy I live by. Criticize less, encourage more. It’s the secret to a long, successful marriage.

And if you ask me, Pat is lucky to have someone like me by her side.

The Gentle Art of Encouragement

One of the things I pride myself on is my ability to notice details. A husband has to be observant, you know. A less thoughtful man might miss the subtle shifts in his wife’s behavior as she grows older. Not me. I pay attention.

For instance, dinner has become a ritual full of small challenges—and, if I may say so, triumphs of my patience. When I come home after eighteen holes under the blazing sun, I’m not just hungry—I’m ravenous. Golfing isn’t simply walking around in khakis; it’s a sport of precision and stamina. My body burns through energy like a furnace. Naturally, by the time I set foot in the door, I’m ready for nourishment.

But Pat, bless her, doesn’t always leap into action the way she once did. She likes to rest, sometimes even lie down for half an hour before heading into the kitchen. And here’s where my greatness as a husband shines. Do I storm into the bedroom demanding food? Do I grumble about starvation? Of course not. I recline in my chair, rub my stomach for dramatic effect, and say gently, “Take all the time you need, honey. I’ll just wait here. Wake me when dinner’s ready.”

That, my friends, is what we call emotional intelligence.

Once dinner is served—and it usually is, eventually—I do my part to keep the evening flowing smoothly. Pat eats quickly, often in silence, while I savor my meal and share anecdotes from the golf course. She doesn’t always laugh at my stories, but I know she appreciates the effort. Afterward, the matter of dishes inevitably arises.

Now, some wives jump up immediately, eager to tidy things away. Pat, however, has grown a bit slower. Sometimes the plates sit on the table, untouched, as though they’re waiting for a miracle. Do I scold her? No. I offer encouragement. A gentle nudge here and there: “Sweetheart, those plates won’t walk to the sink on their own.” Or, “You know, studies say a clean kitchen reduces stress.”

She usually responds with a sigh and gets moving. To the untrained eye, that sigh might seem like annoyance. But I know better. That’s the sound of a woman motivated by love.

Bills are another area where my wisdom has proven invaluable. Pat insists on managing them herself, even though I remind her that retirement has given me plenty of free time. Still, she clutches the responsibility as though it’s her sacred duty. On her lunch breaks, she squeezes in bill-paying sessions, often complaining about how little time she has to eat.

That’s where I step in with solutions. “Don’t rush, darling,” I tell her. “Just spread it out. Pay one bill today, another tomorrow. Who cares if you skip lunch once in a while? A little fasting might do wonders for your waistline.” I always deliver this with a chuckle to keep things lighthearted.

Her silence in response is, to me, a sure sign that she’s considering my advice. She doesn’t argue, after all. And isn’t silence the greatest form of agreement?

Laundry, too, has become more of a process than it used to be. Back in our younger years, Pat could sort, wash, dry, and fold a mountain of clothes in one evening. Now, it takes her longer. She claims it’s because of her long hours at work, but I know it’s just age creeping in. So I support her the best way I know how: by reminding her of the importance of keeping things on schedule.

“Don’t forget my golf polos,” I’ll say. “I need the green one for Wednesday’s game.” It’s these little reminders that help her stay organized.

Yard work is another delicate subject. The lawn doesn’t mow itself, after all. Pat used to breeze through it, humming as she pushed the mower along. Lately, though, she gets winded halfway through. I’m a fair man, so I don’t complain. Instead, I encourage her to pace herself.

“Why don’t you take a break?” I suggest. “Grab a glass of lemonade. And since you’re already in the kitchen, bring me one too. Heavy on the ice.”

It’s these gestures—small, thoughtful, considerate—that define me as a husband.

Some men might step in and do the chores themselves. But where’s the growth in that? A marriage should be about partnership, about each person fulfilling their role. Pat works outside the home, yes, but inside these walls, I believe she deserves the dignity of responsibility. It wouldn’t be fair to rob her of that.

I see myself not as a bystander, but as a coach on the sidelines. Every great athlete needs encouragement, guidance, a reminder of their potential. That’s the role I play for Pat. I cheer her on, push her to do her best, keep her from slacking off. And isn’t that what marriage is all about? Lifting each other up?

Of course, there are moments when Pat doesn’t seem to recognize my efforts. She rolls her eyes, mutters under her breath, or gives me looks that could melt steel. But I don’t take it personally. I know deep down she appreciates my patience. After all, how many men would handle these situations with such grace?

My friends don’t understand. They tell me, “Mike, you’ve got it tough. Your wife works two jobs and still does all the chores? Don’t you feel guilty?” I laugh and shake my head. “Guilty? No way. I’m giving her purpose. I’m building her character. And besides, I help—in my own way.”

They don’t get it. Not everyone can. It takes a special kind of man to recognize that sometimes the best way to help is to guide, not to do.

And let’s be honest: I make sacrifices too. It’s not easy waiting for dinner when you’re starving. It’s not easy drinking lukewarm lemonade because she forgot the extra ice. It’s not easy reminding someone over and over about the dishes or the laundry. But I bear these burdens quietly, without complaint.

That, my friends, is love.

A Model Husband in the Eyes of the World

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in retirement, it’s that the way you carry yourself in public says everything about the kind of man you are at home. People watch. They notice. And in my case, they admire.

Take my neighbors, for example. They’re constantly commenting on what a devoted husband I am. “Mike,” they’ll say, “you’re always looking out for Pat. We see how you treat her.” I usually smile modestly and wave off the compliment, but inside, I can’t help feeling a swell of pride. It’s nice when people recognize greatness.

One afternoon last summer, Pat was out mowing the lawn while I lounged on the porch, sipping a cold beer. A neighbor walked by, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Shouldn’t you be helping her?”

I chuckled. “Friend,” I replied, “what you’re seeing isn’t neglect—it’s empowerment. She insists on doing the lawn herself. Who am I to take that away from her?”

The neighbor didn’t know what to say. Probably because he’d never considered it from such an enlightened perspective. Pat, of course, was wiping sweat from her brow and muttering something under her breath, but I ignored it. She wouldn’t want me to undermine her independence by taking over.

Vacations are another area where my talents as a husband really shine. Planning trips can be stressful, especially when you’re juggling work, bills, and chores. That’s why I’ve made it a point to let Pat handle all the arrangements. Plane tickets, hotel reservations, packing, the whole nine yards—it’s all in her capable hands.

Some men might worry about burdening their wives, but I see it differently. By letting Pat take charge, I’m giving her a sense of control. And when things go wrong—as they inevitably do—she learns resilience.

I remember one trip in particular. We were flying to Florida for a golf tournament I’d entered. Pat booked the flights, arranged the rental car, and even managed the luggage. Unfortunately, the airline lost one of our bags—mine, of course. While she stood in line at the customer service desk, I sat nearby reading a golf magazine. When she finally returned, flustered and exhausted, I reassured her with my trademark patience.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” I said. “It’s just clothes. You’ll figure it out.”

And figure it out she did. She spent half the day tracking down the missing suitcase while I prepared for my tournament. Some might call that unfair. I call it teamwork.

Speaking of golf, the club is where my philosophy truly shines. My buddies and I often compare notes on our home lives, and I can tell you right now: most men don’t have a clue. They complain about nagging wives, endless chores, not enough freedom. I tell them they need to adjust their perspective.

“Marriage is like golf,” I explain. “You don’t win by swinging harder; you win by playing smarter. Encourage your wife instead of criticizing her. Let her carry the load in her way, while you focus on strategy.”

They laugh sometimes, but I know they secretly admire me. After all, my system works. I’ve been married for decades without a single major blowup. Sure, Pat gets quiet sometimes—silent treatments, cold shoulders—but silence, as I’ve said before, is a form of agreement.

Another area where my patience comes into play is shopping. Pat insists on handling groceries, even though I’m perfectly capable of pushing a cart. I let her go alone, trusting her to pick the right items. Occasionally she forgets something—like my favorite brand of chips—but I never raise my voice. I simply say, “No worries, honey. You’ll get it next time.”

That kind of forgiveness is rare in men. I’ve seen husbands throw fits in supermarkets because their wives bought the wrong brand of cereal. Me? I’m above that. I choose peace.

Even in social gatherings, I make sure to highlight my role as the patient, supportive spouse. At dinner parties, I’ll share little anecdotes about how I let Pat rest before making dinner, or how I gently remind her about the dishes. People laugh, shake their heads, and call me a saint. I act humble, but truthfully, it feels good to be recognized.

Of course, Pat doesn’t always play along. Sometimes she’ll interject with her own perspective, saying things like, “Mike, you make it sound like I’m your servant.” Everyone laughs, assuming she’s joking. I laugh too, patting her hand reassuringly. “Oh, Pat,” I’ll say, “you know I couldn’t survive without you.”

And it’s true—I couldn’t. Who else would keep the bills paid, the house clean, the meals cooked, the laundry folded, the lawn mowed? I’d be lost without her. That’s why I make sure to acknowledge her efforts with encouragement instead of criticism. It’s the least I can do.

Sometimes I wonder if other men envy me. They see the balance I’ve struck, the peace I maintain at home, the way I avoid conflict by rising above it all. They struggle with arguments, while I glide through life with calm authority.

But make no mistake—it isn’t easy. Pat’s oversensitivity is a constant challenge. She bristles at my reminders, rolls her eyes at my jokes, sometimes even snaps at me when she’s tired. A lesser man might respond in kind. Not me. I absorb the tension, deflect it with humor, and carry on with dignity.

That’s what makes me different. That’s what makes me great.

In quiet moments, I sometimes reflect on how lucky Pat is. Not every woman gets a husband like me. Most men are selfish, demanding, quick to anger. I, on the other hand, embody patience and grace. I am proof that saints do walk among us.

And though Pat may not say it out loud, I know she feels the same way.

The Saint’s Final Lesson

The older I get, the more convinced I am that men like me are rare. We don’t come around every generation. We’re the kind of husbands women dream of but rarely get. And Pat—well, she hit the jackpot.

I mean, look at the facts. She works two jobs, keeps the house running, pays the bills, does the laundry, manages the yard, cooks, cleans, and still finds the time to mow the lawn or shovel the driveway. And through it all, I stand by her side, a steady hand, a voice of calm, a source of encouragement.

Sometimes, late at night, as I sit in my recliner watching the evening news, I think about the sacrifices I’ve made. Retirement could have been all leisure, but instead, I chose the noble path of patience. While other men demand, I suggest. While others complain, I guide. While others argue, I smile and wait.

I am, if I may be so bold, the very definition of a saint.

Of course, sainthood isn’t always recognized in one’s lifetime. Pat, for instance, doesn’t shower me with praise. She doesn’t call me “the rock of this family” or “the most patient man alive.” She mostly sighs, mutters, and sometimes slams the occasional cabinet door. But I don’t hold it against her. She’s tired. She’s stressed. And deep down, I know she’s grateful.

That’s enough for me.

One evening not long ago, after another long day of golf for me and double shifts for her, Pat came home visibly exhausted. She dropped her bags on the counter, kicked off her shoes, and sank into a chair. I could see it in her face: she was worn out.

And yet, I didn’t complain. I didn’t demand dinner immediately. I looked at her with compassion and said, “Take your time, sweetheart. Rest a little. Wake me when it’s ready.”

You should have seen the look she gave me. A lesser man might have been wounded by it. But me? I smiled. Patience, always patience.

After dinner, the dishes lingered on the table. I offered my gentle reminders, my words of encouragement. She didn’t respond. Just silence. Again, I smiled. Silence, as always, means agreement.

Later that week, the lawn needed mowing. Pat grabbed the mower and started her slow march across the grass. Halfway through, she stopped, wiped her forehead, and came inside.

“Grab some lemonade,” I told her kindly. “And since you’re already in the kitchen, make one for me too. Extra ice this time.”

She stared at me. Not a word, not a sigh—just a stare. If looks could kill, some might say. But I knew better. That look wasn’t anger. It was admiration. Deep, unspoken admiration.

It’s not easy being a man like me. Few can handle the burden of patience, the weight of sainthood. But I carry it gladly, for Pat, for our marriage, for the example I set to other men.

And if there’s one lesson I’d like to leave the world, it’s this: criticize less, encourage more. Be patient. Be understanding. Be like me.

Editor’s Note

Mike died suddenly on July 23 from a perforated rectum.

The police report stated he was discovered with a 50-inch Big Bertha golf driver lodged deep where the sun doesn’t shine, with only a few inches of grip visible.

Neighbors told authorities they had heard “raised voices” earlier that evening, followed by a prolonged silence. Pat has declined to comment.

Funeral services will be held Friday at St. Mark’s Church. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the local golf club.