Towards my husband, I often fail to show interest in his affairs

Hear the words of Evelyn Underhill, mystic and teacher of the soul: “Towards my husband, I often fail to show interest in his affairs and amusements, not rousing myself to respond when I’m tired or concerned with other things, forgetting he is very patient with me.” These words, humble and human, reveal not the failings of love, but its sacred challenge: the temptation to take for granted the presence of one who waits, one who endures, one who loves in silence. For in every bond, especially the sacred bond of marriage, there lies the danger of forgetting that affection must be nourished, attention must be given, and patience, though strong, is not infinite.

To confess such weakness is to speak for all humanity. For who among us has not turned inward when weary, neglecting the needs of those who walk beside us? In the quiet of daily life, it is easy to grow blind to the sacrifices of others, to the silent acts of love they bestow. Underhill’s words remind us that the true danger in love is not always betrayal or conflict, but neglect—the slow forgetting of gratitude, the silent erosion of attention. Patience can cover many faults, but without renewal, even patience begins to wither.

History itself tells of such lessons. Recall Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, who wrote often of duty, balance, and gratitude. Though burdened with empire, he reflected on the importance of honoring those closest to him, recognizing that even the great must not neglect the quiet bonds of the heart. For empires fall and victories fade, but the wound of neglect in the household is remembered long after. Evelyn’s confession is thus a mirror of an eternal truth: attention to the small gestures of love is as vital as devotion to the great affairs of the world.

Consider also the story of Penelope and Odysseus. For twenty years she waited, weaving and unweaving her tapestry, while he wandered far from home. Her patience preserved their bond. Yet one imagines that when Odysseus returned, had he neglected her, had he failed to notice her sacrifice, their reunion would not have been the triumph it became. Love demands not only endurance but also recognition, not only patience but also gratitude.

Underhill’s words carry the weight of humility. She acknowledges that her husband’s patience is a gift, one she sometimes forgets to honor. And yet, in the very act of recognizing her failing, she redeems it. For the greatest danger is not imperfection itself, but blindness to imperfection. To confess is to awaken, to see again, to remember that love must be tended like a flame, lest it fade beneath the ashes of daily weariness.

The lesson, O seekers, is this: never forget to honor those who show patience with you. Do not assume their endurance is owed, nor take their forbearance for granted. Gratitude must be spoken, and love must be renewed in word and deed. For small acts of kindness—a question asked, an ear given, a smile shared—become the mortar that holds together the walls of companionship. Neglect these, and the walls weaken; honor them, and they endure against time.

Practical wisdom lies here: when tired, remember that attention, even in small measure, is an offering of love. When burdened by concerns, pause long enough to notice the one who walks beside you. Speak gratitude for their patience, for gratitude deepens love. And when you fail, as all do, confess with humility, and begin again. For love is not made perfect in never failing, but in always returning, always renewing, always remembering.

So let Underhill’s words echo: “I forget he is very patient with me.” May they remind us all to see with fresh eyes the sacrifices of those who love us, to cherish their patience, and to repay it not with silence, but with tenderness. For in the end, the strength of love is not in the grand moments, but in the daily choosing, again and again, to notice, to care, to honor the gift of another’s heart.