His Hand on My Hip

There I was, lying on my left side in the middle of the night, caught in the blue-light glow of my phone. I was deep into a game of solitaire—yes, I know the experts say nighttime screen time is the enemy of sleep, but sometimes the cards are the only things that will settle a restless mind.

Behind me, the world was perfectly still. My husband was snuggled up close, his hand draped familiarly over my hip, his breath a rhythmic, quiet snore right in my ear. It’s a sound that should probably be annoying, yet in the silence of the house, it felt like a lullaby.

I shifted slightly, trying to find that “Goldilocks” spot of comfort, and felt his hand adjust with me. Now, before your mind wanders straight into the gutter — stay with me! — this wasn’t about that kind of spark. Though, for the record, our intimate life is great; but in the 3 a.m. darkness, I was struck by a different kind of closeness.

It occurred to me how profound the comfort of “quiet intimacy” really is. It’s the weight of a hand on a hip, the unconscious way he reaches for me even in his sleep, and the simple security of knowing I’m not alone in the dark. These moments aren’t flashy or cinematic. They don’t require fancy dinners or grand gestures. They are the “dirty-dishes-and-mortgage-payments” kind of love—the kind that survives the hurdles and the heartaches.

There is a sacred peace in being truly known and still being held. In a world that feels like “one thing after another,” that hand on my waist is my anchor. It’s a reminder that grace isn’t just found in big miracles; sometimes, it’s found in a quiet snore and the warmth of a hand that has walked every mile of this journey right beside me.

In the daylight, we often measure our relationship by the words we say or the tasks we accomplish together. We talk about the kids, the budget, or who is picking up the chicken feed at Runnings. But in the velvet silence of the night, love speaks a more primitive, honest language. It’s the language of skin against skin, the silent reassurance that says, I am here. You are safe.

As I finally tucked my phone away, the solitaire game forgotten, I realized that this is the “muscle memory” of a long marriage. We have navigated the heights of joy and the jagged valleys of loss—including the deepest heartbreaks a parent can know—and yet, here we are. His hand doesn’t need to be told where to rest; it knows its home.

There is a humor in it, too, of course. Marriage is the only place where you can be deeply moved by the spiritual connection of your souls one minute, and then gently elbow your partner the next because their “quiet snore” has suddenly escalated into a freight train engine. It’s the balance of the divine and the domestic.

I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his hand anchor me. My newly chosen New Year’s verse for 2026 kept echoing in my mind: My grace is sufficient for you. In that moment, grace felt like a heavy cotton blanket and the steady heartbeat behind me. It was a reminder that even when I’m at my weakest—restless, distracted, and unable to sleep—I am held. Literally and figuratively.

So, here is to the quiet touches. The “nothing” moments that actually mean everything. May we never be too busy or too tired to recognize the miracle in a hand draped over a hip in the middle of the night.

#marriage #mybestfriend #mysafeplace #husbandwifelove #soulmates