They say the devil is in the details and that is certainly true in regard to insurance policies as I am unfortunately learning, but in regard to relationships, the details can be absolutely heavenly. I like the way this Khalil Gibran quotation expresses it, “In the sweetness of friendship, let there be laughter and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”

I was thinking about the little things that I treasure about my husband last Saturday as we drove along in his car, listening to both SiriusXM and, as per usual, my vocal accompaniment to every single song as we toggled back and forth among the stations. From Margaritaville to Soul Town to Seriously Sinatra, I don’t think there was even one song whose lyrics I didn’t know as I happen to have an amazing repertoire. Unfortunately, I don’t happen to have an amazing voice to go along with it. Theologically, this disconnect has been a longstanding point of contention for me. If God doesn’t make mistakes, how is it possible that I could have been born with the heart and soul of a center stage songstress without vocal cords to match? If not an outright mistake, can I at least go as far as labeling it a serious oversight without being blasphemous?

At any rate, my narrow range has never stopped me from belting it out in the kitchen, the shower and without fail in the car. In fact, singing in the car is not only one of my greatest pleasures, it is all but impossible for me not to do it. You might be able to convince me to drive blindfolded, but not gagged. But just as Old Blue Eyes was getting under my skin that particular Saturday afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me that it was just possible that my constant singing might be a little annoying to the other party in the car. True confession, it would probably drive me crazy! My jaw dropped and my voice actually fell silent at the stunning realization that for nearly eleven years I had been singing in the car and never once had my husband so much as sighed heavily, much less suggested that I “rest my voice.”

I was completely flooded with love and gratitude for my husband in a way I hadn’t quite felt before. He does so many thoughtful little things for me, from getting my oil changed to making me breakfast on weekends, but somehow this seemed in a category all its own. I turned the radio down, looked at him and said, “Do you know why I love you? Because you let me sing along with all the songs on the radio.”

He laughed, but I continued. “I can’t believe you put up with my singing because it gives me such pleasure, even though it must surely get on your nerves sometimes.”

“Never,” he replied with sincerity. “I love when you sing because it tells me you are happy. I don’t ever want you to stop singing or being happy.”

With those two sentences, my dear husband managed to accomplish the near-impossible, that is, render me speechless. He wasn’t singing, but his words certainly hit all the right notes, struck all the right chords, leaving me unable to speak. After a moment, he squeezed my hand and then reached over to turn up the volume just in time to catch Frank Sinatra crooning the first few bars of “The Good Life,” one of his favorite songs.

“Oh, great, it’s ‘The Good Life,’” he said excitedly, turning the volume up even louder and beginning to sing along himself.

All I could do was nod in agreement and say, “That it is, honey. That it is indeed.”