A testing wife is not always testing the husband's charge level or capabilities. I know my husband can handle me. It's my identity I'm testing, not his, my womanhood, not his masculinity. Yes, women have their own gifts and are not inferior to men in the big picture, but being taken in hand by look or word or deed helps me to face that I am a woman. My husband informs me somehow: you are a woman, so you had better like it.
Womanhood is not as clearly defined or as welcome as people say. In a lot of ways, manhood looks more enjoyable, and I do get envious. I think of being that strong, fast, and invulnerable—my spirit but a man and best friends with my husband. I don't mean I want to be a muscular woman and get a short hair cut. I'm not even a tomboy.
But inside there's a part of me that wants to stay a girl or even become a man, a part of me that thinks my becoming a woman is unfair. My husband can quiet this part. He lets me know he's glad I'm that malleable and little and fluttering, and I understand. I feel blessed, fortunate to be a woman loved by him.
My husband warns me sometimes in this way: “We have a minute for you to think about what you want.” Usually, that's enough. But what I want can rocket to impossibilities unless he shows me earth.