My Husband’s Gratitude Journal

Before we were married, I liked how quiet and reserved my husband was. He wasn’t the type to say “I love you,” yet somehow, I always felt loved.

He had been my senior in college. After finishing his military service, he returned to school and ended up in the same class year as I was, and we graduated together. When we were dating, I don’t recall him ever saying the words “I love you.” Instead, his version of romance sounded like this: “Is there anything you’d like to eat?” “Anything you want?” “Anywhere you’d like to go?” Looking back, I suppose I should have asked for more. But innocent as I was, I always answered, “No.”

It had never really bothered me that I rarely heard my husband say “I love you.” But after our daughter was born, I found myself wanting to hear it. Why? Because he said it to her all the time. If she mentioned craving something, he would go out and get it—even in the middle of the night. Watching them walk hand in hand or arm in arm made me smile, yet I couldn’t help wondering why he never expressed himself that way with me. Whenever I tried to slip my arm through his, he would suddenly pretend to smooth his hair, pull his arm away, and start stretching—as if he had just remembered an urgent need to exercise. I couldn’t help feeling a little irritated. In short, my husband is painfully shy. Perhaps it has become a habit. If I link arms with him outside, he would say, “We’re family—we don’t need to do that,” or even in the middle of winter, “It’s warm. Let’s not walk so close.” And yet, he happily walks arm in arm with our daughter. Amused by this, she teases me and clings to her father even more.

Not long ago, our daughter brought a whole group of friends over to the house, and their cheerful noise filled every corner. Seeking a quiet refuge, I quietly retreated to my husband’s study. That’s when a diary caught my eye. It was the one I had received as a gift after my story was selected for the church’s monthly magazine. My husband isn’t particularly materialistic, yet he had quickly claimed that diary for himself. The pages looked noticeably thick, swollen from someone pressing firmly as they wrote. Knowing how disciplined he is, I assumed he had been carefully checking off his daily tasks.

“What on earth could he have written to make it this thick?”

Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the diary. To my surprise, he had been using it as a gratitude journal. I was about to close it—after all, a journal is still private—when I noticed two familiar names: our daughter’s and my own.

“I am thankful that Hyeon-im and Ha-gyeong made up.”

It must have been a day when my daughter and I had argued.

My husband made sure to write down at least five things he was grateful for every single day. There was almost one item he listed first:

“I am thankful for the home that gives us a place to rest.”

On days when there was a worship service, he would write:

“I am thankful that I am able to keep God’s regulations.”

His gratitude journal was also filled with memories of our daughter.

“I am thankful that I can buy Ha-gyeong a gift.”

“I am thankful that I can take Ha-gyeong out to eat.”

“I am thankful that I can give Ha-gyeong spending money.”

Soon, I could find my name in my husband’s gratitude journal.

“I am thankful that Hyeon-im could be comforted.”

He didn’t write the details of when or where I had been comforted, but it was clear he was grateful that I had received comfort. Each time I came across my name in his journal, I felt my eyes grow warm, and before long, tears began to flow.

“I am thankful that Hyeon-im stayed strong despite being sick.”

“I am thankful that Hyeon-im returned home safely.”

These were likely written on the day I left the hospital.

“I am thankful that I could send money to Hyeon-im.”

On payday, he expressed gratitude for being able to share what he had earned with me. Each time I went to visit my parents or friends out of town, he would record:

“I am thankful that Hyeon-im returned home safely.”

He was a husband who rarely called, no matter where I went—quiet and reserved—but I came to realize he simply did not want to interrupt me. His care revealed itself through his gratitude journal, which overflowed with sincerity. Reading entries written almost every day, such as “I am thankful for a home where I can rest,” I could feel how deeply he longed for rest after exhausting days. On especially difficult days, he sometimes wrote only the first letter of a phrase. Yet the pattern made his meaning clear: “Rest” for gratitude for a place to rest, “Reg” for thankfulness in being able to follow the regulations of God. Even amid the busyness and fatigue of each day, his consistent expressions of thanks moved me to tears:

“I am thankful to have a job that allows me to work.”

What does family truly mean? Perhaps it is having someone for whom I can make sacrifices and still feel joy. As I secretly read my husband’s gratitude journal, waves of gratitude rose within me. Though standing in front of the stove on a scorching summer day can be exhausting, I am grateful to prepare a meal for him after his long day of work. Even when I serve simple dishes like soybean paste stew or kimchi stew, my daughter’s enthusiastic words—“Mom, you should open a restaurant!”—fill my heart with joy and gratitude all over again.

I am grateful that I can receive and give thanks to our Heavenly Father, who worked as a stonemason, left us the Book of Truth, and faithfully carried out both evangelism and the keeping of the commandments to show us the way to the Kingdom of Heaven. I am grateful that I can give thanks to Father Ahnsahnghong, who endured a life of hardship to fulfill prophecy—staying awake at night, braving heat and cold, and fasting in prayer—yet always thought of Heavenly Mother and the Heavenly Children. I am grateful that I can live with hope for the Kingdom of Heaven, embraced by the love of Mother and the Heavenly family.

My husband’s gratitude journal never mentions himself. Perhaps seeing his family happy is enough for him. Even though he’s quiet and reserved, I feel the depth and steadiness of his love. He’s the kind of person who makes me feel cherished without ever saying a word. I will make our home a space where my family can rest peacefully and prepare meals that fill them with joy.