Do you know that love is fragile? You probably do. I’m a bit slow when it comes to love. When I got married I thought love was synonymous with commitment (thank you conservative Christianity). Sometime in the first year it became very clear to me that there was more to marriage than staying together – i.e. not getting divorced (just like there is more to healthy pre-marriage physical boundaries than a penis not going in a vagina – who knew!). Ok, so maybe I feel a little bit lied to. Maybe it seemed simple, and I’m annoyed that it ended up being complex.

Over the years my husband, Michael, and I have enjoyed reading books aloud together – a motley collection, including Tom Sawyer, The Hobbit, and a variety of marriage books. One of our favorite reads was a book titled A Severe Mercy, by Sheldon Vanauken. Sheldon writes about his courtship with Davy, and how they speak of a Shining Barrier – their way of protecting their love. “But why does love need to be guarded?” Sheldon writes. “Against what enemies? We looked about us and saw…a world where love did not endure. The smile of inloveness seemed to promise for ever, but friends who had been in love last year were parting this year… It must be that, whatever its promise, love does not by itself endure. But why? What was the failure behind the failure of love?

On a day in early spring we thought we saw the answer. The killer of love is creeping separateness… Taking love for granted… Ceasing to do things together. Finding separate interests. ‘We’ turning into ‘I’. Self. Self-regard: what I want to do… This was the way of creeping separateness. And in the modern world, everything favoured it… The failure of love might seem to be caused by hate or boredom or unfaithfulness with a lover; but those were results. First came the creeping separateness: the failure behind the failure.” Michael and I incorporated “creeping separateness” into our vocabulary, and over the years when our pulse was not strong, we have made choices to reverse the creeping separateness. Because love is fragile.

We joke that we avoided the “seven year itch” by having a baby a few weeks after our seventh wedding anniversary. We were too busy and tired to be dissatisfied with our relationship. But when we emerged from sleep deprivation, we realized that some creeping separateness had taken place. My self was eclipsed by needy children, his self absorbed at work and stressed at home. Year ten was especially difficult, and we spent year twelve going to counseling every two weeks. From counseling we learned how to stop conversations when we get emotionally flooded, and how to repair after fights or misunderstandings. Our relationship became noticeably healthier and we felt safer and more content with each other. But several months later one seemingly innocuous conversation caused probably the most painful rift we’ve experienced to date. We withdrew from each other, and it took a lot of talking and listening to repair. Love is fragile.

In the 1997 movie Jungle 2 Jungle, father Michael Cromwell gets acquainted with his teenage son for the first time when he brings him for a visit to New York. The boy, Mimi Siku, spent his first 13 years living a tribal life with his mother in South America, and is trying to understand why his father only chooses one wife.

Mimi Siku: Many females in your village, Baboon. (Baboon is the boy’s tribal name for his father).
Michael: Mm-hmm.
Mimi Siku: Why you pick only one?
Michael: Well, when you pick one to love, it’s very different. It’s like there’s a big picture of her in front of your face at all times. And the picture’s so big you can’t see any other females.

My romantic side loves that imagery. My cynical side says it’s not true. I’ve noticed other men since I’ve been married. My heart rate has quickened when a certain coworker entered the room. Love is fragile.

Perhaps the best teacher of love is the dance of intimacy. As much as I want to be a “good” wife, always available to my husband, I have choked myself with guilt and shame over all the times I am not available. Rather than growing love, my attempts to do the “right” thing have caused pain and built barriers. I have not given myself permission to be overwhelmed or grumpy or tired, and every time my own state interferes with us as a couple, trying harder is like putting out a fire with more fuel. Trying to be sexy when I feel like crying, or trying to have a difficult conversation when I feel out of control, or trying to have a fun date night when I feel alone even in the company of my husband… these are the hard lessons that have taught me love cannot be forced. I can be honest, or I can hide. But I cannot make myself something I am not. It’s hard to own my bad moods, to admit the part I played in a conversation that didn’t go well, to share how I’m feeling when I am just as confused as my husband about what’s going on inside me. But when I am honest, my actual self is there in front of Michael, and he has the option of responding with his actual self. When I am in hiding, intimacy is impossible. And so I have learned ever so slowly how to show up, and to risk being fragile, because love is fragile.

Love is less about working hard and more about letting go. Less about putting my best foot forward, and more about trusting God and my husband when my worst foot trips us up. Less about one long-term commitment, and more about one thousand in-this-moment choices. Less about getting things right, and more about apologizing. Less about avoiding conflict, and more about learning how to repair after a fight. Less about agreeing, and more about learning how to disagree. Less about holding it all together, and more about letting my heart be seen when it all falls apart. Love is fragile.

This Friday, September 18, Michael and I will celebrate 15 years of marriage. Fifteen years of marriage is so far from being something I accomplished. It is a gift. After fifteen years I feel more humble and less proud, more tentative and less certain, more like I’m witnessing a miracle and less like I’m reaching a goal. Love cannot be forced, performed, achieved. It is only by God’s grace I have turned toward Michael when I felt like turning away, I have chosen kind thoughts instead of the poison of self pity, I have talked about things I would rather not talk about, I have forgiven when I wanted to protect myself instead. Promising another 15 years seems awfully presumptuous. I don’t know the future. Don’t get me wrong – I do plan to protect our marriage and I have no intention of doing otherwise. But for me, I love better when I stop trying so hard. I can’t tell you what will happen tomorrow, but today I can choose to show up, to see Michael and to let him see me, because love is fragile.

I am so humbled and grateful that I have been granted the gift of a life partner who chooses me over and over, who seeks God alongside me, and who also shows up in his brokenness. Thank you Michael, for forgivingness, for faithfulness, for friendship; for running out to the mailbox for me in your boxers; for doing chores you don’t like, because you like me; for fighting and repairing; for making me laugh; for getting to me know me deeply and still liking me; for hugs; for honesty; for random movie quotes. Life with you is hard and wonderful, scary and safe, and I would love nothing more than to spend the next million moments – one at a time – being fragile with you.