Tag Archives: marriage

I Can’t Get Drunk

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My friend E started drinking first, and together we made plans for my debut with alcohol. Piña coladas on my 40thbirthday. But then I decided to try a drink first with my husband—the primary witness to my life. The night was cold in every way. My turn to plan date night, and I reserved an “igloo” at Marcy’s downtown. These plastic domes appeared over several of their outdoor tables in late fall, purportedly to extend the viability of outdoor eating.

We drove to Marcy’s in silence, as we’d recently stopped speaking to each other unless absolutely necessary (a car ride did not qualify). It’s hard to say if silent date night indicated our stubbornness, a dark desire to marinate in our melancholy, or a hope that we might break things loose. If I’d had any ideas that alcohol might aid us, those hopes were soon dashed.

Our igloo struggled against the 30-degree weather, and I kept my coat on. A space heater ran full blast, and staff provided blankets. Too bad we didn’t feel like snuggling. Our waiter unzipped the igloo and stepped in, quickly zipped it behind him, and stood prepared to take our drink order. He provided a brief verbal tour of the alcoholic beverage options, none of which were warm. Unable to abide the thought of a cold drink, I asked if they had anything warm with alcohol. Yes, there were a few options. Having zero idea what most of the components were, I chose one that included coffee—something familiar. Michael ordered a cold mocktail.

As we waited for our drinks, I connected my phone to the provided bluetooth speaker and started our love-song playlist. The romantic songs did nothing to lift the chill, but they did slightly reduce the awkwardness of the silence between us. 

My drink came in a glass with a handle, piled high with whipped cream. First sip—tolerable. By the third sip I wished I’d ordered the same fruity mocktail as Michael. After that I kept trying tiny sips, but mostly ate the whipped cream off the top and felt bad for wasting money. Since I found nothing pleasurable in the flavor, I hoped to at least drink enough to feel something—a “buzz”?—or to get just a wee bit tipsy, or loose enough to throw myself at Michael when we got home and have makeup sex. But I couldn’t do it. The drink was just plain gross, and I didn’t care for the “warm” sensation as I swallowed. I tried to convince Michael he wanted to try it, but he most certainly did not.

Our pitiful meal came to end, we paid, unzipped our igloo, and returned home colder than we had arrived.

A month or two later, I sat on the couch at E’s house, working on a puzzle on her coffee table. Her husband offered me a glass of red wine as he poured some for each of them. “Don’t give her too much, she probably won’t drink it,” E said. It hit me just about the same as the drink at Marcy’s—gross with a side of unwanted “heat.” I would regale you with nuanced descriptions of flavor and texture, but my palate-related language is pedestrian at best.

In April I drove to Bellingham, Washington, for a soul-filling weekend with my OG ladies group. My friend Andi ordered me a shot of Baileys. “It’s really sweet. If you don’t like it you probably won’t like any alcohol.” It tasted like caramel mixed with isopropyl alcohol. She finished it for me.

Some weeks after my 40th birthday in May, and months after the frigid date at Marcy’s, E and I met downtown at a Mexican restaurant for piña coladas. Virgin piña coladas are one of my favorite drinks—in fact, we had them at our wedding reception. Not wanting to ruin the drink entirely, but still hoping for a new experience—relaxation, anger, stomach upset, anything really—I asked the waiter to cut the alcohol in half. E ordered chicken and scanned the restaurant for teetotalers who could jeopardize her career by reporting a drink to her religious employer.

Our piña coladas came. I took a small sip, then several long pulls at the straw, trying to determine how the flavor differed from a virgin drink. Not much. I drank the whole glass, but didn’t get any of those bodily changes I hoped for. Although it was my most successful drinking experiment yet in terms of volume, I decided I prefer virgin piña coladas.

Further attempts at drinking have failed to produce anything more exciting. My friend Gela and I had a lovely moms-afternoon-out at a cellar offering wine slushies—flavors in a row in large plastic tubs with turning paddles, just like gas station slushies. We sat on a fancy armless couch, and I drank my entire glass, but it wasn’t worth the $14. Until my drinking experiments, I’d had no idea alcohol sucked up even more money than designer coffee.

At the farmer’s market I tasted three (free!) wine samples, drinking barely enough for a semblance of politeness before I discreetly tossed most of the final serving away with the small plastic cup. 

Alcohol and I have not become friends. She is expensive and sharp. I remain curious, and may try a can of beer, hard cider at a local winery, or the mead my cousin makes, but I’ve given up on the possibility of actual enjoyment, and am unlikely to gag down enough of anything to get tipsy. For anyone who worried I’d become a raging alcoholic, I’m sorry to disappoint*. I’ve gained some fun experiences with friends, and lost the ability to say I’ve never had alcohol (well, other than in vanilla extract). I prefer a good mocktail to drinks with alcohol, but I like an Italian soda, blended mocha, or London fog even better. 

Honestly, I thought something about alcohol would appeal to me—after all, how can the masses be so enamored? So financially invested? I don’t understand drinking for pleasure, nor can I imagine swallowing enough to get drunk. I’ll drown my troubles with a good 12-hour night of sleep, followed by a morning nap, and an afternoon one too if it’s a sad Saturday, and leave the hop juice for someone else.

*This is not intended as a slight to my many friends and family who choose not to drink, nor do I intend to make light of the damage alcohol causes to individuals, families, and society. Rather, I am making fun of the over-moralized fear-based decision making that was for many years my reason for not drinking alcohol.

Run-on Marriage

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Last week Michael and I celebrated 20 years of marriage. The run-on sentence below illustrates our run-on marriage. (And yes, we’re still crazy about each other, in addition to driving each other crazy.)

I cannot get in bed when the bedcovers are frumpy, drifting off the end of the bed, sideways, knowing that if I do lie down and tug on them I will get too much sheet, too little blanket, and the wrong corner of the comforter; but I do not make my bed in the morning—I make it right before I climb in bed at night, tugging with exaggerated exclamations as I dislodge cats, and my poor husband too, because there’s a tiny possibility that I idolize sleep and this bed is my altar and before I sacrifice my body the altar must be prepared as if for a temperamental god of linens, and I like to remind my husband that before I met him my sheets would stay tucked in and straight for months at a time, but since his feet hang over the end of the bed and he tosses and turns at night, I have to straighten the covers every single day, and I accomplish this with more violent energy and bitter comments than necessary, although one would think after 20 whole years I would have adjusted and calmed down about it—but he huffs and makes less-than-charitable remarks every time he drives, and he has been driving for twenty-five years, so I guess we are both going to have our snide remarks and adult tantrums and all shall be well. 

P.S. I usually use stock photos, but the photo for this post is of my husband and I earlier this month. I barely squeezed into my wedding dress, which I attempt every September as our anniversary rolls around.

Small-Town Anniversary

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Last weekend Michael and I celebrated 19 years of marriage, with a getaway to Waitsburg, WA. For those who aren’t from around here, Waitsburg is a 25-minute drive from our home in Walla Walla, and it boasts a population of about 1,200. Despite its small size (or maybe because of it), Waitsburg treated us like royalty.

We dropped the kids at their great-grandma’s house Friday afternoon, and since it would be a couple of hours before we could check in to our hotel, we bummed around Walla Walla for a while. We stopped at FVC Gallery to try their new pumpkin chai. Then we poked around the stacks and shelves at Earthlight Books. After that, a walk to Bright’s Candies in the warm afternoon sun brought us close to our check-in time and we drove to Waitsburg. The farmland and sky showed off as we passed the time talking about serious stuff like other people’s relationships.

Our room in the the Royal Block had tall ceilings, and gorgeous windows facing Main Street. The king bed occupied a loft over the large custom shower.

We lounged in our room, then checked out the local grocery store and convenience store (there’s one of each). Although we didn’t find the plant-based meat we were looking for to go with our croissant sandwiches, I found pineapple juice concentrate. (That may not sound exciting, but the two grocery stores I shop at weekly have been out for months. I like to keep it around for smoothies (especially piña colada smoothies), so we made plans to come back and buy some later.)

After dinner we opened the fudge from Bright’s Candies. We had no utensils, plastic or otherwise, so we used the prong on Michael’s belt buckle to slice our fudge. Yum.

In the evening, we wandered down to the bar that occupies a portion of the Royal Block’s first floor, and ended up deep in conversation with the owners, Joe and Tiina. Tiina made us a cup of tea and kept our water glasses full, while Joe regaled us with stories of the owls that lived in the building when they first bought it, and how they lived in a tent because of how much water dripped down inside any time it rained. They’re passionate about community and beauty, and are delightful conversationalists. We must have talked for an hour before turning in for the night.

Saturday morning we quietly exited the Royal Block and walked next door to Ten Ton Coffee, where eclectic art, comfortable seating, and good food occupied us. Michael read “King Jack and the Dragon” to me while we waited for our food. (The story was new to us, and I highly recommend it for preschoolers and their parents.)

After eating, we checked out The Times office in the back of the coffee shop. The woman who currently owns the paper struck up a conversation. We talked about coffee, art, the local white supremacists, and The Times, which has been in print nearly 150 years – since 1878. She invited us to peruse the archives, housed in large volumes with green covers, shown on the right in the picture below.

Having no plans for the day turned out to be great fun. We read newspapers from the 40’s and 60’s, and when we tired of that we went back to our room and did a crossword puzzle.

Lunchtime found us at Whiskey Canyon, a half-mile walk to the other end of town. The food was good, but a healthy population of house flies detracted from the ambience. We took the long way back to our hotel, stopping to see the sights and take too many pictures.

The city park in Waitsburg borders the Touchet River, and if you’re willing to scramble down a short dirt embankment, you can stand at the water’s edge and listen to the peaceful sounds of water flowing and branches swaying.

While I took a picture of the library, Michael snapped one of the former City Hall (the portion of the building with darker brick), which is currently for sale. Both Joe and Tiina at the Royal Block, and the woman who owns The Times, suggested that we buy the place (we brainstormed possible business plans over lunch because, why not?). We snuck in the building to admire the beautiful old architecture, complete with a dripping sink in a dilapidated bathroom, and office doors painted with signage for the lawyers who used to occupy them.

We dressed up for dinner and I asked Michael to take pictures of me in front of the lovely windows. We laughed over my awkward poses and the bank sign outside that clearly added to the romance.

Our flip-flops (yes, flip-flops can be dress-up clothes) smacked loudly on the wood stairs as we walked down to the main floor, where Tongue and Groove, a local band, played live. Joe and Tiina took orders and chatted with customers. We’d been told that Joe bakes on Saturday, so we ordered bread, an adorable baby loaf that came with housemade dipping sauce – oil and vinegar, herbs, and fresh sliced garlic.

As the sun sank low and the air cooled, we walked down the block to American 35, where we enjoyed dinner outdoors under a lighted umbrella, and tried to make friends with two wary cats. We finished up with a corn-hole game, then took a picture inside by the “Repent” sign.

Sunday morning we repeated the performance at Ten Ton Coffee, complete with newspaper readings like this 80-year-old entry in the “Local News” section:

To Pullman. Mrs. Marie Stanley and daughter, Naomi went to Pullman over the week-end to visit their son and brother, Dennis Stanley, a student at WSC.

Before leaving town we snapped a picture of the lobby in the Royal Block, sat beside the river, and bought pineapple juice concentrate.

Final thoughts on Waitsburg: go visit. We talked for more than thirty minutes each with three different business owners. That’s a first. In addition to the businesses I already mentioned, also take time to stop by Simply Sawdust, where I forgot to take pictures.

Final thoughts on marriage: we’re enjoying a peaceful season – an overnight success, 19 years in the making, you might say. We’ve grown both tougher and more tender. We’ve made it through the sleepless years of parenting. We’ve settled into ourselves and into each other. It feels good. Quiet. Homey. Like a small town.

Bonus Picture: Michael and I at Pine Cone Creamery yesterday, celebrating on the actual day of our anniversary.

On Deprivation

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Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Absence make the heart go wander.

Both, I suppose, are true.

I’m thinking about deprivation—absence—because I have been on a vegetable juice fast for over 48 hours and am deliriously hungry for something I can chew, something with texture and flavor, something buttered. My husband, Michael, has juice-fasted with me these past two days and we are preparing to break our fast. I peeled an assortment of white and orange sweet potatoes, cut them into rounds—cut their fat middles into half-rounds—put them in a casserole dish with plops of butter, and slid them into the oven while it was still preheating.

Years ago, when Michael and I hadn’t had sex for two months, we sought counseling. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to have sex, we just weren’t having it. It was too risky, to vulnerable, took too much energy. It was intimidating, easier left undone. I had a cognitive desire to partake in body-to-body intimacy, but my emotional and physical self was highjacked, under the control of an exhausted mommy-brain and a litany of fears that I would never be enough. The counselor’s advice? Abstinence. Set a period of time in which we would not allow ourselves sexual intimacy. See if our desire found space to rise up and write the story. I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t remember if it worked. One way or another we got back into a rhythm of intimacy.

After 20 minutes I returned to the kitchen to stir and fork the potatoes. The smell drew me in. I began almost to feel the potato on my tongue—the texture, the saltiness, the butter and warmth, even the way those sweet potatoes would feel in my stomach, a meal of substance. My fork couldn’t pierce the potato chunks. I set another timer and returned upstairs to my bed, where I lay devouring a book about writing.

I went to a MOPS meeting once and listened to a woman talk about having sex daily—or more—with her husband. It appeared to be an intentional stress-management technique: stop in the bedroom before a stressful meeting, and return there after the stressful meeting. Was this couple addicted to sex? Maybe. For better or worse, I have been more addicted to abstinence than indulgence. I am better at not relating, not watching, not eating, not sexing, not reading, not cleaning. The one exception, my most joyous indulgence, is sleep.

The second 20-minute timer on my phone made me jump. This time the fork sunk into the potatoes. I speared two chunks and returned the rest to the oven. With vigor I blew on the procured samples, fearful of burning my tongue in my excitement. I felt almost guilty eating those potatoes by myself in the kitchen—like candy Michael didn’t know about—first one piece, then the next. How quickly it became pedestrian, the tasting, the chewing, the swallowing—I have done it a million times. How rapidly I moved from fast to feast. Yes, absence made the heart grow fonder, but it wasn’t a new fondness; it was a remembrance, a desire to return to what nourished me. So if absence makes the heart go wander, is it because the thing that it left was not nourishing?

Motherhood subjected me, unwillingly, to sleep deprivation. Did my heart “grow fonder” or “go wander”? It got bitter. Seethingly bitter. Now that I sleep most nights uninterrupted, do I appreciate sleep with greater depth? Yes. But I also hold it more loosely, because I experienced the pain of losing it when I held it with passionate desire and commitment. Honestly? I wish I had let myself “go wander” during those years of little sleep—drink coffee, ask for help, eat chocolate, binge on a TV show. Loyalty can be a real drag.

I fetched Michael from his office with the promise of “real food.” He nearly leaped from his chair. A few minutes later we sat behind a white plate piled high with the entire contents of the baking pan, Michael’s arm around my shoulders, each with a fork in hand. We ate in satisfied silence, broken only by exaggerated mmmm’s, and an occasional thought from the day.

Motherhood also pried rigidity from my desperate, clinging hands. Unwillingly, I abstained from control. This was the worst kind of deprivation. Eventually I grew tired of dwelling on what I couldn’t have, so I wandered over to the “flexible” aisle and shopped there. Did I sometimes miss the old feeling of having control? Sure. Would I return to the way I was before? Hell no. These days I can be late, forget an item at the store, give a friend wrong information, leave the dishes in the sink and the laundry in the washing machine for days—and come back around to it when I have the time and capacity. Sometimes a forced absence is the only way to move forward.

At this moment, I am more grateful than usual for food. I am grateful for farmers and shippers, grateful for money to buy food, grateful for peeler and knife, oven and spices, and perhaps most of all, tastebuds—proof that pleasure is God’s idea, and food Her sensual offering.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Absence makes the heart go wander.

Absence makes the heart glad it left behind what it didn’t need.

Try absence sometime. See which way your heart turns. Maybe you will become grateful for something plain. Maybe you will discover a new love. Maybe you will leave behind a person or habit you don’t need.

Twenty Years in Love

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I remember only bits and pieces. A small, formal couch with burgundy upholstery and a rounded back. Our clothes still shedding cold air from the winter chill. Michael’s tan coat, puffy in a way that rounded his lean figure. The Boyd’s Bear he hid in that coat.

Michael was a junior in college, double-majoring in mathematics and computer science. I was a first-year student pursuing an associate degree in accounting. Michael lived at home; I lived in the dorm. I attended required worships and ate in the cafeteria; he didn’t attend evening worships and his mom still cooked his dinner most nights. Our paths didn’t cross.

Until mutual friends set us up on a blind date—a story for another time. He waited two or three months to ask me out again, to his sister’s New Year’s party. In the meantime, we got acquainted on Instant Messenger. At some point, I confessed my interest in him on a couch in the church youth room. Come to think of it, couches are kind of a thing for us. He asked me to be his girlfriend on a couch, and our first kiss was also on a couch. Anyway, after discovering our mutual interest in each other and going to the New Year’s party, what was next?

Could we formally-informally get to know each other? We decided we’d find times to meet on campus and talk—not formal dates, but an intentional time to get acquainted. At least that’s what I thought. I don’t remember who arrived at our meeting point first—third floor of Kretschmar Hall. Fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture dressed up the wide space in the hall outside the president’s office. Administrators had gone home for the day and it was quiet.

I don’t remember what I was wearing or what I was thinking. Michael wore blue jeans, a t-shirt, and that tan coat. Maybe I remember the coat because of all the time we spent together that winter, or maybe I remember it because on this day Michael reached inside it and pulled out a teddy bear. “I’d be honored if you would be my girlfriend,” he said, holding it out to me. The teddy bear held a plush heart with an embroidered message, “You stole my heart.”

If I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve grabbed that bear, squeezed it tight against my heart and jumped onto Michael’s lap. Grinning a big yes, I’d have squeezed him, tucking my nose under his ear. But, as I didn’t know him yet, I didn’t give him an answer. I accepted the bear and told him I wanted to pray about it.

If we began dating, he would be my first boyfriend. I’d fastidiously avoided dating in high school—you know, I-kissed-dating-goodbye and all that purity culture stuff. I had been in college only a few months, and other than our blind date, had been on only one other date—and a couple times guys bought me a burger or ice cream. In other words, this was a big deal.

I don’t remember how long we talked, or how long I made him wait for my answer. I prayed about it during Tuesday evening worship in Heubach chapel, an intimate sanctuary across a breezeway from the imposing College Church. It was simple—write your student ID on the leader’s clipboard, pick a pew in the nearly-dark chapel, and sing, or listen to the singing.

So there I sat, near the back, in a sanctuary of song, asking God what She thought of me dating Michael. She didn’t have much to say. In fact, He said nothing. But I took the quiet peace in my heart as a green light. I’m guessing I didn’t waste much time letting Michael know my answer. I’m not exactly sure he asked me on the 21st, but we’ve been telling it that way for as long as I can remember, which makes today just a few a days past the twenty-year anniversary of our first yes.

I phoned my parents with the news and they developed a sudden, intense interest to come visit—an interest that had never occurred before and never occurred again. After all the parents met each other and nothing exploded, we launched into dating with a surprising amount of devotion, insecurity, and delight. Michael was my first and last boyfriend, and I feel for him, being the only one to iron out my wrinkles all these years.

Not that he didn’t have any wrinkles. The first time he took me to his house, he asked me to wait in the living room while he took a broom and dustpan to his room. I’m pretty sure that dustpan was brimming after a hasty sweep. Twenty years later we’re still ironing out each other’s wrinkles, but perhaps more importantly we’ve learned to live with wrinkles. Our foibles have just a bit of charm when we remember to laugh about them.

It’s strange after twenty years of togetherness and eighteen and a half years of marriage to revisit the moment on the couch, the simplicity, the significance. Nobody knows exactly what they’re signing up for with a yes to love. And I say yes again today with equally sparse knowledge about the next twenty years.

But this I know: Michael, I am honored to be your girlfriend, best friend, wife, parenting partner, and annoying roommate. Thank you for asking. Thank you for countless opportunities to say yes to love.

For 18 Years

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For 18 Years

Blessed are You
Lord our God
King of the Universe
for 18 years of marriage,
of love—
bitter / sweet
comforting / unsettling
lonely / intimate
full

Blessed are You,
for I have seen You
in Michael’s face
in his words
his steadfastness
forgiveness

Blessed are You
Lord our God
King of the Universe
for duck pond dates
pillow talk and pillow tears
Ted Lasso
role reversals
one-liners
friendship

Blessed are You
for we have loved and endured
each other
and each other’s families.
We have learned by participation
what hurts and what heals.
Seeing, seeing
seeing each other
and then again
forever

Freedom! From My Husband

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“You have time for everything but me.” Michael spoke with resignation from his side of the bed.

I sat tense on my side of the bed. We’d had this conversation many times, and it always sounded the same. We knew it so well we probably could’ve saved time and argued in our sleep.

Not sure what to say, I listed a few of the times I had spent with him recently—a three-hour conversation Monday night, a date last Thursday, a movie yesterday after the kids were in bed. It didn’t matter. He was talking about his heart, not my schedule.

We have been awkward partners in the dance of intimacy since we met. We were head-over-heels for each other and spent up to sixty hours a week together—every moment outside of sleep, classes, and our part-time jobs on the college campus. Sometimes I wanted space, but I didn’t know how to say that. Since I didn’t ask for space, I created space with busyness or emotional distance. This had the opposite of the desired effect. Whenever I created space, Michael came closer. He wanted more time, more talking, more touching—always more. I generally tried to keep showing up, but when I inevitably created space in an under-handed way, Michael would be hurt and ask for more from me to reassure him that we were okay.

This pattern continued into our marriage. We were happy together, made decisions with minimal drama, enjoyed each other’s friendship and company, and survived many difficult conversations. But the pattern of me moving away and Michael moving closer (until he lost hope and stonewalled) stayed the same, and perhaps became even more pronounced. When kids came along and being alone was my deepest desire and most cherished dream, it didn’t help the situation.

That thing they say about the only way out of your pain is through it?—they’re right. Over the last few years, we’ve had some awful days and weeks walking through our pain. We’ve both had to make peace with feelings of rejection. Michael feels rejected when I move away from him, and I feel rejected when he can’t respect my desire for space. We both feel wrong sometimes—about ourselves, about each other. But it turns out you can’t mechanically fix a person or a relationship.

Mainly we talked, we listened, we cried, and we felt a lot of pain we had been avoiding. Michael slowly came to believe that I like him and I’m not going anywhere, even though sometimes I crave space. I slowly came to believe that Michael likes me and will still be my friend even if I move away from him. I think this is called trust.

Earlier this month, as Michael was preparing for a work trip, I kept reminding him to give me his flight times so I’d know when he would be leaving and getting back. The info was on his work computer and never handy when I asked. One evening when I brought it up again, I handed him my laptop and asked him to put the info in my calendar. He still didn’t have it nearby. Instead of flight times, he blocked out four days with the heading “Freedom!”

While he was away the following week, I chuckled each time I looked at my calendar, and every time it felt like a small miracle that we could joke about me enjoying some alone time. What used to be a trigger, a subject so dreaded that we tiptoed around it, is now an open conversation and a relational dynamic to laugh about. Oh the joys of setting the thermostat however I want and having the bed to myself.

I can’t tell you how it happened, and I guess that’s why I use the word “miracle.” Yes, we walked through our pain, we went to counseling, we fought and cried and believed lies about ourselves and each other and had to pry those lies up with a crowbar to find the truth. But then there was an element of magic, a change in the weather, a glimmer of hope that turned into quiet trust. And that is something no amount of work can bring about.

Freedom!

State of the Union

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Marriage is inconvenient. I have to check with my husband, Michael, about lunching at a different-than-usual time. I can’t turn the bedroom light on in the mornings because he’s still asleep. If I want to be alone, I have to announce it and arrange for it (children are also culpable for this one). The bedclothes are always in disarray, the toilet a mess, and one word at the wrong time can tip us sideways for a day or three.

Michael has his own list of inconveniences, probably much longer than mine—if he took the time to write them down. But he doesn’t keep track much. I know marriage counseling was (mostly) fun for me, but inconvenient for him—more nerve-wracking and stressful than interesting or inspiring. He participated nonetheless, and we sorted some things out. We talked about allowing ourselves and each other to “just be.” In fact, we talked about this for years. I can’t say exactly when or how it moved from an idea to a reality, but I know that facing our most terrifying fears was a long stop on the way to freedom. Our marriage is buoyant now in a gracious and spacious way that allows for inconvenience. Relational blood pressure is down to a healthy range.

Our counselor had a Gottman Institute resource for everything, including a weekly marriage check-up titled “State of the Union Meeting.” The basic idea is to have a weekly, guided conversation about your marriage. The first bullet item on this handout is, “Start with what is going right in the relationship.” Next item, “Give one another five appreciations each.” Of course we disagreed on whether these were actually one item or two. Were we to start with what is going right by sharing appreciations? Or were we to make some general statements about what we felt was going right, followed by five specific appreciations? We haven’t settled that yet.

Last week I was sitting in my ugly, brown prayer-chair, when God asked me out of the blue, “What do you think is going well in our relationship?” I was surprised and delighted. The question itself, even unanswered, was joyful, even celebratory. I immediately thought of the Gottman worksheet, and began a list:

– There are deeper roots. I don’t have to hover over our relationship like it’s a new transplant.

– We like to be together, especially in stillness.

I paused—peaceful, grateful—and wrote, “I’m just so happy about the question, I can hardly think of answers.” But more answers came.

– We assume the best about each other.

– We at least interlock pinky fingers in the situations that seem to drive us apart.

– Our dialogue is not as one-sided as it used to be. We hear each other better and don’t miss the mark in our communication as much.

– I’m more willing to engage with what is, instead of what “should” be.

– I’m more aware of the fears I bring to the table.

– We don’t always try to make sense of each other or understand everything between us.

– We’re getting better at feeling, together.

Underneath the list I wrote, “I’m blown away. We actually have a better relationship than we used to. And it’s certainly not from trying hard.”

I used to do a lot of what I call “pre-work” in my relationship with God. When I sat down with Him, I’d fret and plan and beg and argue, read or study the Bible, and write long pages in my prayer journal. In most of this I avoided the real issues—albeit unintentionally. I wanted God to make me patient and happy, and show up in a predictable manner. Christian theology had taught me these were reasonable expectations in a relationship with God. But in all of this “work,” I avoided the real work. As I noted in my journal, growth in my relationship with God is “certainly not from trying hard.”

Dealing with the real issues—deep anger, fear, disappointment and depression—was hard, but all I had to do was show up. I didn’t try hard. I accepted hard. I allowed myself to feel a lot of hard things, and learn that I was not in control, and neither was God—at least not in the ways I wanted Him to be. I released my knotted “try hard” mentality and accepted that life is hard, and no amount of trying hard is going to fix that. To my surprise, I found God in the real work of accepting and walking through the stuff I didn’t want in my character or in my life. No holy avoidance or miraculous patience. Instead, a togetherness that gifted me a sense of belonging.

Here I am, healthier, mostly because God and I agree that it’s okay for me to be a mess, and for life and love to be, at times, a long list of inconveniences. I can “just be.” The state of our union is, “spacious enough for inconvenience.”

Indian Giver

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“For better or worse,” I said

And pledged myself to one man.

Then I went about creating better

By making him follow my plan.

 

Placing all my hopes in prince charming

I suddenly felt all alone.

I was focused on him and me

And had removed God from His throne.

 

To be a wife is impossible;

I can’t change him – or me – enough.

To trust in each other is foolhardy;

So one day God called my bluff.

 

The Truth brings clarity,

And when I could finally see,

I gave my husband back to God,

And God gave him back to me.