My husband’s social faux pas are few and faint, as in hardly noticeable. Which makes the one he committed last week rather noteworthy.
We met at a local coffee shop with a couple at their request to discuss their personality differences. They are dating (only d-a-t-i-n-g). The young woman is a friend of ours, and she convinced her man that the dynamic between Bill and me was similar enough to theirs and that we’d been married long enough to offer valuable input.
Bill leaned across the table, sloshing the heart shape on my huge bowl of latte all wonky, grinned at them, and said, “So, when is the wedding date?”
Awkward laughter, not something my husband is met with often. Me, on the other hand, well. But they were gracious and not at all thrown by an assumption that clearly indicated he hadn’t prepped for this conversation.
This is all to report something the guy said about us after an hour of talking. Something I thought at first was no big deal, but upon reflection, I’m convinced is a very big deal.
He said, “You seem to have a culture of asking for forgiveness in your marriage.”
We had to admit this is true. We told him the cataclysmic reason: Bill’s cancer during our engagement and the truth we learned from day one that in marriage, and all relationships for that matter, there is no guarantee of tomorrow. This truth makes for quick resolutions to conflict. And quick resolutions call for repentance.
We sort of fell into a healthy practice. But I’m beginning to see that there’s more to it than the pervasive specter of death. (Believe it or not, this is not as creepy as it sounds.) This practice—the one where we each admit our faults readily, just a tad more readily than we find fault—has survived 36 years because of another practice.
The ancients called it Examen. In the 16th century, St. Ignatius of Loyola developed a series of questions designed to lead a believer into consolation (where have I connected with God and others today?) and desolation (where have I disconnected?). I’m simplifying here, and I confess I only learned this name for it a few years ago. But the Holy Spirit has been guiding me through it using the Word of God for years. Bill, too. God regularly massages our hearts soft and tender. This makes us quick to ask forgiveness.
It’s kind of funny that one of our best practices in marriage exists because of the preponderance of our worst practices. Because we mess up so often. But it’s true. If you’re curious what this looks like, I’ll tell you two stories that we told our dating-couple friends.
The night before our coffee date, we had a fight in the car on the interstate on our way home from dinner. A short, sweet interlude that we ruined on the way home. Sheesh. In the course of our discussion Bill said something conciliatory to me. And I rolled my eyes at him in the dark. I practically sneered. And that’s when I knew the condition of my heart. How could I look at the man I love that way? His eyes were on the road and it was dark and surely he couldn’t see, which made my eye-rolling not only unkind, but unfair. So I told him what I’d just done. I confessed the condition of my heart toward him in that moment. A few more ill-timed words leaked out before we reached a resolution, but the pus had been drained from the wound and we were already on our way to healing.
Bill’s turn.
We are constantly tweaking our nighttime routine from dinner to bedtime. This is not just so we can be more productive in our work; it is so we can connect. Over Christmas we decided we’d go upstairs by 10 (instead of 11 or, as we often do, way after). But you know how these resolves go. By mid January we were grading out at about 60%.
One night I made my way upstairs at 10. Bill stayed downstairs to watch Georgia Tech basketball. By the time he got upstairs, I’d remembered that this was not our plan. He walked into the bedroom, and I said, “I hate it when we go to bed at different times. Besides, you’re the one who kept talking about ten o’clock.”
He didn’t say anything and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I immediately regretted nagging him like that and thought, If he comes out and seems angry or hurt, I’ll apologize. I was out of line.
But he beat me to it. He climbed into bed, took my hands, and said, “I owe you an apology. Tech basketball should never trump you. And you’re right about my commitment to ten o’clock. This is poor leadership on my part.”
The thing is, Bill is not a poor leader, and this conversation proves it.
I’m finally realizing that our relationship lives or dies, succeeds or fails on this battlefield, the one where we surrender. Where we each examine our own hearts and actions and admit it fully when we go wrong.
If this means we have a sorry marriage, then so be it.
