We writers are pretty much always on an obsessive search-and-destroy mission for unnecessary words in our work (like “pretty much”).
We look for typos, for passive language, for grammatical errors that make us look silly. And we look for echoes, pet words that crop up everywhere because, well, they are our pet words. Heaven forbid you sit and read through several of my blog posts all at once, but if you do you’ll notice I say “I wonder” and “maybe” a lot. But these words, patient reader, are used repeatedly on purpose.
The older I get, the more I wonder about things; the more I’m not certain about much. This general consternation about life works out well for me as a writer since today’s reader does not want to be told what to think, but rather why they might want to rethink what they think. Why the questions need to be asked and why finding the right answers, where possible, is important to them. It’s the old “felt need” motivation with a twist.
But today it occurred to me that my overuse of such words might convey the false idea that there is nothing about which I am sure.
For the record, here are a few things of which I am certain:
That there is one God who revealed himself to us in the birth, death, and resurrection of his Son, Jesus. That this Jesus was fully human and fully divine. That he left behind his Holy Spirit, who has the uncanny ability to speak to the human heart through the scriptures. I believe all this to be true. That this God is self-existent, needing nothing. That he loves his creation to distraction. That he rightfully commands respect and honor, while giving respect and honor to the undeserving. That he is all that we are not: absolutely pure in his goodness and love and kindness, infinite, all-knowing, and all-powerful. That he isn’t “the universe” as some like to call him today. He created the universe; therefore this appellation is actually a slur of sorts.
And then there’s marriage. How it is that a man like William Wells Murray chose me and still loves me to this day is my favorite mystery, one I continually ponder. But this mystery holds its shape inside the confines of a structure. That is to say, we keep it together by keeping a few rules.
There are not many of them, and I’m not sure I’d even call them rules. The ones I’ve listed below have withstood the test of time, so maybe they’ve earned the name. We don’t doubt them anymore. Unlike the above litany of certainties about God, this collection is the result of a lot of trial and error on our part. In the final analysis, they work.
1. Stay.
This is just a more optimistic way to say we took the trump card of divorce out of the deck. One year in, I had a fleeting moment when I wanted to leave, when leaving seemed like the only way I would ever be happy or fulfilled or what-the-crap-ever I thought I needed at the time that Bill was not giving me. This says reams about Bill that these moments have been few, as in two of them, but still. Staying is the first and necessary step in problem solving. Of course, you can stay without engaging or investing or listening or growing or changing, and we don’t recommend that. Stay means stay in more ways than geographically.
2. Spouse first. Kids second.
Marital love is a fragile thing, more fragile than parental love. Parental love has the benefit of instinct, especially in mothers. And the utterly compelling benefit of supply-and-demand. Kids need us from day one, but they do not need us to love them first. The other day Bill expressed hurt (a statistically unique occurrence, unlike the commonplace occurrence when I’m the one expressing hurt). In our ongoing discussion about vacations and budgets, I’d clearly shown that—given the choice—I’d choose a week at the beach with our crew of eleven over a week in Boston with just the two of us. In my defense, I did not see this as a binary choice. Even so the hint that I preferred our rowdy conglomerate of kids and grandkids over him stung. I was reminded of our “rule,” that it does not change, that choosing him first had never been the wrong or regrettable choice. I reiterated my commitment to the rule, that I wanted to go to the ends of the earth with him, just him. It’s true.
3. Keep short accounts.
Because it is in our nature to let small slights fester. Festering leads to long debt columns, which give legal weight to more festering. It can happen overnight. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger” is Bible straight-shooting. Turn off the TV. Cancel the dinner. Lock the bedroom door. Touch toes and make eye contact and do the business of peace. Now.
4. What you have is not yours.
Early on, we did a wholesale renaming of everything we owned, calling it His, as in God’s, instead of Ours. As intentionally as we could, we shook the fairy dust of not-ours everywhere. This gave a higher purpose to our furniture and our rugs and our cars and our technological devices so that, while we wanted to steward our stuff well, we did not go too crazy when someone (namely, our boys) damaged it. And it meant if we had a room in our house, why couldn’t someone use it? The challenge here is that we keep acquiring things. And we forget that what we acquire is not ours. We hold on too tight. But then one of us remembers the fairy dust, and we remake the offering. The funny thing is, this understanding has heightened our enjoyment of all our not-ours things.
5. Agree on timing.
Yes, we have a guest room, but sometimes, if we are to be sane, it must remain guestless. Yes, we have spaces in our calendar, but we need some of those spaces to remain wide open. We have to navigate this one carefully, because timing is a skill Bill and I practice very differently. Jet engines and bicycle gears come to mind. The thing is, both can get you to the same place. Sometimes we have to remember that.
6. No accountability.
We think we made this one up. If you find it in the Bible, we’d love to know where. We happen to think accountability is good and healthy, just not in marriage. So we both find it other places. There are two reasons for this particular rule. One is that we love each other too much. I would let Bill off the hook of his own good intentions way too often if it were up to me. I know he would do the same for me. And the second reason is that we don’t love enough. I’d nag him and he’d over-structure for me. We are each other’s grace-place. Let “iron sharpen iron” somewhere else.
I love the way Paul talks about Old Testament rules, or the Law, in Galatians: “The law was like those Greek tutors, with which you are familiar, who escort children to school and protect them from danger or distraction, making sure the children will really get to the place they set out for.” (Galatians 3:24, msg)
Our marriage rules have escorted us to a better destination. It is a place not unlike the grace-place God takes us to at the Cross. And now that we’re here, we can’t find a reason to question the way we came. Come to think of it, maybe what we are certain of—the safe haven of grace—is the very reason there is no danger in asking questions. When you’re standing on solid ground, you can wonder all you want about gravity. We are his children after all, protected and directed and loved, escorted on the journey of a lifetime. I wonder what we’ll find up the road or, as the picture below suggests, farther down the aisle? The future is uncertain, but we are both okay with that.
Photo Copyright: grekov / 123RF Stock Photo
