What God Hath Joined

I think we've known since the moment we were pronounced: no going back. What [...] God hath joined together, let not [wo]man put asunder, and we know He joined. We can never doubt His joining; we prayed for God's blessing and watched His swinging wide the doors to our union. 

God went to a good bit of trouble just to get Jim and I in the same state. Even in the hardest, most challenging times, we haven't been able to forget the miracle of it: how--in no time flat--God made possible the nearly impossible. At points it would've been easier to doubt, but we've never been able to doubt: God joined.

As people who love God, then, and cannot doubt His joining; as people who love one another; as people who love our children...quitting has never been an option. The only option has been to live (ever after) happily, unhappily, or somewhere between.

One would expect love to make happiness easy to come by; it doesn't, necessarily. One would expect persistent unhappiness to be born of some huge infraction (addiction, adultery); it isn't, necessarily. So many ways to sin against one another, and "little sins" can accumulate and become fertile ground for resentment: a sin that leads to even more sin. Nothing snow balls like sin. I'm not telling you anything you don't know.

Jim and I spent six sessions with a counselor, but (long story short) our insurance company paid for the second half of the sessions only upon our appeal. We haven't yet found the will to switch to a counselor approved by our insurance company.

In the meantime, we've made halfhearted attempts to follow the reflective-listening process our counselor taught us, and interestingly, we've experienced a bit of a breakthrough. (Pity it took so long; I blame our lackadaisy.) It happened because Jim said: "Your hurt doesn't come across as hurt. It comes across as anger, and I go immediately on the defensive." It happened, too, because I was in the right spirit to receive those words. (I give the Lord credit for all of it.)

As I considered Jim's words, I knew he was right. Not only does my hurt come across as anger, but many of my negative feelings (disappointment, fear, frustration, etc.) come across as anger. The anger is real enough; I become angry that I'm hurt, disappointed, fearful, frustrated, etc. But all Jim can perceive is anger, and--because he doesn't think anger is warranted, and/or because he's unwilling to help me with a problem when I'm angry--the problems persist or even grow.

I've been shooting myself in the foot for so long.

In case you're wondering why in the world I'm writing/posting this, I mean only to encourage. I'm not trying to make my story yours. (Only you know where you are, and why, and how God is leading you.) I'm just sharing: inside of my own marriage, love hasn't made happiness easy to come by; yet, I don't think hard always means wrong or not worth saving. Also, even recently, I've thought: we will never get past ___. But then (like that old cliche about its being darkest right before dawn) we've gotten past, like, four ___s, and all at once.

I love him. For the first time, I'm taking seriously the spirit with which I approach him. It's helping.

Photo by Heather Causey

Listening to Silence

When our marriage counselor Adam recommended a process of communication called reflective listening, I was raring to go. Confident, too, because--if I had a Native American name--it would be The Communicator. I know how to listen to other people: sure nuff do. No problem.

I didn't realize I'd need to listen to silence. Nor did I realize: I don't know how to listen to silence, and doing it hurts me. Just being asked to do it hurts me.

The first time my husband Jim called a time-out, I disregarded it. He hadn't followed the reflective-listening process up to that point, after all, and didn't seem particularly inclined to follow it after. So...what? He thought he could just call a random time-out? I felt sure Adam would back me up.

But Adam didn't. "You need to respect the time-out," he told me, "even if Jim doesn't follow the rest of the process. By the way," Adam asked, "when have you called a time-out?"

"I've never called a time-out," I offered smugly.

"That's a problem," he said.

The second time Jim called a time-out, I stopped talking but cried hot, quiet tears. The third time, I protested: "But I don't want to take a time-out! Why are you time-outing me? I'm completely calm!" But Jim was upset. My disregard did nothing to help.

"It hurts when he calls a time-out," I complained to Adam, later. "I feel silenced and just so angry about it."

"Push past the hurt and anger," Adam said, "and try to figure out what scares you about time-out. Then you'll be getting somewhere."

A thousand light bulbs went off in my head as I considered:

• I fear the issue will go unresolved.
• I fear my perspective will go unheard.
• I fear my feelings will go unacknowledged.
• I fear the relationship will be permanently damaged.
• I fear, ultimately, that I will have to "get over it" by myself.

And, in all fairness (or unfairness, depending upon how you look at it), life has taught me: these are legitimate concerns. Now that I've named them, I need to learn to trust my husband with them. I need to give him the opportunity (also the space and time he needs) to prove my concerns unnecessary.

So this is my word to my own, beloved man: I aim to do it, to trust you. I choose, right this very minute, to see the cup of our marriage as half full, and I plan to watch it run over, in good time. I intend to watch sparks fly out the top of that cup, My Darling, and light you up. You're my person. All the magic has always been--and will always be--right where you are.

**My sincere thanks to my friend Connie Kottmann, who provided the artwork that inspired this post.