The day before our wedding day amid the hustling preparation, my soon-to-be husband whisked me away to a solitary place. He wanted to give me something, he said. I sat on the steps of the gazebo, two feet from the place we would say our vows in the morning as he pulled a small box from behind his back. I sensed this a precious moment, because in my mind newlyweds ought to have shared memories of closeness, though I didn’t quite know what it should mean to me. After all, we’d had no formal engagement, no diamond ring on my finger. We had hardly planned a wedding or sent out invitations. It seemed sort of frivolous and expensive, a lot of trouble to put on a show for other people we wouldn’t be marrying.
So there I sat on the gazebo step, wondering why on earth we were being so formal and weird and romantic. He carefully presented me with a pearl necklace and fastened it around my neck. I felt like I probably ought to cry or evoke some precious emotion, because that is what one should do in such a moment. Nevertheless, my eyes stayed dry. I was bewildered, my nonfeelings relieved when he shrugged and said, “Yeah…My dad told me I needed to buy you some jewelry. It’s something you’re supposed to do, I guess.”
Perhaps it was then that the disappointment crept in, crawling somewhere into my soul and beginning to warm the bench next to all my newlywed expectations.
He didn’t know and I didn’t know–we were sorely prepared for making promises. The necklace was a nice gift, but we had gone along with what was expected of us. We were kids. We didn’t have a clue on how married people did things; we were barely old enough to know better than to fight about who did the dishes or took out the trash. We certainly didn’t recognize that marriage itself was a living, breathing thing. That when the two become one, both must maintain vigil to keep the beast alive. We just thought it was a teeter-totter: give-take, give-take.
It took me a long time for myself to understand, if I’m honest, that love is not marked in columns, but is rather the feeding of a live organism, the mash-up of two souls.
Predating enneagram wisdom and love languages, I could smell trouble. We simply didn’t have a thing in common. The differences between us seemed like infinite hurdles stretching into forever. I live mostly in my head, thinking and rethinking. He, on the other hand, usually had one ear turned off, one on, making split decisions. Brutal years of trying to figure out why he thinks and behaves the way he does caused my reasoning soul a lot of mental anguish. I cannot speak for him, but I’m almost certain this is a well-beaten, two-way path.
There are lovers who write of love and I choke on their sentiments. There are authors who write on life and I wonder where I’ve disembarked from the typical voyage. Who, in fact, makes these mushy Hallmark cards? Why do we read the words and wholly agree it just might purvey our exact sentiments? Who makes a marriage vow–for better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness or health– having any idea how the dice will roll?
The fact is this: in my spouse I have discovered my truest advocate and nearest adversary. And in some bizarre, upturned way he is the only one for me. For all our frustrations, we still favor each other. Our vows seal the unknowable. Forgiveness paves the way for hope.
We are buoyed by a covenant faith–a belief that our struggles are holy. That our light and momentary struggles are achieving an eternal glory. (2 Cor. 4:17)
We aim for glory.
At some point we must
have begun sailing away from everyone’s expectations. It was an act of
self-preservation, we realized–the two must leave and cleave. Still, our feet
are very much on the ground, rooted in reality. There is a necessary, reliable
boredom on which a sturdy union stands. We intentionally do not seek out bigger
and better–we don’t try to balance the future on a teeter-totter of what’s
fair and equal. The fact of the matter is this–he is a better businessman than
I will ever be, and I am his superior when it comes to haggling children. We
stay in our lanes and clap high-fives upon passing.
On a good day—there are
more and more of these–we will focus on the things that cause us to cling. We’ve
built muscle memory adept at looking past our flaws. The rituals of marriage
call for closing the gap, maintaining a pleasant normal–sort of like fluffing
a pillow. Intimacy, service, encouragement, food…taking turns with Monday night
football and British baking shows. I’ll brush the kids’ teeth and you can
put them to bed. These are all treats thrown in the direction of the glory
beast, this magnificent creature we have nurtured together.
This spring I scattered a wildflower mix in the front garden. I’ve done this before at previous houses and had terrific luck. Hot orange and red poppies, bleeding hearts, deep purple lupines…I am always trying to recreate the time I had yards and yards of blooming beauties.
This year, the mix was different. All sorts of odd leaves began sprouting. I dug the discarded pouch out of the garbage to read the ingredients on the back. Less than 1% weed, it said. I wondered why they put weed in the package at all. Maybe it was a mistake? Maybe all flower mixes are fundamentally impure?
With this thought in my mind, I spent the next few weeks hovering above my little garden, coffee in hand, willing them to be flowers and not tares. Each morning, they grew taller. One plant was particularly quick to unfold. His foliage wasn’t round or symmetrical, but spiky and suspicious. I wrinkled my nose and hoped it was just a marigold? Mum? Not my favorite, but acceptable. I had my doubts, though, and the next morning I yanked him mercilessly from his bed and tossed him aside on the walk. I do not deny a wait-and-see approach to living, but weeds (or flowers pretending to be) have no place in my garden. (I like to think I’m an urban Emily Dickinson, accosting all species, friend or foe.)
For a week or so I felt badly about this. That poor, poor flower-weed…How would I ever know if it was not just a lovely thistle, an innocent, unidentified perennial? Fortunately, another plant of this kind began growing quickly in the garden. I resolved to let this one mature until I could detect flower or weed.
My husband is an easy-going, wonderful man. Still–he can never be sure of what I am thinking at any moment, and he leaves me just as puzzled. Despite our faith in the other, we regularly frustrate one another with our assumptions. In our well-meaning, we are still always swimming in different depths of the same pool. I am a bottom feeder who rarely comes up for air while he skims like a pleasant little bug on the surface. I can walk through my kitchen and see a thousand things that need to be put away or wiped down. I’ll wonder why one kid thinks it’s okay to leave tap shoes on the table. I’ll think maybe I should make a peach pie with the fruit that is going bad. I’ll make plans to direct the kids to throw empty pretzel bags away instead of leaving them on the counter. I’ll grab the broom to sweep up spilled dry cereal.
He will waltz through the same kitchen, look right past the coffee-stained counter and fruit flies and see the mason jar with two-day old zinnias wilting in dirty water. “Wow!” he’ll say. “Beautiful. Did you cut those out of our garden? Wow!”
We pull into the driveway from running an errand. I get out of the car and walk over to the flowers to see if there are any green beetles on my yellow roses. I am regularly engaged in a battle that ends with me smashing them mercilessly on the concrete, even though all my gardening friends tell me I should use soapy water instead to drown them. He follows me and pauses to watch. Then something catches his eye. Before I can stop him, he’s spotted the curious flower-weed only steps away.
“What’s this?” he muses, wandering over.
“Stop!” I call as he bends over to grab it. “IwasgoingtoletthatgrowtillIcouldtellwhat–” I rush to explain.
He yanks it out of the ground. “Too late!” he announces. “That’s a weed. No way is it a flower.” He sees my wide-eyed expression and laughs. “It’s a weed! A weed, Pearl!”
I look at the little plant, its roots dangling despondent in his hand. He chucks it away from the garden into the grass, the matter over and done.
The hope uprooted, I feel a glimmer of disappointment–but it is only a hint. Nothing like the unwelcome visitor from my hours-old marriage. Those soft reflexes only indicated my ignorance, and now I know better. I don’t count offenses, don’t go looking for silly ways to feel hurt.
Less than one percent weed, I think. I look over our beautiful wildflowers, the burgeoning promise of bees, butterflies, petals and blossoms and seeds to come. Joy tickles inside of me.
While keeping an eye on the weeds, a garden had grown. We’ve both tended to it, watering and admiring the blooms. One weed or non-weed, pulled or left in the ground–a fickle, harmless feeling–couldn’t hamper what we have right now.
Sentimentality aside, we sowed crazy hope.
We were fools, young and inept, yet planted whole gardens. We have fed and grown a whole other precious being–a lovely, lively beast–a marriage.
