A Privileged Life

 This morning I was sitting at our dining room table.  Sunlight was streaming through the front window, our 15-month-old daughter was happily toddling around on her new-found legs, and our 2-year-old was eating breakfast beside me.  It was a peaceful moment.

Out of no where, while observing my son contentedly munch his breakfast, I had a flashback to this:

Lima, Peru.  12:30 a.m.  Two little girls, maybe four or five years old, begged me for attention while I was out on the streets with a ministry group.  I began to play with them and we tumbled onto the filthy street, laughing in a ball of hands and tickles.  Another little girl, three years old perhaps, squatted nearby, filling the air with the odor of her waste on the ground.

The mother of one of the children stood nearby, bag in hand to huff the glue inside.  She was high, and watched her daughter and me with an empty gaze.  After a while, one of the ministry staff came over and told me to move closer to the group because there was some activity on the corner–three bigger, older guys were assaulting someone and robbing him.  I thought, “What are we doing here?!  What are these children doing here, running around at midnight on this street?  Is this real?”

I live a life of privilege.  Watching my son and thinking about potty training of all things made me remember those mothers on the streets of Lima.  That little girl using the gutter as her toilet, just like a dog… how do you forget something like that?

 

And that’s just the question I’m wresting with today.  Sometimes I do forget. I have pictures of children and teens I knew in Lima… but as I look through them I realize I have forgotten some of their names.  I’ve gotten comfortable in my life, my world, and theirs seem so far away.

I desire to be thankful.  At the very least, may this be my response after all I saw, and smelled, and felt.  I know too much to have an excuse for grumbling!

Earlier that night on the street, a teen who we had a relationship with through the ministry’s day center had come over while we handed out food.  I had asked how she was, and she responded by telling me she was sick.  Her baby had been sick for a while–I could feel it in his chest when he breathed.  They slept on the streets at night, and it had been cold and damp for a while.  No medicine, no shelter–no wonder they were sick.

I have resources to help my children when they are unwell.  Generally my response to illness is complaint, like how I hate cleaning up puke or wiping noses for the hundredth time.  It’s normal, yet when do I ever express thankfulness for my washing machine to throw the sheets into or the box of tissues, let alone a roof over our heads and running water.

When I begin to think about issues of poverty, a strong sense of responsibility wells up within me.  I wonder what my role is in meeting the needs of this world.  This feels overwhelming.  Some of the responses are heart issues, and some are action related.  All of them are difficult.

I desire to model generosity for my children.  I want us to view our life of privilege as a tool for serving together, and hold possessions and finances loosely so that we can be generous.  I want to teach my children to stop and offer dignity to a person in need–to ask their name, shake their hand, look them in the eye.  I want our family to go into full-time service  caring for people in need, perhaps overseas.  I want to be radical like Christ and serve him by giving water to the thirsty, food to the poor, clothing to the naked.

Today it can begin, by remembering.  No big move to the slums of Calcutta for now, but small steps of remembering, wrestling, praying.

….

After writing this earlier today, I saved the draft and intended to revisit it for final edits.  In the meantime, I went about my day kind of forgetting the topic.  I stopped by the store late tonight to pick up a couple groceries, and as I drove into the parking lot I noticed an older man standing alone by the curb who appeared a little run down.  He looked me in the eye as I drove past, and so I thought about him.  When I came back out, he was sitting on a bench, leaned over with a cigarette.  I got into my car and began to drive off, but couldn’t shake the sense of concern for him.  I circled around, parked, and began to pray.  It seemed crazy to go to him, but what if he hadn’t eaten yet today?  So I got out of the car, walked over to him and asked if I could sit beside him.  I told him that I had noticed him sitting alone and didn’t mean any offense, but wondered if he’d had anything to eat tonight?  He said he had eaten at a church.  I mentioned the chill in the air and wondered if he had a place to go.  He said he did, then continued to tell me about life.  He seemed to appreciate having someone listen, so I did for a while.  We parted ways after he made me laugh with a joke about God and tattoos, and that was it.

I guess today didn’t just start with remembering the poor, but also offering compassion when I was given an opportunity.  It’s still a small step, but it is a start.

Doubt and Belief

 I am so very, very tired. It’s been one of those weeks that feels like no matter how hard I try and how hard I work, it’s just never enough. Still scraping by, still keeping the budget under a microscope, worrying about bills and food on the table. I have doubt. Doubt in myself, doubt in my faith. Forever asking questions, always the skeptic. It is an exhausting way to live. Yet, every day I wake up, I talk to God, go to work, kiss my wife, hug my kids, and sometimes, it is enough.

We have this exciting new opportunity coming up. A new city, new job, new friends – a fresh start. As exciting as all that is, sometimes I get bogged down in the troubles of today and I think, “How the hell are we even gonna get there?” I second guess myself – “Are we making a huge mistake? Am I setting us up for failure?”

People discourage me too. Recently I read a news article criticizing a Christian musician for having a slightly different set of beliefs than what is generally accepted by the Christian community. Michael Gungor wrote this, bravely being vulnerable about his beliefs in order to make this point – that it is ok to ask questions, ok to doubt, and that we shouldn’t judge each other so harshly about these things. What matters most is how we live our lives, and whether or not Christ is reflected in them.

“So, for me, I’ve decided to think about my ‘beliefs’ in terms of how I live rather than what my unconscious assumptions are. Because there are lots of people that have all sorts of beautiful ‘beliefs’ that live really awful lives. If I’m on the side of a road bleeding, I don’t care if the priest or the Levite have beautiful ‘beliefs’ about the poor and the hurting.. Give me the samaritan. The heretic. The outsider who may have the ‘wrong’ ‘beliefs’ in words and concepts but actually lives out the right beliefs by stopping and helping me. That’s the kind of belief I’m interested in at this point.” – Michael Gungor

What did Mr. Gungor get for his vulnerability? Criticized. Condemned. Shows canceled. Hate. All because he was brave enough to share about this radical idea of love, love despite differences of opinion and different beliefs. Love that is inseparable from our actions, not just what we say we believe.

I think doubt is a powerful thing. I believe doubt is what helps to shape our faith. I think doubt makes faith stronger. It is only after questioning everything and doubting everything we think we know that we can then CHOOSE to believe. Reason is fallible. History is debatable. Science is fickle. “All is vanity.” Belief, faith, – they exist outside of those things. My belief, despite my doubt, is what drives me headfirst into this mad crazy struggle called life.

I believe that this man called Jesus existed. I believe he was and is the son of God, a God who I still struggle to understand somedays, but who I believe loves. I believe Jesus died and rose again, not just so that I can proclaim my faith and my eventual destination, but so that I can also share his radical, life changing love with others who doubt, just like me. What kind of person would I be to condemn someone else for believing something different, yet no crazier than the belief in a man who claimed to be the Son of God? Yes, I believe in absolute truths. I don’t say this to imply that there are multiple ways to God, and that one doesn’t need to be a Christian to be saved. I just believe that there are ways to share and talk about this love without condemning each other for beliefs or doubts that look, on the outside at least, like they are crazy. ‘Cause really, we’re all just a little bit crazy. That’s part of what makes us so beautiful.

When My Child Hurts

 

 

 

This was really great.

This was really scary.

Both the same weekend.

 To get to the concert, the much-needed time away so that we could have fun and be ourselves and laugh and talk about things other than kids and bills and schedules, we had to walk away from a sick child. The picture shows a crowd, a night sky, an inviting scene of a stage lit up. It doesn’t show the 10 days of fever before that, or a fussy 2-year-old who stopped giggling with his sister and started pushing her away to lay by himself on the couch. It doesn’t show the doctor visits or the pinned-down child getting his blood drawn while he cried, held tight by a momma who loves him so much. Nor the brave momma’s face that masked the exhausted, fearful, unsure soul within. It doesn’t show the diarrhea-diapers (or the escaped puddle on the couch), or the endless Tylenol-emptied measuring syringes in the sink, or the uneaten meals on the toddler plates that made his parents worry. It also doesn’t tell of the process of weaning our younger one while all that was going on, nor the emotionally and physically painful process involved.

We desperately needed to take a break from all this, but couldn’t bear the thought of asking someone else to take it on. My mothering heart wanted to keep seeing it through, but my womanly heart wanted to celebrate life with my husband. And so, with pre-ordered concert tickets already in hand and a non-refundable hotel room, we packed up tons of diapers and wipes and changes of clothes for the anticipated medication-induced diarrhea, and typed up kid schedules with strict instructions on what to watch for in a still-sick boy. And we stepped away.

Sitting in the night air watching a sunset behind the Philadelphia skyline, we found some rest–a reprieve from a parenthood mini-marathon. We had enjoyed an afternoon of outdoor concerts and overpriced beer, and settled in for an upbeat Mexican guitar duo. The music distracted us, and we held hands in the crowd.

Driving home, we were assured via text that all was well, but we came back to a sudden change in Joshua. I watched him hobble through the house the next morning, unable to maneuver down the stairs or over a frisbee on the floor. His fever raged still. We went to the ER. I tried to be so brave as I drove him, but his glazed over eyes and zoned stare scared me. I gathered up his fever-hot little body and carried him to the admissions desk. Joshua Roach, birthdate 6/7/12. We sat down and waited our turn, and I tried so hard to be brave. “Eat some crackers! Oh, here! These 2 are stuck together. Isn’t that funny?” Meanwhile I just wanted to fall apart with worry.

24 hours of unknowns, of tests and tears and stumped doctors. Of more brave momma-faces and cheerful interactions that felt so, so disingenuous. Nate and I had to pin him down during the IV administration, done by an ER nurse just trying to get the job done and clear the bed for the next patient. Later, after admitted to the pediatric ward, we met professionals who understood how to look down a toddler’s throat without forcing his teeth open with a tongue depressor. Fearful moments came and went: numerous strangers touching and looking at him, the blood pressure machine, a male technician preforming a 40-minute echocardiogram with clear goo all over his chest and expecting him to lay still. His discomfort and panic killed me. I couldn’t fall apart with him, but I wanted to.

Nate left us alone at bedtime to go take care of Lily, so it was just Joshua and me in the hospital room as night set in. I lay on a comfortless vinyl cot with blankets that didn’t smell like home and enough worry to push aside the exhaustion and make me feel sick to my stomach. I watched the small-boy outline across the room in his jail-like hospital crib, silhouetted against the light of the hallway window. 10 pm, 11:30 pm, midnight, 1:30 am, 3 am… I fell in and out of sleep to the sounds of him moaning and whimpering, and I drew near to God. My Rock and my Comfort. The Healer. Knowing none of this was beyond him, that he allows it but never loses ability to put things right.

I acted on my son’s behalf, asking the nurses for Tylenol, changing diaper/shirt/sheets after more diarrhea. I love him with all my heart and wanted him better so badly. It was hard to know there were serious conditions to rule out, and harder still to go through the tests with him that would get us answers. Sometimes present discomfort seems more consuming than the unexperienced possibilities of the future.

Tears, moans, bloodshot eyes, pricks, prods, adult conversations between worried parents and invested doctors. Text messages, Facebook posts and phone calls to loved ones asking for prayers. Train set, blue ball, balloon, stickers, giggles. New things to explore in between the agony of ultrasounds and doctor exams. Brave face, brave face, brave face.

Then… release: improved appetite, lessened fever, clearer eyes. Assurance it isn’t cancer and most likely isn’t a long-named disease they tested for. Simple virus that might as well burn itself out at home. In our own beds.

Now, a week later, the two-week fever is finally gone, and the Tylenol only gets pulled out for Little Sister’s teething woes. Our boy is back, singing made-up songs in his bed when he wakes up and wrestling with his daddy at night. Thank you, Jesus! You allow this, but it is never out of your control.

 It is agonizing to see your own child in pain, to not know what is wrong, and how to make it better. The feeling of powerlessness cripples your thought processes, and you find your mind going to deep, dark, worst case scenario places. The enemy wields fear like a jagged edged dagger, twisting and slicing up your insides with worry. Faith seems like a foolish notion. Yet in it all, the Father is there beside us, crying with us, in agony over our pain, arms reaching out to draw us into his comfort. There is no easy answer to why the Lord allows some to suffer and others to live. I don’t know why my son was healed yet countless other children around the world are suffering, dying. I don’t know why, but I do know that the Father grieves for every one who suffers. He longs to draw us in to his embrace and to banish all our fears. I am so grateful for the privilege to be a daddy to my two sweet children. It is a gift, and I cannot help but be reminded every day that the love I feel for my kids pales in comparison to the love that Abba Father has for me, my wife, every one who bears his image.

A note from a dad

 Today was a beautiful day. The weather was gorgeous, and I got to spend some much needed quality time with my family. With Father’s Day coming tomorrow, I have also been reflecting quite a bit on fatherhood. I had been thinking about writing a long post about the many joys and difficulties of being a father, but something changed my mind. Being a father has so far been one of the most challenging yet rewarding things I have experienced. I appreciate that there is a day devoted to honoring fathers, but in that day of honor there is also a group of people that have been sadly forgotten. So I want to dedicate this post to honoring those people – single mothers and fathers who have, for whatever reason, been placed in the role of being both mommy and daddy.

Whatever the cause, there are a lot of women and men out there who are doing this parenting thing all by themselves. And it’s hard. It’s hard to put food on the table, maintain a home, and raise up children by yourself. Maybe your spouse passed away. Maybe there never was a spouse, and a child was born out of wedlock. Or maybe the spouse just left, abandoned you to raise up a family alone.

Parenting is hard. Parenting by yourself isn’t just hard, it’s not fair. Yet you do it anyway. Because you have to. Because your kids need you. They love you. You are all they have. And so you are both mommy and daddy, and you make it work.

I can’t fully understand how hard that must be. I can’t even explain why God would allow such a thing to happen. It makes me angry sometimes. Yet… God sees you. He is there for you. You, single parent, are deserving of much honor. Thank you, for loving your kids, imperfectly, but the best way you know how.

A Culture of Violence

 A few weeks ago I did some work for a customer who had his house broken into about a year ago. The thieves waited until he and his wife left for work for the day, backed their car up to his garage, and trashed the house – in broad daylight. I can only imagine how horrible it would be to come home to that. This guy is a very enthusiastic hunter. His house has trophies everywhere. I’m talking about the deer head mounted-on-the-wall kind of trophies, not the gold shiny kind. So, needless to say, he has a lot of guns. In our conversation he also mentioned that he at one point had owned several “home defense” guns (handguns). Those were stolen. His hunting weapons were left untouched.

My heart is heavy this week. Yet another mass killing has conquered the headlines, and the never ending debate over gun control has been reignited with a fury. I’ve heard lots of terrible arguments, and a few interesting ones. A LOT of pithy statements that don’t do any justice to the complexities of the matter. One of my least favorite – “The only thing that stops a bad man with a gun, is a good man with a gun.” I hate, hate, hate this quote. In a culture saturated with violence, this quote suggests that the only way to stop violence is with the threat of… more violence? No. I’m sorry, but no.

I’m not really interested in a discussion on the merits of more gun control vs. less gun control in this post. I’ve seen plenty of statistics from both sides that are frankly contradictory. Statistics can be manipulated, and I have not done adequate research to really have an educated opinion one way or the other. What I do want to talk about is more of a heart matter. Specifically, why so much of the church feels the need to own and defend the right to own pretty much any gun they wish.

We live in a culture that is saturated with violence. This isn’t new, it’s a part of our human nature that is evident throughout history. It’s on tv, in movies, and video games. It’s in the streets, and domestic abuse is all too common. The idea of justifiable violence is and has always been an obsession. We wrongly assume that the way to stop an evil man with evil intentions is with the threat of something that is also evil. The threat of violence. Death. Never did Jesus respond to his accusers in such a way. The fruit of the Spirit that lives within us is “love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

I’ve had fantasies of heroism just as much as the next guy. I’ve dreamed of getting stuck in some horrific situation where I get to save all the helpless innocents from the bad guys intent on death and destruction (truth be told, I also usually have super powers in those dreams). But when I’m brutally honest with myself, I have to acknowledge two important facts. One, the odds of me ever being placed in a situation like that are miniscule. Second, and more importantly, as I grow in faith and understanding of the loving nature of the Father, I find fewer and fewer instances where such violence is truly justifiable. Not only that, but to place my faith and sense of safety in some man made device borders on the edge of idolatry.

The “home defense” guns that I mentioned in the beginning of this post did not keep the thieves out of that house. They planned and waited until they knew that the home would be defenseless. And now those guns, specifically designed to kill or maim another person, are on the street.

Instead of fighting over all the nuances of gun control, our mental health system, and worrying about the threat of a tyrannical government, why don’t we start talking about what we as Christians can do to end the culture of violence that surrounds us? Can we open up our eyes to the world around us, and see, truly see our hurting friends and neighbors? Can we lay down our guns, both literal and figurative, and lead in the way that Jesus did, with humility, service, and sacrifice? It goes against all of our instincts to deny the urge for self preservation. But that’s what Jesus modeled. He was something new. To be in relationship and submission to the loving heart of the Father does not come naturally, it is a choice, and it takes a certain amount of courage and faith.

I recognize that this post doesn’t quite fit in with our previous posts that mostly focused on marriage. This blog is something we decided to do together with the intent of sharing things that are hard, but dear to our heart. The problem of violence is an issue that has become very important to me. I also recognize that this is a controversial subject, and even my wife and I don’t necessarily always agree on every point that I brought up. I do humbly ask that any comments please be respectful. Jill and I reserve the right to moderate judiciously anything that we deem to be hurtful, off topic, or just plain rude.

The List

 While some little girls dream of their perfect wedding, I dreamt of my perfect husband: his hobbies, favorite foods, where we would vacation together.   I even had a list in my purple spiral notebook (which I’m sad to say has been thrown out, but probably included things like “loves dogs”).  Perhaps these dreams were rooted in the emphasis on marrying the right man–something my parents prayed for since I was born.

As an adolescent and into college, the dream of my perfect match began to morph into idolatry.  Maybe that sounds too blunt.  I tried to think of another word, but “idolatry” summarizes it best.  I elevated the idea of marriage and a husband beyond healthiness, beyond hoping for something good into “I will only be happy… my life will only truly be fulfilled if I can find this person.”  Christian teen magazines, books, and youth group lessons fed into this.  “I Kissed Dating Goodbye” was one of many books on my shelf (or borrowed stack) that discussed the “right” way to go about “honoring God” with my romantic life, and I strived after figuring out the right plan.  My list continued to develop: “1. Loves God with all his heart.  2. Prays and reads his Bible daily.  3. Has a heart for missions work. (My youth pastor told me this should be a non-negotiable because of the calling I felt on my own life.)”

I had a feeling that guys who came from broken homes would probably not last in a marriage because of the model they had, so I prayed for a guy whose family was… well, the Cleavers.  I wanted someone who had similar values as me (loves kids, went to college), and I hoped for a man who saved himself sexually for marriage.  I read testimonies of women who as teens made these types of lists, prayed for that man, and later in life found him!  And lived happily ever after.  I definitely wanted that, so I added “22. Plays guitar.  23. Has curly hair.” because like these women said, God delights in giving his kids the desires of their hearts.  It worked for them!

Transition to college–many people who attend Christian universities end up marrying someone they meet there (we called it The 80% Club at Trinity), so I felt like my college decision was REALLY significant.  Academics were important, but so was the future-spouse pool, and as I entered university, I was giddy with the possibilities.  I began dating a couple guys, then one exclusively, then as a Junior, got engaged.  This was it!  I found what I was looking for!

And yet… something was wrong.  I lacked peace about getting married at that point in my life, and people I trusted expressed hesitation about my fiancé.  We eventually broke it off, and my journey of looking for my future spouse started again.

I won’t rehash my dating history, but to summarize it, I dated a total of ten years.  I adjusted my list to be categorized as “negotiable” and “non-negotiable.”  Not surprisingly, I think the guys I dated felt the pressure of my list (not that they knew about it, per say).  My 28th birthday was disheartening because my dreams of being married were not fulfilled and I was closing in on 30.  I’d taken the advice of so many books, articles, and people I respected and had “made the most” of my singleness by traveling, building into a career, and serving in a ministry I was passionate about.  So where was this husband I hoped for?

On paper.  He was in a list.  And that’s honestly where he’d stay because my ideal was unattainable.  The guys I dated felt it, I felt it, and time and time again relationships ended because he didn’t measure up to what I thought “God’s best” was.

Around the time I turned 29, I had two (fairly different) guys on my radar.  Guy #1 fit my ideal quite nicely on paper.  He was ambitious and had a charming personality among other qualities I was looking for, but…. I wasn’t falling for him like I thought I would.  Guy #2 was quieter and more reserved; steady, servant-hearted, and cute… but didn’t fit a lot of things on my list.  For months I vacillated between the two guys, and the husband of the family I lived with at the time gave me the best dating advice I’d ever heard.  He said, “Jill, there are two sides of a coin.  You want a man who is a strong leader, but you’re frustrated when [Guy #1] puts his foot down about decisions.  You want someone who is flexible and relaxed, but get frustrated when [Guy #2] doesn’t take initiative.  Your expectations should consider the flip side of those qualities you hope so highly for.”

It wasn’t an issue of throwing out my entire list or ceasing to ask God for his best, but it was to realistically consider what “best” looked like.  Expectations are good, but as a whole, were mine reasonable?  Was I listening to God’s heart about what really mattered?

And then he said, “At the end of the day, who do you love being with and want to love being with for a really long time?”  It sure wasn’t my list–cuz I dated that guy… a few times (Guy #1 was my list).  And so I chose to open myself to someone I knew loved God and who I enjoyed being with (granted, there’s a lot more to it than that… like his good kissing skills).  He didn’t have curly hair, and didn’t really like dogs.  His parents divorced when he was a teenager, and he went through a period of rebellion.  He didn’t go to college.  He didn’t read his Bible every day.  But I began to fall in love with him.  And this week we will celebrate four years of being married!  I am thankful.

There is a danger of carrying that list I made into marriage, either by dwelling on absent or weak qualities in Nate (especially during a fight), or by comparing my husband to guys in my past who fulfilled them (“If only I would have stuck it out with so-and-so and married him.  Then life would be better…”).  It leads nowhere, though, just like seeking the man who fit my all expectations in dating ended in disappointment every time.

Instead, I’m learning how important it is to see my husband’s strengths and give credit to God for this man I vowed to honor and cherish.  Nate blew my assumption out of the water that being from a broken home would make him lousy at resolving conflicts and being faithful.  He consistently calls me into working through disagreements, even if it means staying up all night to do so.  He asks me to be a good communicator and show honor, and he values me by modeling it.  His time of rebellion before we met resulted in a deep understanding of Christ’s grace and mercy.  As a result, his heart has a richer faith.  And Nate might not play guitar, but he’s a hot drummer, which really is better, I think.

The women who have their dreams fulfilled in a personified list–that’s their story.  But it’s not everyone’s, and I think the Christian emphasis on marrying “the one” is misdirected.  Sometimes my idea of what is best does not line up with what God knows is best. Nate and I didn’t match up on my list, but our broken pasts and our broken present give room for Christ to enter in and be glorified.  God doesn’t judge me on making perfect choices, marriage included.  That’s not to say I should have thrown out all reason or expectations, but to build my expectations into something so unattainable only caused frustration… and (may I boldly say it?) sin against my Father as it became an idol.  Fortunately, that idol was smashed, and in its place was a gift of raw, messy, life-giving marriage where Christ enters in and teaches us.

The Accuser

 Lately I’ve been learning to let go of the idea of being right. I’ve noticed this pattern in my life, this idea that there is a reason for every mistake I’ve ever made. I like to play the justification game. There is an illusion ingrained in my spirit, a deception, that tells me I must come out on top. But it has a cost. Because in order for me to win, I must become the voice of accusation.

It always starts small. A minor offense. Something I said, or didn’t say. Something I did, or didn’t do. Something hurtful, unloving, callous. The look on my wife’s face speaks more than her words would ever say. Then the defenses go up. The excuses begin. And before you know it, we’re fighting. And now it’s her fault. Somehow I’ve managed to manipulate, bully, and boss my way on top. I am vindicated. It wasn’t my fault, you see. You shouldn’t have been hurt. Stop being so sensitive. Stop being the kind, vulnerable, loving, strong, godly woman that you are.

Yet all along a tiny, quiet voice, buried deep in my spirit keeps whispering,

“Stop. You’re hurting her. She is on your side.”

I have become the voice of accusation. Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault. It’s my parents fault. I had a hard childhood. I made so many mistakes. I’m doing my best, don’t push me so hard.

I’ve spent some time on my knees lately. This thing that is in me, this voice of accusation, it needs to go. I accuse, I justify, I make excuses because deep inside, I don’t believe I’m good enough. I’m afraid of the light that will illuminate the insecurities of my heart.

It’s a lie. I have been redeemed. I have been brought up and out of the sins of my past. The spirit of accusation has already been beaten. I am a good father, and a good husband, because I have the spirit of the best Father inside me, guiding me, inspiring me, healing me.

Misplaced Passion

On the nightstand next to my side of the bed is a framed photo of Nate and me on our wedding day, moments after we came down the aisle as husband and wife.  No one but the photographer was in the foyer with us, and the picture captures the passion and excitement of a celebratory “WE’RE MARRIED!!” kiss.

About six months ago, I slammed that frame down in frustration.  Alone in our bedroom, fuming from a fight with Nate and exhausted from caring for a newborn and a 16-month-old, the picture seemed to mock me.  Where the hell was that passionate love?  Who the crap IS this guy, anyway?!  Not that I looked or acted much like the beautiful bride, either…

Our passion was becoming misplaced, seemingly lost at times.  I recall being aware of a decrease of passion after about six months of being married, but it was manageable; passion and unity were evident most of the time.  Once our daughter was born, only 13 months after our son, we found ourselves in a pressure cooker, and the passionate moments became few and far between.  A screaming infant (who we later found out was so because of food intolerances) + a teething toddler + owning your own (not-doing-so-well) business + stress of finances + lack of sleep + absence of family = STRESS.  And unfortunately, we took it out on each other.

That moment in our room, seething at the lost happy feelings of lovely wedding bliss, I felt very, very far from my husband.  Emotionally, spiritually, physically (even though he was just downstairs… It’s funny how emotion can cause chasms that physically hurt).  I concluded that if we really were meant to be married, we’d stand up better to this “hardship”… we’d pass with flying colors.  Real in-love couples would be side-by-side in difficult times, not angry at each other or neglecting the other’s needs.

That passionate-kiss day, we said to each other, “I will honor and cherish you in good times and times of difficulty. I will always work for peace and love in our marriage with Christ as the center and foundation.”  We both said that.  And it was easy to say!  Of course we felt committed to that–“times of difficulty” was stuff like disagreeing about what bathmat to register for, and though we knew it would get harder than that, we felt like together we could conquer the world!

But it felt like shit sitting up there alone in our room.  What happens when the passion for each other (to conquer the world) becomes passion to defend MY way and cut him down to get there?  No one ever said it would be like this, or I would act this ugly, or get hurt so deeply, or feel like giving up.  Broken vows, promises–made me feel worse.  Slamming down the picture was getting rid of an image of something that felt unattainable in the midst of difficulty.

So HOW does one move from such an unhealthy, lonely, divided, doomed, angry place????

Grace.

For myself.

For him.

For us.

From God, him, me.

One step/conversation/emotional surge at a time.  We are learning that a vow is a choice that continues past that dressed up day full of flowers and wine.  It’s still a vow on the days my eyes have circles under them and Nate shuts down in front of the tv and babies are non-stop demanding with their cries.

I didn’t put that picture upright for a day or so, and there were times it got slammed down again.  In fact, there were a couple times I pulled off my wedding rings and tossed them on top for good measure.  I reached a moment, though, when I realized that attitude was only keeping me stuck in despair.  Grace and peace–Lord, that’s what I want in our marriage.  May it begin with me.

The Pursuit of a Wife

At some point in a marriage I believe most people come to a point when they realize that the person they married is not the same person they dated. Whether or not this is a gradual realization or a sudden revelation for most people I could not say, but I do know that for Jill and I it has become a very real cause for strife in the past few months. The long, intimate conversations and cuddle sessions of dating have been replaced by the challenges of managing parenthood, unfulfilling jobs, the need for rest and sleep, and maintaining an ordered household. These challenges and trials are a far cry from the magical times we had while dating and even being engaged. If there is one word that I would use to describe why dating and even the engagement period was such a magical time it would be… pursuit.

Why pursuit? Simple. This is what my wife tells me. All. The. Time. She tells me she needs to feel pursued, like when we were dating. It makes her feel loved, desired, worth keeping. Yeah. I’ve heard this before, not just from her. Message received. Thing is, it’s just not that simple. Not for me, at least.

I am a very goal oriented person. When I have a task, whether it is a work project or beating a video game, I see it through to completion, and when it is done, I move on. It’s just the way I’m wired. I’m a finisher. I hate ongoing, repetitive, or endless tasks. Now I’m not saying pursuing my wife is quite that bleak, but on some level, I feel like I already accomplished that goal. I pursued, we married, and now we live together and raise kids together. I love her, but my brain can’t quite seem to wrap itself around the idea of “pursuing” her for the rest of my life. Really? I kinda thought I already got the girl. Happily ever after and all that shit.

I have much to learn. I have a lot of growing to do. One thing marriage has taught me is that I am more selfish than I ever imagined. Often when I get home from work the absolute last thing I want to do is engage my wife, or anyone else for that matter, in meaningful adult conversation. Usually by that time of the day the kids have started to move into their typical evening grumpiness, and if attitudes are particularly bad my instinct is to run, disengage, and zone out with a video game or tv show. This frustrates Jill, and understandably so. This is when she needs me most. I know this. But I am selfish.

So begins the cycle. I disengage and don’t pursue, she feels unloved. She lets it build up until she is angry with me, and lashes out. Which makes me want to disengage even further. I feel like I have a failed in my duties as both a husband and a father. Just being real here. Marriage is really, really, hard sometimes. There are some days when despair is just around the corner.

There is a beauty in despair though. Because when things feel so pointless, and the cycle just never seems to end, these are the times when God changes hearts. I have been brought low more times than I can count, but God consistently, faithfully, and patiently continues to mend, reshape, and restore my heart.

I love my wife. She is a treasure that I truly do not deserve. With every fight there is a resolution, and with every resolution I feel as though we have grown closer. We understand each other just a little bit better. I have come to realize that loving and pursuing my wife doesn’t need to be a task, it can be a joyful and fulfilling way of going through life together. It requires selfless love. I do things like ask her to come to bed a little early one night so we can read a book together, or take a picture of a pretty flower and text it to her. I ask her how her day was. Yeah, I’ll probably screw it up again. I’m still very selfish. That’s ok. At the end of the day, it’s worth it. My best friend is worth it.