Number 13
Tomorrow will be our thirteenth anniversary. Each year I look back and reflect a little on the previous year, its ups and downs, the way we've grown. Each year I say something about how I can't believe how quickly the years have gone by already, and about how much more in love we are this year than last. All of it's true. Every word. But some chapters have deeper layers and more meaning than others. For many reasons, this has been one of those years.
Around this time a year ago, our lives looked very different. Micah was just starting work full-time as a fourth grade teacher after having spent the previous year and a half going to school. He was involved with our church in several different ways. I was working full-time in a new leadership position spread out over three hospitals, starting school for my Bachelor's degree, and involved in several ministries through our church. The kids had after school activities, homework, and their own adjustment to Micah's new schedule (which meant they went to school at 7 am and came home just shy of 5 pm each day). We had family get-togethers, neighbors, friends, and home improvement projects. To say that we were packing our days full would be an understatement.
It happened slowly at first, but over the course of the summer and fall months we began to notice an erosion. We had more and more time tied up in other things and less and less time for each other. We squeezed in short moments here and there to touch base about the next day's schedule, the logistics of driving people places, and the grocery lists. We were both experiencing the stress of new jobs--big jobs-- and the fatigue of the treadmill we were on. We fell into bed at night, exhausted, talking for a few minutes about our day before falling fast asleep and starting over again the following morning. Eventually our conversations became less personal. We snapped at each other over everything. I heard words and tones in my own voice that I wouldn't have recognized three years ago. We were exasperated with each other when little things were missed. We argued. We were living progressively parallel lives with fewer and fewer points of intersection.
Things came to a head finally one evening in early October. We sat beside each other on the edge of our bed as the kids showered and got ready for bed. We'd had a couple of arguments and picked at each other, our responses to each other out of proportion to the situations. We hadn't intended it, but it seemed to be the norm lately. I sighed and looked at Micah out of the corner of my eye. "Are we OK?"
I'll never forget the look on his face, the pain in his eyes, as he shrugged and said, "I don't know."
It was an honest answer, but not the one either of us wanted to have to give. We had to do better.
The next day I sat at my desk to do homework. I couldn't focus. I couldn't keep my mind off of the conversation the night before. Something had to change. I loved my husband, but if I were completely honest, I hadn't especially liked him lately. I needed a way to notice the good things about him, to think about him differently. I pulled out an empty journal. I took a deep breath and started writing. I wrote to him and said I was going to take time each day to write out a prayer for him. I wanted to have to be intentional about thinking about him, his needs, his good qualities. Some days I would write about the things I loved; others, I would write about things for which he needed prayer. I would fill the pages with letters to him and about him, letters written as prayers to God. We needed God to be back in the center of our relationship.
Over the next weeks we made some big changes. We pulled back and reassessed all the different activities that had been filling our days to overflowing. So many of the things we'd been doing were good things, things we loved, things we were good at, things that were important. But too much of a good thing is still too much. Micah gradually stepped down from the various committees and boards on which he served. I pulled back from some of the different ministries. I carved out time elsewhere to work on homework so that we had our evenings free after the kids went to bed. We began to ask each other after work about our day. We often went into the kitchen, closed the door, and told the kids we needed ten minutes uninterrupted to talk. We went on small dates here and there, we ran errands together as a family. It was a slow process, and every step was intentional. But slowly and surely, we began to gain back the ground we'd lost.
By the time I was in the full swing of doctor visits and tests in early December, we had come a long way. But the reality of how vulnerable we are had had its sobering effect. We knew instinctively, as I continued to worsen, that the next several months would be difficult. This time we were prepared. We spent hours talking about where we felt God was headed, what life might look like with a disability, how it would impact our marriage. We took steps proactively to make sure we had time together that was not focused on my health. I dreaded feeling like Micah's patient--I wanted to be his wife! But we had made the commitment: we were in this together, regardless. When he gave me the gift of a picture of tandem bikes on Valentines day, with the words, "Where you go I will go," it had richer meaning than it would have at any other point in our marriage.
The road is not always easy. I'm so grateful our wake-up call came before the additional stress of the past several months! But regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the outward pressures and inward drives, this year has cemented in our minds the knowledge that love is not a feeling, it's an act. It's a choice--not one time, at the altar in front of a host of friends and family. It's a choice that's made daily, when the person in front of us is at their best and worst. Goodness knows, we've been both this year! Love is a radical fight to push out all the things that could drive us apart, to be on our guard constantly for the subtle things that drive wedges between us. Love is looking for the best in the other person, believing the best. It's walking this messy, bumpy, windy road home together one day at a time.
Around this time a year ago, our lives looked very different. Micah was just starting work full-time as a fourth grade teacher after having spent the previous year and a half going to school. He was involved with our church in several different ways. I was working full-time in a new leadership position spread out over three hospitals, starting school for my Bachelor's degree, and involved in several ministries through our church. The kids had after school activities, homework, and their own adjustment to Micah's new schedule (which meant they went to school at 7 am and came home just shy of 5 pm each day). We had family get-togethers, neighbors, friends, and home improvement projects. To say that we were packing our days full would be an understatement.
It happened slowly at first, but over the course of the summer and fall months we began to notice an erosion. We had more and more time tied up in other things and less and less time for each other. We squeezed in short moments here and there to touch base about the next day's schedule, the logistics of driving people places, and the grocery lists. We were both experiencing the stress of new jobs--big jobs-- and the fatigue of the treadmill we were on. We fell into bed at night, exhausted, talking for a few minutes about our day before falling fast asleep and starting over again the following morning. Eventually our conversations became less personal. We snapped at each other over everything. I heard words and tones in my own voice that I wouldn't have recognized three years ago. We were exasperated with each other when little things were missed. We argued. We were living progressively parallel lives with fewer and fewer points of intersection.
Things came to a head finally one evening in early October. We sat beside each other on the edge of our bed as the kids showered and got ready for bed. We'd had a couple of arguments and picked at each other, our responses to each other out of proportion to the situations. We hadn't intended it, but it seemed to be the norm lately. I sighed and looked at Micah out of the corner of my eye. "Are we OK?"
I'll never forget the look on his face, the pain in his eyes, as he shrugged and said, "I don't know."
It was an honest answer, but not the one either of us wanted to have to give. We had to do better.
The next day I sat at my desk to do homework. I couldn't focus. I couldn't keep my mind off of the conversation the night before. Something had to change. I loved my husband, but if I were completely honest, I hadn't especially liked him lately. I needed a way to notice the good things about him, to think about him differently. I pulled out an empty journal. I took a deep breath and started writing. I wrote to him and said I was going to take time each day to write out a prayer for him. I wanted to have to be intentional about thinking about him, his needs, his good qualities. Some days I would write about the things I loved; others, I would write about things for which he needed prayer. I would fill the pages with letters to him and about him, letters written as prayers to God. We needed God to be back in the center of our relationship.
Over the next weeks we made some big changes. We pulled back and reassessed all the different activities that had been filling our days to overflowing. So many of the things we'd been doing were good things, things we loved, things we were good at, things that were important. But too much of a good thing is still too much. Micah gradually stepped down from the various committees and boards on which he served. I pulled back from some of the different ministries. I carved out time elsewhere to work on homework so that we had our evenings free after the kids went to bed. We began to ask each other after work about our day. We often went into the kitchen, closed the door, and told the kids we needed ten minutes uninterrupted to talk. We went on small dates here and there, we ran errands together as a family. It was a slow process, and every step was intentional. But slowly and surely, we began to gain back the ground we'd lost.
By the time I was in the full swing of doctor visits and tests in early December, we had come a long way. But the reality of how vulnerable we are had had its sobering effect. We knew instinctively, as I continued to worsen, that the next several months would be difficult. This time we were prepared. We spent hours talking about where we felt God was headed, what life might look like with a disability, how it would impact our marriage. We took steps proactively to make sure we had time together that was not focused on my health. I dreaded feeling like Micah's patient--I wanted to be his wife! But we had made the commitment: we were in this together, regardless. When he gave me the gift of a picture of tandem bikes on Valentines day, with the words, "Where you go I will go," it had richer meaning than it would have at any other point in our marriage.
The road is not always easy. I'm so grateful our wake-up call came before the additional stress of the past several months! But regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the outward pressures and inward drives, this year has cemented in our minds the knowledge that love is not a feeling, it's an act. It's a choice--not one time, at the altar in front of a host of friends and family. It's a choice that's made daily, when the person in front of us is at their best and worst. Goodness knows, we've been both this year! Love is a radical fight to push out all the things that could drive us apart, to be on our guard constantly for the subtle things that drive wedges between us. Love is looking for the best in the other person, believing the best. It's walking this messy, bumpy, windy road home together one day at a time.
