Mundane Monday

I'm fighting discouragement today, just seems like I'm constantly overwhelmed with all there is to do. I try to tell myself to look at all I have gotten done instead.

Had one breakthrough moment last night during a conflict with Mitch. To put it in a nutshell, I like to talk through (often in repetitive circular motion) to reach resolution, he likes to quickly take action to reach resolution.

So a recurring pattern is that I'll say one thing, meaning to vent, and he'll quickly respond with a decision, when that wasn't what I intended at all, plus I feel short-circuited, shut-down.

Last night it finally occurred to me during one of these that he doesn't mean to shut me down and he isn't being spiteful to respond so quickly, he's just seeking resolution. And I tried to explain to him that I need to hash through things, and I need him to stay and listen to the whole thing and just process through it. He's not real big on that.

But the good part is that for one fleeting second, instead of feeling abandoned and hurt, I caught an insight that it's just his temperament and not trying to hurt me.

I've been thinking lately that married people don't reveal enough about our conflicts, so single people may think we're just more spiritual and perfect than them, and younger couples don't learn as they could from more experienced couples. So I've been thinking I should blog more about marital conflict. But it's obviously touchy, one doesn't want to say EXACTLY what one is thinking, right at the time. But if you never say anything at all, then how can we learn and grow from each other?

So for you who like "raw" blogs, there's my bit of sushi for a Mundane Monday.

Three Quarts' Worth of Atonement

“I put three quarts in, and this vehicle only holds four quarts.”

Oops.

The voice on the phone sounded almost cheery – the gritted-teeth sort of cheerfulness one reserves for informing someone of transgressions. Someone one has told many times before.

“The person who normally drives this vehicle did not MENTION to the person who normally changes the oil on this vehicle that THE GAUGE IS AT THE BOTTOM. In fact, I didn’t even NEED the gauge, I heard the engine rattle WHEN I TURNED THE MOTOR ON.”

Cringe. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry . . . I guess I didn’t notice.” Very lame.

A pause. “That’s what you said the last four times this happened.”

Major oops. Major cringe. Major atonement needed.

I sought advice from a married co-worker. “Well, you can’t very well bring him home a dozen roses,” she pondered. “Wait, I know! Just walk right up to him, throw your arms around his neck, give him a great big smooch, smile and say, ‘Honey, I KNOW you love me!’”

Would you believe it worked? And it sure beat mumbling “sorry” repetitively for half an hour. Nobody likes a groveler.

For those who’ve acknowledged Jesus as our Savior, no further atonement is possible. Not even for spousal misdemeanors. Grace is ours, but it has to be received, and that’s pretty tough to do with one’s head down and one’s tail between one’s legs.

Naturally, grace in hand, wifely good deeds do tend to follow – but as gifts, not quid pro quo. And if anyone has a great tip to jog my memory on watching that gauge, I’m all ears.

The Changing of the Beard

It happens every spring. For weeks I tell Mitch the weather is getting warmer, his beard is getting scruffier, my neck and other tender places become ready to part with its grizzled Brillo nuzzlings. And nothing changes. Winter lasts forever in Colorado. And some years, so does my Winter Husband.

Then one day I arrived home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In the backyard, the kids clamored for my services as trampoline safety monitor and hurried me over there, while their Dad shoveled away, transplanting rosebushes. I called a greeting his way. On the trampoline, my little girl told me about her day. She kept trying to convey some occurrence, and I thought I picked up the words “shaved” and “face,” as she gestured in the general direction of the rosebushes. My oh-so-very-slow brain (doubtless still occupied by benefits summaries and disability claims) transmuted this into some communication about the yard, the plants, her rich imaginary life peopled with all manner of creations who do amazing things.

Finally the man shoveling rosebushes turned to reveal his profile, and I beheld . . . my Summer Husband!

Goodbye, Brillo, until first snowfall!


Hello, Smooth Operator!


Ahhhhhh, Springtime in the Rockies!

March 22, 1987

I strolled into the Industry Hills Sheraton in La Puente, California, invited by my roommate’s boyfriend to his Dad’s birthday gathering, a first-class Sunday brunch buffet. Almost everyone had arrived, so I took a seat near one end. Five minutes later, the last family member straggled in, and my life changed forever.

We talked. He asked about my interests and direction in life. I admired his easygoing manner and tanned good looks. Recently graduated and employed, I felt finally independent of the strict missionary parents who had hoped I would find a nice Baptist boy at Biola. He had seen plenty of the girls who didn’t have strict missionary parents. For five years, he’d given up on dating, instead fishing often in Azusa Canyon, alone. Listening, waiting, learning to live from his heart. I told him I wasn’t the romantic type. He just smiled.

After hours of conversation, he offered me a ride back to his folks’ place. At the far end of the deserted parking garage, I saw two cars, a generic sporty one and an odd-looking thing resembling an ancient VW, black, with a big yellow taxicab number stuck on top. I headed for the sports car, and tried to think of humorous remarks deriding the other vehicle’s clearly unconventional owner. Until I realized I was walking with him.

When we parted that day, he shook my hand, looked into my eyes, and said he hoped we’d meet again. We did.

Mitch saw my heart that day, at a time I’d forgotten I had one. I am a completely sold-out romantiholic, and he knew that immediately. Sometimes in the quiet moments at end of day, I sigh deeply and say, out loud if he’s not already asleep, “Could anyone in the world possibly be as happy?”

I hope you all are.

For my married friends, when the days grow long and the paychecks or tempers short, please pause for a moment and remember how and why you fell in love and Who guided you to him or her.

For my single friends who would so very much like not to be, please invite me to join your "Pray-me-down-the-aisle" team. Marriage is so incredibly wonderful that I want everyone, who so desires, to experience this Eden at the foot of Calvary.

If you are a bird with broken wing, the God who sees each sparrow fall promises you a future and a hope. He is the God of second chances, or as many as we need. Your dreams can fly again.

And if you do go on that first special date, never miss a really good opportunity to keep your mouth shut, in the presence of someone else’s treasure. Out of Mitch’s multitude of cars, I don’t know of one he loved more, or parted with more sacrificially, than his 1959 Morris Minor. It quickly grew from comical to legendary status in my eyes, particularly since I’ve worn it now on my left hand for nearly 15 years.

Thank you, Sweetheart, for the nineteen most romantic years of my life! I’ll tell you so in person when I get home tonight! :-)