A few years ago, our pastor preached a sermon on marriage and told the story of Adam and Eve. You know how it goes, right? The world was created, then Adam and Eve were created to live in it and care for it. They were made for each other, to be helpers, partners. The Bible tells us that they were friends with God, that they were naked, and they felt no shame. But then...then there was the forbidden fruit, the Fall, the Covering, the Curse. The man and the woman hid from God and they made clothes to hide their bodies from each other. I sat in my seat (3/4 of the way back, where I am most comfortable) and I thought about this story. Like, really thought about it. The end of the story, well, that all sounds very familiar. Shame? Secrecy? Hiding from everyone, even God? Oh yes, I know it well. But back to the beginning. That part sounds amazing, and impossible. I wondered if that would ever happen for me and my husband.
I think every love story is a reverse of the first one. We begin distrustful of the other--fallen, covered, cursed--yet we long for this person so much that we overcome our fears and we take that leap. We imagine a Paradise, a personal Garden of Eden where we can return to that original state, and look at each other naked and unashamed. But how do we get there? What steps do we take, how do we change?
I've been married for ten years: ten busy, stressful, happy, confusing, lonely, lovely, life-changing years. By no means have we "arrived", nor would I call myself an expert. But I've seen glimpses of what true partnership can be. It is so good. Turning to another person and having him meet my needs. Telling the truth-the whole truth-and he listens and accepts me as I am. Tackling tasks (whether it is the dishes or raising the children) together and realizing that it takes half the time and energy when we are both giving it our best. This is how two become one. By taking care of each other. By supporting each other. By working together and building one life, one family, one home.
It really hit me when I asked my husband to buy a new mascara for me at the store. He was heading out to get groceries with one kid while I stayed home and entertained the other two (it's just easier this way). I needed a new mascara because I lost the other one. I found it a few days ago in a box of tampons. Who knows how it got there. When I couldn't find it, I assumed it had gotten thrown out by accident or eaten by one of the kids. So Chris can get me a new one, right? He doesn't know anything about makeup, but this is what I did: I told him the exact name of what I wanted. I texted him a message so he could reference it when he got to the store. It's in an orange tube. He got there and called me to say they didn't have black, but they had black/brown. Would that be an okay substitute? Yeah, it's fine. And he came home with exactly what I had asked for. It seems like such a small thing (I mean literally, what's a tube of mascara? 4 inches?), but it represented something huge. A milestone of sorts. For the first few years of our marriage, he would go pick up sandwiches for us and I would write out exactly what I wanted, the way you do with your co-workers when everybody orders out. And he would always bring home French Onion chips. Why did you get those? Don't you like them? No. Oh, well I thought you liked something gross so I figured it was this. Every. Single. Time. For years. And I was disappointed because I thought my husband at least should know the kind of chips I like. It went both ways, truthfully. I would buy the wrong candy (But I thought you liked this?). He would buy the wrong shampoo (NO, the green bottle!). I would pick a movie he hated. He would listen to music at night. And on and on.
I'm an independent kind of person anyway. I know I can at least trust myself to do things the way I like. And that's a great mentality for a single woman. But it doesn't make a marriage work. The partnership that we all crave (whether we say it out loud or not, you know it's true) is the Good Thing that we hope will happen when we say "I do." But what I've learned over these past ten years is that you only get the Good Thing after you do the Hard Thing. And the Hardest Thing is to trust. To be open. To say, "It really bothers me that you don't remember what kind of chips I like. I want salt and vinegar." And to be willing to figure out how to help him remember. Maybe he needs a text. Maybe he can only handle a list that has one item on it. Maybe he needs to carry the empty bottle with him to the store. (And, for the record, maybe he needs to be slightly less self-involved and pay attention.) And that goes both ways. Once you start getting the lunch order right, then you can move on to the bigger things. The insecurities. The fears. The hopes and dreams for the future. Honesty and vulnerability are Hard Things.
It's a Hard Thing to stand before another person, to bear your soul and your body and the rest of your life, to be naked and unashamed. And how amazing for him to strip down too, to lay it all out on the table. Not just that, but to accept you for who you really are, and for you to accept him fully. That's the Good Thing we are working towards, what makes this all worth it.
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