Our marriage: a 1963 Saab 93 Sedan

I have come to think of this marriage through this metaphor:

When I am a young man someone gives me a shiny, showroom-condition Saab sedan. Sixties vintage. The interior is lovely. The paint is shiny and the body pristine. I am handed the keys with nothing more than a smile and a pat on the back. Like many used cars, this one has no owners manual tucked into the glovebox.

I take care of it the way I think cars should be, the way I've always seen automobiles cared for and maintained. Regular washes and oil changes. I fill up the tank with brand-name gas every Thursday. I can't say that I pamper the vehicle, but it is hardly abused. As I learn about the car's former owners, I am amazed that it runs so well and looks so nice. They were not very concerned about this little import's long-term health, even if they did the best they knew how.

If you understand anything about early Saabs, you already know what's going to happen: the engine will gasp and wheeze and stop altogether before too long. Unlike every other car on America's roads, this Swedish beauty sports a 2-cycle engine. If you don't add oil to the gas tank, you will damage the engine in short order. If you never add oil to the gas tank, the drivetrain will be destroyed. Kaput. Clunk.

But who suspects such Scandinavian wackiness? It's a car! You just put gas into the gas tank and oil down the OIL tube! How the heck is a guy suppose to just know this? Like I said, there is no owner's manual.

For the record: had I known, I would have been adding the oil to the gas from the very beginning. It was never my intention to cause or allow the destruction of something entrusted to me, something beautiful (if not a little bit funky).

Sometimes a song just gets it soooo right...

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Funny how conjecture comes so easily...

but genuine concern simply isn't worth the effort. This from a female friend of Stacy's:


"D. must be in pain...I mean how can he hold so much anger unless he is somehow not able to be honest about some issue...or what...I do not know but it causes and has caused you great pain and I am so sorry you have had to live these months and years without the love of a husband who adores you completely."

Now, why does someone assume that I am holding in heaps of anger? Because they would be angry living with a spouse like mine? Fair enough, I suppose. But it sounds so patronizing: you must be very angry, and if you don't feel angry then you are just not being honest with yourself. The woman's husband pulled that on me for months and when I finally got ticked at him for his inconsistency, he shrank back and accused me of "shaming" him. Mon Dieu! Will I start covering up my cowardice and laziness with counsel-speak if I continue sitting in JB's office? Meh genoita. But back to the sentiment above - why does pain demand anger? Is it not possible to deal with S.'s manifold foibles with some patience and sorrow, tinged perhaps with anger? For that matter - why should someone assume a place of judgment like she has? According to her, I am a seething sonnofabitch who fails to honestly assess both himself and the situation at hand. I suggest that such judgments have no place between Christians.

What stirs more emotion, though, when I read the above words is the idea that I have willfully failed to love and adore my wife completely for lo these many years. A more appropriate sentiment would sound like this: "I'm sorry that you have been unwilling to offer your husband any sort of unconditional love or emotional safety. You reap what you sow, though. Tough it up, woman." THAT would speak wisdom to the situation, IMHO.

A desire for wickedness in the other

You know that I have S.'s old job, no? She used to be the full-time parent in charge of domestic duties, one and all. Homework. Cleaning. Laundry. Shopping. Cooking. You know the drill. She now works a hair over part time and I do all the work of parenting and homemaking. When we last were communicating, through letters (hand-written on her part; always typed and edited and rewritten on mine), she spoke again and again of how horrible I am as a person, especially toward the kids. I noted that she was no saint herself back in the day when I was actually working fifty plus hours a week. She dropped off the tots at the gym childcare, worked out a few hours, then came home for a lengthy nap. When all the children were awake and in the house, she shoved earplugs into her head, fed them simple boiled or microwaved foods, and dumped them into bed by 6:30 pm. Mommy needs her special time.

I am absolutely certain of this: my shortcomings are equal to or greater than S.'s at her worst when it comes to parenting. At times I am short, easily frustrated, and downright mean. However, I have noticed that I am not the only adult in this house who exhibits such behaviour. And when I hear the same tones of frustration and anger from her lips, I can't help but smile a smug little smile. Ha! Bitch! You ain't all that.

So it goes with a debased relationship. Everything becomes a special case. Ordinarily you would want to encourage someone to avoid yelling at children, cursing at computers, or seething at poor drivers. Ordinarily you would quietly pray for a soul captive to anxieties. In our case, though, it is a cause for celebration! You suck worse than I do, you sucky sucker! Your moral high-ground is nothing more than a farce, you silly woman! The greater her sinful disposition, see, the better my position. I quietly assume the high-ground simply by watching her falter in the flesh.

It just happened.

I shaved my head a few months back for a few reasons. One. I looked like a freaky homeless guy when I woke up in the morning. Having four inches of hair is not something which looks even slightly decent on my increasingly barren hairline. And if one is going to cut one's hair, it might as well be drastic. Two. It provides a sort of tonsure. Now, I have shaved my head in the past as a more proactive spiritual exercise, a la Acts 18:18. This time the smooth scalp isn't serving such a purpose explicitly and purposefully, sort of like when you fast because you just need to clean out the ol' GI rather than focus on prayer.

Third. So I can immediately notice when the horns of cuckoldry appear. I wouldn't want to be brushing my wavy locks some fine spring morning only to have the brush snag on any well-developed nubs.

The Counselor noted this week that S. has communicated no desire to be physically intimate with another man. She has written as much in one of her recent notes. If we were to separate, she says, she would be faithful to God and not remarry. Please. I may not be the perfect mate, but I sure know her better than that.

The fact is that she yearns for that male connection. That's why she has a date next week. That's one of the reasons she gave for being reluctant to visit with The Counselor (the main one being that I had contaminated her by my mere suggestion of seeing her. The other, that she isn't a man, and "I prefer talking with men.") She prefers the company of gentle-spirited men who are wired to immediately speak on emotional topics. I imagine she feels about such men the way I would about a vibrant, feisty woman who can more than hold her own in a theological discussion. GrrrrOOWww!

But at least I understand that the desire for physical intimacy is the natural and inevitable outcome of feelings of intimacy for most women, and my wife is surely not a asexual creature given such circumstances. My cuckolding would be entirely expected were she to find herself enamored by first conversation and laughter. Then follows the flush of giddiness from an accidental brushing of the hands during a nice, chatty walk. These are the feelings which she hasn't enjoyed (or worked to create) in such a very long time! This is all she wants, which her violent, wicked husband has kept from her for years and years and years.

That's pretty much all it would take, I'm sure. I truly believe that she is not consciously intent on adultery, but I also see very clearly that she doesn't understand herself in the slightest and thus takes no precautions to avoid adultery (even in non-physical manifestations). I can almost feel those bumps on my head right now.

O! The Slander! Even my close friend in whom I trusted

who ate my bread - she has lifted her heel against me.

I have told two, maybe three people about the details of S's insanity (You, of course don't count. Because you don't really exist. At least not in a sense of running into you from time to time). Her bitterness and belligerent indignation have not found their way into most of my conversations. To wit: on Saturday the kids and I took a lovely long drive northwards to enjoy the graduations of a few old friends (one a former student of mine getting her B.A.; the other, a high school pal who is now fully PhD'd). On the way we stopped by for a surprise visit at the home of some old friends from our mountain days. As we were leaving, Mr. D. asked me to tell S. that they missed seeing her. I confided that things were not going well, that she had checked out of the marriage at least six months ago. I left it at that.

S., on the other hand, sees it as her duty to lay out her low opinion of me and my shortcomings whenever remotely tangential to the conversation. She wrote a former coworker with concerns that in his new position he was slandering his old school and stealing prospective students. He politely defended his actions in black and white, but S. felt somehow violated: "To be honest, I thought I totally pissed you off with my email. Your response felt like an attack." [Phew! At least I am not the only human being who wears the calumnies of her bizarre interpretations of human emotions.] But not one to stop there, she needs to tell this man where the roots of such paranoia lie: "I have a feeling it's because I've been dealing with a lot of this from my husband for so many years and never respond well to any hint of harshness."

Do I know this guy? Is he some longstanding family friend? A Christian able to dispense grace, pray or hear with wisdom? Ahhhhhhh - NO. I notice in her correspondence that she brings up "troubles with" her husband on a regular basis - she might as well program that into her signature S. L. T______, "Things with my husband are difficult."


Contend, O Lord, with those who contend with me;
fight against those who fight against me!

It is one thing to bare your heavy soul with trusted old friends who have spiritual resources (although I even have a hard time with that when I am entirely left out of the loop, unable to temper her aspersions with some perspective. One woman told S. that she is "doing all the right things and the Lord will honor that in your life". Quite a statement from someone without much knowledge of events), but to speak ill of your husband - a fellow heir of salvation - before the goyim! Such foolishness is this!

Let them be put to shame and dishonor
who seek after my life!
Let them be turned back and disappointed
who devise evil against me!
Let them be like chaff before the wind,
with the angel of the Lord driving them away!
Let their way be dark and slippery,
with the angel of the Lord pursuing them!

An analogy

I fully understand why S. has grown so upset and feels that she has a right to dissolve the marriage after fifteen years of persistent failures on my part. That is to say, it makes sense within her insulated framework, within the S. Grammar of Relational Love.

Here is how it might look if I were to believe and act as she does:

Ever since childhood I have had a vision of what it means to be married, what it is to be loved. And that means waking up every morning and having my soft-eyed spouse pleasure me in all sorts of new and enlivening ways. Monday through Saturday, we wake up and the marriage works. I feel loved and fulfilled and treasured.

But it does not even start off like that. The honeymoon is ok, but there are plenty of mornings when she just gets up and takes a shower, or eats breakfast or reads. How strange, I think. This bodes not well for the love of this marriage. Sure enough, the first few years of the marriage see a few mornings here and there where she demonstrates such love. All is right with the world, and I know she can do it if she only will try. But those mornings never establish a pattern, and she falls right back into those other habits - eating, showering, dressing.

Years drift into one another. I hope every morning. 99% of mornings I am disappointed. She is not who I thought I was marrying. This is not how things are supposed to be. She could do it, but chooses every single morning not to. Her priorities are abundantly clear to me! I mean nothing to her! She refuses to love me, and instead loves all those other activities.

Finally, I realize that it is always going to be like this. She is never going to wake up with a burning desire to perform fellatio. She will never give what it takes to make this relationship work. It is self-evident, no matter what she or others might say, that without morning pleasuring a marriage does not exist. Rather than be hurt morning after morning, I will simply break off contact, deny all hopes, and let this dry, brittle relationship turn to dust and blow away with the wind.

A summer free from at least one external control

The beard is now shorn. So fast does a furry face of four-inch follicles fall. If you have read the prior post you might understand what this simple act entails.

The most readily available reason is that a bushy chin makes it hard to buckle my bicycle helmet, and I am hoping to go on a long ride this morning. The beard also tended to make a non-targeted audience look at me askance. Patty, a cashier at the old KS, didn't say a single word to me on Friday. She would only glance up from her scanning duties and quickly look away. The 4-year-old twin girls at the house where I bought a bigger corner unit (for our newly inherited bigger TV) were clearly unsure if they should even return my silly banter, looking with concern toward their mousy mother. These are merely side-effects of the beard's intended purpose, of course. They should be expected, but they still made me feel more alien than I wished. Who wants to scare little girls or a BBW cashier?

The First Cause, though, is the response I found from S. this morning (yes, in the form of a letter. A crowded, sarcastic, defensive letter). I told her a few days ago why I had grown the beard, that it was a layer of protection for the keeping of the covenant. Her response: I don't care why you grew it. You are still ugly inside and out. Well... Screw it, then. Off it goes! No more scaring little girls! Lots more slight smiles at the attractive ladies in grocery line! I should take the pile of whiskers and make a nice little bed for that gold ring I took off a few weeks ago while doing yard work and which sits still on the window sill.

I do wish I had taken a few pictures first. Especially in that Muhammaden hat, or with my Dangeresque glasses on. Something to remember a winter's growth and truly funky look.

The Events of December 31, 2006

There is just a little back story to put this into context. The first is a comment that my mother-in-law made shortly before Christmas. I was showing her a few gifts I'd gotten people, including a little flask I'd found for my fishing buddy, C. It held five ounces and three wee stainless cups nestled into the lid. MIL was aghast, "You bought a flask for an alcoholic?!" I don't remember talking to MIL about C. or about his wife's concerns about his drinking. Strange for her to think such things about my friend, I thought.

I waited about a week until I had a chance to ask S. about it. Knowing her fear and hatred of conflict (or even the appearance of possible conflict), I rehearsed my wording over and over and over. That evening all of the kids but the eldest J. were over at C.'s house and we were to join them for some New Year's revelry. I thought it as good a time as any to ask how her mother came to think of C. as a rummie. I think I asked it something like this: "Do you know how it is that your mother thinks C. is an alcoholic?" She was standing in the bedroom. Or bathroom, maybe.

A bit more background is necessary right here. I told you how S. hates conflict. She came to a place when we were in counseling last year where she admitted that conflict is part of human relationships and that I was not wicked for simple act of being upset about something. But that proved either too costly or too scary (or both), and we were back to the place where we have been for over a decade. Any sort of conflict, however banal or gingerly engaged is met with denial or refusal to engage. It isn't as if I storm in and throw all kinds of "you" statements at her, calling her names and belittling her person. I have never done that during conflict. [Disclaimer: I did mutter a derogatory name loud enough for her to hear when she was ripping into the kids about something six or seven months ago - kids being well out of earshot]. The fact is that if I am not persistent in getting a response from her, she will continue to avoid engaging altogether. "I don't want to talk about it now." When might be better? "I don't know." So I schedule a time on the calendar for us to talk, but something always comes up. That leaves me with a few options: drop the issue altogether (which fits her family paradigm growing up); get in her face about it (which is surprising fruitful, at least in the short term. She gets emotional and upset, but those are human emotions, not sin, and she engages); beginning a series of written dialogs (our traditional method for addressing conflict, though which she has repeatedly derided as immature); or a tactic which resulted from last year's counseling -- my calmly asking questions with great care to the level and tone of voice and the openness of the questions.

So I tried that last one and asked the question. She said she didn't want to talk about it. I said, "I understand that, but I think that it is important to talk about it." She walked away from me into the kitchen. I asked again, "How did she come to think C. is an alcoholic?" "I don't want to talk to you right now," she said. "That is true, but this does not have to be a big deal. I'm just concerned about how she came to hold that opinion." "Just leave me alone," she said.

I was standing in the entryway to the kitchen when she tried to leave, I stood my ground and again asked politely for a quick answer to my question, careful to not raise my voice or express any frustration at all. She tried to shove past me, and since I was holding to the counter her shove ripped off the trim on the counter's edge. She snorted, "Ha! There goes your stupid counter!" and stormed off to the back of the house.

She hates that counter. She wanted to redo the kitchen a while back, and I undertook what was supposed to be a quick remodel of the wall coverings and cabinets. But when the paneling came off, so did the drywall. That revealed some horrible wiring and galvanized pipes corroded at every joint. So a year later I finished the whole thing: new wiring and breaker box, all new plumbing for the whole house (including drainage), new drywall, cabinets, sink, dishwasher, wall covering, lighting. It was a massive drain on me, especially since I had to learn it all as I went. When we came to that last countertop -- the very last item to finish the kitchen, I needed a small "L" shaped piece. I found a used Corian piece which fit perfectly (not an common item, mind you). But it didn't match the color of the other counters in the kitchen. It matches the kitchen just fine. S. was very vocal in her dislike, but I was done with the kitchen. I had worked on it for over a year and needed to just be finished. To S. it was simply more evidence that I don't care what she thinks. It was, though, more important to me that the family just have a kitchen and get on with things than wait for another perfectly matching countertop to come along. S. did, after all, have full say in every other decision in that kitchen, from paint to texture to layout.

I felt angry immediately rise, but took a deep breath. The trim was easily slipped back into place. I walked back to the bedroom and addressed her again from the doorway. "This is a really quick and simple thing, S." I said. "All I want to know is why your mother thinks C. is an alcoholic." She screamed at me to leave her alone. "No", I said. "This is important to address." She called me a few salty things and tried to shove past me again. I did not leave the door. I thought that addressing the issue even in anger is better than the option of ignoring the problem. She violently shoved me back with both hands. I was surprised, and shoved her away from me.

At that point I was not calm and composed. With frustration evident in my voice I stepped up, looked at her and said, "What the hell? I only asked a question, S. A simple question." At that she took up a boxing stance and began punching me, first in the left shoulder then to my face.

More back story! S. has been working out at the gym for around four or five years. She lifts weights, and more important to this narrative, has taken a kick-boxing class. Two hours a class. Twice a week. For four years. She has been practicing how to punch and kick effectively with growing strength. She has punched me before, mind you. On my birthday in 2003. And when we were first married she would get enraged during arguments and become violent, but she hadn't practiced her punches back then.

After a few blows to the face I wanted it to stop. I hit her back. Two or three times to the body. All composure was gone then. Adrenaline was fully flowing. She slumped back and I hit her three times on the top of her head. I stopped. She had her arms in front of her face. "What the hell, S! All I wanted was a simple conversation. A CONVERSATION!" I breathed heavily. "And is that all you've got? I thought you would put up a better fight than that after working out for four years." Not the kindest way to put it, but I was honestly disturbed that she gave up immediately -- that if she were attacked by Mean Rapist she would not give him a run for his money.

I left her in the bedroom and took J (who thankfully did not witness the violence) to C's house. It felt strangely cathartic on my end, to finally have the rage and vitriol building toward each other find an outlet. All her belittling, passive-aggressive actions, name calling - it all joined the adrenaline surge and rushed out after she landed those punches. I regretted that she chose violence over simple (or even angry) discourse, especially since I knew she would not feel any catharsis whatsoever. I regret that I did not know she was about to menstruate causing her to feel every emotion heightened tenfold thanks to those hormones. I would have put off my question for a few days at least if that was evident to me.

I also regret that the clear commands of Christ had no power over my response. If ever I have had an enemy whom I should love and turn the other cheek towards, it is she. It is sad that the categories of "spouse" and "enemy" overlap such as they do, but it is true. I failed in my response to her violence both in returning her blows, and in deriding her capacity to see her actions through. I apologized to her for my response the next day, admitting that I was wrong to respond the way I did.

It was a fight. I prodded verbally and she punched back. It is over from my end. It should never have happened. I should have let her rage and taken the blows and never returned the derision which so readily came my way. To her this was the end, the final act sealing the relationship's doom. Since then she has lived as if the relationship were indeed over and the covenant dissolved. Somehow her violence was a final testing ground of my love and character.

Since I punched back, I utterly failed.

The Job

I raise five kids - serve them breakfast, make their lunches, walk them to school, read their school notes, shop, cook, clean, check homework. S. does brush the girls' hair most mornings. That is what I do right now for a couple of reasons. The first is that I have never fallen into a vocational calling which stirs the soul, and S. has. She loves what she does and feels it a dream-come-true to teach those students every day. If I can free her up on this end to enjoy that calling, then I am more than willing to do so. Coupled with that, though, is her total removal of herself from any role as parent. She seems incredibly preoccupied with that job given that it is part-time. There may be a chicken-and-the-egg problem presented here: I do all the work at home so that she might find joy in her calling, but she pulls away and leaves me with all the work at home because I do not leave the house for a monetary job.

I understand that I move in largely conservative, traditional circles which do not like to see a man taking care of home and children while the wife works. Those voices which tell me to leave the house and clock in somewhere, leaving the kids to some sort of childcare -- they make sense according to their presuppositions. But it is the egalitarian voices echoing the same critique which strike me as odd and untrue to their convictions. Is it not a job to keep a house well, managing all the funds, keeping the vehicles in good shape, overseeing the children's education and healthcare? I doubt very much that either of the above camps have demanded that a woman raising five children also find employment outside the home.

S. has demanded that I find a vocation which is local and fits within the hours she allots. I am loathe to even begin looking, first because I have very limited skills in that area. All of my jobs have fallen into my lap over the years. I can understand her frustration at becoming the economic engine for the home, but at the same time I should think some thanks would be in order for making her vocational calling a reality through significant self-sacrifice.

Proposal #1

I really should have been writing about this for the last few years, so you dear reader would have some of the back story behind all this brouhaha. Instead I thrust you into the thick of it with only my perspective to go on. Not the kindest of literary actions, to be sure. But this is my blog, not some archive of relational NPOV.

I just got off the phone with a close friend. His home phone went to the machine, so I called his cell. He & his family are enjoying dinner up in the mountains at a friends' home. I didn't quite realise until right now how living on the cusp of divorce results in a stifling social life, at least for the one who has assumed responsibility for the kids. S. enjoys parties with coworkers on a weekly basis. I miss friends who don't don serious faces and ask "How are things?" My social contacts have shrunk to three or four, and I don't doubt that they are growing tired of an always needy, befuddled friend. The Almighty , blessed be he, has seen fit to keep at least one friend in my life who is gifted/wired with compassionate outreach. He makes certain that I have not shuffled off this mortal coil prematurely. Last June he sought me and found me fishing on a local creek after an upsetting morning. S. had taken an older student out after tutoring on a Friday night and ending up having dinner and drinks with him. I grant you that her motives where not impure at the time -- he was an older Asian gentleman, mind you. But I was upset at my wife going on a date with another man. Carl found me climbing up from the creek, unfortunately just after a wonderful pale morning dun hatch ended. A true pal, that one.

Back to the topic at hand! S. has communicated (through writing. Always through writing!) that she desires an immediate separation; her latest note reads, "I would like you to move out as soon as possible." Since she has absolutely no financial acumen she writes, "I trust God will give me the wisdom I ned to spend effectively and manage prudently." As if God will honor the dissolution of a holy covenant!

I wish this were an exciting story, a new twist on a familiar plot. Instead it plays out like so many hackneyed versions before it: dumbfounded husband finds his spouse ready to endure all the horrid complications of divorce while he sees none of the warning signs. True - I have seen some of the signs, and reluctantly admit that salvation by grace does not remove the effects of a childhood immersed in the effects of divorce and lasciviousness. That is for another post.

Tomorrow I will spend Easter morning in a large boomer church which pains my soul, so that my family might be together to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ, sitting near a woman who wants nothing more than my disappearance from her life forever. I don't expect a pleasant morning, but hope for grace, none-the-less.

A Deist's New Years Resolutions

At the very tail end of 2006 I happened across a curmudgeon's list of "refusals" - resolutions cast in opposition to foolish cultural norms. Number eleven stuck me:

11. I refuse to accept the de facto deism of so many evangelicals who do not seek God for supernatural manifestations of Christ's Kingdom (healing, signs and wonders). Instead, I will seek (but never presume upon) God's miraculous, supernatural presence in this dark world.

I decided that rather than try to continue fruitless dialog with S. regarding our stalled relationship, I would purpose to pray and fast and trust God to do his work in his timing. I would continue to serve and love insofar as I was allowed interaction. So I sought to pray. And even fast (which is strangely becoming harder even as I grow older and my metabolism slows). I looked at the list she wrote in the summer which outlined the things which make her feel loved, and I did them. I did not see any quick results, mind you. Not even a thank you for the packs Rolos I hid in her bag every Monday or the meals I cooked especially for her. It seemed like the Christian thing to do: pray, trust the Father, and love.

But that line of action stopped after a few short weeks. An older friend and mentor looked shocked when I told him that was my plan for action, praying and serving. His solution lay entirely on the couch of a professional counselor. Therein lay the only hope this marriage possibly had. Not to discount the good that trained, gifted counselors do every day, but I wanted to first establish the true Actor and Healer in this situation. Grace often comes through people, to be sure. But it also flows from obedience and abiding in the Holy One himself. At least one other voice expressed skepticism at this whole trusting God and serving S. plan. That discouragement added to the complete lack of any fruit from my meagre attempts has led to this: very little prayer and a desk drawer full of Rolos.

Now that our only communication had turned toward when to separate and last weeks counseling conference did nothing to change her mind (or change anything, really), I am wondering if all those voices weren't simply coming from their context, "the de facto deism of so many evangelicals." For my own part, I have become more fatalistic and thus more angry. When I stopped any acts of kindness, I not only legitimized her self-estrangement but I hardened my own heart and raised my self back into the place of hurt. Rather than thinking "She will work through this with God's help, and I will be here, doing my part and duty all the while," I now tend to think something like, "Effin' bitch. She doesn't deserve a single kind word or action. What she deserves is a swift kick in the ass." See? It turns out that a secondary result of that prayer and service was a sort of hope and more Christlike mindset.

Putting my trust in horses has only left the stench of horseshit in my nostrils.

Thank you, Myers & Briggs

Last summer we attended professional counseling. The first session was predictable - a nice, long talk about our current concerns, hopes and family histories. The good doctor also sent us home with copies of the Myers/Briggs personality tests, so we could see on paper what we were dealing with in the flesh. It seemed a very fruitful exercise. Turns out that I am a solid INTJ - "The Mastermind!", while she comes up a ISFJ, a "Protector Guardian". As we read through the descriptions of each personality together we recognized a lot of truths about each other and agreed with the strengths and weaknesses. I thought it was a grand experiment in validating our priorities, passions, and viewpoints. What I didn't expect, though, was that validation was a nail in the relational coffin for S.

So many of the things she had assumed in a mate will never materialize in me. The many priorities she has wanted to see take root in me will never do so, and the parts of my personality she finds grating or harsh are bedrock traits of how I am wired. The tests were supposed to provide insights which led to understanding and acceptance. Instead they took her gnawing ill-ease and deflated hopes and turned them into icy despair and numbness. "I see why you react that way and value X" turned into a quiet "Oh my God. I do not like this man, nor will I ever." When one has a defeatist streak already, all the opportunities provided by Myers/Briggs' insights become the overwhelming static and noise of relational doom.

See, I look at our differences like this: you are not who I am in many, many ways, and many of the priorities I'd hoped you would exhibit just are not part of you. So I will change my expectations, begin enjoying your strengths, and seek to establish a life-pattern where we can work within the realities which are us. For example, I assume that conflict is inevitable and it is perfectly acceptable to engage it with vigor. If voices are raised and emotions visible, so much the better. But her nurturing, protecting nature finds this abrasive and destructive. So I must adjust not only how I engage conflict but even just showing emotion during conversations I'm really into.

So here is the kicker: how does one hope for change in a spouse who rather than seek solutions and understand conflict as necessary for growth, seeks that other relationship where such conflict is forever absent? I can't change her mind, her heart, her priorities and preconceptions. There is prayer, but that requires faith and I have been encouraged to put that into professional counselors rather than God. So I live and wait and shake my head in bewilderment.

A Typical Day

I wake up about an hour before the rest of the house even dreams of awaking. On a good morning I'll have a two-hour head start, but that happens less and less frequently now that I sleep on the sofa in a room devoid of all timepieces, let alone one which pleasantly wakes you at an appointed hour. I pour a cup of coffee (often yesterday's) from the French press, add a bit of water (S. likes it stronger than I do), and heat for 1:11. Then its back to the couch where I read a chapter in With Christ in the School of Prayer, by Andrew Murray. I re-read the first paragraph a few times while the coffee kicks in, and slowly the radical truths about prayer and living in Christ and abiding in his word sink in. This is how I want to live - consistent with the faith I profess. I want to serve and pray for even those who despise me, those who make my life far more painful just by their presence. Her. I want to desire her growth and maturity as well as my own. I want to be there on the other side of all this having done my part to make it right.

Then the house stirs and is no longer my sanctuary. Girls speak rudely to each other as they brush their hair. Socks are scattered over the floor in search of matches. S. makes disparaging grunts at me because I am frustrated with the 6th grade boy who didn't finish his homework last night. She spends the morning getting ready for the gym; I make five lunches, serve breakfast, clean the kitchen and remind the children every 3 minutes to finish getting ready. Lunches packed? Planner signed? Shoes on? Bed made? Get it done! Now! She comes out and herds my sheep into the van for her 13 minutes of daily time with them, driving them to school. I finish picking up the messes and walk the twins to kindergarten. Any thoughts of her now make me shake my head and mutter some salty epitaph.

If there is any interaction with her in the afternoon it is typically short and text-book passive aggressive. "Would you mind just putting your dirty dishes and mugs in the dishwasher?" "Sure," she says. And leaves her cheese crusted nacho plate on the table.

I ask: "I'm going to need the van tomorrow. When would be a good time?" "When do you want it?" "I don't know. I don't have a tight schedule, just some errands I need to get done." "Well, when do you want it?" "Whenever its convenient for you, since you have a busier schedule than I do." "Just tell me when you need the van." "Ok...nine o'clock." "No. I won't be back from the gym by then."

Then the kids come home - the twins at two and the rest by four. She teaches a class in the evenings. It starts at six, but she leaves the house by 4:15, so she can walk and have more time to herself. Her total time with the kids doesn't exceed 20 minutes a day, and over half of that is the morning drive. They know she could drive to class in the evening and get there a bit later. That can't feel good. I cook dinner while they work on homework, play, beg to watch a movie. There is usually a tall glass of homebrewed beer at hand while the pan sizzles or the pot boils.

What happened to that hope and faith of the morning? It seems that daily such seeds are choked out by the weeds of selfish behaviour and unkindness. Maybe those are merely the fertilizer my flesh needs to gasp and choke, preferring to seethe rather than submit to Christ's work. I lay down exactly where I woke up and read, asking forgiveness for another day of failure, not just with regards to prayer and genuine love, mind you. I usually try to doze off before ten o'clock, which is when the back door creaks open and she walks in. One cannot feel abandoned and ignored in sleep.

The Story of the Beard

I have not shaved since September, I think . It is the first time I have ever grown such a thick, long beard. Depending on which hat I put on, I could play the part of rough-n-ready mountain man (coonskin cap), orthodox Jew (black felt fishing hat, which looks strangely rounded and hasidic at some angles), orthodox Muslim (Kyrgeez hat, which is presently perched upon the dome), or neo-punk bass player (no hat - just the shaved heard and busy beard. Helps if I wear the retro-aviator glasses and slip a few hoops through the old earring holes).

I know my wife of 15 years does not find this look at all attractive, and that is not a small reason for its growth and perpetuity. First, she has noted that we should not judge one another according to outward appearances. This grows from her feeling that I only enjoy her for her body. The fact that I have been commanded by God to find her body (and her body alone) attractive escapes her : true love leaves the physical attraction behind and connects souls. Physical attraction (and by extension, appearance) only distracts us from the arena where true love might flourish.

On a more practical level is the immediate benefit this facial hair gives: I don't feel at all attractive to anyone, which makes me less inclined to even think about flirting with women. What woman would return a smile or nod from a man so oddly arrayed? Surely no hearts would beat faster, no cheeks flush from a sideways glance from this head. And thus I am safe from even trying to flirt with an attractive woman. The beard is the great de-sexualizer, the mark of an ascetic. The beard PLUS the tonsure of a shaved head? If any woman is attracted to this I don't think I could keep up a conversation for more than five minutes. She wouldn't be my type.

If only my spouse were so inclined to avoid the temptation of flirtation as this "delicate" period of our marriage. To wit: her email to a coworker this morning, which reads, "I'd love to keep in touch and do stuff often. Let's plan something soon okay? Do have a favorite downtown spot?" I must admit that it is frustrating to go to extreme lengths so that even a sidelong glance will not lead to flirtation and compromising situations only to find that she seeks out opportunities to cuckold me at every turn. But frustration has been the default experience for quite a while now. I should not be surprised nor disappointed. I do, after all, get to grow a kickin' beard while she enjoys late evenings at pubs and parties.

A promise, not a tender affection

We haven't spoken in months. Days will go by without even the barest of human interactions. Two souls standing in the same room, passing each other in the hall, without a word. Fifteen years since rings were exchanged. And all that investment, time, conversation, sex, arguing, singing, laughing -- all leads to this barren, silent plain.

I came across this quotation in a book recently:

"I didn't marry you because you were perfect. I didn't even marry you because I loved you. I married you because you gave me a promise. That promise made up for your faults. And the promise I gave you made up for mine. Two imperfect people got married and it was the promise that made the marriage. And when our children were growing up, it wasn't a house that protected them; and it wasn't our love that protected them -- it was that promise." Thorton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth

That second sentence is jarring; to think that a man would enter marriage without love as his primary motivation. But think about it: who, especially when marrying relatively young, knows a thing of love? We understand tender affections, burning lusts, deep fondness. Those come naturally. But love is something proven across years, through deep pains and disappointments. One can feel tender affections toward a slumbering newborn. One loves a toddler who just smeared his own poop on his bedroom wall. Love is predicated upon the promise, whether biological and social as parenting often is or willfully given in betrothal. Tender affections may very well give rise to a profound love, but they are not a mark of love's genuineness. (I have felt very fond of and close to literary figures in my life. And even movie characters. That is never love).

In the contemporary Western context the promise often finds first utterance under the flushed cheeks of affections. We are motivated to commitment because of that feeling of pleasure and joy. Who wants that secure, comforting embrace to ever end? We will make it ours eternally. We promise.

The question immediately rises: to what are we promising ourselves? You see, if one soul believes that the ensuing love must be encompassing all human experiences, including pain and sacrifice, yet the other believes herself committing to a perpetually state of tender affections, then the promise itself is a dead letter. Then the currency of human relationship becomes nearly worthless, and silence is simply easier than carting around the huge bundles of cash which every sentence, every terse conversation requires.