In honor of nearly 15 years of marriage, I’m sharing a series of “15 reflections” taking different forms. You can read the first list here (15 Things You Might Not Care to Know About Our Dating Years). Today (and tomorrow), I’m sharing 15 Marriage Lessons from our 15 years of marriage. Enjoy.
Lesson 1 (2000): Individual, pre-marriage histories create a common, post-marriage narrative.
In August of 2000, we packed our worldly possessions in a tiny car and said goodbye to Tulsa. The road was fire-hot, and by Fayetteville, the thin-treaded tire on the passenger side melted and peeled. The spare tire sat under a mound of boxes and books, and as we unloaded on the side of the road, Amber ran across a treasured High School companion–an old book of poetry with a worn binding. She opened it as I removed the spare tire from the wheel well, and said with near delight, “oh look! Some seeds!”
“Seeds?” I asked.
She squinted her eyes, pinched her thumb and forefinger together, put them to her lips and took a false drag.
“Oh,” I said, and then felt the rising tide of panic. “Throw that junk out before a Cop pulls over to help us change a flat! I don’t want to go to jail for possession!”
Amber just laughed and brushed the inside of the spine clean.
It is true: the fruit of single-living always leaves behind a seed or two.
Lesson 2 (2001): Survival of the fittest doesn’t just apply to spawning salmon.
Fed up with ministry, Amber and I ran kicking and screaming from the church. I’m not sure how we made it. All I can figure is that old Mr. Darwin was on to something. Survival of the fittest doesn’t just apply to spawning salmon and Galapagos lizards.
(Just a note to those struggling in the early throws of marriage: you are tougher than you think.)
Lesson 3 (2002): A jitterbug marriage is a thing worth shooting for.
The Mouk family (the folks on my mother’s side) are a good lot, a lot that knows how to celebrate in style. My grandmother had been diagnosed with cancer that year, and she’d determined to make the most of her remaining time. At our Christmas gathering, Carol Mouk declared that she would like to dance he jitterbug with my grandfather. He turned on some old-timey jazz, and the two took center-stage in the middle of the large family room. He was a decent jitterbugger; she was better. They danced and laughed like they were twenty, and the family watched in both amazement and envy.
I don’t know a thing about dancing the jitterbug, but I aim to dance the “running man” with Amber in our seventies (which means I have to learn it).
Lesson 4 (2003): Your spouse shouldn’t have to say, “I’m an affair waiting to happen,” to get your attention.
Chances are, if your spouse comes to you and says, “I’m an affair waiting to happen,” you missed some previous non-verbal cues of your growing disconnection. I heard that once, and once was enough. These days, Amber and I take to examining the depth of our connection on a regular basis; if something is off, we try to remedy it before it festers and turns into a regretful prophecy.
Lesson 5 (2004): On vacation, it’s a good idea to know the lay of the land; it’s a better idea to know the local beach rules.
During our fifth year of marriage, we took our first family vacation to sunny Fort Lauderdale, Florida. As the fates would have it, Amber was five months pregnant, and feeling a bit beached herself (if you know what I mean). We made our way to two ocean-side chairs, and as we sat, Amber lamented her growing belly, commented that she didn’t feel very sexy. I did my best to reassure her, and right as I was in the middle of my best “come on baby, you’re beautiful just the way you are” spiel, a buxom woman exploded up from the ocean surf, and began running to the lawn chair beside us. As it turns out, bikini tops are optional on certain Fort Lauderdalian beaches, and this woman was taking full advantage of her American freedoms. Amber turned to me, chin quivering and said in some amalgam of desperate plea and angry growl, “you’d better not look, or you’ll wish you didn’t have eyes.”
Lesson 6 (2005): Neither church nor baby will fix a marriage, but both can bring fresh centering.
We’d endured a nasty spell with ministry, moved into a tiny Love Shack with inadequate heating and cooling, been through the searching-through-the-couch-cussions-for-pizza-money spell, and endured the disconnection of too many grad-school nights in the library. Looking back on it, our marriage was held together by little more than secondhand Scotch tape.
About the time we wondered whether or not we’d make it to our sixth anniversary, we found the joys of growing in a small and simple church and rearing a small and simple child. Rebuilding always starts in the smallest and simplest ways.
Lesson 7 (2006): If laughter is good medicine, then stealing bikes from the neighborhood boys is the prescription.
While entertaining friends, a group of neighborhood children decided to play the old game of “ding dong ditch.” We had two sleeping babies, and when the doorbell rang Amber’s face turned beet-red and steam screamed from her ears. She bolted out the door as one tiny eight-year old tried his best to mount his bike. Nervous, he floundered, and Amber was on him before he could get any momentum. In an effort to evade the wrath of the neighborhood mother, he ditched his bike and ran. Amber scooped up his two wheeler and yelled, “you can have your bike back when you bring your parents to my house!”
The bike sat in our foyer until the boys came back to apologize. We had a good roll over that one.
(To be continued! Join the mailing list to receive Part 2 in your inbox.)Want to receive my updates in your inbox? Click here. Also, follow along on Twitter and Facebook.