Miracles are funny things. They can serve as powerful witnesses of unseen truths to believing, recognizing eyes. They are also so easily passed over when we are too selfish to discern them, too spoiled and entitled to appreciate them, or just too busy to notice them.
My wife works miracles on a daily basis, and I have noticed recently. We have been extremely busy lately, perhaps so much that instead of taking the miracles she produces for granted, my normally unobservant mind actually crossed a stress threshold where it became plainly obvious that without her miracles, our family would be drowning in a whirlpool of self-imposed chaos.
There was the miracle of the Ice Cream Social, where she exercised the gift of vision to see past the blaring shortcomings of the meager accommodations of space and shade that our front yard offers on a hot Sunday afternoon. As a result, we scooped through nearly twenty quarts of sticky-sweet ice cream to nearly a hundred and fifty happy, chatting guests. Somehow, the space and shade were adequate for the crowd. Even our collapsible canopy miraculously stretched enough to cover perhaps sixty souls as a fierce July Thunderstorm pelted us with hail-size raindrops for five minutes.
Two days later there was the miracle of love and friendship when my wife and the woman across the street realized that one of our favorite neighbor families was moving and had not been formally bid farewell. Despite having just hosted the Ice Cream Social, my wife insisted that we send them off properly. So the same small space of grass and shade miraculously filled again with a hundred and fifty hungry guests, and potluck food appeared as if out of thin air. The entire event was perceived accurately by our departing neighbors as the act of love that it was.
The next week there was the the family reunion, where my wife spent hours spearheading a gathering of five couples and ten children at her childhood home. She had help from other miracle workers who organized menus and prepared food, but the way that five days of meals and nearly non-stop activities proceeded flawlessly can be considered nothing short of miraculous, and a majority of it rode on her shoulders. While I desperately tried to concentrate on the one task of tying up loose ends at work in preparation for the time off, my wife worked her magic. By applying her organizational talents, she caused reservations for Wave Runners on the lake to materialize; food to organize itself, packed in boxes and coolers; laundry to be cleaned and folded and grouped into matching outfits; bags to packed; sleeping arrangements to be finalized; and a detailed agenda to be created with optimal plans to play on the beach, tour the cave, hike to the lake, picnic, play games, and see the town.
After returning yesterday, while I concentrated on the singular task of catching back up at work, miraculously the bags got unpacked, the laundry got done, the dishes got cleaned, and the house returned to a state of order. She somehow did all this while simultaneously setting her able hands to preparing another spectacularly successful birthday party tonight, which included a special, made-to-order birthday meal, including time-consuming homemade rolls; a fancy, multi-layered rainbow cake; long-anticipated, perfect presents; seven additional family guests; and one elated little eight-year-old girl.
And there is more to come.
Thursday there will be a birthday party with friends for this same eight-year-old girl, followed by all the preparations necessary to get our family of five children ready for a summer company party at the local water park. Friday is our almost-six-year-old son's birthday, whose wish list is still being finalized and whose party will involve guests again. Saturday our eight-year-old will be baptized, and we will be hosting family guests for lunch afterwards.
Next week, my wife will bear the brunt of making the preparations for our annual trip to the beach. Then a few days after we get back she will be packing our family up to leave home again so that we can all attend her sister's wedding. A few days after that, our children will begin school, wearing new clothes and with all the needful supplies in hand.
The preparations for all of these important events will take place. All the food will be bought and prepared and presented tastefully; all the presents will materialize, wrapped in brightly-colored paper with artful bows; all the complex nuances of the scheduling will be figured out; all the packing and unpacking and washing and drying and putting away and getting out will occur flawlessly. All this will happen without letting the house or our sanity deteriorate into utter chaos, despite having five children whose self-appointed missions sometimes seem to involve that specific end.
It will all happen. It always does. I will do my best to contribute as much as possible, but we both know that it is really my wife that makes it so. I know she often feels like she is winging it; that the odds are stacked hopelessly against her; that our household teeters on the edge of a steep and swiftly-eroding cliff. But somehow or other, she always manages to pull it off. She applies her mind, her heart, and her able hands. Through sheer grit and genius and the immense talents she possesses, she accomplishes what I could never do without her.
She works miracles.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Wife Rule #112: All Is Well
At two o'clock in the morning I awoke from a dreamless sleep. As my bleary eyes scanned the room, I regained my bearings by identifying outlines of familiar objects in the ambient night light. The closet. The dresser. The door to the darkened hallway, which was still ajar. Yes, I was at home in my own bed, but something wasn't right. I rolled over and sure enough, the other half of the bed was still empty.
I remembered why I felt so anxious. My wife and baby were gone. She had left in a rush about three hours ago, cradling an exhausted, limp child in her arms. Charity had barely been breathing when they left, each slight rise and fall of her tiny chest achieved through wheezing exertion, as if the air flowing in and out were being pumped through a viscous fluid.
My wife took her to the emergency room where Charity was treated with a steroid injection to aid her breathing. They needed to watch her for several hours to see that she was improving before sending her back home. This was the treatment my brother, a physician, had predicted they would give her when he urged us to take her to the emergency room.
When I called him, I had explained that the usual remedies for croup we had used on our other kids weren't working. The humidifier had already been on in her room, and since it was July there was no cool night air to breath in. He agreed that this wasn't something we should handle at home. "Croup can be very serious when infants are involved," he informed us. "This can't wait. You need to get her to the hospital."
Since I had early morning meetings the next day, my wife had volunteered to go, allowing me to stay home with the other four sleeping children. An hour later, at about midnight, she called to let me know what was going on and encouraged me to try to sleep. How was I supposed to do that? Even though Charity was now in the best hands available, my wife sounded anxious. And she is not one to worry unless the worry is merited.
So I wasted some time online, and at last resorted to late night reading until my eyes started to get heavy. I knelt by our bedside for the final time that night at about one o'clock, and asked the Lord to please bless my tiny daughter. Then I climbed under the covers and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Now, laying on my back in the dark, I could hear Scott wheezing from his bedroom. His breathing problems are minor compared to the frightening, barking frenzy that Charity was in as she had struggled to take in enough air. I exhaled loudly, uttered another silent, semi-desperate prayer, and curled up into my pillow, hoping that the next time I awoke my wife and child would be back here beside me.
My eyes jerked open again. I glanced at the glowing digital clock on the bedside table. It was just after three o'clock. The other half of the bed was still empty.
Charity had awoken right as we were getting ready to call it a night. I heard her crying, but I was trying to finish reading a very important paragraph or something and so it was my wife who had gone into Charity's room to check on her.
When she opened the door, her cries sounded awful, a painful whimpering mixed with sharp barking. We had heard that kind of sound before when our children have had croup, like a baby seal crying. What I failed to notice for a full minute or so, until my wife pointed it out, was that these noises were not created by forced expulsion of air while coughing, as had been the case with our other kids. This barking occurred each time Charity attempted to inhale, which seemed to elevate the problem to a whole different level. And rather than being all worked up, as I had first supposed, Charity seemed strangely incoherent for someone who was struggling so hard to breathe.
My wife and I both fell into semi-panic at the same time. My first reaction was to anoint her with oil, lay my hands on her head, and pronounce a prayer of healing on her, as directed in James 5:14-15:
Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up....
The words that came into my mind as I anointed and prayed over her were more direct than usual, and spilled forth more like commands than requests, ordering her throat and lungs to open up and allow air in. Within thirty seconds of finishing this blessing her breathing had relaxed, the barking had quieted to a softer wheezing, and she had opened her eyes and seemed more alert. We felt that the Lord had granted her safe passage through the immediate crisis, but it was now time to make use of the medical knowledge He had made available. So we had called my brother, and following his advice my wife had taken her to the emergency room.
As I laid in bed and recalled the almost immediate improvement in her condition after anointing and praying for her, the peaceful feelings I had felt at the time returned. My heart surged with gratitude to be privileged to bless my wife and children through the power of the Lord's priesthood, which He has distributed to believing fathers in His latter-day Church, that we might use His power to bless our families in His name.
She's going to be okay, I told myself as I lay in the dark, alone in my thoughts. And I realized that I believed it.
I woke again at four o'clock to the sounds of the door to the garage closing. I heard my wife lay Charity gently in her crib and then join me in the bedroom.
"How is she?" I asked her softly.
"She's doing much better," my wife replied. "The steroid treatments seem to be working and she can breathe again."
"Thank you, honey. Thanks for taking her in. Thanks for staying with her. I'm glad you're back home."
"Me too. Good night."
"Good night."
I closed my eyes for the last short stretch of sleep before the start of another demanding day. I felt whole again. Charity was breathing quietly in the nursery. My wife was next to me, her comforting presence quieting my mind. There was warmth and peace in my heart as I uttered a brief, silent prayer of thanks for the miracles that delivered my family safely back to me: miracles wrought through a combination of faith and prayer and revealed science, and applied by those who so ably administered to my daughter in the middle of the night.
The last thought I recall running through my mind before drifting off were these words: All is well, all is well.
I remembered why I felt so anxious. My wife and baby were gone. She had left in a rush about three hours ago, cradling an exhausted, limp child in her arms. Charity had barely been breathing when they left, each slight rise and fall of her tiny chest achieved through wheezing exertion, as if the air flowing in and out were being pumped through a viscous fluid.
My wife took her to the emergency room where Charity was treated with a steroid injection to aid her breathing. They needed to watch her for several hours to see that she was improving before sending her back home. This was the treatment my brother, a physician, had predicted they would give her when he urged us to take her to the emergency room.
When I called him, I had explained that the usual remedies for croup we had used on our other kids weren't working. The humidifier had already been on in her room, and since it was July there was no cool night air to breath in. He agreed that this wasn't something we should handle at home. "Croup can be very serious when infants are involved," he informed us. "This can't wait. You need to get her to the hospital."
Since I had early morning meetings the next day, my wife had volunteered to go, allowing me to stay home with the other four sleeping children. An hour later, at about midnight, she called to let me know what was going on and encouraged me to try to sleep. How was I supposed to do that? Even though Charity was now in the best hands available, my wife sounded anxious. And she is not one to worry unless the worry is merited.
So I wasted some time online, and at last resorted to late night reading until my eyes started to get heavy. I knelt by our bedside for the final time that night at about one o'clock, and asked the Lord to please bless my tiny daughter. Then I climbed under the covers and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Now, laying on my back in the dark, I could hear Scott wheezing from his bedroom. His breathing problems are minor compared to the frightening, barking frenzy that Charity was in as she had struggled to take in enough air. I exhaled loudly, uttered another silent, semi-desperate prayer, and curled up into my pillow, hoping that the next time I awoke my wife and child would be back here beside me.
My eyes jerked open again. I glanced at the glowing digital clock on the bedside table. It was just after three o'clock. The other half of the bed was still empty.
Charity had awoken right as we were getting ready to call it a night. I heard her crying, but I was trying to finish reading a very important paragraph or something and so it was my wife who had gone into Charity's room to check on her.
When she opened the door, her cries sounded awful, a painful whimpering mixed with sharp barking. We had heard that kind of sound before when our children have had croup, like a baby seal crying. What I failed to notice for a full minute or so, until my wife pointed it out, was that these noises were not created by forced expulsion of air while coughing, as had been the case with our other kids. This barking occurred each time Charity attempted to inhale, which seemed to elevate the problem to a whole different level. And rather than being all worked up, as I had first supposed, Charity seemed strangely incoherent for someone who was struggling so hard to breathe.
My wife and I both fell into semi-panic at the same time. My first reaction was to anoint her with oil, lay my hands on her head, and pronounce a prayer of healing on her, as directed in James 5:14-15:
Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up....
The words that came into my mind as I anointed and prayed over her were more direct than usual, and spilled forth more like commands than requests, ordering her throat and lungs to open up and allow air in. Within thirty seconds of finishing this blessing her breathing had relaxed, the barking had quieted to a softer wheezing, and she had opened her eyes and seemed more alert. We felt that the Lord had granted her safe passage through the immediate crisis, but it was now time to make use of the medical knowledge He had made available. So we had called my brother, and following his advice my wife had taken her to the emergency room.
As I laid in bed and recalled the almost immediate improvement in her condition after anointing and praying for her, the peaceful feelings I had felt at the time returned. My heart surged with gratitude to be privileged to bless my wife and children through the power of the Lord's priesthood, which He has distributed to believing fathers in His latter-day Church, that we might use His power to bless our families in His name.
She's going to be okay, I told myself as I lay in the dark, alone in my thoughts. And I realized that I believed it.
I woke again at four o'clock to the sounds of the door to the garage closing. I heard my wife lay Charity gently in her crib and then join me in the bedroom.
"How is she?" I asked her softly.
"She's doing much better," my wife replied. "The steroid treatments seem to be working and she can breathe again."
"Thank you, honey. Thanks for taking her in. Thanks for staying with her. I'm glad you're back home."
"Me too. Good night."
"Good night."
I closed my eyes for the last short stretch of sleep before the start of another demanding day. I felt whole again. Charity was breathing quietly in the nursery. My wife was next to me, her comforting presence quieting my mind. There was warmth and peace in my heart as I uttered a brief, silent prayer of thanks for the miracles that delivered my family safely back to me: miracles wrought through a combination of faith and prayer and revealed science, and applied by those who so ably administered to my daughter in the middle of the night.
The last thought I recall running through my mind before drifting off were these words: All is well, all is well.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Wife Rule #111: We are Forever
My wife and I recently spent some time together in one of the beautiful temples that our church builds as special places of worship. We hold these buildings sacred, as dedicated houses of the Lord. When we visit them, we come as His guests, seeking to gain communion with Him and learn His will for us. We try to attend the temple together on a regular basis, and we are always rewarded for our efforts.
One of the most worthwhile effects of worshipping in the temple for me is the way that it seems to elevate my thoughts above the transitory, earthy subjects that so often capture my attention. For a few precious hours, my mind is lifted up out of the world, to contemplate things of a much more lasting, permanent import. I am reminded that not only is there a God in heaven, but that He has a plan for us as His children. I am also reminded of the very prominent role my wife plays in God's plan for me.
This most recent evening as we sat in the temple, I found myself quietly thinking about the sheer immensity of God's creations, both in space and time. I contemplated the sobering reality of the never-ending future I will have, in which I will undoubtedly have occasion to think about the choices I make today that are shaping that future. Then I thought of my wife, and the fingers of my right hand found themselves tracing the shape of my wedding band on the ring finger of my left hand. Around and around they went, in a circular pattern that had no natural end. I recalled the words my wife had engraved on the inside of the band:
Together Forever
With such limited space available, it is somewhat amazing to me that such a profound message could be encapsulated in a six-syllable sermon on the inside of my wedding ring. Forever: a word that describes the indescribable. Is it really possible for two people so wholly in love with each other to continue on, like fingers tracing the outline of a circular ring, without an end to their union?
When my wife gave me that band, she gave it as a visible token of the eternal commitment she was making to bind herself to me. The ring I gave her was given with the same intent. And since the day we exchanged rings, we have each tried to live those commitments with our whole hearts, the never-ending circle of our union continuing in an eternal round, but expanding in scope as we grow in our capacities and commitment to each other.
The births of our children have each served as catalysts for sudden expansions of the circumference of our circle. You might think that adding these little souls to our family would cause the circle to change shape, to sprout new starting points of other paths leading in other directions; but in fact, the cyclical shape of our family it retains its integrity as a whole, uninterrupted, sealed entity without any apparent entry or exit--it's just bigger.
Our experiences with our children bear this out. After adjusting to the initial changes that each child brings, we quickly settle into a family routine where it seems unlikely that this child was ever not part of our family; that surely this person was meant to be with us, and of course will continue as part of us, forever.
And so it also feels natural that my wife and I are together. It may sound trite or foolish or fantastic--take your pick--but it feels as though we have always been together. The funny part is, I can remember that it wasn't always this way; we have had--and still have--plenty of spots in our relationship that require smoothing out. But nonetheless, my wife's efforts to harmonize with me have at length resulted in such a natural fit and compliment to my rather strange edges, with my reciprocal efforts fitting around those equally singular edges she must also have, that together we are complete: a whole package; a single, unbroken surface whose synergy covers the barbs and quirks.
It's as if we were meant to be. As if we just are. As if there never was a time when we weren't a part of each other, nor ever will be. Without beginning and without end.
Like a ring.
Forever.
One of the most worthwhile effects of worshipping in the temple for me is the way that it seems to elevate my thoughts above the transitory, earthy subjects that so often capture my attention. For a few precious hours, my mind is lifted up out of the world, to contemplate things of a much more lasting, permanent import. I am reminded that not only is there a God in heaven, but that He has a plan for us as His children. I am also reminded of the very prominent role my wife plays in God's plan for me.
This most recent evening as we sat in the temple, I found myself quietly thinking about the sheer immensity of God's creations, both in space and time. I contemplated the sobering reality of the never-ending future I will have, in which I will undoubtedly have occasion to think about the choices I make today that are shaping that future. Then I thought of my wife, and the fingers of my right hand found themselves tracing the shape of my wedding band on the ring finger of my left hand. Around and around they went, in a circular pattern that had no natural end. I recalled the words my wife had engraved on the inside of the band:
Together Forever
With such limited space available, it is somewhat amazing to me that such a profound message could be encapsulated in a six-syllable sermon on the inside of my wedding ring. Forever: a word that describes the indescribable. Is it really possible for two people so wholly in love with each other to continue on, like fingers tracing the outline of a circular ring, without an end to their union?
When my wife gave me that band, she gave it as a visible token of the eternal commitment she was making to bind herself to me. The ring I gave her was given with the same intent. And since the day we exchanged rings, we have each tried to live those commitments with our whole hearts, the never-ending circle of our union continuing in an eternal round, but expanding in scope as we grow in our capacities and commitment to each other.
The births of our children have each served as catalysts for sudden expansions of the circumference of our circle. You might think that adding these little souls to our family would cause the circle to change shape, to sprout new starting points of other paths leading in other directions; but in fact, the cyclical shape of our family it retains its integrity as a whole, uninterrupted, sealed entity without any apparent entry or exit--it's just bigger.
Our experiences with our children bear this out. After adjusting to the initial changes that each child brings, we quickly settle into a family routine where it seems unlikely that this child was ever not part of our family; that surely this person was meant to be with us, and of course will continue as part of us, forever.
And so it also feels natural that my wife and I are together. It may sound trite or foolish or fantastic--take your pick--but it feels as though we have always been together. The funny part is, I can remember that it wasn't always this way; we have had--and still have--plenty of spots in our relationship that require smoothing out. But nonetheless, my wife's efforts to harmonize with me have at length resulted in such a natural fit and compliment to my rather strange edges, with my reciprocal efforts fitting around those equally singular edges she must also have, that together we are complete: a whole package; a single, unbroken surface whose synergy covers the barbs and quirks.
It's as if we were meant to be. As if we just are. As if there never was a time when we weren't a part of each other, nor ever will be. Without beginning and without end.
Like a ring.
Forever.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wife Rule #110: She Still Rules
I just couldn't let the month of June go by without a single post. My wife still rules. I have just been absolutely swamped, and I can't bring myself to post in haste, or it will end up being pathetic, like this post.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Wife Rule #109: Love Mothers
Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.
When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!
Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home.
After this, Jesus knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the scripture might be fulfilled, saith, I thirst.
(John 19:25-28)
If Jesus is our ideal Exemplar in all things, and I testify in my own small way that He is, then this simple story contains a tremendous amount for us to learn about the way we should love, and care for, our mothers.
The scriptural record is incomplete as far as detailing what happened to Joseph, the husband of Jesus' mother Mary. The last we hear of him directly is in the brief description of Jesus' childhood, when he and Mary frantically searched for her missing son and found him in the temple with the learned men of the day. There are passing references to him later on, such as when Jesus' unbelieving neighbors asked "Is not this the carpenter's son?" (Matthew 13:55) In that passage we also learn that Mary and Joseph had several sons and daughters as well, so we know Jesus had brothers and sisters. But Joseph the carpenter doesn't make any further personal appearances in any of the four gospels.
It seems probable that Joseph had died by the time the Savior was suffering on the cross. This would make Jesus' mother Mary a widow, now in the care of her several sons and daughters. Why would the Savior, in His own time of tremendous suffering, with the literal weight of the entire world on his shoulders, be thinking of who would care for his mother after he was gone?
Because He loved her.
Apparently the Savior of mankind thought it important enough to make one of His final acts in mortality the entrusting of his mother's care with a faithful disciple. Not only was John beloved of Jesus, but John had received a singular promise from the only Man on earth able to fulfil it, that he would tarry on this earth until the Savior's return (John 21:20-24).
Peter, James, and the other disciples who were also just as devoted to Jesus' cause would almost certainly be just as capable as John in caring for a still young Mary, but Jesus entrusted his mother's care to the one disciple who He knew would outlive them all. They had been called to eventually die martyr's deaths; John had been called to endure an unnaturally long life. This is the disciple charged to take care of Jesus' mother.
Only after taking care of this very important matter did Jesus know that "all things were now accomplished."
May we follow Jesus' example with the mothers in our lives. There are several in mine. My birth mother has devoted her life to loving and serving her children. My life has been blessed beyond description, including in ways I do not yet fully comprehend, by her labor of love. My mother through marriage gave the same service and devotion to the lives of my wife and her siblings, and now also blesses me personally. My wife is currently following the same pattern, spending her strength and energy giving and enriching the lives of my children, and exalting me as her husband.
One of my mothers already is a widow, like Jesus' mother likely was. The two other mothers I mentioned may someday be widows. Regardless, each of them requires the same kind of thoughtful, loving attention the Savior showed to His mother. This attention and love often doesn't come during times of convenience or ease, but rather, in the midst of the hectic joys and turmoils of life. But it must come.
Love mothers. They are worth it. They deserve it.
When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!
Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home.
After this, Jesus knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the scripture might be fulfilled, saith, I thirst.
(John 19:25-28)
If Jesus is our ideal Exemplar in all things, and I testify in my own small way that He is, then this simple story contains a tremendous amount for us to learn about the way we should love, and care for, our mothers.
The scriptural record is incomplete as far as detailing what happened to Joseph, the husband of Jesus' mother Mary. The last we hear of him directly is in the brief description of Jesus' childhood, when he and Mary frantically searched for her missing son and found him in the temple with the learned men of the day. There are passing references to him later on, such as when Jesus' unbelieving neighbors asked "Is not this the carpenter's son?" (Matthew 13:55) In that passage we also learn that Mary and Joseph had several sons and daughters as well, so we know Jesus had brothers and sisters. But Joseph the carpenter doesn't make any further personal appearances in any of the four gospels.
It seems probable that Joseph had died by the time the Savior was suffering on the cross. This would make Jesus' mother Mary a widow, now in the care of her several sons and daughters. Why would the Savior, in His own time of tremendous suffering, with the literal weight of the entire world on his shoulders, be thinking of who would care for his mother after he was gone?
Because He loved her.
Apparently the Savior of mankind thought it important enough to make one of His final acts in mortality the entrusting of his mother's care with a faithful disciple. Not only was John beloved of Jesus, but John had received a singular promise from the only Man on earth able to fulfil it, that he would tarry on this earth until the Savior's return (John 21:20-24).
Peter, James, and the other disciples who were also just as devoted to Jesus' cause would almost certainly be just as capable as John in caring for a still young Mary, but Jesus entrusted his mother's care to the one disciple who He knew would outlive them all. They had been called to eventually die martyr's deaths; John had been called to endure an unnaturally long life. This is the disciple charged to take care of Jesus' mother.
Only after taking care of this very important matter did Jesus know that "all things were now accomplished."
May we follow Jesus' example with the mothers in our lives. There are several in mine. My birth mother has devoted her life to loving and serving her children. My life has been blessed beyond description, including in ways I do not yet fully comprehend, by her labor of love. My mother through marriage gave the same service and devotion to the lives of my wife and her siblings, and now also blesses me personally. My wife is currently following the same pattern, spending her strength and energy giving and enriching the lives of my children, and exalting me as her husband.
One of my mothers already is a widow, like Jesus' mother likely was. The two other mothers I mentioned may someday be widows. Regardless, each of them requires the same kind of thoughtful, loving attention the Savior showed to His mother. This attention and love often doesn't come during times of convenience or ease, but rather, in the midst of the hectic joys and turmoils of life. But it must come.
Love mothers. They are worth it. They deserve it.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wife Rule #108: My Flesh and Bone
I awoke to the pale, early-morning light seeping through the whitewashed blinds of my bedroom. Through the foggy half-awareness that accompanies the first thoughts of the day, a feeling stood out: something was missing. It felt as if during my sleep a part of me had been removed. Yes, as if some vital part of my body had been taken out and fashioned into another form: a form I desired; a form I was destined--no, was designed--to be with; a piece of me that was exterior to my body, yet yearning to return.
And then all at once the haze lifted from my mind like a dissipating mist and I comprehended what this sense of incompleteness meant. With a smile, I remembered that the resolution was at hand: today was the day I would be united with my bride, our wedding day.
Like the introduction of Eve to Adam by God Himself in the garden, she having been taken out of his very flesh and formed from a rib, today the counterpart of my soul--the person who could complete me and make me whole--would be given to me by her father. The crown of my manhood and jewel of my life was about to bind herself by covenant to me, and I to her.
My stomach was churning--not with unpleasant anxiety like that which precedes a final exam in Calculus, but with a high-energy anticipation of the day's events. Today would be one of those surrealistic days where things long waited for in the abstract realm of inexperience would finally take concrete form, giving new understanding and richness to life. And me and my wife--yes, my wife--would be at the center of it all.
It felt like if I didn't get going right now, my legs might take off running all on their own, cartoon style, leaving my head and torso behind: a fitting tribute to the incompleteness that suddenly seemed so apparent. I showered hurriedly and absentmindedly. I probably remembered to put on deodorant. I do know that I paused for just a minute to make sure my hair was parted in a reasonable position, knowing that in wedding photos even an engineering student should try not to look like a total goober.
I have no idea what I ate for breakfast; eating held no joy for me. During the brief preparation time that morning my mind was focused like a laser beam on a beautiful, young, blond woman, three hours away at her parents' house, who had doubtless been up for hours by now with a hairdresser.
By this time, the morning sun had cleared the foothills and was spilling down the canyon between the high peaks and through windows of this house which would remain my home for only a few more hours. I was ready and willing to give it all up--my youth, my bedroom, my place in this house, my carefree selfishness, all the life and routine I had known before this day--for her.
One thing that did give me pause during my crazed morning rush--and my wife will laugh--was the magnificent view of Mount Olympus out the semicircular window above the staircase. Seeing the familiar brown rock face framed neatly in its picturesque beauty made me wistful for just a moment, knowing I would only see that view as a visitor from now on. I know, I'm a sentimental fool.
My tuxedo was ready, my teeth were brushed, and my morning prayer--undoubtedly short, yet one of the most jubilant of my life--was offered. The rest of my family had joined in the frenzy, and somewhat miraculously we had all arrived on the landing at the top of the stairs at about the same time. We knelt together in a circle, holding hands for the last time as a family of six. We prayed. I requested that we sing, something my family has always enjoyed together. Tears flowed amidst mildly dirty looks at me for suggesting a course of action with such a predictable emotional outcome.
And then we left. My brother joined me in my car, a welcome conversational distraction to help pass the agonizing 90-minute drive to the beautiful, tulip-laden grounds of the Logan temple. This magnificent structure was built by the pioneers that settled the Logan valley and was hewn out of limestone quarried from the canyons of the adjacent Rocky Mountains. It has shape and style elements similar to a grand castle, including towers with battlements, but not the same formidable feeling of a fortress designed to keep intruders out. Instead, the building radiates a soft beauty, a sort of light that beckons you inside, as if the God of Heaven were whispering out of its walls that He anxiously awaits your presence within.
And He was there.
I entered the temple and said goodbye to my family for the last time as a single man. One of the kind attendants pointed me to a comfortable sofa in the main entrance hall where I sat and waited for her to come. I'm not sure how long I was there, as my mind was now caught up in another intense wave of anticipation, and such strong emotions tend to bend and warp time like the gravity of a great star.
I heard her voice. I don't know how to describe it, except to employ the usual cliches: bells ringing, birds singing, angelic choirs, etc. But those all fall miserably flat. It will have to suffice to say that the casual, soft conversation she was having with her mother as she entered the temple was the most beautiful, breathtaking noise my ears had ever taken in. A moment later, she appeared.
She looked stunning! Her hair was done up in an elaborate weave of flaxen gold that shimmered under the lights. She wore a lovely yellow dress that complemented her figure, and as I gazed upon her I felt that I had never seen a more beautiful woman. Since she was not yet wearing her veil, I absorbed the full force of her smile as our eyes connected.
Her face had a look of serene confidence and sublime joy in it, a countenance to match my own. She stood there before me, ready and willing to join herself to me. This was real; it was happening; it was not merely a pleasant dream that I would suddenly wake up from and forever long to sink back into; we were here.
I don't know if it is possible to comprehend the feelings of my heart that morning without understanding how carefully we had waited and prepared for this day. In a world that holds few things sacred, we had kept and preserved our integrity and virtue through an eighteen-month courtship. We kept a constant watch on our emotions and passions so that they would not overcome us. We tried to stay out of situations where we would be driven to overstep sacred bounds. We set up rules. We tightened them up when it became necessary. We carefully monitored not only our actions in relation to each other, but our words and even our thoughts as they crossed the thresholds of our minds. I'll be honest and admit that it sometimes took a tremendous amount of effort. But we did all of this so that we would be worthy to be here, in the House of God, able to stand together with untainted consciences and be joined by His power, in His appointed way. Receiving His blessing required playing by His rules.
She is more than worth it.
Because we had waited and anticipated and prepared so carefully for this day, we arrived that morning with an inner illumination and anticipation far beyond what it might have otherwise been. My conviction is that this sublime joy is reserved only for those who have put their trust in Christ and His purifying power, and join together at the marriage alter with virtue intact--whether it be unaltered from the beginning or restored through His grace, it is the same.
This reservation of rewards is not because God is partial or unfair, but precisely because He is fair, and the laws governing cause and effect are real. These laws are so often viewed in a negative light, as merely a collection of can'ts and shouldn'ts; but I believe the positive side of God's laws are much, much more powerful than their counterparts. The irrevocable results of doing the cans and shoulds were now ours to cherish: here we were together, two people wholly, hopelessly in love, and ready to be joined, never again to part.
She went her way to the bridal dressing room, an ornate space of lights and mirrors where brides change into their wedding dresses and mothers fuss about stray hairs, smooth out imaginary wrinkles, and otherwise dote on their daughters one last time. I went to the groom's lockers, where I was assigned...a locker. But no matter; I didn't have much to prepare. I dressed for the ceremony and went to a special waiting room where an attendant seated me.
My bride arrived a few minutes later, wearing a gorgeous white dress. Her youthful form was wrapped in an elegant blend of lace and pearl beads, the sleeves extending down her slender arms to her wrists and her skirt extending to her feet, her train fastened up at the moment. We smiled and joined hands tightly, grateful that the last moments of our premarital separation were behind us.
The attendant took us up a staircase to the sacred rooms in the temple where husbands and wives are sealed together through the power of God. This sealing power extends not only "as long as we both shall live," but throughout the infinite expanse of time called eternity. Someday, when mortality and the earthly contracts that govern us here are merely distant memories, the eternal marriage of a husband and wife--if they are willing to abide by God's laws governing that marriage--remains in full force, majesty and splendor. It is the ultimate Happily Ever After, where After has no limitations.
The attendant had us stand off in a side room where we could look through the doorway and watch in private as a small stream of friends and loved ones filed into the room where we were about to be wed. Parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, childhood friends and college roommates had all taken a precious day out of their lives to come and celebrate with us. We felt loved and honored beyond measure.
And then came the moment when we were to enter the sacred room ourselves. Holding my bride's warm hand in my suddenly cold one, I escorted her through the beautifully carved doorway and into the room. Our parents sat on either side of the space where we would sit. Our fathers looked serene and our mothers looked like they were about to melt.
A great, magnificent, gold-framed mirror hung directly behind these seats and a matching one hung on the opposite wall behind the seats of the others who had come to witness our wedding. Sitting with her hand in mine, we could look into the parallel mirrors and see our reflection echoed across the room to an infinite depth until the details eventually shrank into a sea of gold and blue-green lines converging on a center point. This symbol of eternity seemed so appropriate with my face next to my wife's, repeated to an endless degree.
The ceremony itself was so special and sacred that I won't write about it here, except to say that when my sweetheart became my wife, my heart was full with every emotion I had ever anticipated. Every moment of self-denial and personal preparation during the last eighteen months, and during all the years before I met her, was more than compensated for in the way I felt, holding her hand for the first time as her husband. We gave ourselves to each other as an unblemished offering in body, mind, and spirit, a gift made possible because of Jesus' offering for us. His boundless love found new expression through us, in His holy house. That day we were bound not only to each other, but also more closely to Him.
One of the guests remarked to my parents that he never remembered seeing two people who looked happier to be married than my wife and I did in the temple that day. I believe him. I can't imagine being more filled with joy than we were then.
My wife gave herself to me completely on our wedding day. She continues to give herself to me freely each and every day that passes. She is even more beautiful and radiant today than she was then--the wealth of her gift only increases with each passing year.
I feel so close to her, like our intertwined lives have completed me these past eleven years. Truly she is now "bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh." She who was "taken out of Man" has returned, never to be parted again (Genesis 2:23).
Thank you so much for joining yourself to me, my love, my eternal companion, my wife.
And then all at once the haze lifted from my mind like a dissipating mist and I comprehended what this sense of incompleteness meant. With a smile, I remembered that the resolution was at hand: today was the day I would be united with my bride, our wedding day.
Like the introduction of Eve to Adam by God Himself in the garden, she having been taken out of his very flesh and formed from a rib, today the counterpart of my soul--the person who could complete me and make me whole--would be given to me by her father. The crown of my manhood and jewel of my life was about to bind herself by covenant to me, and I to her.
My stomach was churning--not with unpleasant anxiety like that which precedes a final exam in Calculus, but with a high-energy anticipation of the day's events. Today would be one of those surrealistic days where things long waited for in the abstract realm of inexperience would finally take concrete form, giving new understanding and richness to life. And me and my wife--yes, my wife--would be at the center of it all.
It felt like if I didn't get going right now, my legs might take off running all on their own, cartoon style, leaving my head and torso behind: a fitting tribute to the incompleteness that suddenly seemed so apparent. I showered hurriedly and absentmindedly. I probably remembered to put on deodorant. I do know that I paused for just a minute to make sure my hair was parted in a reasonable position, knowing that in wedding photos even an engineering student should try not to look like a total goober.
I have no idea what I ate for breakfast; eating held no joy for me. During the brief preparation time that morning my mind was focused like a laser beam on a beautiful, young, blond woman, three hours away at her parents' house, who had doubtless been up for hours by now with a hairdresser.
By this time, the morning sun had cleared the foothills and was spilling down the canyon between the high peaks and through windows of this house which would remain my home for only a few more hours. I was ready and willing to give it all up--my youth, my bedroom, my place in this house, my carefree selfishness, all the life and routine I had known before this day--for her.
One thing that did give me pause during my crazed morning rush--and my wife will laugh--was the magnificent view of Mount Olympus out the semicircular window above the staircase. Seeing the familiar brown rock face framed neatly in its picturesque beauty made me wistful for just a moment, knowing I would only see that view as a visitor from now on. I know, I'm a sentimental fool.
My tuxedo was ready, my teeth were brushed, and my morning prayer--undoubtedly short, yet one of the most jubilant of my life--was offered. The rest of my family had joined in the frenzy, and somewhat miraculously we had all arrived on the landing at the top of the stairs at about the same time. We knelt together in a circle, holding hands for the last time as a family of six. We prayed. I requested that we sing, something my family has always enjoyed together. Tears flowed amidst mildly dirty looks at me for suggesting a course of action with such a predictable emotional outcome.
And then we left. My brother joined me in my car, a welcome conversational distraction to help pass the agonizing 90-minute drive to the beautiful, tulip-laden grounds of the Logan temple. This magnificent structure was built by the pioneers that settled the Logan valley and was hewn out of limestone quarried from the canyons of the adjacent Rocky Mountains. It has shape and style elements similar to a grand castle, including towers with battlements, but not the same formidable feeling of a fortress designed to keep intruders out. Instead, the building radiates a soft beauty, a sort of light that beckons you inside, as if the God of Heaven were whispering out of its walls that He anxiously awaits your presence within.
And He was there.
I entered the temple and said goodbye to my family for the last time as a single man. One of the kind attendants pointed me to a comfortable sofa in the main entrance hall where I sat and waited for her to come. I'm not sure how long I was there, as my mind was now caught up in another intense wave of anticipation, and such strong emotions tend to bend and warp time like the gravity of a great star.
I heard her voice. I don't know how to describe it, except to employ the usual cliches: bells ringing, birds singing, angelic choirs, etc. But those all fall miserably flat. It will have to suffice to say that the casual, soft conversation she was having with her mother as she entered the temple was the most beautiful, breathtaking noise my ears had ever taken in. A moment later, she appeared.
She looked stunning! Her hair was done up in an elaborate weave of flaxen gold that shimmered under the lights. She wore a lovely yellow dress that complemented her figure, and as I gazed upon her I felt that I had never seen a more beautiful woman. Since she was not yet wearing her veil, I absorbed the full force of her smile as our eyes connected.
Her face had a look of serene confidence and sublime joy in it, a countenance to match my own. She stood there before me, ready and willing to join herself to me. This was real; it was happening; it was not merely a pleasant dream that I would suddenly wake up from and forever long to sink back into; we were here.
I don't know if it is possible to comprehend the feelings of my heart that morning without understanding how carefully we had waited and prepared for this day. In a world that holds few things sacred, we had kept and preserved our integrity and virtue through an eighteen-month courtship. We kept a constant watch on our emotions and passions so that they would not overcome us. We tried to stay out of situations where we would be driven to overstep sacred bounds. We set up rules. We tightened them up when it became necessary. We carefully monitored not only our actions in relation to each other, but our words and even our thoughts as they crossed the thresholds of our minds. I'll be honest and admit that it sometimes took a tremendous amount of effort. But we did all of this so that we would be worthy to be here, in the House of God, able to stand together with untainted consciences and be joined by His power, in His appointed way. Receiving His blessing required playing by His rules.
She is more than worth it.
Because we had waited and anticipated and prepared so carefully for this day, we arrived that morning with an inner illumination and anticipation far beyond what it might have otherwise been. My conviction is that this sublime joy is reserved only for those who have put their trust in Christ and His purifying power, and join together at the marriage alter with virtue intact--whether it be unaltered from the beginning or restored through His grace, it is the same.
This reservation of rewards is not because God is partial or unfair, but precisely because He is fair, and the laws governing cause and effect are real. These laws are so often viewed in a negative light, as merely a collection of can'ts and shouldn'ts; but I believe the positive side of God's laws are much, much more powerful than their counterparts. The irrevocable results of doing the cans and shoulds were now ours to cherish: here we were together, two people wholly, hopelessly in love, and ready to be joined, never again to part.
She went her way to the bridal dressing room, an ornate space of lights and mirrors where brides change into their wedding dresses and mothers fuss about stray hairs, smooth out imaginary wrinkles, and otherwise dote on their daughters one last time. I went to the groom's lockers, where I was assigned...a locker. But no matter; I didn't have much to prepare. I dressed for the ceremony and went to a special waiting room where an attendant seated me.
My bride arrived a few minutes later, wearing a gorgeous white dress. Her youthful form was wrapped in an elegant blend of lace and pearl beads, the sleeves extending down her slender arms to her wrists and her skirt extending to her feet, her train fastened up at the moment. We smiled and joined hands tightly, grateful that the last moments of our premarital separation were behind us.
The attendant took us up a staircase to the sacred rooms in the temple where husbands and wives are sealed together through the power of God. This sealing power extends not only "as long as we both shall live," but throughout the infinite expanse of time called eternity. Someday, when mortality and the earthly contracts that govern us here are merely distant memories, the eternal marriage of a husband and wife--if they are willing to abide by God's laws governing that marriage--remains in full force, majesty and splendor. It is the ultimate Happily Ever After, where After has no limitations.
The attendant had us stand off in a side room where we could look through the doorway and watch in private as a small stream of friends and loved ones filed into the room where we were about to be wed. Parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, childhood friends and college roommates had all taken a precious day out of their lives to come and celebrate with us. We felt loved and honored beyond measure.
And then came the moment when we were to enter the sacred room ourselves. Holding my bride's warm hand in my suddenly cold one, I escorted her through the beautifully carved doorway and into the room. Our parents sat on either side of the space where we would sit. Our fathers looked serene and our mothers looked like they were about to melt.
A great, magnificent, gold-framed mirror hung directly behind these seats and a matching one hung on the opposite wall behind the seats of the others who had come to witness our wedding. Sitting with her hand in mine, we could look into the parallel mirrors and see our reflection echoed across the room to an infinite depth until the details eventually shrank into a sea of gold and blue-green lines converging on a center point. This symbol of eternity seemed so appropriate with my face next to my wife's, repeated to an endless degree.
The ceremony itself was so special and sacred that I won't write about it here, except to say that when my sweetheart became my wife, my heart was full with every emotion I had ever anticipated. Every moment of self-denial and personal preparation during the last eighteen months, and during all the years before I met her, was more than compensated for in the way I felt, holding her hand for the first time as her husband. We gave ourselves to each other as an unblemished offering in body, mind, and spirit, a gift made possible because of Jesus' offering for us. His boundless love found new expression through us, in His holy house. That day we were bound not only to each other, but also more closely to Him.
One of the guests remarked to my parents that he never remembered seeing two people who looked happier to be married than my wife and I did in the temple that day. I believe him. I can't imagine being more filled with joy than we were then.
My wife gave herself to me completely on our wedding day. She continues to give herself to me freely each and every day that passes. She is even more beautiful and radiant today than she was then--the wealth of her gift only increases with each passing year.
I feel so close to her, like our intertwined lives have completed me these past eleven years. Truly she is now "bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh." She who was "taken out of Man" has returned, never to be parted again (Genesis 2:23).
Thank you so much for joining yourself to me, my love, my eternal companion, my wife.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wife Rule #107: The Shoulders I Cry On
Easter is a celebration of life, with the resurrection of Jesus Christ as its centerpiece. However, the joy of that morning is so much more meaningful when considered in contrast to the days immediately preceding it, which were surely the darkest this world has ever seen. Those are the days I found myself contemplating at Easter time this year.
I think that's okay, too. While the Savior certainly doesn't want us to spend our lives despairing--that's why He suffered for us and broke the bands of death, after all--He is also the one who wept with Mary and Martha when their brother died, knowing full well that mere minutes later he would be reuniting them with a very living Lazarus.
Jesus was always genuine in His feelings, the ultimate example of "mourning with those who mourn." His perfect example in such times of distress is helping me realize how to cope, in a healthy way, with the unwanted "preemptive grief" for the inevitable, unmentionable end of my father's cancer.
A few days before Easter my wife and I had just finished a rather discouraging phone call with my parents. We were in the thick of the Bad News stage of cancer diagnosis, the one where every conversation with medical professionals seemed to bring to light new things to be depressed about. My parents were very down, and that always tends to trigger my sympathetic emotions too.
We hung up the phones, and I wandered over to the sink to do the dishes while my wife sat down at the computer. I was barely three dishes into my task when I suddenly realized I had an opportunity to have it out with some of the pent-up grief that had been boiling just below the spillover point for a few weeks now.
The speed and intensity with which the wave of emotion overcame me almost caused me to drop the dish in my hands. My eyes were a flood of sorrow and my face was consumed with a burning heat. I felt an involuntary, painful weight welling up in my chest, an emotional response that had been foreign to me most of my adult life, save for a few occasions that involved similarly difficult circumstances. I knew I wouldn't last on my feet; the heaviness seemed so great.
I half stumbled to the couch and barely managed to blurt out "I need you right now!" before collapsing in a heap on my astute wife's shoulder, which had been placed in position a second before.
Then the sobs came. Wave after wave of anguish welled up inside and spilled out of me. There were sobs for the pain in my parents' voices. There were selfish sobs for future days I wouldn't have with my father. There were sobs for my children whose days of having a Papa were now numbered so small. There were sobs for my wife, who having lost her own dad a few years ago, was now losing her second father. There were sobs for my mother, who was now facing an uncertain future. There were sobs for my dad, facing painful treatments and the eventual end of his mortality.
Regrettably, there were also sobs for apparent unfairness of it all; sobs for every ornery, careless old man who lived deep into his twilight years, when my father, a literal saint who had been diligently health-conscious his whole life and was in much better shape than me, was cruelly having his days cut short. The irony and injustice seemed like too much to bear.
Wives are made for such times. Mine knew not to speak to me--her own intense experiences of crying into my shirts have provided her with powerful empathy in these moments. She simply stroked my hair between shudders and offered herself as a human hankie to help assuage my grief as it came tumbling out. I can hardly describe the comfort she provided for her very fragile, needy husband.
When I could sense that the stragglers in the pack of sobs were settling down, I ventured to opened my eyes. It just so happened that in the position we were sitting, I could see over her shoulder to the opposite wall where we have hung a picture of the Savior kneeling in Gethsemane. I found my thoughts turned to another place and time, where Another "began to be sorrowful and very heavy."
"Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.
"And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
"And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground." (Matthew 26:37-39, Luke 22:44)
I found my eyes wet with new tears. O Lord, I cried, it's so heavy. How did you do it? How did you suffer so? The pains I feel now seem like they could crush me. How did you suffer these, plus the pains of billions more like me, with much worse problems than mine? It would take so much more than a man; it would truly take a God. O Jesus, Son of God, how did you do this for me and my father?
Please, if Thou be willing, take this burden from us. Please. But nevertheless...
Yes, nevertheless. If Christ could willingly endure His mighty load, surely I could endure my small one. If He could heal a whole world full of sinners, then surely He could heal my single broken heart. He can see my family through this. If He wills my father to suffer for reasons unknown and not understood, then I can trust Him in this thing. After all, He has the wisdom of a God. He is a God.
I have relied on Christ's atonement to find peace in my soul so many times that I have lost count; unfortunately, I am an experienced repenter. But that night, crying on the shoulder of my wife, I feel like I got a more personal glimpse into the tremendous load He carried. Perhaps it's because I wasn't mourning for my own foolishness that night, but mourning (mostly) for the sake of others. Perhaps my heart was positioned to better understand how His heart felt on that dark, cruel, unfair, unjust, night in Gethsemane: the night the one perfect Man to grace this globe shouldered the burdens of all of us, the guilty world, making them His own.
In such a worshipful state of mind, the great relationship triangle between myself, my wife, and my Lord seemed so apparent, so obvious, and so necessary. I need my wife; I need her desperately. She needs me just as desperately. But we would be unable to help each other to even the small extent that we can, without the grace of Christ. When I bury myself in her shoulders, or she in mine, we are in fact both being carried on His shoulders.
"Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.... But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:4-5).
Jesus Christ makes all things possible, including the eventual healing dawn that follows all nights of heavy darkness. That is what we celebrate on Easter.
I think that's okay, too. While the Savior certainly doesn't want us to spend our lives despairing--that's why He suffered for us and broke the bands of death, after all--He is also the one who wept with Mary and Martha when their brother died, knowing full well that mere minutes later he would be reuniting them with a very living Lazarus.
Jesus was always genuine in His feelings, the ultimate example of "mourning with those who mourn." His perfect example in such times of distress is helping me realize how to cope, in a healthy way, with the unwanted "preemptive grief" for the inevitable, unmentionable end of my father's cancer.
A few days before Easter my wife and I had just finished a rather discouraging phone call with my parents. We were in the thick of the Bad News stage of cancer diagnosis, the one where every conversation with medical professionals seemed to bring to light new things to be depressed about. My parents were very down, and that always tends to trigger my sympathetic emotions too.
We hung up the phones, and I wandered over to the sink to do the dishes while my wife sat down at the computer. I was barely three dishes into my task when I suddenly realized I had an opportunity to have it out with some of the pent-up grief that had been boiling just below the spillover point for a few weeks now.
The speed and intensity with which the wave of emotion overcame me almost caused me to drop the dish in my hands. My eyes were a flood of sorrow and my face was consumed with a burning heat. I felt an involuntary, painful weight welling up in my chest, an emotional response that had been foreign to me most of my adult life, save for a few occasions that involved similarly difficult circumstances. I knew I wouldn't last on my feet; the heaviness seemed so great.
I half stumbled to the couch and barely managed to blurt out "I need you right now!" before collapsing in a heap on my astute wife's shoulder, which had been placed in position a second before.
Then the sobs came. Wave after wave of anguish welled up inside and spilled out of me. There were sobs for the pain in my parents' voices. There were selfish sobs for future days I wouldn't have with my father. There were sobs for my children whose days of having a Papa were now numbered so small. There were sobs for my wife, who having lost her own dad a few years ago, was now losing her second father. There were sobs for my mother, who was now facing an uncertain future. There were sobs for my dad, facing painful treatments and the eventual end of his mortality.
Regrettably, there were also sobs for apparent unfairness of it all; sobs for every ornery, careless old man who lived deep into his twilight years, when my father, a literal saint who had been diligently health-conscious his whole life and was in much better shape than me, was cruelly having his days cut short. The irony and injustice seemed like too much to bear.
Wives are made for such times. Mine knew not to speak to me--her own intense experiences of crying into my shirts have provided her with powerful empathy in these moments. She simply stroked my hair between shudders and offered herself as a human hankie to help assuage my grief as it came tumbling out. I can hardly describe the comfort she provided for her very fragile, needy husband.
When I could sense that the stragglers in the pack of sobs were settling down, I ventured to opened my eyes. It just so happened that in the position we were sitting, I could see over her shoulder to the opposite wall where we have hung a picture of the Savior kneeling in Gethsemane. I found my thoughts turned to another place and time, where Another "began to be sorrowful and very heavy."
"Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.
"And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
"And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground." (Matthew 26:37-39, Luke 22:44)
I found my eyes wet with new tears. O Lord, I cried, it's so heavy. How did you do it? How did you suffer so? The pains I feel now seem like they could crush me. How did you suffer these, plus the pains of billions more like me, with much worse problems than mine? It would take so much more than a man; it would truly take a God. O Jesus, Son of God, how did you do this for me and my father?
Please, if Thou be willing, take this burden from us. Please. But nevertheless...
Yes, nevertheless. If Christ could willingly endure His mighty load, surely I could endure my small one. If He could heal a whole world full of sinners, then surely He could heal my single broken heart. He can see my family through this. If He wills my father to suffer for reasons unknown and not understood, then I can trust Him in this thing. After all, He has the wisdom of a God. He is a God.
I have relied on Christ's atonement to find peace in my soul so many times that I have lost count; unfortunately, I am an experienced repenter. But that night, crying on the shoulder of my wife, I feel like I got a more personal glimpse into the tremendous load He carried. Perhaps it's because I wasn't mourning for my own foolishness that night, but mourning (mostly) for the sake of others. Perhaps my heart was positioned to better understand how His heart felt on that dark, cruel, unfair, unjust, night in Gethsemane: the night the one perfect Man to grace this globe shouldered the burdens of all of us, the guilty world, making them His own.
In such a worshipful state of mind, the great relationship triangle between myself, my wife, and my Lord seemed so apparent, so obvious, and so necessary. I need my wife; I need her desperately. She needs me just as desperately. But we would be unable to help each other to even the small extent that we can, without the grace of Christ. When I bury myself in her shoulders, or she in mine, we are in fact both being carried on His shoulders.
"Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.... But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:4-5).
Jesus Christ makes all things possible, including the eventual healing dawn that follows all nights of heavy darkness. That is what we celebrate on Easter.
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