Tip of My Iceberg

On my wedding day, I wasn’t thinking of years into the future. What it might be like to grow old with my new husband. What having a family together would look like.

I’m not one who enjoys being the center of attention, so I was focused on getting through the day.

Weddings back then weren’t the Pinterest-focal point of celebration. We were married in a church, our reception was in the church, and quite honestly, being the first one in my family to marry, my mother picked out most everything that had to do with the day.

They were paying for it.

I didn’t care. I wanted to marry my guy and be done with the festivities.

We’ve been married over four decades, and as we celebrate another anniversary today, I think about why I took that step so long ago.

John is still the one I’d pick.

We’d been dating for four years when we finally married. I worked at always putting my best foot forward. I don’t think he saw me without makeup until after our wedding. I wanted him to see the best of me. We had our disagreements while we dated, and even one big blow out. None of that ever deterred me from wanting to marry him.

Then came the day after.

No one had told us that our pasts, coming together, would ever be an issue. That the way I was raised, which was very different from how his folks raised him, could ever be a problem between us. Although we had a lot in common, our stories were vastly divergent.

His folks never argued in front of their children. My mom was a very loud verbal processor, and my siblings and I  heard many fights between our parents. He was brought up in a small rural town. I was born in Chicago and raised in the suburbs.

We brought all this and more into our marriage. With my past, our first argument had me ramping up, getting louder as I tried to egg him into going toe to toe with me. His response to my anger?

He laughed.

A friend had told him that this was a great response to decompress a situation.

I guarantee you it wasn’t. I was so mad I got in the car and drove for an hour to simmer down.

Now, forty-six years later, we’ve learned how to fight cleanly with each other. We talk about things that are hard and uncomfortable.

It’s work.

A good work that I won’t give up on.

My relationship with God is like that. I’ve learned to get it all out with Him, often yelling, frequently crying as I pour out my heart to Him.

He hears it all, draws me close, and allows me to vent with Him.

No condemnation.

Too often people feel awkward getting mad at God. As if He doesn’t see that they’re miserable and unhappy.

He knows. And He seeks to comfort us with His love.

Getting to know God isn’t something that happens once with a prayer. It’s talking with Him, working out my relationship with Him, learning to love Him more as I understand how much He loves me.

That’s a relationship worth working on.