The Courtship: Prolouge

It occurred to me today that I never really told the story of how I met my husband; the story of how he courted me.

But before I can tell you how I become my husband’s wife, I have to go back, back to the beginning, and tell you how God courted me and made me His bride.

The short version of my faith story is this: I grew up knowing who God is and that Jesus loved me, but it wasn’t until I was about 12 that I had what I would call a singular moment of salvation. Through junior high and high school, I was involved in youth groups and church, and truly loved God. I felt Him in my life, and I lived out what I believed.

Until I went to college. This makes me the rule, you know, not the exception. A staggering statistic — about 90 percent of kids raised in the church walk away once they leave home. I even remember the moment. A fellow freshman — who happened to be the baby sister of my cousin’s wife’s college roommate — called and asked me if I wanted to go to Campus Crusade with her one night. I said “no thanks,” and as I hung up the phone, I may as well have slammed the door in God’s face.

The next 10 years of my life were pretty typical, and mostly unremarkable. Several of those years I documented on this site.

In 2002 I ran away from Ohio after I had my heart spectacularly broken — by both a man and a job, each I’d loved much.

But it wasn’t Atlanta herself that brought me back to God. In fact, in the beginning, it’s just the place I lived when I kept living my life in the usual way, stumbling around from decision to decision, some good, some bad, some very bad.

In those years, God was never far from mind, but he was far from my heart. I struggled — mightily — with intellectual obstacles. I read books on the historicity of Jesus and read debates and websites on doubting Christians, on what it meant to doubt. One book in particular — The Case for Faith by Lee Strobel was a much read tome. The Case for Christ was his first book, but I never really struggled on the matter of Christ. I had no doubt that He lived and that He was who He said He was. That may not make sense, but it made sense to me. I just couldn’t seem to figure out how to come to terms with everything else — hell, suffering, other religions. God wasn’t offended by my doubt and questions. He welcomed them. And He kept working on my heart till it came to the point where I realized — I’ll always have questions; there will always be things that I don’t understand; but my finite mind and human confusion don’t make God smaller. He is who He is regardless of my opinion on the matter.

Finally in 2005, I quit making excuses for why I didn’t have to go to church, for why I didn’t need to relinquish control over my own life. I finally stopped rationalizing to myself how I could be a Christian without actually living my life for Christ, and I walked through the doors of Buckhead Church. And from then on I was just done with my former self. I attended weekly, joined a community group, started volunteering, and I felt like I’d come back home. I was the Prodigal Son, returned and celebrated.

Except for one area of my life — a pretty big one at that. I thought that I didn’t need God to lead me in my love life. I thought that I could choose — and navigate those murky waters — just fine on my own, thankyouverymuch.

So I kept dating the way single people in Atlanta dated — men I met through my job, men I met through friends. I went to church every Sunday, to my small group during the week, never really stopping to see the disconnect.

In April 2006 I went to Las Vegas for a work function, along with about 30 colleagues, their spouses and guests. A man that I was casually dating at the time was also on the trip. He was someone with whom I always seemed to be in mild conflict. We misunderstood each other in small, but aggravating, ways. I remember once telling him that we were just oil and water.

During the trip, he just … fell off the radar. A group of us were at the Palms, and he excused himself and never returned. I didn’t hear from him for almost 24 hours, after he was a no-show at the group’s final function — a black tie dinner and awards presentation. He sent me a few inappropriate text messages and never apologized for bailing on me. The next day we were on the same flight back to Atlanta, where we completely ignored each other; I ended up seated a few rows behind him.

And as I was sitting on that plane — staring at the back of his head — I thought “Why do I keep choosing all the wrong guys?!” and another thought quickly followed, “Because you’re the one doing the choosing, Beloved.” And it just — clicked.

I wish I could tell you that was the end of it, but in all honesty, it took me a few more months to truly release the choking, tight grip that I held on my dating life.

On August 20, 2006, I was baptized, and that was the true turning point. I was going under that water, and I was going to come up clean. In my baptism video I said that I hadn’t believed my way out of a relationship with God, I’d behaved my way out. Which is a turn of phrase I’d once heard Andy Stanley use. We walk away from God behavior by behavior, moment by moment. So I surrendered, and I took an intentional dating fast. This meant no dates, no coffee, no going out, nothing. And — no exaggeration — it was the best few months of my adult life to date.

I went on Buckhead Church’s 2006 singles Labor Day Retreat without any hidden agenda. I wasn’t there to meet a husband or to flirt or to network in that way. I was there to be fed and to worship. And for four days the speaker, Pastor Francis Chan, wrecked my world. I’m still haunted by his message, particularly one moment where he he used the analogy of our day being like a piece of chicken (by using an actual piece of chicken) — work gets a bite, exercise gets a bite, our friends get a bite, Starbucks gets a bite, until there’s just the bone left. And then we toss it to God and we say, “Oh — here you go! Thanks God! This is for you!” God worked on me and pressed on my heart until he had all of me.

When I was but 18, God let me walk away from Him, but He never walked away from me. He sent me to Atlanta in order to bring me back to Him.

In hindsight, I see how His hand was on my life; how He covered me. It is only because of His grace and protection that I didn’t marry either of the men I at one time hoped that I would. They were not bad men, but they were bad for me. They knew it, God knew it, but I had no clue. To their credit, those men released me from those relationships. Relationships that I would’ve fought for tooth and nail. If they had been actual ships, I would’ve gone down with them; a martyr captain standing on the deck, prepared to drown rater than jump overboard.

So that’s where I was when I met my husband. 30 years old, single as always, but single and free. I was so out of a dating mindset, in fact, that when A. asked me to lunch, I wasn’t even thinking of it as a date. It was … just lunch.

And so began the relationship that was unlike any other I’d ever experienced, with a man unlike any I’d ever known.

Stay tuned.

This Woman’s Work — Wedded Wednesdays

Just so there’s no confusion, my house is never clean. However, it is my daily goal to try to get it there, and even on the days when it feels overwhelming and I do nothing, I bemoan its state.

We have four dogs, and I’m married to a man who has many wonderful qualities, but (unfortunately) tidiness is not one of them. So it’s not breaking world news that keeping up with our home is a constant battle.

On Monday I vacuumed and mopped, and by the time I got home from work yesterday, the wood floors in the hall were scattered with tiny, white bulldog hairs. We keep Julie on the three-season porch, separated by a baby gate, and as I went to remove the gate to let her out, she got up and stretched and shook. I saw a million little hairs just fly off her and float around in the air; it was like tiny daggers into my heart.

It’s Sisyphean. But every day I try to roll that dumb rock up the hillside anyway.

But here’s the kicker — the difference between my husband and me. I feel like the state of our house is a reflection on me personally, and more importantly, on the job I’m doing as a wife. When he sees the mess, the clutter, it’s just that. Mess and clutter. It has nothing to do with him personally, and he’s in no rush to do anything about it.

Several months ago, he invited his parents over last minute — for what I can’t remember — and they got to our house before I arrived home. I was mortified (and livid). He did not see the problem. “It’s my dad,” he kept saying. “Who cares?”

I care.

Why is the keeping of my house so personal to me? I realize — intellectually — the its state has nothing to do with my character. It doesn’t change how compassionate I am, or how generous, or how loving. But good wives keep good houses, right? Even if they’re running their own business and working full time and commuting two hours a day. They still get it done. That’s what my heart tells me anyway.

And though I’m usually overwhelmed (and sometimes disheartened) by how ever-constant the chores are, I actually do enjoy cleaning. One of my most favorite things to do is wash A.’s white undershirts. I don’t know if it’s because of the ease of it — easy to sort, easy to fold, easy to put away. The homogeneousness of the load. Or if it’s because nothing else feels quite so June Cleaver as washing and folding a dozen white Hanes T-shirts.

Every time I vacuum or mop I have to show Aaron the canister full of hair and dirt, or the dirty mop pad. “Look at this!” I show him. “Uh huh, yeah,” he’ll say, barely noticing, or noticing and wondering why am I showing that to him, again?

It’s because I’m so happy about it, even though I know the floor is going to be dirty as soon as I let the dogs back into the house.

To my husband’s credit, he almost always notices when I’ve done a lot of cleaning, and he’ll certainly pitch in if asked. It would never occur to him to grab the Swiffer and sweep up the floor, but he would never say no if asked to do so.

The keeping of our house was a source of tension early in our marriage, as I tried to figure out how to keep up, going from one adult/two dogs to two adults/four dogs. But once I figured out a system, a way to either accomplish the task or release the anger that a task was never going to be done unless I did it; once I learned that, no, he actually doesn’t notice that his closet looks like a clothing bomb exploded, it got a lot easier.

When we get married, we often expect that making house with the person we love, who makes our eyes shine and our hearts sing, is going to be all rainbows and kittens. (I’d say puppies and rainbows, but in our case, there actually are a lot of puppies.) But learning to live with another adult is difficult, because while you realize you yourself have bad habits, you sort of maybe assume that the other person will just change theirs.

That doesn’t happen.

And because I’m called to serve this man — to be his helper — washing his T-shirts and keeping the house are my joyful burden.

But that doesn’t mean I have to stop fantasizing about hiring a housekeeper.

Ask HB

So I guess after nine years, it shouldn’t be a surprise that from time to time, I feel like I’ve run out of things to say. With the software update, I want to update more, but when I sit down to update I … blank out.

So, let’s play a little Q&A. Anything you’d like me to write about — photography, marriage, Minnesota, my friends, faith, our TTC journey, whatever. Hit me.

Wedded Wednesdays

(Today’s entry is part of Wedded Wednesdays, where every week I will post entries on marriage, either my thoughts, devotions etc. Wedded Wednesdays is a weekly blog concept started by my friend Leah. If you want to join in, just tag your entry with “Wedded Wednesday” and post a link in the comments!)

It should come as no surprise to anyone who’s read me for any amount of time (and certainly as no surprise to anyone who knows me) that the roles my husband and I play in our marriage tend to fall pretty closely along traditional gender lines. I do the bulk of the cleaning, the laundry and managing of our household. A. mows our yard, feeds and picks up after the dogs, and takes out the trash.

(The biggest exception is cooking. I would say that A. does 100% of the cooking, except that’s technically not correct. I have made pancakes two or three times. And I think eggs once, and maybe a grilled cheese or two. But the kitchen is certainly A.’s domain.)

Scripture tells us that men and women are equal, yet distinct. Equal in nature, distinct in role. For me that is heart knowledge, but not so much head knowledge.

I was 30 years old before I met my husband, so the idea of submitting to my husband “in everything,” was a thought that caused me to involuntarily recoil. But I’ve learned, both during our courtship and our young marriage, that I got the easy end of that bargain.

Aaron is called to die for me, just as Christ died for the church. To love me as he loves himself, to care for me first, to love me first. He is called to leave his family and to unite himself only and totally to me. To me. Some days I don’t even want to be united to myself, so that’s a pretty big calling.

One night, many years ago, my mother told me that more than they want anything — love or friendship or money or fame — men want to be respected. Scripture speaks the truth in that — Husbands love your wives; wives respect your husbands. (Eph 5:33.) Why do you think Paul calls us to give the very thing that we want most? He says it himself — it’s a profound mystery.

The biggest mistake I’ve made so far in my marriage is assuming that my husband is like me. That he thinks like me or likes the things I like or that he is wired as I am. It should be obvious that he isn’t — I could list a litany of examples — and yet I approach him often as though he is. That because I like to lay in bed at night and talk about nothing that he would too. That because I like to get lots of e-mails during the work day that he does too. (He doesn’t.)

I can’t adequately describe how blessed I feel to be not just anyone’s wife, but his wife. On my worst day, on that day we lost our baby, as I sat in a hospital chair in an infusion center where people go to get chemotherapy treatments — where I couldn’t sit for five seconds without imagining my beautiful Aunt Jo and the time she must’ve spent in a chair just like it — my husband made me laugh. It startled me when I heard my laughter bounce off the weary walls of that sad room, but it calmed and soothed my heart.

I would say that I’m lucky, but it’s not that. I am called. Marriage is a ministry from which you never get a day off. It’s hard, and some days it’s downright aggravating. But Aaron pushes me to the cross, if only because sometimes that is the sole place where my life makes sense.

If I had a point today, I fear I lost it. But this is a start, I think. We’ll talk more; after all, we’ve only just begun.

Snapshot — Life in Our House

File under — How we entertain ourselves and/or We’ve seen Twilight one too many times. . .

Me: I know what you are… You’re impossibly slow. And smelly. Your skin is wrinkly and your tongue is bone dry.

Him: Say it, say what I am.

Me (whispering): Bulldog.

keep looking »

  • Archives