This is part two of five. Please read part one here: Bad Marriage: A Gospel Story
2016
We didn’t just flip a switch from dark to light in our marriage. Getting better took work.
It is a hard thing to realize that you are four years and one child into (ideally) a lifelong relationship with a stranger; but that is where we were at. I re-read my journals from when I first had a crush on him, searching for the “spark” that drew us together. There was a pros and cons list, trying to talk myself out of liking him; lengthy written out prayers, expressing my conflicted thoughts about God's will; and of course, there were scrapbooks. More than anything, those scrapbooks indicate that we hadn't just become strangers to each other. The person I saw in those pictures of myself was not someone I recognized either.
It was emotionally exhausting to be completely honest with each other. To become open-minded when encountering a problem, to be willing to examine yourself and change if necessary; to stay in a conversation as long as it took for both of us to feel understood and valued; dishing out seconds and thirds of grace and forgiveness—It was so hard. But just like working out a muscle you didn’t know existed—after awhile the pain became less sharp, and the motions became routine. We hurt each other less because we stopped to understand more, and it became a habit.
Anthony and I grew up very differently, but both had to start without a road map for what we wanted our marriage to look like. This excavation we did into our relationship only revealed the work we needed to do within ourselves. How do you begin to forge that path forward from who you are, when you don’t fully understand who you’re supposed to be? Full-blown identity crises are messy, y’all.
We experienced growth as a couple, but individually it happened at very different rates.
For Anthony, outwardly, it was almost overnight. He knew that I was serious about leaving. He understood what I needed—the sum total of everything: to be loved. Just loved. Not because of what I could do, or what I brought to the table, and not even because of whatever made him fall in love with me in the first place. The people we were back then no longer existed. Real love has the ability to adjust to that. He knew that love needed to meet me exactly where I was in that moment. He didn’t just erase everything that happened, but he also never held it over my head or used it to belittle me. We worked through mistakes from the perspective of, “What did this do to us, and how can we build on it?”.
When I continued to tell him what I thought he did wrong, he never returned with my own failures. It was like all at once, he took off the expectation of who he thought I should be. It was radical, life-changing love. I’ve asked him since, if that part of it was difficult—letting go of his idea (or my facade) and loving the real me. He says it wasn’t. If it was at all, he never let it show.
I wish I could say that I just embraced that and thrived.
But it seemed too good to be true. I didn’t think I could believe him.
I did work to stop my tendency to go numb, but I replaced that with building walls. He tried so hard to pursue me, but the second he got close to something real, I’d shut him down again (and throw a brick or two if I felt especially threatened). Everything I’d learned about men was that they weren’t to be trusted. Never let your guard down. As soon as you feel secure, expect the floor to drop out from under you again. Never think you’re genuinely receiving love without having to give something in return.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to trust him. I’m really not sure exactly when it happened or how long it took. I just remember that we started lingering at the dinner table. He started genuinely laughing at my jokes. He did things around the house without being asked, and picked up the slack when I was struggling—all without asking for applause. On busy days, we functioned like a well-oiled machine. I stopped apologizing for trips to Coffee Mill and hiding Amazon boxes. The early bedtime was finally scrapped, especially when visiting my family—they felt like they could relax around him for the first time. (So much so, we almost got kicked out of Cane’s once for his dance off with my mom.) I got better at communicating my needs and he got better at perceiving them. Our goals aligned for the first time; anything that was important to me was important to him, and no thought or feeling was belittled.
I’d never known what it was like to be able to depend on someone like that. For the first time, it seemed like a partnership. I didn’t have to do anything alone.
2017
I slowly realized that the eggshells were gone. I actually enjoyed spending time with him, and always wanted more of it. This is probably what most people experience while dating, but our relationship had never been this…free? It was like the less I hid from him, the less walls and dishonesty, the more we both loved each other. Real, unshakeable love that only comes on the other side of fire. He never passed a test or proved himself worthy. He just accepted all of me, gave me the freedom to be myself; and when I knew in my heart that I belonged here more than anywhere else, loving him back was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
There was never any guilt, about anything, ever. There are certainly ways I’ve hurt him that I deserve to suffer for, but he’s never shown even an inkling of vengeance. It changed everything about who I am. It fueled me with so much passion to love him in that same way, too.
So where was God in all of this?
At the time I would’ve told you, “nowhere”.
If coming into this healthy, fulfilling relationship with Anthony felt like lighting a flame in my soul, then attempting a relationship with God felt like repeatedly striking a damp match.
