This is my little tribute to the past nine months: the craziness, reflections, difficulties, and joys of the past months my husband and I have spent apart. Installment #2 is dedicated to reflections - what I've learned about myself, my husband, and my marriage after nine months of living far, far apart.
1. I really love my husband.
Living apart has taught me how much Daryl and I just "get" each other. Of all the people in the world, he's the one who knows me best, understands me best, and often knows what I'm feeling before I even speak. I love him, and when he's gone, part of me feels like it's gone, too.
2. No, I really love him.
Seriously.
3. I married a good man.
We've both been insanely busy this year, Daryl with his first year of PhD studies and traveling to conferences, me finishing my MDiv while working a couple of part-time jobs and participating in a spring play. Yet every few days Daryl will pause to remind me that I am his priority and that he'd drop everything for me in an instant. In November when Eliot got so sick, he proved it.
Daryl has great ambitions and great skill. He is working incredibly hard in his program. Yet I know that, above all, Jesus is his first priority. After that, I am. Even with the prestige of his program, the responsibilities he has taken on, and the name he is building for himself in academia, his priorities are in line. He goes to church every Sunday. He carves out an hour or so to talk to me every day. He sends me sweet emails and notes to remind me that he loves me. He Skypes with his mom and keeps in touch with his dad and brother. He runs tech support for my family when their Macs break down. He occasionally drops everything to help me edit a paper or a job application.
I married a good man, and this year has only reconfirmed how lucky I am.
4. I'm stronger than I thought.
During the past couple of weeks I've done a couple of things without batting an eye that I never, ever did while we were married. I picked up a giant, dead cockroach (I know, right? My apartment building is fifty-ish years old and in quite a state of disrepair...) and threw it away. I cleaned kitty poo off of the rug in the bathroom. I cleaned out a scary, scary tupperware full of month-old soup in the fridge. I scheduled a doctor and a dentist appointment without Daryl reminding me. Little things, I know, but I did them without even thinking. Without balking or hesitating. I just did them, because they needed doing. I'm much more ready to have kids than I was months ago. Living alone has helped me to grow up a bit.
5. I'm weaker than I knew.
Some days I cannot pry myself out of bed with a crowbar. Daryl is good at getting me up on those days. He'll kiss me on the forehead, then talk to me, then shake me a little (if I really, really need it). His last resort is usually, "Well, I'm getting in the shower and you're going to be late..." That usually does it. When it's just me in a comfy, warm bed with two snuggly cats I can easily talk myself out of whatever I had planned for the morning. Early reading? Why? Getting ahead on school? But I can snuggle into my blankets for another hour! Some days I need an extra hand, and without it, I really struggle.
6. Touching is good.
When Daryl and I were first dating we hit a rough patch. We fought about a lot of little things as we worked to deepen our relationship, and I wasn't always sure how to love him in the midst of these arguments. Once, after arguing back and forth for awhile, I put a hand gently on his arm. Then I quickly removed it and apologized. "Sorry," I said. "Is it okay to touch you when we're fighting? Does it bother you?"
"Not at all," he responded. "Touching is good." This became a theme of our relationship. Not that we were overly touchy (we both subscribed to the abstinence-before-marriage program wholeheartedly), but we were free with our affection - an arm around the shoulder, a squeeze of the hand, a hug, a kiss.
The reassuring and healing power of touch is quite an incredible thing. I've read news pieces on third-world orphanages where babies actually die from lack of touch. A close friend of mine recently confided that she's frustrated with being single because no one ever touches her. In our society you touch family and significant others - all other touch is limited to a handshake or perhaps, rarely, a hug from someone of the same sex. Touching has become taboo outside of romantic relationships, driving people toward relationships they may not want or be ready for simply because they are aching to be touched or hugged.
In many other countries, this isn't the case. In much of Spain, friends of the same sex will walk around holding hands or with their arms around one another. In France it's common to get kissed on both cheeks when you're greeted. In Italy hugs come with handshakes. In America we tend to keep to ourselves and touch only our family. During a time where most of us live hundreds (if not thousands) of miles from our families, there is not much human contact.
A professor of mine lost her husband years ago. I sat in front of her at a lecture where the speaker mentioned how rare it is to experience any human contact if you live alone, "particularly if you have lost a spouse." I could hear the professor sigh heavily behind me. This rang true for her. But because of my student status, what could I do? I couldn't offer her a hug; I was her student, she my teacher. But my heart ached for her.
I've found this lack of human contact to be very true this year. By the time it's been two or three weeks apart from Daryl I am positively aching for a hug. Sometimes I go the entire two or three weeks without touching another human being. Sometimes the only human contact I have is handing a paper back to a student, accidentally bumping into someone at the seminary post office, or shaking the hand of a colleague. I realize that I'm lucky - this season will end for me soon. But what about those who go weeks and months between family visits and don't experience any human touch?
Touching is not only good, it's necessary. I don't know the solution - how to encourage more (appropriate) touch in our hyper-sexualized society. But it's worth considering.
7. I'm not doing this again.
I'm glad we did it. We were following the Lord's call and (as Scripture clearly shows), ignoring that is only done at our own peril. But barring another act of God, we are done living apart. Done. Fin. Fo' real.
8. I'm more adventurous when I'm alone.
Marriage has made me a little bit more safe. I take fewer risks when I'm happy and comfortable. This year, on my own, I've rediscovered a more adventurous side of myself. I dress more fashionably, I go out more, I hang out with people more. I'm home less often because there are more fun things to do out in the world than in my little apartment. I've also had time to make some incredible new friends - friends who have made this year not only bearable but full of joy, laughter, insightful conversations, and great fun.
I also got to be in a rockin' play. :)
9. Dietrich Bonhoeffer nailed this idea of what it feels like to be separated, and what we, as Christians, must do to survive it.
For my Ethics and Dietrich Bonhoeffer course I'm currently reading Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers in Prison. I'm about halfway through it, and on the plane to visit Daryl in Nashville this weekend, I came across this passage. It was so akin to my own experience this year it was almost eerie...
Bonhoeffer was writing to his good friends Renate Wind and Eberhard Bethge. They were newly married and facing a time of separation as Bethge was sent abroad. At this point Bonhoeffer had been in prison for many months, separated from his fiancé, Maria.
"I should like to say something to help you in the time of separation that lies ahead. There is no need to say how hard any such separation is for us; but as I've now been separated for nine months from all the people that I'm devoted to, I should like to pass on to you something of what I have learnt...
"First: nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it rem,ains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; he doesn't fill it, but on the contrary, he keeps it empty and so helps us keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain.
"Secondly: the dearer and richer our memories, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude changes the pangs of memory into a tranquil joy. The beauties of the past are borne, not as a thorn in the flesh, but as a precious gift in themselves. We must take care not to wallow in our memories or hand ourselves over to them, just as we do not gaze all the time at a valuable present, but only at special times, and apart from these keep it simply as a hidden treasure that is ours for certain. In this way the past gives us lasting joy and strength.
"Thirdly: times of separation are not a total loss or unprofitable for our companionship, or at any rate they need not be so. In spite of all the difficulties that they bring, they can be the means of strengthening fellowship quite remarkably.
"Fourthly: I've learnt here especially that the facts can always be mastered, and that difficulties are magnified out of all proportion simply by fear and anxiety. From the moment we wake until we fall asleep we must commend other people wholly and unreservedly to God and leave them in his hands, and transform our anxiety for them into prayers on their behalf." -Letters and Papers from Prison, 176-7.
Amen, brother. Amen.
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