Slipping the engagement ring onto my finger, I hesitated before leaving the wedding band that usually accompanied it on the silver tray. Lately I’d taken to not wearing the rings all the time. I told myself it was because in retirement I didn’t always dress to go out of the house, and I was doing more lawn care out back and didn’t want them to get dirty. But that was only partly true. The wedding band had begun to feel like an obligation, and the diamond seemed to sparkle less.
In our early days I was so happy and hopeful, humbled to receive such a pledge of love and commitment from the man I wanted to marry. During our engagement I gazed often at the beautiful marquis diamond, elegantly anchored to a slim gold band. Now, sitting solo on my finger, it seemed to represent simpler times – the engagement period, the beautiful wedding day, the carefree years before the constant compromises, daily annoyances, and petty disagreements of marriage kicked in.
During our busy working years the demands of career and family took precedence over relationship needs. Life and stress and chaos happened, crowding out the initial joy of true love found, soul mate acquired and the daily focus on that promise to love and to cherish.
But after the children were grown and a rewarding career successfully completed, I was ready for retirement. I had my writing, my music, my projects, gardening. I enjoyed keeping the house clean and neat just the way I liked it, a place for everything and everything in its place. Cooking what I liked the way I liked it, eating when and if I wanted to. Dishes washed and put away as soon as the meal was done. Office at home arranged to suit my needs alone.
When my husband retired a few years later, I was not prepared for the 24/7 togetherness or the lack of personal space. I was busy with the things I had planned to do in retirement and quite content. My husband was not. He didn’t have hobbies other than getting together with friends and was happy just to hang around whatever I was doing. That had not been my plan; I was not adjusting well.
My attitude began to sour. I became cross, disenchanted. Resentment seeped in and took up residence in my heart. Snarky words came more easily, though I prided myself on how often I restrained them. The happy bride was turning into a stunning shrew.
The shrew showed up at dinner one night, spoiling for a fight. As we ate outside on the deck, waiting to get a glimpse of our owl leaving his box, the pleasant evening was marred by my discontent. With a sigh, I cleared the dishes and returned to my chair. I don’t remember what I said, but it caused my husband to comment he had to bite his tongue 90% of the time. Across the table I sat stunned. HE needed to bite his tongue? Absorbed in myself, the possibility of his unhappiness hadn’t occurred to me and his camping on to mine was annoying.
I looked at his eyes, simmering in the waning light, the lit match to my short fuse, and I went off. The dam burst, spraying my misery, hurt, and pain across the table. Bathed in self-righteous anger I poured out my list of grievances. When I finished I sat back, immediately frightened at the damage I had done. I had been brutally honest in a way I feared had scarred his heart. My barrage of words that could never be retracted had delivered a direct hit.
We had agreed during our engagement that we were ‘stuck,’ that we would never let the word divorce be spoken between us because it wasn’t an option. How grateful I was now for that covenant, for as hurt and upset as I was I meant to keep my word, and I knew he did too. Stuck can be a hard place to dig out of, but dig we must.
We sat in silence for a few minutes in the evening dusk while we watched the owl, going out to get food for his mate on the nest. “I had no idea you were so displeased,” he said quietly at last. For once I was out of words. Excusing myself from the table I went inside. By the time I was ready for bed he was already asleep. Sleep did not come easily for me that night.
I woke early, eyes swollen from crying. But sometimes the benefit of a mostly sleepless night is silent, heartfelt crying out to God from the bottom of the pit. No one else is so readily available, so approachable, so wise. No one else knows the darkness of my heart or how to fix it.
I went to my prayer chair, sensing God pointing me to a certain scripture. I flipped the Bible open to Galatians, and read in Chapter 5, verse 22 what I instantly knew He had given me for this day: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.” I was shaken to my core, struck by how unloving, joyless, impatient, unkind and out of control I had acted. Not just the night before, but for weeks. The shame was overpowering, and a fresh batch of tears gushed – merciful tears, tears of confession and repentance that washed out selfishness and pride to make room for humility and love.
What a mess I had made. How to get out of it? With renewed hope I opened my daily devotional and read Psalm 107:28: “Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and He brought them out of their distress, He stilled the storm to a whisper.” The writer reminded us that we have many storms in life, but in His Word there is hope and help. “The Lord has a verse for you today, don’t miss it!” I read.
The Lord’s word for me was kindness. The fifth fruit. I couldn’t unsay what I’d said, and I had no clue how to fix things. But I could start being kind to my husband. Kind in word, action and attitude. Time to start showing some of that fruit of the Spirit I claimed lived in me.
Then God gave me one of those famous nudges. A sense of what to do so strong that I couldn’t miss it. His inaudible voice said, “Write him a note.” But what was I to say? I felt awful about the things I said. I had revealed the dark underside of my heart, like the wetness under a pile of leaves that harbors grub worms and roaches and things that don’t like exposure to light. The light of Christ in me as a believer was supposed to shine.
I would never have thought I could write a note that began with, “I feel awful about last night, I hate that what I said hurt you…,” would never have imagined that a different set of words, divinely directed and chosen to reveal a remorseful, humble heart, would be used by God to turn things around. Maybe the fifth fruit could bring a reset to our relationship.
Placing the note on the bathroom counter where my husband was sure to see it, I pulled on my sneakers for a much needed walk in fresh air.
When I returned home he was at the kitchen counter sipping coffee. I poured myself a cup and we talked about our plans for the day. The tension had eased, leaving between us a fragile thread of hope and a desire to keep paddling in the same direction. Slowly at first, with each small kindness, every “Please” and “Thank You,” my attitude shifted. Resentment gave way to renewed appreciation for the gift of marriage and gratitude for someone to share life with: the joy of grandchildren, two heads to sort out burdens, a trusted person to keep confidences, a shoulder to cry on when a parent passes or the doctor calls. Someone who loves you even when they don’t like you, who prays for you, forgives your outbursts and says “I’m sorry” after their own.
By the time we celebrated our next wedding anniversary our relationship was solid, on track. He held the car door open for me and we held hands as we walked into our favorite restaurant. We enjoyed each other’s company over a great meal, secure in the knowledge that we were tethered by choice, best friends for life. We had found our way to that mature love that blends respect with the commitment to “better or worse.” I didn’t know worse was on its way.
In the years to come I would begin to learn about commitment to “in sickness and in health” after my husband was handed the devastating diagnosis of vascular dementia following a battery of tests and neurological evaluations. Together we weathered the shock; together we made decisions about long term care; together we reviewed our wills and medical directives. Together we cried and prayed the first time he forgot where he was and why he was there. Together we grieved over hanging up his truck keys for good. Together we adjusted to the effects of new medications, finding by trial and error how best to administer them. Together we ride the rollercoaster with its good days and bad. Only he truly knows the pain, fear and loss of this disease, the frustration of eroding memory and frightening confusion. Only I know the deep sorrow at what might have been, apprehension at what is almost certainly coming, and the emotional pain and fatigue of a spouse caregiver.
Looking back on my shrew season, I see how God was preparing me for this season of caregiving, growing in me kindness, compassion, and the genuine desire to live out well my vow “for better or worse.” Choosing kindness and commitment then made the unchosen role of caregiver now something I can do. The shrew sanctified, determined to finish strong.
I return to the ‘fruit basket’ daily for patience, gentleness, and self-control. But it is the fifth fruit that continues to see us through each day’s challenges and lets me pillow my head at night, knowing that whatever else I may not have achieved, I have been kind.
