Sweet Sixteen / Sweet Seven
Sweet
Sixteen
"For
this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife,
and the two will become one flesh."
This is a profound mystery--but I am talking about Christ and the
church.“
Ephesians 5:31-32
As
my Dearest and I creep up on our sixteenth anniversary this month, wise words
of Brian Doyle from his beautiful work Grace
Notes resound within: “I am not so stupid as to make any public comment
whatsoever about the character and nature and music of my marriage, which I
understand less about by the year anyway because my marriage, like every
marriage that is or was or will be, is different from every other marriage, and
my marriage changes shape every eleven minutes or so, and my marriage like
every marriage, is ultimately an utterly ephemeral thing, a shared idea, a
mental and emotional construct which both parties believe in to varying degrees
at the same time or else there you are at the bus stop muttering about how you
used to be married. And also the person to whom I am married, or to whom I was
married eleven minutes ago, is a mysterious and changeable country whom I try
to simply savor and appreciate rather than attempt to understand, or God help
us predict in any way shape or form whatsoever, such predilection to prediction
being the most surest road to muttering at the bus stop about the marriage you
used to have.”
In
our case we might shorten the changing time to five minutes to accommodate the
yet sharp edges of wit, character, and temper of our blessed union, and while
Brian is not so stupid, I guess I am. Public comment here, like Brian’s, could
only ever be a mere glance on a few loops of the lace at the edge of the bridal
veil alighting on, and delicately sheering the world from the skin and the fleshiness,
the naked subtleties and softest details sparkling in his eyes, breaching
corners in my smile. I do not understand his ways with me, nor mine with him. I
do not understand the mysteries of life that brought us together at an
auspicious time. I do not know how two souls connect, disconnect, reconnect
constantly and are ever attracted and held closest under the veil in spite of
the state of the electrical flow between them, around them, within them.
I
do not know massive sections of the “mysterious and changeable country” that is
my husband. He knows thousands of words like Normolipoproteinemic
Xanthomatoses, can spell them without looking them up, pronounce and use them
properly in a sentence, and discern proper medical treatment out of their
definitions. He changed the GFCI outlet in our garage this weekend. He is
passionate about me, beyond how I can behave. He is passionate about our
children, beyond how they can behave. He is passionate about our home and our
yard and garden, beyond how they can behave. He was once lost in Morocco.
He has suffered trudging through cold and ice more than once for love. He, and
the medical corpsmen he trained, once saved the life of a sailor with a limb
caught under the massive lines of a ship’s anchor. He has probably saved more
lives than can be counted easily by direct and indirect circumstances, by
direct and indirect knowledge.
Navy SEALS once taught him marksmanship, but his softness, sacrifices,
and sojourns for this maiden are his constant target practice, finding center
hits with increasing accuracy. The
confluence of all he’s done, and all he does, and all he may do I glimpse on
the kneeler, in the shape of his shoulders, the bow of his head, and the furrow
of his brow, with his eyelashes resting on Divinely kissed cheeks. My longing
is to count and recount each hair on his head and delicately caress his heart
so delicately he feels it not; so intimately, he knows it not; so carefully, he
thinks it not; so completely, he understands it not. I do not understand the
mysteries of life that brought us together at an auspicious time. I am merely
ever thankful for those mysteries, and the profound mystery of this man with
this maiden. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Sweet Seven
"This is a profound mystery--but I am talking
about Christ and the church.“
Ephesians 5:31-32
As
my dearest daughter creeps up on her seventh birthday, wise words of Brian
Doyle from his beautiful work Grace Notes
resound within: “I am not so stupid as to make any public comment whatsoever
about the character and nature and music of my [parenting], which I understand
less about by the year anyway because my [parenting], like every [parenting]
that is or was or will be, is different from every other [parenting], and my
[parenting] changes shape every eleven minutes or so, and my [parenting] like
every [parenting], is ultimately an utterly ephemeral thing, a shared idea, a
mental and emotional construct which both parties believe in to varying degrees
at the same time or else there you are at the bus stop muttering about how
[she] used to be [my daughter]. And also the person to whom I am [parenting],
or to whom I was [parenting] eleven minutes ago, is a mysterious and changeable
country whom I try to simply savor and appreciate rather than attempt to
understand, or God help us predict in any way shape or form whatsoever, such
predilection to prediction being the most surest road to muttering at the bus
stop about the [daughter] you used to have.”
In
our case we might shorten the changing time to five minutes to accommodate the
yet sharp edges of wit, character, and temper of my parenting, and while Brian
is not so stupid, I guess I am. Public comment here, like Brian’s, could only
ever be a mere glance on a few beams at the roof of our home alighting on, and
delicately sheering the world from the skin and the fleshiness, the naked
subtleties and softest details sparkling in her eyes, breaching corners in my
smile. I do not understand her ways with me, nor mine with her. I do not
understand the mysteries of life that brought her birth at an auspicious time.
I do not know how two souls connect, disconnect, reconnect constantly and are
ever attracted and held close under the roof of a home in spite of the state of
the electrical flow between them, around them, within them.
I
do not know massive sections of the “mysterious and changeable country” that is
my daughter. She knows hundreds of words like her name, she can spell them
without looking them up, pronounce and use them properly in a sentence, and
discern proper use of them out of their definitions. She replaced batteries in
her toy on her own this weekend. She is passionate about me and her father,
beyond how we can behave. She is passionate about her brother, beyond how he
can behave. She is passionate about our home and our yard and garden, beyond
how they can behave. She was once lost in the grocery. She has suffered
trudging through that grocery more than once for love (and food). She, and the
stuffed animals she has trained, once saved the life of another stuffed animal.
She has probably deeply touched more lives than can be counted easily by direct
and indirect circumstances, by direct and indirect knowledge. Her Daddy once taught her marksmanship
with a BB gun, but her softness, sacrifices, and sojourns for this mother are
her constant target practice, finding center hits with increasing accuracy. The confluence of all she’s done, and all she does,
and all she may do I glimpse on the kneeler, in the shape of her shoulders, the
bow of her head, and the furrow of her brow, with her eyelashes resting on
Divinely kissed cheeks. My longing is to count and recount each hair on her
head and delicately caress her heart so delicately she feels it not; so
intimately, she knows it not; so carefully, she thinks it not; so completely, she
understands it not. I do not understand the mysteries of life that brought her
birth at an auspicious time. I am merely ever thankful for those mysteries, and
the profound mystery of this daughter with this mother. Amen. Amen. Amen.
