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To Have and To Hold

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I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Fourteen months into this pandemic and Chris and I are vaccinated. I saw my Mom for Mother’s Day. The CDC is saying vaccinated people don’t have to wear masks. Venues and organizations are outlining plans to ‘return to normal!’ We survived a pandemic! Chris and I have also survived thirty-nine years of marriage as of this weekend. It doesn’t really sound very good to say the word ‘survive’ when speaking of your marriage, but it is the truth. When we said our vows, we had no idea what our future would hold—for better, for worse. The year of the pandemic was not the worst year of our marriage—in fact, there were lots of ‘betters’ sprinkled in among the oddities, losses, and unknowns of the ‘unprecedented’ pandemic. But we have navigated other unprecedented events in our years together that have fallen into the ‘worse’ category—things we couldn’t plan for, things that broke our hearts, things we could never imagine would happen—and it is those things that we have survived.

As a naïve young bride, I thought marriage would be simple—as simple as the name Spring Beauty for these delicate ephemeral flowers. To love and to cherish sounded simple to me, for I fiercely loved this man, and I was pretty good at cherishing things.

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What I didn’t know how to handle was the first time I realized that in this moment I hated him, which, as we learn, says much more about me than him. By that time, we had had over twenty-seven years together, so like the Leatherwood shrub, I learned to be more flexible, more forgiving, of him and of myself.

We discovered over time what side of the creek we were on—the Democrat married a Republican, the sports-lover married a sports-dare-I-say-hater, the horse-loving country girl hitched up with a city boy. But we also waded across the clear, cold creek to see and feel what it was like on the other side—he learned to ride horses, and I eventually learned to like football!

Sometimes things were a little murky. We kind of knew what was going on, but there were things we either didn’t know or we just didn’t have the mature skills to navigate with finesse. We bumbled through it. First-child parenting comes to mind. Okay, make that all-child parenting. All house buying and selling. All job changes. How many murky moments in thirty-nine years?!

We learned about perspectives. What’s real? What’s just a shadow? Which one is taking up the most space? The shadow of fear took up a ton of space in my life and darkened far too much of our relationship and my ‘being’ in the world. In sickness and in health. In shadow and in light.

There were mysteries unveiled of bodies and minds, of past and present, of life at large. God’s holy ordinance allows for mysteries, embraces them, and lifts them up for our participation and our wonder.

We learned to be rocks for one another. It always seemed like Chris was my rock, as I talked so much, cried so often, hurt so deeply, but over the years I realized how steady I was for him—in making a warm home, in explaining the science of things and the emotional aspects of relationships, and in always having topics to converse about. To have and to hold.

There have been so, so many bright spots in our life together, especially our three children. It is an honor to bring other human beings into the mysteries of life and relationships.

And yet, beauty and goodness can be caught in a tangle of rubble, unreachable and unpreachable. There are hard, messy things in life that are beyond our control. For richer, for poorer.

There are trees, and there are forests. There are details, and there are ‘big pictures.’ There is the here and now, and there is the future. We have learned who is the tree person—the detail person, and who is the forest person—the ‘big picture’ person. And we have learned the exceptions to the rule.

How long can one hide, and what is the reason for hiding? There’s almost always a reason, a very good reason. For a very long time the very good reason is often hidden from the person who is hiding. This riddle is the journey of our lives.

As young marrieds, we knew little of death. Then a puppy died, and another, and then a young dog, an old dog, many cats, my beloved horse. We chopped off heads of chickens to put in our freezer, butchered a pig we named and cared for. An infant nephew died, my dear friend, an uncle, an aunt, my Grandma, Chris’ parents, my Dad, Chris’ brother….We know about death now. It is a lesson that brings many lessons. Till death do us part.

There is spirit in marriage, there is science, and there is art. I think you need all three to make it thirty-nine years, to survive, to thrive, to become the person you are meant to be. Thereto I pledge thee my faith.

So, we have made it this far together. The fir-cone strewn path stretches on before us. We see the trees and the forest. We know precious new life and have walked with death. We respect the simplicities and complexities of life. We have experienced love and hate, fear and peace, sorrow and joy. We appreciate beauty and mystery. We go on. From this day forward.

Hunkering Down

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I love when a cool, old word all of a sudden becomes apropos (another cool word meaning ‘suitable in a particular situation or at a particular time.’) I’ve been saying it, my friends have been saying it, and the newscasters and experts have been saying it—hunker down. ‘Hunker’ is a good word to say out-loud (almost always said with the word ‘down’); it has grit and meaning and motion. The word/phrase emerged in the 18th century in the Scots language referring to ‘squatting down on the balls of one’s feet, keeping low to the ground, but still ready to move if necessary.’ Over the centuries and in this situation and time we find ourselves in, it also means ‘to be prepared to stay in a particular place or situation for as long as necessary, usually in order to achieve something or for protection.’ Yep—here we are hunkering down.

At this particular time, hunkering down for Chris and I includes what has always been a part of our lives—going out in Nature, and this weekend was no exception. We drove north again, even a little farther than we did last weekend. We contemplated the different parks in the Brainerd region and saw one called Fritz Loven Park, west of Nisswa. It was the name—great to say and intriguing as to why it was so named—that was the deciding factor for our Saturday destination. The park is named after Fritz Loven who settled on the 80 acres of land in 1932. He was known as ‘the lovable hermit’ of Upper Gull Lake. Social distancing was his norm for decades. I will tell you more about him in my next post; for now, just know it was his wish that after his death, his land would go to the town of Lake Shore. It will be forever protected by the Minnesota Land Trust.

The first surprise and delight when we emerged from our vehicle was the sound of running water—literally a babbling brook aptly named Stoney Brook. The dark water coursed between the banks still deep in snow.

As we hiked, another striking observance was the number of huge fallen trees in the park—some broken off, others uprooted. A summer storm in 2015 and another in May of 2016 that carried with them devastating extreme winds, had toppled trees and power lines. The evidence starkly remains.

In the midst of the past destruction and the as-of-yet-ongoing Winter (despite the calendar’s announcement of the arrival of Spring), we saw great beauty. Mother Nature creates amazing art at any particular place and time of year—and at this time and place, it was intricate ice art. The brook was lined with it, and I hunkered down (first definition) at the edge of the water with camera in hand.

We are living in the vast gray area where things don’t fit into neat ‘us and them’ categories and when trying to incite that division falls flatly with a resounding thud to our humanity and decency. The picture is bigger now. We are all team players, like we should have been all along. It’s always been about life and death—if not physically, then spiritually, emotionally, and socially. We are losing people—the fallen—for reasons we will never understand and for reasons we should have been more prepared for. And in the midst of the fear, confusion, collapse, sickness, and death is an upsurgence of art and creativity and caring. Music, visual arts, poetry, stories, and heroism are being brought to the fore, and it’s making a difference in our isolation. The loss of lives and livelihood is tragic, but it does not have to be without meaning. With such a trauma to our world, there is no going back to the way it used to be—we have an opportunity to go forward to a new way of being with the very things that are most important to us now in this time of quarantine. Hunker down in love, self care, creativity, renewal, and charity for others—we’re all in this together with grit and meaning and motion.