We need to listen attentively to every conversation, read discerningly every book, if we hope ever to discern the truth and implications of the love word.–Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, 311

Nineteen Years

For nearly nineteen years of my life I have gone to bed with the same woman every night. The darkness comes upon earth, the doors of the house are locked, the children are tucked into their beds and then I climb into bed and roll onto my side. Then I gently scootch as close as humanly possible next to my wife, my bride, my girl; my girl of nearly nineteen years. She is usually asleep because, for the better part of those nineteen years, I have been a preacher or a student who does his best work at night after the darkness has fallen upon earth, the doors have been locked, and the children tucked into their beds.

She does not mind; too much. Most of the time she awakens from her slumber and scootches back against me and I feel our warmth mingle and dance like the flames from two candles mingling and becoming one. I hold her close for several minutes until my hyperactivity disorder kicks in and I am forced to roll on to my other side. Of course she follows; without fail. We do this a few times before we settle into a comfortable deep sleep.

What is amazing to me is that she lets me. And, no matter how much we have argued or complained at each other during the hours of sunlight, when we get under the covers—we always sleep under the covers—there is only room for one of us in the bed. So we sleep next to one another. In the early days of our marriage (and again during our senior year at Bible college) we slept in a twin bed. It was only sometime within the last three years we graduated to a queen size bed.

Nearly nineteen years.

Nearly nineteen years of room for one.

Nearly nineteen years of shared warmth.

It’s like all those hurtful things we have said and done to each other vanish once the covers cover, the pillows absorb, and the flesh melds. I’m not talking about sex. I’m just talking about the closeness, the oneness, the friendship of a lover who is closer than a friend; closer than God.

And if you don’t think I’m telling the truth about that ‘closer than God’ remark, then look back to Genesis where we are told about God making man and woman, husband and wife. There you will see, as I saw one day, what God saw: “God saw that man was lonely, and this was not good.” So what did God do? Send his Holy Spirit? Infuse man with a dose of religion? No. Instead, he made the man a bride, a woman, a lover, and a friend.  She was flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. It was the first and only time in the history of the world that a man gave birth.

The rest, as we say, is history; or future.

So in a sense, the woman has a power that even God does not have. Man was alone, lonely, when it was just him and God. That loneliness went away after God made the woman. I’m not saying God created the woman to ‘cure’ the man’s problems, but rather the man’s problem was cured when God gave him the woman. Eve satisfied a place in Adam’s life that God did not and, presumably, could not.

That’s a powerful way to see Eve. It’s a powerful way to see my wife.

8 Months

I have worked my way through a tremendous amount of suffering over the last several months. I have fleshed it out here quite a lot. It has not been a happy time for the most part. Constant worry about how I would pay my bills. Deep depression at the fact that I was no longer fulfilling my vocation on this earth. Anger that I was (am) working at a job that is frustrating and purposeless. Distress that I have essentially been forced out of my denomination of ordination. Embarrassment before my peers and friends who have not been kicked out of their pulpits—jealous that I am no longer a part of the ‘club.’ Sinful because I was no longer under the constraints of maintaining the ‘pulpit demeanor.’ Fear that my children might judge the church, or Christ, because of the actions of one congregation.And worse. All of this haunts me day in and day out.

Prayerless because I have been terribly angry with God for allowing evil and greed to prevail in my former congregation—because he did not answer my prayers but remained silent. Incredulous that none of the elders, deacons, preachers, or members of the other congregations in my denomination (in my part of the world) have reached out to me, my wife, or my sons—those who were my friends, those with whom I worked, served, and prayed, those who had formerly listened to me teach and preach the Gospel, those who formerly counted on me to lead, visit, conduct funerals or weddings or prayer retreats. Stupefied that I was hung out to dry after nearly ten years of service to the same congregation whom I loved and cared for deeply. Disappointed that I rarely see my sons or my wife because of the work and school schedules we have to maintain. Frustrated because it seems God has taken away all that I thought I was supposed to be and replaced it with things I never imagined myself to be.

I have no other words to describe it, although I’d like to. This is what Renee has had to deal with for…well, forever. And yet, she’s still with me; we are still one.

One Week

Throughout it all there has been Eve, or, as she prefers to be called, Renee. This beautiful, patient, remarkable person who has suffered more than I have precisely because she has had to listen to me cry for nearly 8 months. Not once did she blame me. Not once did she say: It was your fault. Instead, she has waited, patiently. She has listened. She has held my hand in church. She has prayed for me and with me. She has seen the ugliness that is a man humiliated and remained steadfast beside him. She has hugged me, kissed me, held my hand, sat next to me in worship (a thing she hadn’t done since 1995 when I took my first preaching job), and she has waited…and waited…and waited. Cheerful to a fault; loving to the end.

In reality, my wife has redeemed me. She never relished the typical role of the ‘preacher’s wife,’ but played the part anyhow—and was patient with me while I played the part of the preacher’s wife’s husband. Patient while I grew up.

She loves me! God, what a man can say that he has a girl who is faithful, and loving, and kind, and patient? She loves me! It has taken me nearly 19 years to figure this out; a week to accept it as the truth and not another lie. One solid week of near death depression and darkness. She was quiet, still, and patient. Then she spoke. She was Eve created at the end of the week. Out of the chaos of chaos came forth Eve–created at the height of creation. She was the crown jewel. If the best is saved for last, then Eve was the best part of creation for she was created last of all, and she bears the greatest responsibility of all: to love Adam.

With Much Love

This is my last post at Prophets, Priests, and Poets. There may come a time when I am invited back, but for now I am finished. I have asked Chris L to block my access after this post is published. Life has caught up to me and if I am to be a special education teacher, I really need to start studying a little harder and more often. I will be returning to my quiet little world at A Pilgrim at Lake View Avenue—my blog—and occasionally stopping by here for a chat in the comment threads. I have some other things in the works that I might share later.

I will miss all of you. This has always been a place for me to experiment and learn. Some of my posts didn’t work, some did. Some of you were blessed, some were not. Some of you I irritated, some you irritated me. Along the way, however, I made good friends, friends I hope to share eternity with someday.

Thanks to Chris Lyons who invited me to write here, for giving me the opportunity to stretch and share and make this blog site a valuable and important aspect of my vocation. Thanks to the other writers who, behind the scenes, have done much to strengthen, comfort, and heal me; who have done much to shape the writer I have become here.

I hope you all understand what I tried to accomplish here, that my goal was to make you think about faith and God and love and grace—all the things that Jesus thought about and asked those he spoke to and ministered to to think about each day. Writing here has always been about learning for me. I stand by that. It has not always been pretty, and I have failed often to convince you. Still, we have forged ahead, together, in Christ.

I pray you will be blessed. I’m giving this up, for now, because I need to learn how to pray and because I want to read more. I’m tired of the endless, circular debates we have; the tit-for-tat; the excommunicating of one another because we like this author or that author; the refusal of eucharist because of perceived heresies. Sometimes we shout so loudly that no one can be heard and we miss the grace, the love, the journey, the friendship. I’m guilty. For those of you I have offended, hurt, or dismissed, I ask your forgiveness and that grace may prevail between us.

Shalom. Grace. Peace. Mercy.

Tonight

Oh, yeah. I was telling you about this girl who loves me…her name is Renee. Gorgeous she is; smart, witty, and patient too.

She. Loves. Me. Go figure.

A man can spend an entire life looking for significance and praise and love…I have been blessed to find them all in one person, the only person on this earth who doesn’t judge me, who won’t condemn me, who loves me unconditionally: Renee.

Tonight when I get in bed, after the darkness has fallen and the children have finally gone to sleep, something will be different: Tonight, she’ll be awake. And tonight I will be ‘listening attentively to every’ word that comes from her mouth. It’s time I paid attention to my wife, to her love.

Love is never abstract. It does not adhere to the universe or the planet or the nation or the institution or the profession, but to the singular sparrows of the street, the lilies of the field, ‘the least of these my brethren.’–Wendell Berry as quoted by Eugene Peterson in Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, 310