Tuesday afternoon, David and I were in a fight. I think it was a fight about not fighting, though I can't be sure.
But this post is not about that.
By the time we went to bed on Tuesday, we had kissed and made up. Boy did we.
But this post is not about that either.
(My brother, Christian, told me this summer over our family vacation that there is way to much information about stuff like that on my blog. No more stories involving passionate necking, he said.)
This post is about between the two, when I had my change of heart.
About 5:30, while I was in the kitchen stacking slices of eggplant between mozzarella and marinara, the sky suddenly opened up and dropped a whole summer's-worth of rain on us. The thunder was loud enough to make us all jump, and the power flickered on and off.
And then I heard the sirens. Lots of them. Shrieking past my house, towards the freeway David drives home on every day. Up to my wrists in flour and egg and breadcrumbs, I said a silent, fervent prayer, and promised that if David made it home safely, I would repent and remember what a gift each day with him is. And I would spend less time fighting about not fighting and more time passionately necking. (Sorry Christian, it couldn't be helped.)
Wind and rain for softening my heart. Thunder and lightening as cry for repentance.
This summer David and I took a trip to Canada to see their version of the Rocky Mountains (they have us beat by a mile, by the way) and to celebrate fifteen years of marriage. The scenery was spectacular. I mean, have you ever SEEN Lake Victoria? It is so bright blue it looks like paint. Once I looked over at David, who was supposed to be driving us up the largest mountain either of us had ever seen. His eyes were not on the road, they were out the window, his mouth slightly ajar. I imagined that if he drove us off the edge, I would go right along with him and only say, "Oh, look at that!" on our way down.
While we were there, I thought a lot about creation and gale force winds and glaciers so powerful they can turn stone into flour. And I thought a lot about our marriage, about where we had come from and what we had passed through, and the rubbing and the shaping that had occurred as the elements of life roared around us. And I thought about what can be created in a marriage, over time, with a little wind and rain and a few perfectly-positioned, massive glaciers.
Stone turns to flour.
David and I got engaged under one of the finest displays of erosion the world has ever seen, unaware of the rubbing and shaping and elevating ahead of us. Ignorant of the possibilities even. We were charmed...what could go wrong? And we made a covenant with very little thought about the storms and wind and glaciers and fault lines ahead.
Real life has lots of erosion. And sometimes on a Tuesday afternoon, when you're fighting about not fighting, you wonder what it's all for.
While we were in Banff, I saw a sign that quoted the first man to climb Castle Mountain, "A high mountain is always a seduction." When I read it, I nearly started drooling and weeping at the same time. (And not just because he used the word "seduction," which I think always makes a sentence better.) But because, ultimately, that's what we're about here, in our marriage. The high mountain is the seduction. The chance to become something magnificent, together, as our stony hearts turn to flour.
Erosion is the seduction of married life. The carving and shaping and melting and scraping and pounding and shearing, together, in order to become the high mountain. Adam and Eve, who had front row seats to the creation, understood this. There is no other way.
And so we take each other's hand on a Tuesday evening. And the Tuesday after that. And the one after that. Fifteen years worth. And an eternity after that.
Come wind, come rain. I am completely seduced.
And now, in case you don't believe me about the unbelievable glories of Canada, here are some views of erosion at its best. (I realize that lately my blog has just become a forum for long, home-movie, picture montages and I apologize. I am determined to remedy this in the immediate future with real posts at semi-regular intervals. Oh well, we all know that this is really for David anyway.)
For those of you who actually made it through that, a couple of comments:
1. Yes, it really is that stunning. I recommend you take your best camera and your best friend and go.
2. And yes, you'll need a sweater.
2. When Olivia saw the picture showing our bare shoulders she asked, "Were you at a spa?" Exactly, darling.