Part I–Holding Hands Writes A Poem
The alarm clock sounded. “Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.”
Its clanging noise pierced through–deep into–his sleep, and his thoughts were jolted back to last year’s hike in the upper creek when that terrifying squall came upon them so rapidly. It had caught all of them off guard. The temperatures dropped so suddenly. They thought they had prepared for the trip, but they realized very quickly they hadn’t.
He clumsily reached for his phone to shut off the clamoring alarm, and thought to himself, “…man, we barely made it out of there that day. If it wasn’t for the pouch we had in my brother’s equipment pack, we might not have made it.” No sooner had that memory hit him that he was reminded of the crazy conversation from last night.
He sat up slowly in his bed, and felt the pain in his back return. His mind was sharp, but his body was lately telling a different story…one he didn’t like to think about. Once again he was reminded that he wasn’t getting any younger. Mind you, he wasn’t old. His 42nd birthday was just around the corner. “Another year…”, he thought to himself. “Another year…for what?” He bitterly remembered that his 40th birthday was barely celebrated. “There wasn’t even a celebration”, he thought. He said he didn’t want one, but he really did. He really did.
He knew that he shouldn’t keep entertaining these negative thoughts, but he couldn’t help it. His mind raced, and he declared, “She doesn’t know me. She has changed. She’s different. We’re different. If she really knew me, she would have known that I would have wanted at least a small party of friends and family together…even if I said I didn’t.” “It was my 40th birthday for crying out loud!”
His wife had become cold, so he thought. He argued inside himself, “…her affections toward me have waned. She barely rubbed my back anymore. When we were first married, she would tickle my arms and scratch my back all the time.” A little tired smile formed on his face when he remembered that they would get a good laugh about him saying that she was the giver and he was the taker in the marriage. But here they now were; and he thought, “…we hardly laugh together at all. And, neither of us give each other barely a thing.”
He coached himself to stop thinking about their relationship struggles. “There’s a day ahead of you”, he chided himself. “Get up and go.” “This…these thoughts aren’t helping anything.”
Just as soon as he tried to shake off the negativity, he thought back to their walk last Monday. “She didn’t reach for my hand”, he said to himself. “She always wanted to hold hands.” That was the one thing she loved doing together. “It made her feel strong. It made her feel loved. It made her feel connected”, she had told him early on when they were dating.
He smiled thinking about the first time they had held hands. It was so special. It really meant a lot to her. He remembered her saying, “Holding hands is my favorite.” “It’s my favorite, because it’s simple. It’s elegant. It’s timeless. It’s a declaration. He recalled her once eloquently stating, “Holding hands is like writing a poem.” “When two hands come together into a connection of fingers and palms, there is a joining of hearts. There is a joining of souls. There is a joining of minds. Holding hands makes connected what was previously disconnected. Holding hands declares that two are one. Really, holding hands is like the binding and weaving of a rope. Alone, one strap would break under slight pressure. But, wound together, the individual strands become stronger–much stronger than before. What’s more, the relationship between the two is more than just addition in mathematics. It’s not like adding one plus one equals two.” “No”, she said. “It’s one plus one equals infinity.” “Holding hands is a protest to functions and formulas. Holding hands defies the norms, and says, ‘together we are better…together, we are far more than the sum of our parts…together, the only thing stopping us in changing the world around us is our inability or ability to see the world in opportunity together.’ He paused in thought. Shook his head in shame. Last Monday was the first walk in months they had taken together, and we didn’t hold hands. “A poem”, he thought, “went unwritten.”
His mind quickly raced back to her saying several times this week when he had asked her to go on a walk with him that, “She didn’t have time for winter walks when so many other pressing issues were on her plate, not to mention the colder weather.” “On her plate…colder weather”, he thought. “The kids were nearly out of the house, and they both loved the cold”, he said to himself. “They were virtually empty-nesters.” He thought, “She has more time now than ever.”
She was changing. Things were changing. They were becoming…really, they had become married roommates. Still sitting there he wondered, “…how did we get here? Is there any hope?”
Now, he wasn’t one to complain. But sitting in that position on the edge of the bed entertaining this train of thought made his back hurt more. Just then, the pain shot down through his leg like a knife grating against a chalk board. After a brief interval–which felt like an eternity–he got relief. The unbearable pain weakened, and another dull ache settled into his left hip. He tried not to groan out loud, but it was all he could do to remain silent.
He knew she needed sleep. “He needed sleep, too“, he thought. But, she really needed sleep. Their contentious conversation had lasted well into the morning. Nevertheless, he had an early meeting downtown he needed to get ready for. He would have to make do with merely a few hours of sleep. “That would be enough”, he thought to himself. “And, her sleep was precious”, he remembered. Just last week she had been diagnosed with sleep apnea. From what the doctor said, it was no joke that she get sleep.
And so, trying not to wake her he attempted to stand up, but slumped back down on the edge of the bed. “This ache is not going away”, he said quietly. “Is this what chronic pain feels like”, he thought to himself. “Will I always deal with this?”
The room was still dark as he sat there in pain. The air was still, but was biting cold. Winter had finally settled in, and he could feel it. But, he thought to himself, “I love winter.” Really, they both loved winter. That’s one thing they talked about. The weather. It was this time of year that they could turn off–or at least turn down–the heater. They usually slept with the temperature a little colder than normal. “They used to use the colder weather as an excuse to cuddle”, he thought. But not anymore. They hadn’t cuddled in at least a year. “Wow”, he said in a whisper. “Wow.”
He made one more attempt to stand up. Gingerly he stood up. The pain was still there, but it was now manageable. He looked over past where his pillows lay and she was there. Asleep. Fast asleep.
He thought to himself, “Why can’t you understand me?” “Why don’t you love me?”
Part II–His Kind Eyes
“He thinks I’m asleep. I wish I was…” she thought to herself. “I wish I was sound asleep and not living in this nightmare.”
“But, here I am wide-awake…eyes closed, just laying on my side feeling a throbbing numbness. My job is waiting. The day is waiting…”
“His alarm clock would wake anyone up,” she thought with frustration building inside. “Why does he use that silly clanging alarm ring on his phone? I’ve asked him to switch to a buzzing sound for his alarm so many times. But no, he keeps forgetting. I hope the kids didn’t hear that loud noise. They certainly need their sleep. They’re all working so hard…and soon they’ll be gone…soon they’ll be out of the house and off to college. And…we’ll be alone together…”
“My goodness, did they hear us last night? Oh my goodness, I hope they didn’t hear us,” she laid there worrying. “What if they did? They grew up so fast. Will they only remember us as the ‘the parents who always argued?’. Will they only remember me as the ‘mom who was always on edge’? Will they ever want to come home once they leave for college? Will they think we’re a failure? Is our home a safe place…a fun place…a happy place for them? I wish I could have controlled my anger more when they were younger. I wish I wasn’t so harsh with them when all they wanted to do was have fun. I’ve failed them. I’ve failed my husband, she bitterly resigned herself to negative thoughts.
The negativity just continued to flood her mind…
“His back has been hurting him for months and I haven’t cared for him as I know I should. I’m a failure as a wife. I know I should be more kind and understanding. Why can’t I do a better job? I am trying… I really do try. I wish I would be more affectionate to him.”
“He says he has needs. I know what those needs are, but I just don’t have energy to meet them. I’m so tired. Working at my job takes so much out of me. I get home. The dinner needs to be cooked. The kids need to be reminded and prodded to finish their school work. And he has needs that need to be met. I’m pulled and tugged and torn between so many needs! So many needs…so many demands!”
“Oh how I just wish I would serve them all better. I wish I was stronger. But I’m so weak. I’m so tired. I haven’t slept through an entire night in years…”
“What I want is what we used to have…what we dreamed about having when we were first married…”
Hoping. Longing. Wishing for the better times and closeness they used to share. She weakly whimpered inside. Her face was turned away from his side of the bed. And her eyes began to burn. Her heart sank. A pit in her stomach formed and settled deep within. Then her eyes slowly clinched tightly together–she was fighting back with all her might the tears that were raging inside. She wanted to burst out and sob as hard and as loud as she could. She wanted him to come over to her and grab her up in his arms and wipe away every tear that would fall. She wanted him to hold her and rock her in his lap and let her cry and weep and sob and cry out loud and moan and sob and weep all there on his shoulder. Without saying a word. Just hold her, she wanted him so badly to just hold her. Not to analyze. Not to solve. Not to critique. Not to remind her of her failures or things she could do to improve her circumstances or situations. No, just hold her while she cried and poured herself out to him. He hadn’t held her–really held her–in so long. She wanted to feel his touch. To feel his strength. To be reassured of their love–their covenant love. What she really wanted was what he promised her…so many times.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he said to her on one of their dates walking through a park. “You are more lovely than any woman in the world or more beautiful than any other person that has ever lived. You are so kind. You are so caring. You are so sweet. You serve others without regard for yourself. You don’t ask or seek attention or praise. You give just like Christ. I am inspired by you and your love, and I will always love you and honor you and cherish you,” he had said.
Just then, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t hold back a tear that had formed and slowly began to trickle down her tired cheek as she remembered the first time they had held hands.
They had just finished a reassuring talk about life together. They were on the verge of their first talk about marriage. And she remembered so clearly sharing with him a poem that she had written as a young high school girl waiting and saving herself for the man she would marry–that she would give herself to. Just before writing that poem, she had committed her life to Christ and had felt the forgiveness that only He could give–something she desperately felt and needed.
And so, she remembered how he listened so intently to her as she read the poem to him. Up to that point that hadn’t held hands. To her, holding hands meant that she was committing herself to him. “Holding hands,”she went on to tell him, “…was like writing a poem.” She remembered that he sat down in amazement after she read that poem and just smiled. It made her feel so good. She felt like she was walking on clouds. He affirmed her with his smile. He reassured her that she was heard with his kind eyes. He listened to her so well. And so, she extended her hand and reached for his, and he smiled gently and lifted his hand up to hers. She picked him up off the side of the walking path, and–slowly–she joined her fingers into his fingers. Their palms met each others palms, and she looked deep into his eyes with a smile she had saved for that moment. She even remembered so clearly what he was wearing that day. Jeans, boots, a gray shirt, and a hat. Nothing could have been more special to her. Without saying any words, she was saying I am yours. Care for me. Love me. Support me. Don’t hurt me. Be gentle with me. Hold me when I cry. Wipe away my tears when they fall. Listen to me. Hear me. Protect me. Fight for me. Be there for me when I am weak. Don’t neglect me. Love me.
And, on that day, she thought to herself, “…a poem was written.”
The cold air of the morning brought her back to their current situation. To the pain of last night’s hurtful argument. To the pit in her stomach.
She sighed inside. “He’s over there in pain,” she thought. She knew that his back was hurting him. He had only briefly talked about it, but she could tell it was causing him a lot of pain. She told him that he should go to the doctor, but he dismissed it. He had said, “…doctors are for the sick, and I’m doing just fine.”
But then she heard him groan lightly again. He had already tried once to get up from the bed, but he had slumped back down. And then finally he got up on his feet. He was walking slowly…gingerly. She thought to herself, “Will he come over to me? Please come over to me! Please…I need you…”
She laid there…longing for him to do what he used to do every morning when he woke up before her. He would quietly (thinking she was asleep) come over to her side of the bed and gently and sweetly kiss her on her forehead before he left. But, he hadn’t done that in so long. “So long,” she thought.
She longed for him to do it this morning. Oh, she really needed that kiss this morning now more than she had ever needed it before.
Last night he said things that he had never said before. He brought up issues that he never should have brought up. Things she thought they had dealt with years ago, but are now resurfacing in ways she never dreamed. She felt so far from him–so distant. It was like he was living on a different planet from her. She was crying out and he couldn’t hear her cries–or he didn’t care. Both–to her–brought pain, but it didn’t take away her desire.
And so, on that cold winter morning she longed for him to reach down and reassure her of his love for her. She longed to connect with him. Soul-to-soul. Heart-to-heart.
But he didn’t. He didn’t come over to her side of the bed. He didn’t come and kiss her with his sweet kiss.
Instead, he walked to the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed, and walked out of the house. The car started, the garage door closed, and he drove away from them. He left–once again–without giving her the gift of his reassuring, accepting, and sweet kiss.
That was like a nail in the coffin, and it was all it took for her to release the pent up pain and tears that she had been barely keeping at bay. She sobbed. She wept. She cried.
She longingly thought to herself, “Will my husband ever accept me?” “Will he ever love me for me?”
She curled her knees into her chest and wept. The bed shook with her cries of heartache and pain. She felt empty…numb…alone.
But then, lights reappeared down the drive way. The garage door reopened. She heard the backdoor quietly close, and she heard footsteps making their way down the hallway. The door slowly opened. She wiped away the tears from her eyes and sat up in their bed–their bed that was given to them 22 years ago as a wedding gift.
He was walking toward her. The early morning light was beginning to show itself through the window. She couldn’t fully see his face, but she saw his eyes.
She saw his gentle eyes. His kind eyes were coming closer and closer to her…
Part III–The Cost of Love
“Please pass the cranberry sauce,” she tenderly asked him. He stopped cutting his turkey, put down his knife, and looked up at her with a gentle smile. His kind eyes met hers.
For a moment time stood still. Their lives flashed before both their eyes.
The room was full of laughter, of life, and love.
The grandkids were hungrily eating their food (“…they had been waiting for days,” they kept saying), their kids–now parents–were busy wrangling them, and instructing them to sit still and stop reaching for the food over their cousins. The dogs were outside on the porch trying to convince everyone–with their sad faces–to let them inside to the warmth and comfort.
And there they were…soon-to-be great-grandparents to a baby boy, now grandparents to 17 grandchildren, parents to four of their–now grown–children, as well as a husband and wife.
They are surrounded by laughter, love, life, and…family–now reaching down into three generations–soon to be four.
The fire was burning steady and crackling in the fireplace–putting off just enough heat for everyone to enjoy. The food was spread across various tables and countertops in all its myriad glory. From the meat to the sides to the desserts and rolls, everyone had contributed something to this feast fit for kings. The smells in the room were filling its every corner with their palpable fragrances full of spices, sweetness, and savory delights. Outside, snow was lazily fluttering to the ground–forming another soft blanket–on top of an already thick cover of snow that had fallen the night before. There was a snowman sitting half-built ready for its finishing touches, there were sleds ready and waiting for the hills begging to be ridden, and there were the cross-country skis and poles set aside for use later that afternoon.
And there they were. Husband and Wife. Lovers. Friends. Veterans to pain. Veterans to joy. Veterans to a long life lived now 63 years together.
They sat caught in the gaze of one another. Transfixed in their thoughts. Of the years gone by. Of hard times. Of good times. Of the time when everything changed. It was the watershed point in their lives and marriage. It was the time when their world–the world they now are experiencing–nearly came crumbling down before their eyes.
Still, they sat there smiling at each other with all the activity whirling around them…time slowly beginning to fade.
And it was into this sacred moment–like they were the only ones in the room–that he tenderly whispered to her across the table, “I love you.” She paused, smiled her tender smile, and whispered back, “I know. I love you too.” They smiled at each other again–knowing exactly what each other meant–lingering and cherishing their company. Everyone–at this point–had stopped eating and talking (at least the adults) and began to turn toward them.
His eyes began to slightly burn and mist, he shifted in his chair, and then he stood up–slowly, gingerly, and thoughtfully–remembering that one cold morning 41 years ago when he stood up from his bedside to leave for the day.
Only this time everything was different. He paused for a moment, and then began to speak, “Today is special day. Today is Thanksgiving…” he paused, and then began, “…today, we have much to be thankful for…” The words drifted slightly, and he paused again, looked over at his wife–the wife of his youth, now an elderly, yet elegant woman. He smiled at her, and then his thoughts went back to that cold early morning 41 years ago…
He knew she was awake. He was sitting on the bed waiting there for her to reach for him and just touch him–with a touch of affirmation…a touch of affection–before he tried to get up again and go about his day. He had just wanted her touch–just some of her affection. He wanted to know she loved him–that she understood him. But she didn’t reach over and touch him. There was no affection. She just laid there…acting like she was asleep. “Go figure,” he thought to himself.
So he slowly rose from their bed–still feeling the pain in his back, and walked gingerly to the bathroom. While he was in the shower, he angrily cried with fists clinched. He was angry with himself. He was angry with his wife. He was angry with God. “Why is my marriage in this place–after 22 years…can’t we figure this out? Why, God…do You even care?” He didn’t think anything could or would ever change. He was at the point of lost hope. He was losing hope. Hope was all but gone.
But then something he didn’t expect happened. Somewhere, in the midst of his crying and wrestling with his circumstances, he recalled vaguely some verses from the Bible that his grandfather would share with him on occasion when they would talk about marriage, relationships, and the like.
“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself up for her…So husbands ought also to love their own wives as their own bodies. He who loves his own wife loves himself; for no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ also does the church…” Ephesians 5:25, 28-29
Just then, his struggle began to lessen. His anger began to subside. His head slumped, and his fists eased and unclenched. Something was happening to him. He looked up feeling something he hadn’t ever felt or understood about his marriage before. In that moment, he thought a new thought to himself, “Now…now I’m beginning to understand love…
…Love is sacrifice. The cost of love is my very life.”
And then, he did something he hadn’t done in years. He prayed. But this prayer was different. It wasn’t a criticism or a victim’s cry. No, no, this time he just prayed to His Lord committing his life, his wife, and his family to Him.
“God, today…this moment…now, I commit my life to You, I commit my wife to You, and I commit my family to You. Today, I commit to loving my wife as I love my own body. I will love her as You have loved Your Church. I will lay down my interests for hers. I will cherish and lead my family spiritually. Please forgive me for my negligence of my wife and children. Please give me the strength to fulfill this commitment. And when I fail, please pick me up again. Amen.”
He finished in the bathroom, got dressed, and then headed off to work. As he was driving down the street, he realized to himself…it must begin right now…this second…right where we are. And so, he turned the car around and drove back home.
He slowly opened and quietly shut the door leading inside their sleepy house from the garage. He took a deep breath and tried to silently walk down the hallway to their bedroom, and said to himself, “…love her…love her…as you would love yourself…as Christ loves His Church–die to your desires…your ambitions…your need-to-be-right and justified, and truly live in Christ’s example and strength.”
He walked into their bedroom, and saw her sit up–her eyes full of tears…her face flush with crying. He reached down his hands and pulled her face close to his. He looked into her tender and tired eyes, and said, “…I’m sorry. I am so so sorry. I’m sorry for not loving you as you deserve to be loved. I’m sorry for not loving the kids as they need to be loved. I’m sorry for not taking the lead in their spiritual life. I’m sorry for being gone so many weekends playing and entertaining myself with my friends. I’m sorry for not opening the Bible with our family. I’m sorry for not being the spiritual leader that you have wanted me to be in our home. You work so hard. You give and give without complaint. For so many years I have only thought about myself…my desires…my needs. And I haven’t given your needs the time of day. You are so beautiful. You are so caring and kind. You are my best-friend. Please forgive me. I promise to love and honor you as you deserve. I am so sorry. I promise…from this day on…things are changing…”
His strong hands were still holding her soft cheeks and she sweetly said, “…sit down beside me, my love.” He sat down beside her on the bed, and she softly and gently put her fingers in his fingers…her palms on his palms, and quietly she held his strong hands. Her mind raced back to the first time they held hands… “A poem”, she hopefully thought to herself, “…is being written.”
She then shifted her hands in his and moved them around her back, so that he was holding her in his arms. She nestled her head on his chest and cried. He held her tight in his arms as her body shook with sobs. He looked out the window as the sun was now peaking through the clouds, and resolvedly thought to himself, “…from this moment everything changes.”
After some time–there in his arms on their bed–her crying subsided. She slowly leaned back and lifted her head to look into his eyes. Those kind and loving eyes she remembered from so many years ago now peered into her soul. She knew things were going to be different. Something inside her reassured her of that. The pit in her stomach was now gone as she had been held by the man she had given herself to.
She blinked away more tears, and with her small and gentle fingers wiped his tears that had steadily streamed down his face, and she said, “…Thank you. Thank you–my love–for coming back to me. I believe you. Every word you have said. I believe you. I trust you. I need you. I am yours. Yours alone. Today…today…will mark our marriage for the rest of our lives. Today, I commit to being present in the present, and following you as you follow our Lord.”
That memory–now 41 years ago–was still fresh, but had softened. And so, he continued sharing his heart with his family on that cold Thanksgiving day:
“…today is full of life. This Thanksgiving is special. It is a day of being thankful. A day when we remember our blessings. A day when we count our blessings. A day when we express those things we are most thankful for to those we love and cherish the most. And so today, this Thanksgiving day, I want to share with all of you what I am most thankful for. I am most thankful today for my bride of 63 years. She has stood by me with the unwavering strength of an oak. She has followed me with an unflinching heart of a lion. She has nourished me with such great compassion and care. She has counseled me with deep and circumspect wisdom. She is my lover. She is my friend. She is my wife. I love her. I honor her. I bless her on this Thanksgiving day.”
He looked around the room at all the smiling and beautiful faces of his children and grandchildren looking back at him. Tears had filled his children’s eyes, and some were wiping them from their cheeks.
He spoke again, this time lifting his hands up beside him, “…if it wasn’t for our Lord, I don’t know where we would be. If it wasn’t for Him, this Thanksgiving day would look very different.” He lifted up his eyes to the ceiling, and said…
“Love costs everything. It costs your very life…
And, our Lord showed us how to give this love through His love for us. And so, this love we are now sharing around this Thanksgiving table is felt and experienced through a love that costs everything…love costs everything. May we all remember our Lord’s example of loving us by laying down His life for us so that we might live a life of loving as He loved by laying down our life for those whom He puts in our lives to love…Amen. I love you all. Amen.”