Sweet Sixteen

Michele,

Our marriage is old enough to drive.  E.E. Cummings once wrote a rather racy poem using driving language, called “She, being brand new,” but that doesn’t really fit the situation anymore.  Kids, parents and such might read this so I'm going to go a different route, but given the whole sixteen thing and all we’ve been through with our cars in the past year or so, I’m going to roll with the metaphor.

So let's talk driving, and let's start with trust.  You don’t put someone you don’t trust behind the wheel of a car.  I’ve ridden with people I didn’t trust, it’s not a good experience.  You never know what they’re going to do, and foolishness and mistakes can be painful or deadly.  I think we confuse the adrenaline rush of a difficult and dangerous (or at least novel) relationship with the passion that can really only grow between people who trust each other with everything.  We put our lives in each other’s hands, we give our hearts, and we take some risk.  We would not do this if it wasn’t worth it somehow.

In a car, and in a marriage, you have to be able to trust the stuff you don’t always see on the surface.  You need to trust what’s under the hood, and the brakes and all of that stuff in order to be able to have a good ride.  All that stuff takes maintenance, but as long as you keep at it, you shouldn’t have to worry about it every time you get behind the wheel.  Maintenance requires vigilance and being proactive, not just waiting until something goes wrong.

Let's face it, even though people who have been married forty or fifty years might chuckle, sixteen years is a good while.  we have now been married for a decidedly significant portion of our lives.  It's actually hard to remember what it was like not being married.  I know, in most romance stories there’s always this element of mystery and novelty, but at this point there aren’t many surprises. That's really okay with me. We can both get dressed up fancy from time to time, but we aren’t Ferraris, there’s no room for kids in a Ferrari, and quite frankly the maintenance is a nightmare.  It’s a sign of maturity when you learn to be satisfied with what you have and to know what you need.  We need a relationship that can handle ridiculous schedules, tweens and taking smelly dogs to the park.  Paris in the spring it is not, but it is our life, and it is good, and trustworthy, and there is some evidence that it is working out.

In one of his Sabbath poems Wendell Berry says that we must:

Love where we cannot trust,

Trust where we cannot know

And await the wayward coming grace,

That joins the living and the dead.

I took that out of context, artistic license, but I think my little snippet of the poem captures what it takes to be married.  There are times when even well-worn trust gets tested, and love has to take over.  I think that trust must involve some element of not knowing and I know that grace is always unpredictable and never shows up exactly when you expect.

Grace shows up in doing things you don’t want to do for the sake of another.

Grace shows up in accepting each other as we are.

Grace shows up in indulging your husband when he compares you to a station wagon, so here’s my poem to you (apologies to E.E. Cummings):

She, being not so brand new;

I know where all her buttons are.

I know how she handles the curves,

And I like hers.

When the weather’s clear,

Just put it in gear

And go.

When storms come,

We drive a little slower,

But we always get home.

The mirrors are adjusted pretty well.

The blind spots are very small.

I think I even know what’s in

The glove compartment.

I notice some of the dents and dings,

And maybe I put a few of them there,

But they don’t bother me one little bit.

 We're not alone on this ride anymore.

Let's roll down the windows,
And make the kids whine that the music is too loud.

Sweet sixteen.