Burning the Misplaced Pieces of the Past

Not long after Mark and I were engaged, I began to think about our love story, the one we would tell our children. We would share details that make all epic stories come to life: how we met as singing waiters our junior year of college, and how he compelled me to take his drink orders because it was against his moral code - a code I challenged him to find a cogent and systematic thought process to use for his defense. We would also share how he voluntarily bused my tables prior to driving me back to my dorm each weekend night in his white Honda Civic and how we carried take-home containers of chocolate truffe mousse to my room to share. We would even - maybe - confess how he stayed right up to (and even past some nights) the dormitory's visitation hours.

From courtship through engagement, the story of our early romance would convey to our yet unconceived children how our love surpassed all other stories of romance that might have been written for each of us had we not dared to take a chance on dating a type of person we never expected to meet.

I also wanted to safeguard our story from mythology - illusions about our romance or romances we had abandoned along with the romancers who had abandoned us. I wanted our children to know only of our misgivings and mistakes. Our love had not bloomed without rainy days. We had even endured a storm only weeks prior to our engagement. But bloom, it did, even surviving harsh seasons. The hardiest perennials do. Our children would need to know that.

They would need to know that the first bloom appeared about 29 years ago, back when I worried about notes, other love letters written by other suitors, being found by future children. Those scraps of paper outlined stories that should never be told, I believed. Not if Mark and I were to commit ourselves only to each other. We were collaborators of an epic saga, a saga that would birth beautiful children who would know only of the love that bore them.

Therefore, the other love notes had to be burned. No misplaced pieces of our separate pasts should supplant our storyline.

Our tale of love had begun to weave its way from the Chalet Room at Carver's Restaurant, and it deserved a clear path to the lively retirement abode we would choose for our most golden and final years. Our children should never doubt the wisdom we had exercised in our early 20s when we chose to travel a complex but unified path together. "Wisdom" and "early 20s." Could there be such a combination? If so, we needed to affirm it. Protect it. We needed to burn the notes.

Still, what if the relationship that our children would see in the future didn't live as vividly for them as any colorful tales they might freely concoct? Perhaps not having other notes would not matter. Even if evidence did not exist, vividly imagined details could be invented - by them, if not us. What if some mythological storyline - crafted even without the aid of rejected love notes - could unseat our real life story anyway?

Until our children could write the toughest chapters of their own hearts' tales, they could comprehend love. Not really. 

Love - sustaining love - is nurtured through careers and children and broken dreams and dream vacations and experimental vocations and heartaches and midlife crises and ordinary days of non-crises and retirement and, well, things I cannot know of either - not yet anyway. My great love story is far from over, and while I have witnessed other great loves, their endings have not been well documented - not as well as their beginnings. Perhaps endings are so intensely personal, so poignant and full, they cannot be wholly shared. Or maybe the greatest love stories have no endings because they do not end. What a merciful thought.

That is why those other notes - puzzle pieces of unseasoned passion - had to be burned; they were burned, turned into ash that matched the relationships that bore them. Our children cannot resurrect them. Neither can we.

Mark destroyed his on a day and in a manner of his choosing before I had a chance to add mine to his pile. Fitting perhaps, for we had collected them separately; separately they turned into ash.  I am grateful their embers flamed the fire that has warmed us for nearly three decades. Those relationships mattered too.

Today I took out the collection of love letters that survived those years - Mark's cards and hand-written pages to me during our courtship. I read one. Then one more. Still another. I read in search of me and the man I chose to marry. Can we really be found in the words of those love epistles? They are now as mysterious to me as they will be to our children one day when they find them. Hidden in plain sight.

I don't need to read them to recall who I married. According to those love letters, that man does not exist anymore anyway.

Anytime I need to recall the story of my life's great love, I will simply walk into my kitchen at dinner time. He will be standing near the stove, either cooking the evening meal for our family or insisting on helping me do the same. And when our family meal has ended, he'll help me bus our table - plates and glasses into the dishwater, pots and pans washed in the sink. There will be no need for him to drive me home. We will already be there. Our sons have seen that part of our story many times. That might be all they really need to know.    

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Note: The poem that sparked my thinking is "His Elderly Father as a Young Man" by Leo Dangel. I would post it here for you to enjoy as well but do want to commit copyright infringement. I encourage you to find it in Home from the Field, © Spoon River Poetry Press, 1997.

Love and Other Drugs*

Mark may not have enjoyed the events of his morning, but I certainly did. Well, one thing in particular: the lovie-eyed looks I got when he was waking up in the recovery room of our local outpatient surgery center. Oh! And the loving, drowzy comments that came with them.

“You are amazing.”

His soft eyes locked on my eyes.

“You are beautiful.”

He added a tired smile, still looking only into my eyes.

“You really are incredible. Just beautiful.”

Wow. His face was so love-filled, his voice so sweet. Whatever they put in his IV, I am grateful for it.

For 45 minutes or so, Mark floated in and out of this state of sedated love, and I heard how beautiful and amazing I was at least a dozen times.

Fortunately he wasn’t recovering from anything more than a test that involved looking at his esophagus and stomach with the aid of a scope. And fortunately, his test results were normal.

The sedative that freed Mark’s passionate side made the test more tolerable. It also made him even more lovable; for in addition to the words he spoke, Mark also kept a soft but firm hold onto my hands. He held my hands in his from the moment he first reached out – quite bleary-eyed –until falling soundly back to sleep after hearing the doctor’s excellent report.

Then, left alone to share our dorm-room-sized, curtained cubicle, I felt like we were dating again. And in the brief spaces of time when Mark drifted back into deep sleep, I gazed at his face with moist eyes. He is still the man I fell in love with.

We are both so different from the 25-years-younger versions of ourselves. But we are still soul companions. We are still in love.

I am so blessed to be Mark’s wife. So blessed to have been his caregiver today.

And you know what? He is not looking forward to the colonoscopy scheduled next week for him, but (forgive me, Mark) I am.

Mark, I promise to meet you in recovery again and hold your hands for as long as you want me to.

How about forever?


* Yes, I’m borrowing the title of a movie for today’s blog, but it seems so apropos.

Happy 24 Years!

I awoke with a new chapter in the ongoing story that is my relationship with Mark forming in my head, probably because today is our anniversary. We have been married 24 years.

Because it is our anniversary, I will be spending the rest of my day with my first love, not engaged doing something I love: writing.

But I look forward to sharing what-I-have-yet-to-write someday soon - my attempt to explain how we are quite different today than the young man and young woman who vowed to share life together on May 30, 1986.

I know that our friends and relatives wonder about our relationship, and that strangers don't even know what to wonder. I hope to write of the wonder.

Our story is worth telling. I look forward to every chapter yet to come. Until then, I'll share the beauty of my anniversary roses with you. This year, after their delivery, I was left wondering: How does he keep managing to surprise me with such predictable regularity?

I love you, Mark. Thank you for sharing all of life with me. Only you - you alone - can know what that means. Happy Anniversary!

Storybook Romance, Storybook Wedding

Andre' Franco and Eva Mills met when freshmen at Waldorf College in Forest City, Iowa. He needed a math tutor; she was the tutor. They got married May 8, one week after graduation.

Mark Newcom and Joy Bowden met when juniors at neighboring colleges. He began to bus her tables during their shift as singing waiters; she looked for opportunities to stand next to him when a song required a male partner. They got married 14 days after he graduated from the University of Northern Iowa and five days after she graduated from Wartburg College.

Sometimes you discover that you have fallen in love with your best friend, and that what you are like when together seems exponentially more wonderful than even your most wonderful day spent apart.

You may even realize that your best friend is your soul mate.

You may even - one day - get to live a storybook romance that leads to a story book wedding.

Best wishes to you both - Andre' and Eva - from both of us. Thank you for having shared in our lives and for allowing us to celebrate this wonderful day with you.

Many blessings as you continue sharing life together - only now as husband and wife.

Miss Blaser's Contemporary Issues Class

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Not long after Involuntary Joy was published, a former student of mine named Tali Salberg Paulson read the book while pregnant with her first child. (Here is a vlog with Tali when pregnant with Baby #2.) She shared her reactions along with a hope: "I wish your book were required reading for young women before they get married and begin having children."

I had not anticipated her statement, for young women were not necessarily an audience I had in mind when writing Involuntary Joy. (Then again, I'm not exactly sure who I had in mind. I just knew was compelled to write it.)

As Tali continued to share her reaction and reasoning, her wish made a lot of sense. So much of the time we live re-actively, postponing any thoughts of how we would deal with less-than-ideal circumstances until our life circumstances prove less than ideal. I sensed that Tali, who as I stated was pregnant with her first child, was quickly processing some things she had not thought of before. In fact, she confessed goading her husband, Chad, into some what-if conversations. The poor guy probably thought: "Where the heck is all this coming from?"

Anyway, I immediately thought of Tali and her wish when I got a call from someone (thank you, Mr. Kofron) informing me that Miss Blaser was having a difficult time locating books to purchase for her class. Within an hour, I had passed books along to Miss Blaser via Mr. Kofron's bus route, and later that week, her Contemporary Issues students (hello, Gretchen Thomas and Jamie Hoff) were reading Involuntary Joy.

After the all-school assembly last week, I enjoyed hearing about their collective reading experience – primarily about the kind of topics they discussed because of what they read. And, Tali, I think your wish came true for the women in this class. I think they have vicariously lived some things that are getting them ready for whatever is to come in their own lives regarding marriage and motherhood.

Fortunately, odds are in their favor. Most likely they will not experience anything close to what life has presented us. But if they do, I think that they, somehow, feel better prepared – at least more aware, and that can be a wonderful proxy for preparation.

So, thank you again, Miss Blaser, Gretchen and Jamie. I am honored to have been even a small part of your learning experience. I promise to write more someday about the questions you asked during the vlog about coping abilities and the decision to describe situations with family members in the book. Wonderful questions. I think they deserve even more reflection ... someday.

Living Life Out Loud

Two nights ago I wasn't really able to fall asleep. Neither could Mark. That's not really a biggie, as one of us needs to stay awake to do Stross' midnight cares. Ninety-seven percent of the time that's Mark, because I simply cannot keep my eyes open much past 10:45 p.m. Also, we both recognized early in our relationship that I'm a downright, um ... witch, if I don't get enough uninterrupted sleep. So on nights when Mark is sick or out of town, I do my best to stay awake for Stross' midnight cares before allowing myself to fall into a long stretch of recuperative rest.

Well, two nights ago I was awake with Mark as he prepared for Stross' cares at 12:40 a.m. When he headed to the boys' bathroom, I headed upstairs only to lie awake minutes later–eyes wide open–wondering if I was suffering from insomnia or a loneliness only Mark could remove.

It was neither. It was restless anxiety - likely the reason I was able to stay awake as long as I had. My mind wasn't ready to turn off a day that I'd spent reliving events in weeks past.

I'm probably not the only person who believes that anxiety is a far worse reason to lie awake than insomnia. With insomnia, you want to sleep but simply can't. And if your insomnia's not gone by the next night or so, a doctor can prescribe medication to help. I've never needed such an aid, but I've felt glad knowing it's a possibility.

With restless anxiety, however, you don't really want to sleep because some part of you feels that solving your life's problems is far more important. Yet as you lie in the dark mulling over things you're unable to address until morning, you realize you must add sleep deprivation to your list of ails; and, without a good night's sleep, you can't begin to work on the solutions you've begun to map out anyway.

Anxiety - even a mild version - is viciously circular.

That night I absolutely did not want to add sleep deprivation to my list, and I certainly did not want my thoughts to circle back to any topic I'd already spent time on during the day. So, since Mark wasn't back from helping Stross yet, I turned on our radio, hoping an audio distraction could drown out my anxious thoughts. Something far better happened: I got a message, delivered in my spiritual language of music. It came through the words of Rob Thomas' "Someday," letting me know that Mark and I were somehow sharing the same mixed up, mid-life muddle. It also let me know that we'd be fine, despite the ugly experiences of this bizarre year, because we were staying true to our vow to live through our messes together.

The music offered a promise that - even after 23 years of marriage - we could still feel the freshness of a shared beginning; and that, maybe - someday - we'd even be able to figure out what we'd survived together. Best of all, the message said we'd be better off and, here's the best part: living our lives out loud.

I love that! Living life out loud. That resonates deep within me. I've always tried to let my life speak in a way that communicates clearly to others. What better way than to live out loud? I know exactly what that means, even if I can't express it any differently than that beautiful arrangement of words. And I love that too! Getting a perfectly worded message is how I know my life - just like every child of God's - is connected to something divine. The God of the Universe found a way to speak to me, delivering words I needed to hear, right when I needed to hear them. Thank you, God. (And thank you, Rob Thomas.)

The song had just begun when I turned the radio on, and it ended as Mark entered our bedroom. I reached over to turn off the radio as the last notes played, not wanting other sounds to pollute the delightful feeling that hung in the air. I didn't want to ruin the moment by telling Mark either - not then. He needed his sleep just as I needed mine. And I was ready to sleep - a restorative, restful night of sleep that would allow me to begin a new day.

Sleep. A way to start all over again every 24 hours, bringing new ways to live out loud and to live them together with Mark. What a wonderful message. What a peaceful thought. Good news from a good God. A good night.

Know the plans

In the face of disappointment, some either offer comfort or find comfort in the statement: “God has a plan for you.”

I wonder: Why?

Please note this is a big ‘why.’ A ‘why’ so big that it’s chock-full of other ‘whys’:

• Why would God divinely alter what I assume has been a previously endorsed plan? (Or, if a plan is being altered, does that mean a person has actually been on the wrong plan?)
• Why would God alter a plan without prior notice? (Is God really that spontaneous?)
• Why, if there is some form of prior notice, is it so easily missed? (Certainly God can grab a person’s attention in good and clear ways.)
• Why would God use disappointment as a way to move a child created in God's image toward a new plan? (Doesn’t that make God bad even if the plan is supposedly better?)
• Why can’t God just go with the plan currently in place and simply improve it if necessary? (After all, God IS God.)
• Why does someone else seem to know God’s plan for another person’s life while the one God’s working on seems rather oblivious? (Again, can’t God get someone’s attention whenever and wherever God wants?)

If I had to focus on only one of the whys, it would be this one: Why do we need assurance that God has a specific plan for our lives anyway?

When Mark and I married in May 1986, we chose Jeremiah 29:11 as the central verse for our marriage ceremony. It’s probably the most popular “plan” verse of the Bible: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (NIV)

Idealistic, young lovers with a lifetime of only good things in store, we vowed to share who we were with each other, facing any circumstance life threw our way. We clung to this promise, confident nothing could sidetrack the wonderful plan God had for us individually or as a couple. Believing in a providential plan provided reassurance that we could prevail regardless of what might come.

Then, five years into our marriage “what might” did come. And you know what? We were right about not being sidetracked or overtaken; we continued to prosper, although probably not in the way we understood the hope of prosperity then.

Truthfully, I can’t attest to what we understood then. Who were we in our 20s anyway? We certainly lacked the capacity to look into our future as we know it today. And if we could have seen or even gotten a glimpse of our future, it may have altered how we followed “the plan.” For whoever we were then, we had a much smaller concept of God. We believed there was only one correct plan, and if we missed our opportunity to stay on course, well, we didn’t want to find out what could go wrong.

God was in charge. We just needed to follow.

But you know what? In the process of trying not to misstep, we discovered a prosperity promise even more provocative regarding God’s capacity for hope and a future: The God of the universe is so expansive, it’s impossible to get lost. No matter which direction we step, God is already there. What a relief! That kind of providence is providential, indeed.

Moreover, God’s love is expansive, too, encompassing every child created in God’s image. This all-encompassing love renders God incapable of inflicting pain on those created to reflect the very image of God. This expansive, providential love is personified grace, or God in action.

After 25 years together (one courting, one engaged and 23 married), Mark and I now allow God to surprise us with displays of expansive grace – grace so huge we are able to see God in the midst of some pretty dire circumstances. It’s a grace that begs this question: “Why shy away from prosperity that can intangibly sustain even during times of want?”

Not capable of comprehending the anxiety and hopelessness of exile, we might find it easy to ignore the powerful context of Jeremiah’s words. He was writing to people banished to Babylon, encouraging them to settle down. “Go ahead and do things that might give you roots,” he told them, “Even if you are in a land that’s foreign to you, I’m right here.”

It’s truly a grow-where-you’re-planted message. So why not get comfortable with a more contemporary interpretation of this popular text: “Wherever you go, there you are. And, guess what? God is there too.”

Really. Go ahead. Enjoy life as it happens and wherever it might lead you, for God “knows the plans” not just “the plan.” God is one step ahead of you no matter the direction you’re headed.

Do you have a better plan?

It's a New Year

Ten days into the new year, and I've not yet written a blog entry. I've outlined two or three in my mind, however.

I'm not upset about my lack of initiative. Truly I'm not. Life has just been too full of living.

I'll write soon. Perhaps about how unprepared I was for "Marley and Me" to serve as a mirror of my life. After all, I've never had a pet. (Goldfish don't count.)

Still there I sat in the dark--next to Stross--tears spilling from overfilled eyelids, then trailing onto my cheeks. There was simply no point in holding them back. Had I attempted, I may have broken into a full-bodied sob.

You see, I've learned. When the pain returns, simply let it come. Wash it out, let it flow. Discover what lies beneath.

And I know it had nothing to do with a dog. Marley may have captured my attention, but the husband and wife commandeered my heart. There we were, larger than life and playing to a theatre full of people who were on their own journeys, shedding their own tears. Different stories, similar pain: Idealistic newlyweds. Thrilling careers. Miscarriage. A complex marriage alliance. Children. Overwhelming life. Unselfish choices. Growing older. Growing awareness. Missed opportunities. Under-utilized potential. Hellos. Good-byes.

And there was love. So much love.

Yes. It's a new year. I wonder what's in store.