Dreamers and Rocks: Some Thoughts on Marriage

I did some math the other day. I have been with my husband for almost a fourth of my life. For the girl who never thought she would get married, this 23% has been amazing. I have a good marriage, in part because I am married to a good man. He is quiet, safe, and consistent. People refer to him as a “calm presence.” He has a way of comforting people without saying a single word. I knew I was going to marry him after we sat for an hour of silence under a tree listening to live folk music. There was no awkward silence, only an assurance that we were connected on a
deep and meaningful level.

While we are both introverts and find comfort and renewal in the silence, we are also vastly different. I am an ambitious dreamer with great aspirations for my life. I feel a pull toward a life beyond myself. I dream big and in times of enthusiasm I run after things with full speed, not always considering the path of half-done projects I have littered along the way. My husband is one who is content – content that he has a job that pays the bills, has health insurance and financially provides a reasonably good life for his family. He does what is needed, and it typically stops there. One of my constant frustrations has been his lack of motivation to have or pursue dreams. He has never had a clear “calling” on his life, whereas I have known what I want to be since adolescence.

I was processing this frustration with a trusted mentor. Initially, I wanted to complain that I seem to carry the energy for our family. But before I started my rant, I reminded myself that I married him for a reason. I married him because he was a constant and calm presence. He is my rock; my home base. I could not be the dreamer I am, nor could I chase after my ambitions if my husband were not the man he was. If we were both ambitious dreamers, our house would crumble. As I started seeing him in this new light, my heart was filled with gratitude. He is the husband I need; the husband I want.

I began looking at my dreams, specifically the writing that I am giving birth to. My husband has read some of my writing, but commented that “It seems to be more for women.” Initially, I was annoyed at his seeming lack of interest, but resolved that he was right. I write mostly for an audience of women. As I continued to process this aloud, a new discussion arose around women and the role of spirituality. Across cultures, it is women who seem to be the bearers of spirituality. I remembered being in Viet Nam visiting Buddhist temples – the monks were the mainstay, but it was the women who ushered in their families. It was the women who carried out the rituals within the homes. Within most American households, I find much of the same thing – women are the god-bearers, the theotokos, within their families. Men are the protectors and the defenders of the doctrines and Institutions. Men protect against defilement. They are the constant guardians who keep it safe. Women give birth to spirituality, and men are the stable rocks that keep it grounded. Neither is better or more important than the other. We are different, but truly we need one another.

As we concluded our conversation and began scheduling our next meeting, we happened to pick the Feast of St. Joseph. Not much is known about St. Joseph, the step-father of Jesus and the husband of Mary. He is often referred to as the hidden saint. What we do know is that he stood beside Mary, the Theotokos, as she brought forth the Savior from her womb. It was his presence that allowed Mary to carry out her role. There was a slight laugh in the room – how coincidental to choose this day. My husband is my St. Joseph, my hidden saint. He is the rock that stands silently behind me that allows me to carry out my role – to birth the dreams and visions laid upon me. My appreciation for my husband deepened to a level that changed my heart for the better. As cheesy as it sounds, I am forever grateful he stumbled into my life. He has maintained the space that allows me to be the me I am called to be. I would not be who I am had it not been for him.

To Live and Forgive.

I have a tattoo. I am not exactly the sort that fits the stereotype of an inked person. One, I am clean cut. I prefer shirts with collars tucked into pants complete with a belt. Years of private school dress code has stuck with me. My clothing is boring – if I wear a striped shirt I am being bold. And I freak out if people write on my skin with pen or marker. I like things untainted, pure, and orderly. Nine years later, I still love my tattoo. I love what it symbolizes.

The ink on my skin is the symbol for life. To the best of my knowledge, it literally means, “to live.” There is a story behind my marking.

Twenty-one years ago, I no longer wanted to live. I believed the world would be better off without me. Call it adolescent angst; call it depression. I called it a desperate need to get away from my life. I am fairly certain I did not want to die, but I certainly did not want to live either. I wanted the pain ripped out of my insides. I wanted the hurt to stop. I wanted to be resurrected. My only hope was to either successfully take my life, or at least make a valiant enough attempt that someone would notice and get me the help I needed. Neither really happened. I put on a smile. I made some life changes and instead of seeking negative attention, I sought after affirmation. I stopped being an obnoxious brat and focused on helping others. While I became a good kid and young adult, I never really found my vitality. I was passively stuck in victim mode – disempowered with no real sense of self-agency.

Nine years ago, I made the conscience decision I was no longer a victim to my circumstances. I was tired of merely surviving; I was ready to thrive. I permanently marked this decision. I covered over the scars on my wrist – covered the death wishes. It was an imbedded reminder to never turn back. It has become my permanent motto -- to always choose life; to choose vitality.

Choosing life meant to start feeling again. I had to experience the anger and rage I had previously tried to kill via neglect and ignoring it. The anger led me to sadness; to mourning. And finally, I was able to forgive myself and my enemies. The path to vitality was really a slow process of forgiveness that did indeed lead to a place of peace and true healing.

I was recently in a conversation about forgiveness, and how the Christian mandate is to forgive our enemies. But the conversation took an interesting turn, that being can we be too quick to forgive? I think the answer is yes and no. If we are choosing to “forgive and forget” at the cost of denying our own injuries that need to be healed, the yes, we can forgive too quickly. Forgiving too quickly may lead us to choose being numb, feeling nothing, and surrendering our vitality. At the same time, I believe we are called to forgive immediately. Confusing, right?

Forgiveness is a process. When we are injured, I believe our position should be to immediately forgive our enemy, but recognize that forgiveness is a both immediate and ongoing. I am coming to understand that forgiveness and grief are intertwined. We choose to be actively involved in the process and to continually forgive along the way.  We choose to let go of each new layer of anger and hurt that are uncovered in the process. The deeper we enter into our healing and grieving process, the deeper our forgiveness will go. We experience our own forgiveness to the same depths we are able to forgive others. And if you are like me, the more we understand the extent of injuries, the more we understand the seriousness of the injuries we inflict upon others. We come to grips with our own depravity. Our humility deepens as does our desperate need for grace. As we recognize our own ability to destroy others, it becomes easier to address our enemies with grace and forgiveness for we know deep down we are really no different at all.

Nine years ago, when I made the decision to choose life I did not understand that I was also choosing the path of forgiveness. I was resurrected from death through the process of forgiveness. As we continue in this season of Lent, may we continue to uncover the layers of grievous sins that need forgiven -- sins inflicted upon us and those we have inflicted upon others. May we keep our eyes fixed on the promise of resurrection and life.

Owning Nothing.

I am reading St. Therese of Lisieux’s, A Story of a Soul. St. Therese, also known as the “Little Flower of Jesus,” entered the Carmelite Order at the young age of fifteen. The Order did not allow girls her age to enter, so boldly St. Therese went straight to the Bishop, and then the Pope to seek special permission. She had guts. But she also had great wisdom beyond her years. She wrote her spiritual autobiography for the Carmelite Mother prior to her early death at the age of twenty-four.


The more I read, the more I am struck by her humility. I am baffled by her passivity. Rather than engage in power struggles over what most would deem her rights, she surrenders to the aggressor and lets them win the argument. If people ‘steal’ her thoughts and insights and claim them as their own, she does not attempt to reclaim the credit. St. Therese holds a belief similar to the Buddhist philosophy of indifference – none of it is mine to begin with; I own nothing, therefore I have nothing to lose and nothing can be stolen from me. Or in the words of Jesus, “Turn the other cheek . . . go the second mile . . . and give him your coat.”

This has brought me face-to-face with my struggle with possession and personal boundaries. I want to protect my intellectual property. I want to defend my rights. I want to win arguments and prove that I am right. I want to maintain firm boundaries to protect myself from toxic people and unnecessary suffering.

For clarification, I do not believe St. Therese, Jesus, or the Buddha is asking us to intentionally throw ourselves directly in the path of suffering or toxic people just so we can be trampled upon. But I am truly pondering what humility in the face of conflict looks like. What does it really mean to turn the other cheek? Two thoughts strike me.

One, do I really own anything? The reality is, no. While I would like to claim my intellect as my own, the truth is, I was born this way. I have intelligent parents, who had intelligent parents before them. I have a personality structure that is naturally inclined to ponder over ideas and spending time alone reading and writing (INFP for those who are curious). I was born a serious thinker. In other words, the strengths of my personality were not something I initially created. Yes, the seed was fostered into growth by my environment and my choices, but I did not pick what type of seed was to be planted.

To use a metaphor from the garden – if I plant a carrot seed, I will only get a carrot. If I tend the soil, pull the weeds, and wait patiently I will get a nice, big, hearty carrot. I cannot claim I made a carrot; I only helped it to grow. When it comes to me, yes I am proud of the results my hard work has produced, but can I really claim that I made me who I am? No. I only am what I am because of certain gifts bestowed upon me – and we all have unique gifts given to us. I only had the intellectual property and ideas because of the original gifts given to me. I am the hired hand on the farm, not the owner.

My second thought is in regards to conflict, especially in fighting over my rights. I have had wise people in my life ask me, “Is this a hill you are willing to die on?” and advise to “Choose your battles wisely.” I am beginning to wonder how many arguments are worth engaging in?  I cannot think of many. This is not suggesting we go voiceless. I strongly believe that in relationships it is important to hear and be heard. In therapy world we talk about “I language.” In other words, in a conflict using phrases such as “I feel . . . I want . . . I need.” The goal is to avoid “You language” that points blame. But if a person continues to be disrespectful despite my using “I language” do I need to argue and prove that I need to be respected? Probably not. It would seem they do not want to listen and I am only going to grow more frustrated in trying to be heard. I should probably just walk away.

These are my initial ramblings on the idea of owning nothing and turning the other cheek. I am still pondering, chewing, and meditating on the idea. What are your thoughts? What do you think owning nothing and turning the other cheek looks like?