{Five Minute Friday} Grit

Grit. Grit. Grit.

My bare feet feel grit on the stairs. Grit on the kitchen floor.

Grit. Grit. Grit.

I sit to eat breakfast but pause, first, to sponge away the grit on the dining room table.

When you own three cats who love gopher hunting, you live with grit, lots of grit.

People who prefer cleanliness can't fathom how we put up with the grit. And the fur. And the relentless theft of chairs, sofas, and beds.

But one grit-bearer has special grit all his own. He has a knack for knowing when and where he's needed, finds the person, and takes up residence.

Sometimes it's his "mom" who needs a warm kitty to sleep with.


Last year, it was my mother, who woke up every time he hopped on her lap. And she talked to him, stroking his fur, calling him by name.

She used to be the very one who preferred cleanliness and couldn't fathom how we put up with the grit.

I can't imagine living without it.

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{Marriage Monday} Submission vs. ?

It's Marriage Monday over at Chrysalis, and today's topic is submission.

A Husband's Perspective

Before writing today's post, I did something I've not done before: I asked for Daniel's perspective on the topic. (Yes, I recognize the irony!)

Here's what he said: "Submission isn't the domination of a stronger will over a weaker will. It's not about being a doormat; that's giving up, copping out. It's about yielding, which implies strength. Trees yield fruit. There's a sense of productivity, not destruction but participation in a bigger goal."

We discussed dance as a metaphor, with husband and wife balancing each other in unity. But we soon moved on to a metaphor that better reflects our own marriage: water skiing.

Submission is Like Water Skiing

"A skier can't pull the boat; the boat pulls the skier. If the skier yields to the pull of the boat, it's a lot more fun," Daniel said.

This reminded me (Cheri) of learning to water ski a quarter of a century ago. It took 2.5 hours for me to learn how to yield to the pull of the boat, but once I "got it," I was in for a thrill!

Back to Daniel: "The husband is like the boat, providing power and protection. If his wife responds, she'll be in for the ride of her life!" (The metaphor sorta shifted, as we've been reading Sheila Wray Gregoire's 29 Days to Great Sex blog posts all month!)

Thinking more about water skiing, I realized that a number of parallels between water skiing and submission really do work:

* If a skier does nothing but hold on to the rope, she's not actually skiing; she's being dragged.

* If a skier insists on driving the boat, she won't be skiing; she can only ski if she's out in the water.

* If a skier stands rigid and stiff from fear, she's in for a short run and a painful fall.

* The driver can't be a jerk. It's his job to avoid obstacles, look for smooth water, and give the skier the ride of her life. (Added by Daniel)

* It's only when the driver is trustworthy, and the skier is perceptive and flexible in yielding to the pull of the boat, that she'll experience the ultimate skiing experience.

My Own Fear of Submission

For too many years, I would not yield in our marriage. I fought submission as if it was a death sentence. Oh, I paid lip service to the Biblicality of the concept, but my behaviors demonstrated my true beliefs.

I mistakenly believed that I had to choose between submission vs. freedom. Submission vs. happiness. Submission vs. individuality.

Today, I looked up antonyms for "submit" and was shocked to find a list of verbs that describe my own damaging behaviors in our marriage: conceal, demand, deny, discourage, dishearten, fight, frustrate, hesitate, hide, ignore, keep, limit, obstruct, pass over, refuse, reject, resist, run, stop, take back, withdraw.

23+ years of marriage have taught me that the opposite of submission isn't freedom, happiness, or individuality.

Instead, I've found that each day, I face the choice between submission vs. demanding that my husband meet my needs, my way, on my timeline.

Submission vs. frustrating my husband with my stubborn insistence that I know best about everything and in all situations.

Submission vs. hiding my frailty from my husband so he can't use it against me (never mind that he never has and never would.)

Submission vs. limiting the depth of intimacy and tenderness in our union.

Submission vs. rejecting the man I promised to love, honor, and cherish.

Submission vs. running away emotionally and/or running my own little side show.

The Gifts of Submission

One synonym for submit especially struck me: commit, in the sense of to deliver and to entrust.

When I submit to Daniel, I am re-committing to him, delivering myself to him as a gift, entrusting myself to his care.

In a recent blog post, Sheila Wray Gregoire says that our husbands watch to see "if we actually will respond to them and accept them...whether we would choose them again."

So submission–at least for me–is saying "I do" all over again.

Being empowered and protected by my husband to be free, happy, and myself.

And yielding to the ride of a lifetime!

{Five Minute Friday}: Delight

He brought me out into a spacious place;
He rescued me because he delighted in me.

Psalm 18:19

* * * * *

Delight.

Seriously?

After a night like this one?

I'm still recovering after two weeks, and now Daniel's got it bad. Sudafed held the symptoms at bay during the day, but NyQuil didn't do a thing from 9:00 'til midnight. Or 1:30 AM. Or 3:00. Or 3:15. Or 3:30.

Then the cats decided it must be morning, since we were "up," and started their three ring circus routine.

At 4:15, I gave up, dragged myself to the shower, and started counting down 'til bedtime (which will be later than I'd like since I'm taking students on an overnight trip for the first time in a decade!)

Just because Psalm 18:19 is my life verse, doesn't mean I feel delight-full right now.

Just because You've always come through before, doesn't mean I feel delighted in right now.

Just because it's always seemed darkest just before de-light doesn't mean I feel it right now.

I may not feel,
but I know.
And so
I will live
this day
as a daughter
of Your
delight.

Do I Think Like a Mother or a Lover?

It's Wifey Wednesday over at To Love Honor and Vacuum!

Jury summons arrived for my husband several weeks ago.

I resisted the urge to open the envelope, highlight the date in yellow, and tape it to his computer screen so he'd be sure to see it.

Last week, he didn't come home at noon. Or after his one afternoon class. By 4:00 PM, I was exhausted from pushing worry from my mind: Had he eaten lunch? How was he holding up, since I knew he didn't have breakfast?

But I didn't text him. And I didn't call him.

A few days ago, he lingered at home after lunch. I silently watched the clock march relentlessly toward the start time for his 8th period class: 1:45. 1:46. 1:47.

But at 1:48, I couldn't stop my self. Compulsively, I blurted, "What time does your 8th period class start?" (As if I didn't already know that it started at 1:49!)

Sigh.

* * * * *

23+ years into marriage, I am learning a new skill.

It didn't start as a marriage improvement plan but as a radical parent-ectomy I performed on my relationship with our daughter in January. I laid down some new boundaries; while adjusting to the self-imposed changes, I realized how involved I'm used to being in many aspects of her life.

Involved? More like enmeshed.

I'm having to learn detachment, a concept I've always associated with abandonment and apathy. Detachment, I'm finding, is making myself available but not diving in to "help" or "fix" or "rescue." It's a choice to be empathetically present with my daughter, but not to take on her emotions.

Detachment boils down to not meddling. Not borrowing trouble. Not sticking my nose where it doesn't belong.

As I've practiced detachment, I've discovered how much time and energy are suddenly freed up for me to use for things that I've put off for years, like finishing my MA degree and starting a PhD program, writing that book proposal an agent requested, going up to the stables to ride each week.

And then Daniel's jury summons arrived.

As I started doing what I've always done – opening and processing his mail because he never does it himself – the tone of my thinking stopped me.

I sounded like a mother. A meddling mother. A "helping", "fixing", "rescuing" mother.

I asked myself, "If Daniel walked in the door, looking as handsome as ever, would I feel attracted to him right now?"

And the answer was clear: no.

"Why not?"

I'm too busy protecting him from the negative consequences of his irresponsible choices.

"Oh really? You're protecting him?"

And I came face-to-face with the truth about my meddling: I do not step in to "help" you because of my deep concern for you. My compulsion to "fix" you – whether you're my daughter or my husband (or my student or my friend) – is to protect me.

* * * * *

So as the jury summons sat unopened day after day, I bit my tongue and planned to walk through the consequences with him, whatever they may be.

When he got home at 6:00 PM and told me that he had gone out for lunch with a friend, I was glad for his health, not just relieved for my sake that he wasn't in a starving temper.

And when he left the house for his 8th period class, I reminded myself that it's not my job to make sure he keeps his job, no matter how badly I want to feel safe, secure, and stable.

Most of all, I am reminding myself that detaching isn't about him: it's about me and my thoughts.

I can obsess about all the "what ifs", making me smother like a meddling mother.

Or I can detach, refusing to pour time and energy into worrying about things that are none of my business.

Which frees me to connect, in the present moment, with my husband.

Not as a "helper." Or a "fixer." Or a "rescuer."

But as his lover.

{Five Minute Friday}: Trust

As my glee that "fiasco" rhymes with "tabasco" subsides, I feel a twinge of guilt.

Sure, the poem I've written to roast ... er ... honor my brother's 50th birthday is funny.

But what's with the tabasco sauce?

Why, after 40 years, do I still bring up this "cruel...fiasco" every time I can?

* * * * *

In my hazy memory, I am four; my brother, eleven.

"Hey Cheri! Do you want some cherry juice?"

"Sure!"

I take a huge gulp.

And swallow fire. Gasp fire. Hear fire. Weep fire.

* * * * *

I get more mileage out of this incident than anything else in my childhood. It's been memorialized in poems, elaborated in narrative essays, and inserted into almost every talk I've ever given.

The audience always laughs.

But what, exactly, am I illustrating?

What's with the tabasco sauce?

What does...or did...it mean?

The answer, I find, is in the closing lines of a poem I wrote last summer, describing my aversion to risk:

"I avoid even a sip of cherry juice so certain am I that it will, once again, turn out to be tabasco sauce."

What's with the tabasco sauce?

It's a 40-year-old metaphor, a concrete symbol of an abstract concept:

TRUST.

For four decades, tabasco sauce has represented my first experience with betrayal.

Then, I was four.

But I'm not any more.