A Working Definition of Love

Is the man who goes and finds the Safeway employee to go and open the bakery, so that I can have my chocolate cup cake with 3 inches of orange icing. And then he goes and gets a slurpee to soothe my throat, and only laughs at me a bit when I am convinced that I have H1N1. And when I am sure I will never eat again, he insists I have a smoothie, and doesn't insist that I eat anything else.

Then he piles on every blanket, but also puts the fan in the window, knowing as soon as I am finished being freezing, I will be sweltering.

And now, he's cooking me cranberry brie in phyllo pastry from M&M, on the BBQ, because we still don't have a stove.

And I'm moping about the house, whimpering because my very bones hurt, and my throat feels as if I have swallowed glass, and my head will explode.

I am a blessed woman.

Alleluia. Amen.

Je t'adore

Be Careful What You Say

Years ago, in the midst of an ugly teenage break up (you know the type) I was saying nasty things about my ex (in the time honoured tradition of I never liked him anyway) and my mother stopped me.

"You dated him", she said. "In fact, you spent two years of your life with him. And what you say about him reflects on you. When you say that he was a jerk, or horrible or dumb, you say that you were in love with a jerkish, thugish idiot, for 2 years. Is that what you intend to believe about yourself? Is that what you want others to think about you?"

Ugh, mothers, huh?

Go, watch a few commercials. Read a book or 2. Men are dumb. Male stupidity is the new black. They can't dress themselves, they can't organize things, left to their own devices, they would burn the house down, subsisting on a diet of lard and beer. Men need women because they are too stupid to live on their own.

Wow.

Don't believe me? Think I'm exaggerating? I was listening to the radio last week, and the woman announcer commented that her husband was "dead lazy". No really, those were her words. 200,000 thousand people listened to this woman insult her husband. I wonder how he felt. . .

Now, imagine if the male DJ had told the city of Edmonton that his wife was "dead lazy"? I don't think the guy would have a job by the end of his shift. Dare I say it, but women are terrible for saying things like this, and some how it's ok. It's ok to insult your husband, tell your girlfriends that he's stupid, can't manage the kids, can't manage money, can't dress himself. It's good sport to insult men.

It's not ok for a man to hit a woman, but it's ok for women to rain down insults that wound in ways not leaving a bruise. And that's wrong. Abuse with words is just as surely abuse. Public humiliation, whether you intend it to be funny or not, is wrong. And I'm sorry, I don't care whether you hit with your fists or your words, abuse is abuse.

I have to confess, this is one of the reasons I stay far, far away from Women's ministries. Women there are either complaining about their husbands or their kids, or both. And maybe it's just me, but I don't have a husband to complain about. Oh, Mr. Spit isn't perfect. He's not. (Maybe you've noticed, neither am I)

So, could I just say this today. . .

Words hurt. They cut both ways. And at least some of us will look at what you say about your partner and wonder about you.

Dearest Martha

Dear Martha:

thank you for the chocolate. It was, as always, delicious. And unlike last time, I was able to keep the disastrous dog Delta away from it.

Unfortunately, another form of vermin struck the chocolate bar with almonds. This particular pest is about 5"8', and gasp, I am married to him.

Yes, that's right - Mr. Spit ate my chocolate bar!

He says I have to share.

So, what I want to know is this: did I have to?

Letter to my DH

March 10, 2008


Mr. Spit.
Way the freak middle of nowhere, Alberta
Way too cold, Alberta.

Re: Hershey's Eggies(1) and your Kindle.

Dear Husband Mine:

While at Costco yesterday, I purchased a Costco sized bag of "Eggies" by Hershey. I purchased them with the sole and express intent of adding them to your package, containing your Kindle, which I would be sending by Greyhound, to you in Way the freak middle of nowhere, Alberta .

I did not, as your Mother-in-Law scurrilously asserted, purchase these to consume myself. Good grief, this is a 2.18 pound bag. No one would eat that many "Eggies" in one sitting. That would be piggy. No, I looked at the scurrilous mother in law (whom I might claim as a mother, when she's not making comments about my baser self), and I told her, that these "Eggies" were for my beloved darling, who is far away from home and really likes "Eggies". Furthermore, I asserted, the beloved husband purchased some "Eggies" of the Noel variety (featuring cunningly disguised bunnies, dressed like snow men) for Christmas and I horked them back ate them over a prolonged period of time, and why would she suggest such terrible things about her only daughter anyway?

I will take this opportunity to mention that I did open the bag, merely to check for defects in the "Eggies". I must admit, at this point things become a trifle unclear. Really rather unclear. OK, it's a total mystery to me. I do recall observing that some of them were broken. And I remain fully convinced that in a spirit of self sacrifice, purely for the betterment of man-kind, with no thought to my self, and clearly no thought to my waist line , I partook of a small-ish handful of the broken ones. Only so that such imperfection would not have to pass your perfect sight. Really, it was all for you, darling.

It was clearly still my intent to bundle up the package of "Eggies", take it to work, put it in with your kindle, and send it off to you, possibly blaming Delta that it was open. Yea, that was my intent. I am not sure what happened last night, but I will admit, the bag seems to have shrunk. It defies all the physics I know, there you have it. The bag has shrunk. Indeed, the bag is three-quarters, half, a quarter full. Look, let's just say that there's less in the bag when I bought it. All this business of size is making me dizzy.

Anyway it wasn't just me. Lori had 3. My mother (the diabetic!) had 1. I had 50 gazillion.

At any rate, by the time I went to go and mail your kindle, well, your kindle will be in there tomorrow. Let's just not talk about "Eggies" that may or may not have been purchased.

What do you mean you smell chocolate? Don't know what you are talking about. Do you suppose it's too late to blame the dog?

I remain,

Your humble, obedient and devoted servant,


Mrs. Spit.

[burp]
*****
I can't find a link to Hershey's Eggies anywhere. But they're like a Cadbury mini-egg.

And finally, Blogger does not spell check the titles of posts. Leading me to mis-spell qualification. I can spell it. Really.

His Smile.

I have another post, but it's slow in coming. Some posts flow out, this one is dribbling, in fits and starts. Slow. Painful.

But, moving on. I need something to write about today. (and have no recent photo's of the cats. Must remedy this. Cat's are very distracting.)

And any one of a number of you commented on the photo of me. You all said such charming things. They're a set I particularly like. Mr. Spit took them. I had a profile in the company newsletter, and the photo they had, they dragged it off an old website, and I darn near wanted to die when I saw it. I told them I'd take my own photo, thank you very much.

The one I put up on Wednesday is not my favourite. The one on the left is. It's called Mr. Spit's smile.

As I type this, Mr. Spit is home, just for the night, and he is heating up dessert for me. He'll call out in a few moments, asking if I want some more coffee.

The miracle of love. The least I can do is smile.

Also, finished project Friday. Umm, does anyone know anything about Mr. Linky? Mr. Linky doesn't seem to like me, and it's causing problems.

Husband for Sale

Mr. Spit and I decided on a swanky dinner out, so yep, we went to Denny's. Now, don't get us wrong, we tried to go to Smitty's but they close at 7:30. So, Denny's for pancakes with topping and chemi-whip it was.

We plowed through our breakfast dinner, and were joking around.

Mr. "I've bought you dinner, can I take you home now?"

Mrs. "Nope, you have to buy me coffee first. I'm a woman of negotiable affections."

Mr. "Tim Hortons? Starbucks?"

Mrs. Glare. Make growling sounds.

Mr. "I know. You are thinking that little place on the corner."

Mrs. Waiting for it.

Mr. "Yep, that little place. 7-11!. I hear they serve gourmet coffee!"

Mrs. No words, kicks him under the table

Waitress: "Can I clear those plates for you?"

Mrs. "Want to buy a husband? I'll give you 20 bucks to take him. He's handy around the house, pretty good at doing the laundry, and he vacuums. He kills spiders, and mostly he helps with the dishes."

Waitress: (big smile) "Well, I'm not sure what my husband would say."

Mrs. "Darn. Are you sure? It's a good deal, all that, and 20 bucks. If nothing else, you'll be 20 bucks ahead. That's something in these uncertain times."

Mr. "Hey. . . . "

Mrs. "Well, I guess I'll have to keep him then."

Mr. "Hey, you forgot to tell her, I don't use a lot of hair supplies."

I left her a good tip. And to think she could have had Mr. Spit and turned him down. Don't know what she was thinking of!

As I type this, the Mister is looking at Google Maps, finding the locations of all the tankers in the Straight of Juan De something. I'd tell you exactly what, but he figured out that I was poking fun at him, with all of you, and won't tell me how to spell it. But, as of this exact moment, there are 260 shipping vessels around Rotterdam.

If nothing else, (and there are many other reasons), I would keep him for the ways we laugh together. That alone is worth every moment.

Form and Function

I am thinking of a question asked over at Boundless - a young man who was wondering about pursuing marriage with a woman who had type 1 diabetes. This young man had questions about how this would affect their life together, and how this would affect their ability to have children. (1) I've been thinking about the question for about a week, and it's still rattling around in the back of my mind, and if you would bear with me, I'd like to talk it out with you.

There's a story in the Gospels - a parable - called the Parable of the Rich Young Ruler. (Bear with me, I'm going somewhere). The parable gives rise to words you likely know, that it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than it is for a rich person to get into heaven. I went back and read it again, in 2 translations: The Message, and my NIV study bible (my old one, I confess, I was hoping their were some notes on the parable in it)

So, the parable has a rich young man, a powerful young man, coming to Jesus. Teacher, he says (and in my head I hear this as a peremptory request) how do I get eternal life - and he uses an interesting turn of phrase - he asks what Good Thing he has to do. Now, those of you who are Christians will immediately see an issue - we don't earn eternal life. Jesus runs him through the 10 commandments, and the young man insists that he has kept all of them. One can almost see him saying "Yep, yep, yep, got that one, Oh, I'm really good at that one, yep I'm good!"

Finally, Jesus takes it one step further. He says "Give up everything you have, everything you own. Everything that makes you the rich young ruler. Then follow me." We know the end of the story, that the rich, young ruler 'goes away sad, because he had much wealth'.

We have this idea about marriage. If I told you the story of our wedding rehearsal, perhaps it would make more sense. It is tradition, in the Anglican Church, that when you do your wedding rehearsal, you don't actually say your vows. That's for the next day. Rather, what you do is a bit of joking. As I recall, I promised to clean the bathroom, cook and wash the floor. Mr. Spit promised to vacuum, lift heavy things and kill spiders. (I'm not sure if he promised to do the laundry, or if that was the result of extensive contract negotiations later. . . )

Did you catch it? Do you see the point? Suddenly I did. We go into our marriage, and we preen and puff, and spiff ourselves up, and we say I have this to offer, I am good at being a housekeeper, I'm good at communicating, I'm good at cooking, I'm good at taking out the heavy stuff and killing spiders. We come in, looking at who we are, everything that makes us, well us, and we say to our partner "Now, measure up. Show me what you bring that makes you equal." Equal makes us worthy.

At any rate, we come into marriage with the concept that we each have our skills that we bring, that we are equals, that we will compliment each other, that we will each do our fair share. We come into marriage with the idea that we each have our good parts, what makes us, us, and then we see that what makes us, us is perhaps not so good, that we are not so perfect, so skilled, so strong as we thought.

This young man is coming into his marriage with a partner, who at least on the surface, is profoundly unequal, in that she's physically unwell. He's coming at the issue from a position of wellness, a notion that if he is physically well, and she is not, they are not evenly matched. She's perhaps not worthy. He's wondering if this is going to hinder their marriage.

Now, I suppose, if he was going to stick with this attitude their whole marriage, that would be a problem. But, knowing how I was, how many of us were, I'm inclined to think that this is something that married life cures us of. We learn that marriage is not about two perfect equals agreeing to create an even, perfect life; but that marriage is about two broken and messy people agreeing to forge a common life filled with mistakes and sins.

Perhaps, in some sense, this couple is spectacularly fortunate. They won't have to spend a lot of time at the side of the road, looking at Jesus and holding on to their stuff. Wishing they could follow him, but unable to let go of who they are. They can get over being sad, and get on with giving not just their obedience to the laws (the function) but giving their whole being (their form).

On the whole, I'd say marry her.

(And Mr. Spit, thanks for marrying me. . . . )

*****
(1) These probably aren't bad questions to ask. No, really, they aren't. There's an empirical difference between issues and diseases we find out about after marriage, and those before, and it takes a specific type of person to be able to be a help mate to a chronically ill spouse. It takes a particular type of person to be able to accept that help.

Running Rings Around You

It's not easy, to determine when and how you fell in love with someone. In some sense, there is a defining moment, a point of clarity, but when you look back, it seems like you have always been in love. This person has always been there. And equally, you are aware that there is a distinct before and after. There was a time that this person was not involved in your life.

Mr. Spit and I grew up together, that much is true. To a greater or lesser extend, during the year, we saw each other. And this continued. He was there, in a corner, and so was I. We came together, perhaps a few times a year, for holidays.

And then he arrived in Edmonton to pick up a mirror for his telescope. My mother was in a downward mental slide, and I was determined to keep him from finding out. I did the only thing I could think of, everywhere I went, he came too. The first night, he arrived, I looked at him, told him to put his bags in his room and hurry up, we had a theater performance. He needed to bring $15 for the performance. I can't remember what we did on Saturday night, but by the time he left on Sunday, he had perhaps spent a grand total of 20 minutes with my mother.

And in all the time he spent with me, I started to enjoy his company. He was funny and smart and kind, and while he must have realized the game I was playing, he was kind enough to not mention my mother's incipient mental issues to me, or to his father.

The conversations started in email, in earnest, and carried on through the summer, and into the fall.

And suddenly, after a long and horrible day in late October, I realized that I wanted him. I wanted him, by my side. I wanted to lay down on my couch and put my head in his lap, and be still. I wanted to hear him breathe next to me, I wanted to come home to him.

There was no flash of light, no blinding moment of clarity, there was just an awakening.

I was engaged with a ring he had already bought me. Our wedding rings were $88 for two, including the cost of the sizing. We moved, quickly, but carefully towards our life together. And we have held together.

Indeed, those rings have formed part of the story of us. With no money, struggling, we have told the story of 2 rings just when we needed them. Like our first apartment that was a dump, and the odd neighbours that lived below us, and the landlord from hell, our cheap rings have formed part of who we are. Far from those days now, we could look back and remember who we were, and how we started. That the story of us has not always been wealth, but not always poverty. There has been joy, and there has been sorrow. And through it all, in the midst of it, a set of promises. Reminders.

And in the break-in, mine was stolen. The Secret Shopping Mission was this - a new set of rings for both of us.

A solitaire and band for me, and a band for him. New rings to remind us of an old thing, holding on and hanging in are what makes a marriage.

My North, My South, My East and My West. My working week and my Sunday rest.

The Purpose Driven Marriage

On Saturday, after completing the Secret Shopping Mission(SSM), I happened to go home and log on to Christianity Today. The SSM has much to do with marriage, and in a weird bit of synchronicity, I happened to be reading about marriage. I am assuming, as a result of Rick Warren's prayer at the Inauguration, there was an article about the Purpose-Driven Marriage. (1)

I looked up at Mr. Spit and asked if we have a Purpose-Driven Marriage. Or wondering, have we been wandering, lost and purposeless, lo these last 8 years. Mr. Spit, God bless him, looked at me blankly.

There was me, thinking that we should get us one of them there Purpose Driven Marriages, and my DH was asking a sensible question. Why would we want a Purpose Driven Marriage?

Rick Warren has this to say:

In other words, until you realize you were placed here for God's purposes, then
your life—and your marriage—will be difficult, complicated, and exhausting.
But once you understand God's plan, your life—and your marriage—take on new
meaning.

Now, given that my life and my marriage, have at times, since Gabriel's death, been difficult, complicated and exhausting, it is tempting to believe that if I only developed a Purpose Driven Marriage, and got Mr. Spit on board, well, things would not be difficult, complicated and exhausting. Indeed, when I look back on almost 8 years of marriage, it is easy to find times that have been difficult, complicated and exhausting. You mean we could have escaped all of this with a 5 point plan? (1)

What? Honest? They'd still be hard? Huh.

Now, even as I'm poking some fun at Rick's expense, I'm wondering. Why on earth do Christians fall for this? No, really, I'm asking. Why do we assume that God responds to our moves in some sort of pre-arranged dance? We move to the left (or, perhaps I should say the right) and have a Purpose Driven Marriage, and suddenly God says, "Oh the trials and tribulations of 'real life', they get a by. They have a Purpose Driven Marriage."

It's not that I object to what Rick Warren has to say about marriage, about how to have a good marriage. I think he has some great ideas. I object to branding marriage. I object to the notion that there is only one way for a couple to have a good marriage. I object to the idea that a couple can read this article, or the book, and not have to figure it out on their own. And after almost 8 years of marriage, I resent the implication that marriage is anything more than a magnificent mystery. I object to the idea that we shouldn't have times that are difficult, complicated and exhausting. That's when we forge bonds to our spouse. In those Indiana Jones moments -when we are standing back to back, yelling about the world that is swirling around us, that's when we grow closest.

Perhaps as much as anything, I'm left a bit perplexed. God isn't purpose driven. Anything that created the aardvark, the kangaroo and the giraffe in one day, a being that created star systems for me to look at, the entire Andromeda Galaxy for me to marvel over, that created that much diversity in people, made my best friend laugh the way she does, that being isn't purpose driven. To be purpose driven is to reduce things to their barest essentials, the lowest common denominator. It's to make everything uniform and efficient. It's to remove mystery in favour of function. God is none of those things.

You can keep your purpose driven life and marriage Mr. Warren. I'll take mine, with all it's messiness and inefficiencies. I'll take meandering toward heaven, not a relentless march toward uniformity.
******

(1) You can read the text here.
(2) All Anglican sermon's are based on a five point plan. Except for the holiday ones, like Christmas and Easter, which are 3 point plans, and the sermon delivered when the Bishop comes, which is 7 points.