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"My greatest achievement," wrote Sir Winston Churchill, "was convincing my wife to marry me." I know how Winston felt. But at times I think my greatest achievement is convincing my wife to keep me.

Nine years ago I was waiting in line at the grocery checkout when a bold headline jumped out at me: "Hollywood Stars Falling Out of Love." Below was a celebrity couple shown in happier days. "We just don't love each other anymore," read the caption.

I was standing there surrounded by close-ups of movie stars so I could purchase an anniversary card. Later that day Ramona and I celebrated nine years together with a round of golf and dinner—without the kids.

But two days later, I was standing in our living room, hands on my hips. "You spent how much, and on what?" I asked.

"Forty-nine dollars on clothes," Ramona repeated.

"FORTY-NINE DOLLARS! Why didn't you tell me?" I sounded angrier than I really felt.

"I did, but you were too busy reading." She was right. I remembered now.

"Uh, well … " My hands left my hips while I fumbled for a reply. "I just think that's a lot to spend on clothes right now."

"Pardon me?" Her voice was growing louder. "You buy a new car, and I can't even buy some clothes?"

"I didn't say that. I just think we need to be a little more careful right now. We just got back from a vacation at the lake and you know we needed that car and … " As things heated up I realized my wife was right. But there was no way I'd admit it. It was time for a walk.

"So I haven't been easy to live with lately," I thought. "But I'm not that bad. Maybe I feel this way because I don't love her anymore. It's like those Hollywood stars. Maybe our old candle has burned out too. Okay, I'll stay with her. But I won't speak to her."

Frederick Buechner once said, "Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you."

That night I let the sun go down on our wrath. I went to bed, smacking my lips over "grievances long past" and "confrontations still to come."

Early the next morning Ramona was sleeping when I left for work. My vow of silence was intact, but trouble was waiting for me at the office. My assignment for the day was to write an article on marriage.

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