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Daryl and I were at Ikea again. I was in tears again. Standing in the bedroom furniture section, staring at yet another bed-frame, we were dejected and forlorn, like two defeated soldiers.

When it comes to shopping, Daryl and I have completely different styles. I value efficiency and functionality. He values beauty and workmanship. Left to my own decorating devices, our home would look much like my college dorm room—scattered bookshelves, bright colors, and worn-in furniture. If we needed a new furnishing, I'd run to the store and be back in 15 minutes with a real bargain. If Daryl was in control, it would look like Pottery Barn, only with more books. And his trips to the store would involve a week of research, an analysis of wood grain and fabric quality, and a much heftier price tag.

After hours of indecision during this trip, I was furious. Was he trying to wear me down just to get his way? Daryl was feeling frustrated and rushed. He couldn't figure out why I was in such a hurry.

"I can't do this anymore," I said, attempting to hide my tears from the shoppers who unwittingly wandered close to our tiff. We had yet to agree on a single piece of furniture. Two days earlier we'd left Target barely speaking. It seemed as if we'd never resolve this silliest of conflicts, and our empty apartment was beginning to seem permanently bare. "I don't want to sleep on a mattress on the floor anymore," I whimpered.

"As I stood there, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, a voice in Daryl's mind—perhaps some wisdom from God above—spoke some clarity.

'For the sake of your marriage," it said, 'Pick a bed.'"

He chose, and we drove home with our new purchase, but the conflict still simmered. Little by little we furnished our home, but with each new object came a fight. Oddly enough, we didn't argue about much else. Our budget was easy, we agreed on family visits, and even when he burned dinner or I shrunk his favorite shirt, we just shrugged and admitted that sometimes these things happen.

Although we found it easy to sacrifice in the big things (he turned down a Ph.D. program so that we could attend seminary together), we were discovering that little things caused our selfishness to run out of control. While both of us were willing to die for each other, we fought for hours about a lamp or a mirror.

Our lowest moment came months later when we argued about a hypothetical furniture item. Things escalated, and Daryl retreated to the kitchen while I sat on the bedroom floor, exhausted and sobbing. Spiteful thoughts swirled in my brain: Is he such a control freak that he can't allow me to pick out anything without his approval?

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