Holding his cell phone while driving up the New Jersey Turnpike, my husband acknowledged the caller, “Yes, I know who was in church today.”
Let me guess, I thought. Walter and Catherine just happened to show up, again, on the day you were on vacation. They were hugging and sharing and, oh, just maybe let a few concerns slip out about the pastor.
Ending his call a few minutes later, Dan nodded. “They were in church again.”
“Yes, I heard,” I said, glad that my previous response had not escaped my lips, and proud of myself, too, for not sharing every thought that enters my mind.
Early in my marriage, I learned never, for any reason, to point, yell, grab the door, or comment while my husband was driving. When I gasped, his eyes left the road to look at me. He wanted a wife, not a back-seat driver. Once I watched as we slowly rear-ended a Suburban in a toll booth line. Dan was glaring at people laughing at my son’s tricycle tied to the roof of our car. My last moment “Hey, Babe” got his attention so we could witness the bump together. He never asked why I didn’t speak up sooner.
A much harder lesson, though, has been my tendency to be a back-seat fighter.
Church fights become our fights
When I fight with someone at work, Dan can take my side from afar. When someone fights with him at his work, I’m supposed to hug them and ask for their brownie recipe.
In Dan’s first full-time position as a youth minister, two families realized their children were no longer running the program. To correct this, the mothers came to “supervise” a meeting. Afterward they cornered Dan to “fix” the problem. From our apartment next door, I waited and stewed and boiled. Finally around 10:30 p.m. I called the pastor and told him to do something. He laughed and told me to go to bed.
For the next year, the situation degenerated. At least twice we found letters from these church teens explaining why youth group was so “lame.” We spent many Sunday afternoons hashing over what had been said at church. Our home life began to turn sour.
Driving to a camping vacation, Dan mentioned that he was going to meet with one of the women. I said with a raised voice, “You can’t meet with her! She can’t be trusted; she’ll twist your words.” I don’t recall Dan’s exact phrase, but it was something like “let me handle this,” expressed with even more passion.
Tears I had kept below the surface began to pour out. After we reached the cabin, Dan drove away. He returned hours later, and somehow we turned our passion about church conflict back into passion for one another. Over the next days we rebuilt our sense of partnership and peace. I determined to avoid telling him what to do. After that, our fights never reached that magnitude again.
Years later one of us mentioned “the vacation that saved our marriage,” and we both knew what we were talking about. We’ve revisited those camp grounds several times.
If looks could kill
It may sound like my husband wants me to lock my feelings in a tower, but I’m no Rapunzel. Expressing myself in harsh, unforgiving words never makes me feel as good as I hoped. I try to contain my thoughts until I can process them, soften them, and employ some prayer and rational insight. That way the conflict stays at church, and not in my marriage. And it’s easier for Dan to be their pastor—and my husband.
At a recent annual meeting, I was crouched behind my chair arranging my daughter’s coloring corner to occupy her during the business. When I stood up, I saw Walter. Assessing that he had come with an agenda, I began trying to send him messages with my mind.
It was my only option because Dan had made me promise not to say anything controversial. I had agreed; there were enough loose cannons on deck. As Walter muttered to those around him, I shook my head in response. The moderator’s wife, sitting between us, looked like a spectator at Wimbledon, pivoting side to side as she took in Walter’s volleys and my color commentary. Afterward, I told my husband victoriously, “I didn’t say a word to him.”
“Honey,” he responded quietly, “you don’t have to use words to get your feelings across.”
I’ve made progress, but I still have a way to go.
Nancy Nicewonger, Springfield, Massachusetts
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