I entered our kitchen through the back door. On the counter sat a small box wrapped in lavender paper and adorned with a jaunty purple bow. It was my thirtieth birthday gift from my husband.
Jeff can’t even give it to me himself, I thought. At work that morning, over-the-hill cards and gag gifts had littered my desk. My birthday means more to my co-workers than it does to my own husband.
I felt the smooth satin ribbon, then tore open the package with a sigh. Inside the box nestled a delicate silver watch. I found Jeff watching TV in the living room and thanked him.
“Do you want to go out for dinner?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
I had hurt him; I tried to muster some enthusiasm. “I do want to go out with you. Give me a few minutes to get ready.”
An hour later I glanced over my menu at Jeff, seated on the opposite side of the booth. His dark-blond hair still waved over his forehead, but three years as associate pastor in a large city church had changed him—and changed us. I hated what ministry had done to him.
I examined my menu. The aroma of fresh seafood wasn’t tempting. Silverware clinked, and conversation hummed around us, but I felt alone. We ate in silence, except to grumble about the poor service. The best part of my birthday dinner was the silence. At least we weren’t fighting.
Do I have the strength to leave him? I wondered.
LOOKING AT APARTMENTS
Three weeks later, my friend Connie stopped by my desk at work. “Do you want to go with me to look at apartments over lunch hour?”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
Connie and her husband were divorcing. I first met her three years earlier and thought she was warm and funny; we had struck up a friendship. We’d told each other practically everything, including our marriage struggles.
We toured an apartment complex, and I inspected the empty rooms waiting to be decorated. It’s so quiet, so peaceful, I thought. I wish I were moving here.
“If I really cut my spending,” Connie said, “I can just manage this apartment.”
I nodded, my thoughts far away. How can I possibly afford to live alone? What would the church people think if I left Jeff? I wondered how our relationship had deteriorated to the point that I’d even consider divorce.
Married when we were both twenty and students at a Christian college, we believed our love would conquer everything. “Love is eternal” read the inscription in both of our wedding rings—each carved without the other’s knowledge.
BABY BLUES
After four years of marriage Jeff suggested, “Let’s have a baby.” I was more than ready. As a child, I had wanted to grow up to “be a mommy.” But two years passed, and I didn’t conceive.
I left my teaching job one day for the first of many painful fertility tests. Month after month Jeff and I faced disappointment.
I was shaken. I can graduate first in my high school class and be president of the National Honor Society. I can win scholastic awards and finish college with honors. But I can’t have a baby.
When Jeff completed seminary, he received his first pastoral appointment. In June we moved into the red-brick parsonage, dreaming of a successful ministry and envisioning one of the four big bedrooms set up as a nursery.
I found a job nearby, managing the pricing and materials lists for the housing department of a national lumber company. No longer just “the pastor’s wife,” I was proving my skills in the business world.
Winter sunshine cast silvery light as I drove home from my doctor’s office the following March. Even the mud-spattered snow seemed to glow. I dashed down the church steps. Jeff took one look at my radiant face and bolted out of his chair.
“Is it really true?” His voice was incredulous. “Are you pregnant?”
I nodded and hugged him. He picked me up and spun me in a dizzy circle while his secretary watched, smiling indulgently. “We’re pregnant!” we announced to everyone that night at a potluck supper, and our church family rejoiced with us. For a month we delighted in the subtle changes taking place in my body. We had never been happier.
One day at work I began spotting. This can’t be happening, I thought. I called a nurse who attended our church.
“You’ll probably be just fine,” she assured me. “Many women go through that and still carry their babies to term. But just in case, go home and put your feet up. Don’t do anything strenuous.”
I followed her instructions, but it didn’t make any difference.
“We lost the baby”—Jeff repeated his sorrowful message to family and friends around the country. I could only sit in my recliner and cry.
“How could God allow this to happen? We waited two-and-a-half years for that baby. Did he give us a pregnancy only to snatch it away? Is this how he loves me?”
Jeff was patient with my demanding questions, reassuring me of God’s love.
Fifteen months later I miscarried again. Mired in bitterness and despair, I gave little thought to Jeff’s feelings. Ministry kept him busy six days a week, and he couldn’t take time off to grieve.
I marveled at how he never seemed to doubt God. “Terrible things happen sometimes, Karen. God didn’t engineer this. He loves you and cares that you are hurting.”
But God seemed to be withholding from me the one thing I wanted most—a baby. I was sure God had abandoned me.
NO MORE FAKE SMILE
During those two difficult years, Jeff handled most of the church visitation for Ron, the senior pastor. He developed close friendships with several men in our congregation.
Greg’s wife had left him, and Jeff spent hours at his home. Tom was dying slowly of a debilitating illness; Jeff visited him and his wife regularly, coming home to dinner exhausted. Even at night he couldn’t relax.
“Can’t you just stay home with me tonight?” I asked him one evening.
“You know I have to be at every church meeting. Ron is always there, and he expects me to be there too.”
“Maybe Ron’s wife is used to it,” I said. “Besides, she’s home all day. I work from eight to five, and at night you’re in meetings! I’m sick of you being gone all the time. We never see each other. You give yourself to everyone else and have nothing left for me!”
I began to spend longer hours at work, often going out with Connie in the evenings. I found myself thinking more and more about leaving Jeff. Although we slept in the same bed and ate dinner together, Jeff had moved far away from me.
Jeff led a Bible study that met in people’s homes. As part of the group, I felt hypocritical displaying the image of a supportive pastor’s wife. One summer evening we drove to our host’s house in tense silence. By the time we arrived, I was in tears.
Jeff went in, and I sat in the car, checking the mirror to dab my swollen eyes and running mascara.
Impulsively I moved to the driver’s seat and put my key into the ignition. “I’ve had enough of wearing my fake smile,” I said aloud in the empty car. “You can tell the group whatever you want.”
I drove home, leaving Jeff to find his own ride. I took a long, hot bath, hoping to soak away my pain and confusion. Jeff has abandoned me too, but what right do I have to complain? He has abandoned me to do God’s work. I went to bed early, my back turned to the bedroom door.
HIS FIRST MEMORY
One day I came home and found an old Suzuki motorcycle parked in the garage, a shiny, black helmet slung over the handle bars. I stormed into the house.
“Where did that motorcycle come from?” I demanded.
“It’s mine.”
“Where did you get the money for it?”
“Marilyn lent me the money. She said there was no hurry to pay her back.”
Marilyn was a volunteer youth leader and a friend of Jeff. I stomped upstairs to our bedroom, furious he would buy a motorcycle without consulting me.
Sometimes Jeff left the house for hours, and I pictured him riding the motorcycle at breakneck speed on the back roads. I wondered if his death would be easier to cope with than his apathy.
By late summer, Jeff hardly spoke to me. I screamed at him in my frustration. “You have time for everyone, everyone except me! Don’t you love me any more? All the church people think you’re so wonderful, but I know what you’re like at home!”
I watched Jeff’s hands clench into fists. I’d never seen him this angry before. Will he strike me? I knew that if he ever did, I would have a good excuse to leave him. Sometimes he shouted back, but more often he walked out, leaving me in tears.
I asked a young pastor friend for the name of a counselor, and he recommended someone in a nearby city. Reluctantly, Jeff agreed to go with me.
We met with the counselor individually. Relieved to tell my side of the story, I hoped he would be objective.
“I’ll be talking primarily with Jeff from now on,” the counselor remarked at the end of my session.
“You will? I thought you’d be working with both of us.”
“Your first childhood memory is of being held and reassured during a frightening experience. Do you know what Jeff’s first memory is?”
“No.” I leaned back and crossed my arms. I felt intimidated by this man, even though I was taller than he.
“He remembers being hurt; but instead of cuddling and consoling him, his parents laughed at him. Jeff has a lot to work through.”
I left the counselor’s office in despair. I won’t be getting any help or sympathy here, I thought. But maybe he can help Jeff.
Week after week Jeff went for counseling, but I didn’t detect any improvement. I wondered how much longer I could stay with him. My thirtieth birthday came, and Jeff’s attitude left me feeling confused and resentful.
The last weekend in September, Jeff was busy leading a youth retreat. I went out for dinner with his secretary, a woman in her late forties.
“Jeff isn’t doing well, is he?” I heard the worry in her voice.
“No. He’s getting more depressed. I just don’t know how much more I can take.”
Joyce clasped her hands and leaned across the table. “What do you think Jeff would do if you left him?”
Her question startled me. “Well … ” I hesitated. “I think he would kill himself.” As soon as I uttered the words, I knew they were true. For a long time I had been afraid Jeff was considering suicide, but I’d never spoken of it to anyone.
“Oh, no.” Joyce sat back in her chair, her eyes fearful.
CONFESSION
The next day I found Jeff slumped at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Sorry for him in spite of everything, I put my hand on his shoulder.
“You have to go away and get help. Will you let me call Ken?”
He looked up at me wearily. His face had aged over the past months; I hadn’t seen him smile for a long, long time.
“I guess you’re right. I’ll ask for a leave of absence.”
I phoned a seminary professor who had mentored Jeff for two years. He quickly took charge of the situation.
“Tell Jeff he’s welcome to stay with us for as long as he wants. I’ll find a Christian counselor who can give him a lot of time.”
The church granted Jeff six weeks off, and two days later he loaded his clothes into the car. I hugged him goodbye, wondering what the future held. But more than that, I wondered if I really wanted him to come home.
I told Connie I wouldn’t be going out much after work for a few weeks. I needed to spend some time by myself.
I bought a classical piano book and practiced the familiar sonatas for hours. I savored the peace. After all the months of stress, I found comfort in solitude.
Several times Jeff’s counselor called me long distance for joint sessions over the phone, giving Jeff and me time to talk.
He tried to help me understand Jeff’s emotional state. “Part of Jeff’s problem is a vow he made as a child never to treat anyone the way his father treated him. He takes on too much of other people’s pain.”
How about the way Jeff treats me? I thought. Don’t I count, too?
After three weeks, the counselor told me Jeff wanted to come home for a weekend to visit friends. “Do you want to see him?” he bluntly asked.
I panicked. “No, I’m not ready!”
“Then it’s probably best if you don’t see each other at all.”
I stayed the weekend at Connie’s apartment, envying her carefree life. She seemed happier since her divorce.
On Saturday Jeff called me from our home. “I’m starting to work through problems I never really resolved,” he said. “The miscarriages, the stress of my job, my anger at my father. I’m making progress. I want us to try to rebuild our marriage.” The emotion in his voice made me cry.
When I hung up the phone, Connie looked sympathetic. “I think you still love him,” she said.
“I guess so. But I’m not sure I have the strength to make our marriage work. I just don’t feel anything.”
Every time I thought about leaving Jeff, Connie’s words rang in my ears: “I think you still love him.” If I do love him, how can I refuse to give him another chance?
TURNING TOWARD HOME
I dreaded Jeff’s return, although he sounded better with each phone call. I prayed about what I should do.
Gradually, I began to feel uncomfortable about my attitude. I realized that as long as I continued to look for a way out, God could not change my heart.
One day shortly before Jeff’s leave ended, I came to a decision. I would stay with him and put all my energy into working out our problems. “Lord, I give up my hold on the option of divorce,” I prayed. “I’m willing to do anything I can to make our marriage succeed. Please help me love him enough to start over.”
I felt as if a weight lifted from my shoulders.
In a phone call, Jeff told me with a confidence I hadn’t heard for months, “I’m going to try to win you again.”
On the morning of Jeff’s return, I sat at my desk, trying to make sense of the printouts in front of me. I couldn’t concentrate. Jeff is probably on his way home by now.
My extension rang. I picked it up.
“Karen, the florist just delivered something for you.”
I raced down two flights of stairs. There on the front desk sat a small vase holding a single red rose.
“Oh, a secret admirer!” one of the receptionists teased. I smiled, hoping my face didn’t betray my tension.
Fingers trembling, I opened the tiny envelope and silently read the message. Printed neatly in blue ink were words from a popular song, “The Rose”: ” … far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed, that with the sun’s love in the spring, becomes the rose.”
I blinked tears from my eyes and wandered back up the stairs to my office, clutching the vase in my hand. Can we really make a fresh start?
I set the rose on my desk and prayed that Jeff was right about the coming spring. God, please help our marriage bloom again.
Darkness came early that November afternoon. From my window on the third floor I watched headlights passing on the expressway. Jeff would be driving by as he covered the last half mile of his 450-mile trip.
I left work at five and parked the old Rambler in the garage. Our other car was already there. My heart pounded as I entered the kitchen. Jeff stood, expectantly watching the back door. His face seemed much younger than when he had left; the lines were gone.
Suddenly overcome with shyness, I looked into his eyes. He held out his arms, and I walked into them gratefully.
Love for Jeff overwhelmed me during the months following his return. We enjoyed a honeymoon of sorts, without the typical adjustment period. I felt content to be part of Jeff’s life again. We had both changed during our six weeks apart.
Eager for me to appreciate everything the counselor had done, he showed me pictures of Dr. Johnson’s office. “Dr. Johnson collects statues of Don Quixote. He has dozens of them.” I studied the pictures filled with sculptures in various mediums, and I thanked God for the understanding counselor.
One sunny May day, I searched the mall to find the perfect gift for Jeff on our tenth anniversary. To represent what we’d been through, and what we had conquered, I wanted a statue of Don Quixote. I breezed through several stores without seeing anything. Hurrying into the gift section of a large department store, I stopped abruptly. There on a shelf stood a slender, ceramic Don Quixote, gazing expectantly toward heaven, his sword pointed to the ground. I examined the delicate figure, unable to believe my luck.
“I’ll take it,” I told the clerk firmly, despite the price tag of more than twice what I had planned. “Please gift-wrap it.”
A few days later, Jeff and I drove to a special restaurant to celebrate our tenth anniversary and our renewed love for each other. “Let’s open our gifts in the car,” he suggested. “Yours first.”
I unwrapped a tiny jeweler’s box to find a gold necklace with two intertwining gold hearts. “Our hearts, our love,” Jeff said.
“We’re going to make it, aren’t we?”
He pulled me close to him. “I love you so much.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, my eyes filling with tears. “Thank you. I love you, too.” I hugged him for a moment, my head against his chest. Then I sat up and eagerly pulled a large box from the shopping bag at my feet.
“For you. My impossible dreamer, who tilts at windmills with God’s help.”
I smiled and carefully placed the gift in his hands.
Epilogue: Jeff and I celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary in May. Our first child was born after eleven-and-a-half years of marriage, our second twenty months later, and our third a few days after our twenty-second anniversary.
For the past two years, Jeff has struggled with a chronic illness, but we are determined to face it together.
***********************
Karen Sullivan is a pseudonym for a pastor’s wife living in the central United States.
1996 Christianity Today/LEADERSHIP Journal
