I don't know where along the way I thought that a good marriage meant that you never fight, but I sure enough started out that way. Ken and I had been great friends when the sparks ignited and we might as well have eloped, our engagement was so short. But I wanted a pretty church wedding and all that. We took to married life with great gusto, young and full of promise. Our little rented house in Mableton was like a dollhouse, filled with the sweet things our loved ones had given us to get started. It was a whirlwind of fun and work. We were kind of stupid in our assumptions, idealistic and naive. We jumped headlong into the pool of life and it was truly our dream come true.
Somehow we went for about two years without having any significant conflicts. Maybe it's because we never really dated before we got hitched -- we were good friends first and just didn't go through that phase. But Ken was a perfectionist and I was an artiste. Eventually something had to blow. After many years of marriage I figured out this fact: whatever your Mama did, that's what you thought you were supposed to do. My Mama kept a spotless house, but Ken's Mama was the best cook in three counties. I didn't know how to boil water, but I could scrub a bathtub into submission. Fun fact: Ken didn't care about the tub, but he sure missed his Mama's biscuits. None of this mattered at first. We were both learning how to be adults. I was slaving at that stove every night after work and Ken was trimming the yard to perfection. He was bossy and I was smiley. Until....
The Day It All Went South.
We decided to play tennis one morning. It was bright and sunny, cool and perfect. We donned our togs and headed to the park. The tennis balls pinged back and forth. We were both athletes. I had played tennis in college (I was not college material, but it was a very small school) and he had picked it up along the way. I was no expert, but neither was he. That day, he decided that I needed coaching. Before long, I began to chafe from all the "instruction" and began to send up warning signals to Ken that I was not keen on being handled by him. These signals went unheeded. As the game wore on, so did my patience. The tension built like so much steam in a kettle, until I exploded right there in front of God and all the other folks playing at the adjoining courts. Ken had never encountered this side of me, so he was incredulous at my audacity. Suffice it to say, the argument culminated in my nice racket sailing across the net in his general direction. He has insane reflexes, so hitting him with it was never a concern of mine. But as it sailed by his head, I thought he might catch a few flies. His mouth was flapped open like a bass jumping out of the water.
Since that time, we've had our share of heated arguments, ridiculous door slamming, stupid snippets of meanness and yes, one time I put my fist through a wall (I'm really sweet, it's just that 51% thing....don't push it). But I did repair it right away and we've never hit each other (well, except for the time he goosed me and I punched him in the shoulder and almost broke my hand, that). It's a grace thing. The making up has always been the best part. Thank God we had parents who modeled to us what it means to admit when we are wrong, to ask forgiveness, and how to give it. I don't think we would have made it otherwise. Ken thought he married a honey chile, when what he got was sassafras with a little sugar on top. I didn't mean to mislead him. He just didn't double-check.
Now that we're in those middlin' years, the hardest thing is to not do ourselves in with desserts and fried chicken. We're creaking and whining about this and that ailment already. We still fuss too much and have to make up again. This week I've been confessing to the Lord and to Ken that I take him for granted way too often. I got a good one, one of the few. I know that, because he loves me anyway.
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