Page 58 of The Marriage Game

“What was she right about?” I ask carefully–not want to spook her out of having what sounds like an epiphany of sorts.

She lets out yet another sigh, this one the longest and heaviest of all. “My childhood might have affected me way more than I thought,” she states. Her voice wobbles around the words, then without any warning she bursts into tears.

Shock ricochets through me. My wife is crying. She’s crying, and I’m stuck on this stubborn horse. I try yet again to get Wilma to move closer to Brutus, but have no luck.

“Woah!” I try the stop command Rhett taught us, and finally,finallyWilma listens, pulling to a stop. I’m not really sure if there’s a right way to get off a horse, so I just go for what seems easiest and swing my legs to the same side before sliding down. I try to pull Wilma over with me, but she resists, so I leave her be and hurry over to Jill, praying Wilma stays put.

“Jill, make your horse stop,” I tell her, jogging to catch up to them. She doesn’t seem to hear me, so I say the command myself. “Woah, Brutus, woah!” Thankfully Brutus is more agreeable than Wilma and pulls to an immediate stop. Jill makes a noise of surprise, then registers my presence next to them. Before I can fully prepare she’s swinging one leg over the saddle and jumping off into my arms. I stumble backwards from the unexpected impact, but manage to remain standing.

Jill clings to me like I’m a buoy tossed out to sea to save her. I hold her tightly, letting her cry all over me. I can’t remember the last time she needed me to hold her like this. She’s always so dang together.

Does it make me a bad husband that I like holding her like this? I’m not sure. But I can’t deny that being the person she feels safe enough to lean on feels good. After all, she’s the person I’ve always felt safest with. The good and perfect gift from above that God so graciously gave me.

Therein lies my deep, dark secret, though. When she broke down four years ago, I remember finally feeling like she needed me for once…and I liked that. This is a truth that I’ve never beenable to admit to her or anyone else, but that goes hand-in-hand with everything I’ve just confessed to her.

Jill’s sobs slow and she looks up at me, blue eyes shining with moisture. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I don't know what came over me—it’s just I was so sure she was wrong…even though deep down I knew she was right.”

“Right about what?”

Jill swipes at her cheeks before answering. “She had this whole thing about how my perfectionist tendencies stemmed from some unresolved childhood trauma.”

“I see,” I say carefully, my mind whirring. What childhood trauma could she be talking about? Is she about to reveal some long kept secret to me? An abuse of some sort? I repress a shudder at the very thought even though it seems improbable. Surely Jill doesn’t have a secret of such magnitude. Does she?

“Don’t worry,” Jill says with a shake of her head, clearing reading my confusion despite my attempt to hide it, “it’s not what you think. I don’t have some deep, dark hidden past I never told you about.” She shuts her eyes for a beat. “It's nothing as dramatic as all that. It’s silly really, to even call it trauma given all of the actual traumas people experience. Doctor Friedman used to call it a micro-trauma. Said she thinks we all have them, and often they are the basis of our idols— those things that we seek above even God. I don’t know...the whole thing rubbed me the wrong way. Not to mention, talking about it makes me feel like I’m betraying my parents.”

I’m quiet, unsure what to say. Curiosity is buzzing through me, but this revelation is not about me. It’s about her, which means I need to let her say it at her own pace.

A pace that is apparently quite slow. Jill doesn’t speak for at least a few minutes.

“Have I ever told you what my earliest memory is?” she finally asks, looking up at me. I shake my head. “My mom crying,” shewhispers, and fresh tears appear in her eyes. She presses on, though. “It’s not a super vivid memory,” she swallows, “since I must have been only four at the time. I couldn’t tell you what room in the house we were in or what time of day it was or even the time of year…all I remember is finding my mom crying and when I asked her why she told me it was because she was sad that she couldn’t have another baby. After that I have lots of vague memories of my mom crying. A few with my dad there, holding her. They wanted another baby so badly.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “Which of course makes total sense. Lots of parents want more than one child; it’s a perfectly normal desire. They did nothing wrong–” she breaks off, stifling a sob with a hand to her mouth.

Understanding dawns, and my heart begins to ache for my wife. “But that doesn't change the fact that it left you feeling as if you weren’t enough for them?” I murmur gently, and she nods, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s so stupid,” she says through her tears. “But, yes. I have never felt like I’m enough for them or anyone. So I just keep trying to be…hoping that one day I will be enough if I just keep working harder…getting more done…being self-sufficient. Only now I find out that my incessant need to be everything to everyone has left my husband thinking I don’t need him. So how’s that for a twist I never saw coming?” Her voice has turned wild and high-pitched. “Frankly, it’s all a little ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m an adult. Rationally I know that my parents’ struggle with secondary infertility is in no way a reflection of their feelings about me as their daughter. So why can’t my heart seem to understand that?” She looks up at me, her eyes pleading with me to help fix what she views as broken.

I’m at a bit of a loss for what to say, but then it hits me. I have to pray. For her. For me. Forus. It’s been far too long since I sent up more than a five-second prayer to the heavens, let alone onefor Jill or us as a couple. I slide my hands back around her waist and begin without preamble, hopeful that the right words will come, confident that the Spirit will fill in the gaps.

“Father God,” I begin, my voice a little shaky. I know I’m meant to spiritually lead our family, but I haven’t put much effort into doing so lately. I’m rusty. I suppose it’s time to get out the metaphorical polish and rub the rust away. “We need you,” I finally go on. Emotion clenches in my chest. “I need you, and my wife needs you. She needs you to see the spaces where her heart is hurting and heal them, fill her with your presence. The presence that says she is yours and reminds her that even though–just like the rest of us—she can never be enough, it doesn’t matter because you cover her lack.”

A picture comes to mind as I pray: the rich young man coming to Jesus asking whathemust do to get eternal life.

It hits me for the first time how the man missed the mark from the start by asking such a self-focused question. What canhedo? Like all of his deeds and riches could ever be enough to get him into heaven. But isn’t the whole point of the cross? That it’s not about what we’ve done—it’s about what Jesus already accomplished for us. Our part is simply to surrender and accept His love.

A tear falls unexpectedly from my eye, landing on Jill’s arm. She looks up in surprise.

“Max—” she murmurs in dismay, “are you crying?”

“No,” I lie, “not much, anyway.” A glimmer of a smile flashes across her mouth at this, and on impulse I press a quick kiss to her mouth. As I pull away, tenderness for her floods me. Suddenly I know what I want to say to her; words inspired by the image I’m sure the Holy Spirit gave me as inspiration.

“You don’t have to be enough to be loved by Jesus, Jill.” I lift a hand and trace my fingers across her cheek. “And though I’ve always thought you were more than enough for me, more eventhan I ever deserved, you still never have to be enough to be loved by me either. I’ll love you in your abundance or your lack; your sufficiency or your insufficiency. Marriage is supposed to be like the relationship between Christ and His Church, and like Christ could never stop loving His Church, I can never stop loving you.”

The tears shining in Jill’s blue eyes don’t spill this time, they simply line her irises, projecting her appreciation more than words could.

This is the most honest and open we’ve been with each other in some time, and I cherish the strengthening of the connection between us. Hope flutters to life in my chest and I go to press one more kiss to her lips but then—

“Well that was awful beautiful, you two,” Rhett’s drawling voice causes both of us to whirl around in surprise, “and I hate to interrupt, but Brutus is getting antsy and I’ve got my hands full over here with Wilma and my own stead, Winona. Could y’all grab the reins before Brutus makes his getaway?”

“Oh! My horse!” Jill exclaims, hopping into action first. She turns and hurries toward Brutus, who has in fact ambled forward away from us. Not too far thankfully. It would appear he found a patch of grass that caught his fancy. “We’re so sorry, Rhett,” Jill bumbles, as she takes hold of Brutus’ reins, “we forgot all about our horses.”

---