We’ve had this fight a lot of times. I drop the ball, many balls, Zach points it out (with a bit of frustration), and we get into this tailspin of treating each other in the worst ways. I’m hurt, defensive, feeling looked-down-upon, misunderstood, like scum. He’s feeling trapped, like his only option is to walk on eggshells around me.
This last time the subject of the fight, even the height to which it escalated, wasn’t that extreme. But in the unseen places, it was war. We went to bed cold, and I became as tempted as I’ve been to turn away from him. To cross my arms over my chest, cut off some level of vulnerability, of love, and become cordial.
My flesh wanted to do it. It sounded miserable, but easier, and I was already miserable at the moment.
So I cried out to God. Silently, lying in bed, “Help! Lord, don’t let me do it. Help me to turn toward him and not away from him.”
Now this is a side note but I’m just going to throw it in here because I can’t remember when this part happened. But at some point in our 12-hours of fight, I went to the bathroom. And while I was there, I heard the Still, Small Voice.
“Don’t be afraid to duck under accusation,” He said. “That’s what humility looks like.”
I am a words of affirmation lover. I take everything personally. When Zach, who is a type-A, feeds off of constructive criticism, blunt and bold, speak-from-his-gut type of guy, points out my failures, I often feel accused. Personally attacked. I could bet that most of the time it’s not actually him who is accusing me. But somewhere between his lips and my ears, the enemy jumps in and yells at me, “He thinks you suck!” I am accused.
So God spoke to me in the bathroom. “You can stand there and let it pierce you, that’s shame. You can catch the dart and throw it at him, that’s pride. Or you can just get low—duck. That’s humility.”
Thanks God, I needed that.
Anyway, despite that amazing word of advice, the wound was still open the next morning. I was a mess. So I sat with my open Bible, praying out my honesty in the safest place (the alone place with Jesus), and the first thing He did was remind me that He loves me. Leftover mascara dripping all over Psalm 103. It’s amazing how desperate I can get to be reminded of the thing that I know is true. But somehow I had forgotten how personal, how deep. My Maker loves me. I guess it will be forever hitting me harder.
So Zach came back from dropping off the girls at school, noticed my puffy, wet face, and sat on the couch. I got up from my chair and sat down next to him—a physical way of saying, “I’m trying to come toward you and not away.” Problem was, I didn’t know what to do after that. Insert two more hours of “discussion.” Not necessarily heated, but sometimes you just have to sort it out with each other. All the feelings, perspectives, possibilities. Eventually, we had some things figured out, like, how can we try to avoid this process next time?
There was nothing left to say.
We got up, and Zach asked me if I’d done the laundry [like I said I would yesterday, because he was out of clean underwear]. And like a champ, I’d forgotten to put it in the dryer.
Woooooooow. Point taken, Jordyn. You have one job to do, one house to manage, a simple list of things to remember, and you don’t want to be told when you botch it up. Well then quit botching it the heck up or shut your mouth.
This was his opportunity to go off on me. He quietly got into the shower. I frantically threw a pair of boxers on high heat and prayed they would dry in miraculous timing. By the time I pulled them out (damp, but hot enough that maybe he wouldn’t notice), He was already dressed, wearing yesterday’s undies, putting on his shoes.
“If you want clean ones, here’s a pair,” I said pathetically.
“It’s ok.” He looked up at me from his laces. “It’s really not a big deal.”
Wow, I thought. He’s trying so hard to be nice to me, and it almost makes me feel worse. (Duck under the shame darts, Jordyn.)
Usually when I feel like a failure, I scrub dirty dishes. Because a clear sink is proof that I can accomplish SOMETHING. So I was doing that while he was on his way out the door. “Zach I’m really sorry that I forgot to dry the laundry,” I said, eyes on the sink. He stopped and turned toward me.
“It’s ok Jord. I’m not mad. You do a lot of things well, you’re amazing, blah blah blah…” I couldn’t receive it. I felt like he was reading a script that I had written out and told him to recite.
But then.
I’m serious, Heaven must have taped this and filed it up in “greatest hits.”
“When I saw that you hadn’t done it, at first, my flesh wanted to just chew you out. It really did. But then my spirit rose up in me, and do you know what I thought?
‘I love her more.’”
His voice broke and he started to cry.
“‘I love her more. I love her more now. I love her more now, because of this, than I did 20 minutes ago. Jordyn, I love you. I love you. You.”
O God. His waves crashing over us. Over me.
“I know I’m not perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes,” he said. “But I have no regrets.” We were both wet with tears. “We’ve given this our all, and I could die today, full. There’s no place I would rather be. There’s no person I would rather be doing this with.”
The hug that followed, it was so real. Love covering the multitude. Love covering the sin, the hurt, the offense, the anger, the shame. Love covering it all.
And today, the morning after, as he’s dropping off the girls at school, I feel closer to him than ever. Closer than our wedding day, when we still believed that the other was perfect. Closer than that first year, when we didn’t have 5 kids or responsibilities beyond our part-time jobs, and we could make love in any room of the house. Closer than before all the hardest moments. It’s so much deeper than forgiving forgotten laundry. He sees me, he knows me, and he loves me. And love seeps into all the spots—the beautiful, the hard, the mundane, the tender.
