Marriage and Marigolds

It was a sunny May day when Randy and I spoke our vows under a massive oak tree in my parents' back yard. The base of the tree was ringed with yellow marigolds my mother had planted early that spring. She'd heard marigolds were a sign of faithfulness and she'd put them in the ground with my wedding day in mind.

On the day we married, Randy and I were young. Energetic. Naive. And hopeful.

Fast forward nearly twenty-seven years. We're no longer young and we've got the tired bodies to prove it. We aren't so naive any more. We've been through times that were so difficult hope was hard to find.

But we've stayed together and lately I've been thinking about why. Why are we still married when other good couples have broken up?

There's faith of course. And those vows we took.

Still.

My mind searches for something else.

It's not that we are the perfectly compatible couple. We're not. You'd have a difficult time finding as unmatched a pair as my husband and I. He likes TV. I like music. He loves sports. I like art. Randy has two speeds. Slow. And Medium. I have two settings as well. Mine would be Fast. And Turbo. Randy's blessed with an inborn spirit of laid-back contentment. Me? I'm rarely at peace. Always wanting, needing, seeking.

Something.

I never know for sure what.

Where Randy has plenty, I never have enough.

Times I wish my husband and I had more in common. More shared interests. More common friends. There are irritating things we keep doing to each other even though we should stop. We avoid conflict, which means we don't talk sometimes about things we should.

Even so. Randy and I still hang together after all these years.

Looking back, I've decided that the glue of our marriage boils down to one rather small thing. Nothing profound, but if you're interested, this would be it, the thing that keep us together in spite of our differences. In a world that sometimes pounds us, hurts us, and humiliates us as individuals, Randy and I are blessed. We each come home to someone who, no matter what, remains fiercely, unwaveringly, 100% on our side.

Which is actually a very, very big deal.

On Church

My husband Randy and I grew up in the same denomination, one that is traditionally conservative, sometimes quite rigid. As we've gotten older we both have grown uncomfortable with many of the practices and beliefs of the churches of our childhoods. Yet this denomination is our heritage. It is much of who we are. Leaving it is not an option.

Thankfully, there are a wide variety of practices within this denomination of ours. Some groups hold to the old ways, but many churches are progressive, more inclusive, more focused on the inner life, the heart, less on the outward trappings of traditional religious practice.

It is to one of these more progressive groups we belong -- an hour from our house, but worth the drive. The minister's messages are deep, meaningful, and most Sundays move me to tears. The music is awesome. The people are friendly. The leadership, in every way, has presented itself as servants, ready to wash feet. Every week, it is made plain to me that this is a church that welcomes imperfect people, those with problems, those whose lives are messes.

I'm glad we are here.

Except for one thing. This church, one where hundreds of worshippers gather every Sunday, is white, white, white. Its pews appear to be filled with mostly affluent, educated folks. Now I've nothing against rich white people. Randy and I are Caucasian. We've been to college. No one would call us poor. But the membership of the church doesn't reflect the multicultural, financially diverse community where it is located.

A few weeks ago,at the end of the service a gentleman stood up to make final announcements before we were dismissed. He was happy to announce the birth of a new baby to a young couple in the church. They'd had a healthy boy. The man gave the names of the new parents. If only he had stopped there and gone and sat down. But he didn't. He proceeded to helpfully explain to those who didn't know, exactly who the new daddy was. He was "a Hispanic boy, one who came up through our youth group."

I am positive this good man did not mean his words to be unkind or divisive. But they were. His meaning was clear. No matter how welcome the young father was, all who heard him left that day clearly informed that the young man was not one of "us." Rather one of "them."

I wish I could say I wouldn't have made the same hurtful statement had I been the one announcing the birth. But the truth is I can't be sure. It is far easier to hear racial slights when spoken by someone else than it is to recognize them when they come our of our own mouths.

So what do we do? We look, we listen, we examine our hearts. We say we're sorry when we are. We try to be more sensitive, more loving, more careful with our tongues.

We remind ourselves again and again that there is no "us. " No "them."

Rather there is only "we." Imperfect people, children of God. The same in His sight.

Invitation to Coffee

Three days ago I met a chatty, colorful woman from the Netherlands. She and her family moved to Texas in 1999 to start a dairy farm. At first, they worked together to build their business. But then three years ago, her husband died, leaving her and their five children to manage the dairy alone.

I found the woman's situation unimaginable. Had it been me, a young widow alone in a foreign country, I'd have grabbed my children and hopped the first plane home. Not this woman. She stayed. And plans to keep staying. If it works out she'll never move back.

"What do you like about living in America?" I asked.

In a word -- EVERYTHING!

She told me she loves the food, the weather, even the Texas heat.

She was so friendly. So easy to talk to. One of the most cheerful people I've met in a great while. I was so pleased to have had the opportunity to meet her. At the end of our conversation I asked her if she had many friends.

"Why yes! Of course."

"American friends?" I asked.

"No. Dutch. There are more than sixty Dutch families in the area. Most all of them are dairy farmers. They are my friends."

"Why no Americans?" I asked. I was surprised. I'd not detected any prejudice, any ill feelings towards me or my countrymen.

She shrugged. "In the Netherlands, you meet someone. You like them. You say 'come for coffee.' And they come for coffee. You get to know them. You make a new friend. With Americans you say 'come for coffee' they don't come. You ask them again, they still don't come. I don't know why. But that is why my friends are all Dutch."

As I left the woman, not likely to cross paths with her again, I wondered. If she'd invited me for coffee, would I have gone?

Honestly? I don't know.

But guess what? Next time I'm invited, I'm going. I'll have coffee. Cookies. A sandwich if one's offered. I'll stay for an hour, an afternoon. Who knows? I might spend the night.

So. Anybody out there got a fresh pot on?