Lately, I’ve been laughing a lot. I’ve been laughing because of the
subtle differences between me and Eric, of which our marriage has made even
more aware. I’m not talking about differences in values or morals or anything
like that: I mean when he picks out plain strawberry yogurt at the store, and
I’m torn between key lime pie and cherry vanilla. Or when we’re playing “Word
on the Street” (an AWESOME word association
game!) and with the keyword "box", my mind immediately goes to the creative, artistic possibility
(“Crayola”), while he’s thinking about materials and construction
(“cardboard”).
I laugh and shake my head when things like this happen,
because it is very obvious that God has a vivid sense of humor, and I know Eric
and I must have him in stitches on a regular basis at our opposite
personalities. But it’s also pretty clear to me that God had me squished into
the backseat of Eric’s Alero three -and-a-half years ago on purpose. (Don’t know
that story? Just ask. I love telling it. =))
The short version of my take on this purpose is that God made
Eric to make me a better person, and he made me to do the same for Eric. But
that’s cliché, and so I think a little color and explanation might make it less
worn out and more meaningful.
Life is about change; or rather, it is change. It’s a constant tension of adjustment, of the
possibility of either growing and maturing OR shrinking into ourselves when
this change comes. Eric sees life (change) in a very different way from me, and
since I married him, his perspective has started to widen mine… and vice versa.
When change hits, I don’t just react according to my own narrow instincts
anymore: I can see a bigger picture because I’m seeing what TWO people are
seeing. I understand more. And as a result, I’m more likely to grow, rather
than shrink, when my world starts changing on me. And that’s how we make each
other better.
Make sense? Sort of? Well, maybe a specific example will
help.
The other day we were sitting around, talking about life as
we do sometimes, and Eric made an interesting observation. “You know, Kate,” he
said, “I think you spend a lot of time thinking of how things ‘should’ be, or
how you want them to be. And I just kind of take things in stride.”
What? No
way! was my first thought. I
love life, and I take joy in every day—I don’t stress about the way things
should be! But then my head caught up with me, and I stopped.
I’ve always considered myself a dreamer, and that always had
positive connotations. People are always being encouraged to set goals, right?
To build up “castles in the air” and then work to put the foundations under
them? Hope is good, dreams are good, goals are good. Right?
Right… but only so long as they leave room for being
thankful. And I don’t mean the surface-level kind of thankful that you feel
when you sit around a groaning table on turkey day, and everybody goes around
and says what they’re thankful for. I mean the deeper kind, the kind that takes
up your whole heart and mind; the gut-gratefulness that makes you want to laugh
and cry and sing (and maybe, if you’re me, dance) for joy in celebration for what you DO have. For what God has given
you; for the changes that make up your life.
And that’s when I realized that my down-to-earth engineer had
a very insightful theoretical point. Yes, goals are good. Hope is beautiful.
And dreams are vital to the human soul. But so is thanksgiving… and we need to
deliberately make room for both in our hearts and minds. Besides, as well-planned out as our dreams may
be, the reality will probably be “a little off-kilter and not nearly as tidy
and poetic” as we imagined. (Niequist, 129)
As obvious as this revelation may seem, it would not have
occurred to me if Eric hadn’t made that offhanded comment. I would never have
seen the negative side of my airy hopes and dreams. We make each other better, he and I, because we see life so
differently. We open each other’s minds to things that may be too cliché to
really get otherwise… like this
lesson in gratefulness.
And besides that, we keep each other laughing. =)
Niequist, Shauna. Bittersweet. Grand Rapids: Zondervan,
2010. (Yay, I
still remember how to cite sources MLA style!)
