There I was early on, married to an ever-private person, hoping every day that our relationship would gradually improve. I didn’t want to talk with just anyone about the issues surrounding us. I wanted to respect his privacy and not cause any sort of bad reputation to form about him out in the world. He had such a good reputation as a fabulous teacher, a fantastic athlete, and a good person. And he was those things outside of the perfectionistic confines of our home.
But every morning my husband’s myriad, obliviously callous behaviors would invariably leave me with discordant feelings that I couldn’t shake before taking our son out in the jogger. Some days I silently cried while pushing him around town, knowing he couldn’t hear me. Some days I had to get all of my frustrations out somehow, so when he napped, I talked quietly into my little hand-held recorder on our walks, my voice obscured by the humming of the jogger wheels once it reached his little ears. Other, rarer days (only two), when schools were out for summer and my frustration and sorrow were too big for politeness, I’d wheel the jogger with my silent napper into the local school yard, set the brake, and punch the tetherball over and over, as hard as I could. You don’t ever want to mess with a frustrated wife in a dark alley. Her boxing skills might shock you.
One night, I almost allowed my emotional pain to become physical. I’ll never forget it. My husband’s litany of minutiae-minded madness had just grown and grown to be too much to handle, coupled with the fact that we had no depth in our relationship and no intimacy in our bedroom. I brought up all the things that were weighing me down so heavily and he said something that changed my sadness into anger. Deep anger. I don’t even remember what he said, but I remember what I did. I raised my hand in that moment as if to slap his face and he grabbed it mid-air and said, “You hit me, I hit you.” In that moment, I knew that wasn’t the direction I wanted life to go. Fair enough, I thought. He couldn’t perfectly control everyone and everything in his life, and his behavior wasn’t something he knew how to change in order to make things better. But the abusive road was not going to be our next detour. That was yet another sleepless night for me.
Thankfully, about that same time, I joined a women’s bible study group from our church. I loved discussing the bible, but I had no idea that this experience was about to fill gaps I desperately needed filled.
Every Wednesday morning I’d drive over to the leader’s house, but it wasn’t just any house. It was a beautiful, airy, comfortable, large yet cozy house made of natural woods, filled with white couches and shag rugs, and oozing with a feel of loving hospitality. The kitchen’s glass doors opened to a sprawling garden bounding with life and color. The woman that hosted us every week wasn’t just any leader. She was lighthearted, fun, honest, caring, quick to laugh, and ever so welcoming. Though the ten or so of us didn’t see each other much aside from our group, those two hours each week became one of the pillars of my life as I began to open up about my sadness during our prayer time. In a way, I hated to. Not because I wanted to appear perfect (oh, that word) but because I didn’t want a stigma of sadness or dysfunction accompanying me whenever I was there. A lot of people can’t relate to what I’ve experienced, so I didn’t want them to feel pity or not know how to feel around me. I didn’t want to enter that house every week and see faces that hurt for me. I wanted to laugh and enjoy life while I was away from the joy-killer. Thankfully, that’s what we did. We laughed, we learned, we cried, we prayed, and they became for me an extended Wednesday morning family that I so needed. Going there every week with our nursing and sleeping baby in my lap to talk with other women about hard things was a respite unlike any other.
Going to a weekly bible study meant that I had daily homework. I was constantly bathing in concepts of patience, forgiveness, gracious- ness, and peace. I loved expanding my knowledge, and it just happened to be in the one area that could have the best chance at saving us. If I couldn’t change my husband, all I could change was myself. Since the bible says, “love never fails,” that means resentment, frustration, sadness, selfishness, and anger will fail me. The bible also says that I’m not in charge of forcing those loving changes on myself since I might be wholly incapable of it, yet at the same time, if I want myself aligned with those qualities, God can do that work inside me. I was so relieved to have something to turn to that wasn’t limited to the confines of self-help.
Those weekly meetings also introduced me to a woman named Beth Moore. I immediately respect someone who aspires to work hard for their knowledge, and Beth wrote the bible studies we did. She’s a Texan with big blonde hair, fake nails, and cute outfits who records weekly videos to accompany her weekly bible studies. While her appearance might communicate that she lives on the surface, she digs deeply into the bible, asking questions and finding connections you’d easily miss if you just glossed over the passages. She wonders Why? all the time, so she’s been on a constant journey that’s led to a lot of a-ha moments that are totally fascinating. To some, her modern, youthful, cute appearance might not align with the fact that she’s also on a solitary mission sleuthing through interlinear bibles and Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic translators to bring the black and white words we read to life. She’s a deep, honest, humble, self-effacing, and hilarious bible scholar who can make me cry in one moment and make me burst out laughing the next. I’m drawn to anyone who makes me laugh, and I couldn’t get enough of Beth and what she had to say about God.
In my quest to figure out what to do with my husband’s behavior and what to do with myself, I read various books, such as Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life; Created to Be His Help Meet; The Power of a Praying Wife; etc. I didn’t read non-spiritually-based books. If there was something more I could learn about God and what I could be with his help—which was always there—I didn’t have time to read anything secular. I barely had time to read at all, with a young child to raise! I also didn’t listen to any secular music. I wanted to be fully surrounded in talk that lifted me. I figured it was the wisest recourse for my systems and for our growing child’s environment. If my husband’s negative bent threatened to harm not only our daily interactions but also my brain, my heart, my memory, and my personality, as I imagined it could, I would combat it with the only thing that couldn’t fail me: talk of God; talk of love.
When our baby grew to be a toddler, my friend who first taught me how to navigate the bible urged me to join an intense nine-month course called Bible Study Fellowship. So, I did. The very first day, I biked over with our son in his bike seat, dropped him off in the babysitting area, and sat down in a church filled with other women of all ages and denominations. I thought, This is gonna be great.
The speaker went to the microphone, explained how BSF works, mentioned the dress code (moderately dressy/business casual) and got right into her in-depth, fact-filled, hour-long lecture written from her personal study of the bible based on that week’s scriptures. I was loving it, ready to leave on the high of a fresh, new, satisfying biblical pursuit.
“Before you leave, I want one or two of you to consider and pray about the idea of volunteering with the children. It’s a nine-month commitment, and we are very short on volunteers. You would basically be translating the framework of each weekly study directly into words, movements, and songs that the children downstairs can understand, so that they’ll be learning the same thing we are learning. Then you’ll stay afterward and listen to the recording of my lecture while you eat a sack lunch you’ve brought for yourself.”
Oh. I felt a pull to help, as much as I wanted to revel in the child- free luxury of being with the other women for that little biblical break each week. I called the lecturer and from then on, for my first year in BSF, I not only kept up with what felt like a college level of bible study material (when done thoroughly), I also loaded our son, my bible, my study, and my nicer clothes onto my bike and pedaled over each week to teach the children exactly what the women were learning in the church. From the time that he could talk, our son was learning—from me—all the big biblical concepts that I was.
I was continuously doing a bible study or two each week, year upon year during those toughest years. Between BSF, Beth Moore, and my Wednesday group, I was covered in concepts that could help me cope with my daily difficulties. The bible tells you to love. To love your enemies. To submit everything you have and feel to God, and let his traits fill you over time. I needed that. I also resonated with scholarly pursuits. This was a perfect combination.
I never overcommitted, and one consistent trait of my life is that I always value the time I have with other people. Busy-ness for the sake of staying busy is the antithesis of my life. Peacefulness in which to spend quality time together reigned supreme. I only added something when I knew it was important for our lives. Unfortunately, our toddler didn’t have many people come into our world, and I’ll never forget the day I decided that he and I would join a playgroup with other mothers from our church.
It was a big stretch from our comfort zones, seeing as it was a group that would rotate each week from house to house. I was excited to spend more time with other moms, and I looked forward to finally having other people in our home. I always made sure our child’s life was as normal as it could be. We explored the world, enjoyed music classes with other kids, went to parks and the beach all the time, attended a children’s group at a church, and cased our whole town in our search of daily adventure. He and I had a wonderful time every day together. But having a playgroup come to our house once a month meant I would invite umpteen more discussions of minutiae with my husband every time we all disbanded and he inspected the place for drool, spills, or untoward cracker crumbs. We had a tidy child, but that’s not exactly the norm for other toddlers.
The woman who started the group was from our church and had three children. She said she would come over and chat with me about it, so we planned a time. The moment she walked in our house, she walked from the living room to the back door, looking at the house in alarmed dismay. No chatting commenced. Her reaction to our house was deafeningly silent. After a few moments, she announced that no playgroup of hers would ever enter our doors, and walked abruptly out the front door back to her car.
I knew what she was thinking: how could any parent feel comfortable if their child were to be a child in this kind of environment? She experienced that lack of dust feeling I had experienced upon first walking into his condo. We, too, now had the immaculate off-white carpet, mark-less off-white walls and picture frames, and lickable tile floors characteristic of my husband’s bachelor house and his parents’ house. I knew I could flex for his needs, so I had done so from the very start, keeping things predictable for him. But now, we were experiencing immediate exclusion for our cleanliness.
She had no idea how hurt I felt after she left. Now my husband’s particularities were affecting my ability to extend hospitality to others and encourage friendships for my son and me in our own space.
Neglect’s Toll on a Wife: Perfection’s Grip on My Husband’s Attention © 2023-2024 Lila Meadowbrook
