reaching across

In the midst of writing the following light hearted post Paul said something that reminded us of his senior year of college. (I told you he kept interrupting me.) I remembered something in particular that I had never understood and asked a question. We started talking about the situation. I’m not going to go into details because they aren’t really pertinent. Just know nothing morally wrong was done, he just made a choice that hurt my feelings and set in motion a series of events that eventually led to our breaking up.

We talked a little about that year and the very challenging situations in my family and in his. I wanted him to say he was sorry for hurting me or to reach out and tell me that he was so glad that we made it through and that I am his and he is mine. I wanted him to tell me he chooses me. I would have probably taken “You sure are pretty.”

He said he was tired and that he was going to bed and asked if I was coming. I said I didn’t know if I wanted to sleep with him anymore with a dramatic, haughty tone. (Good, good, joke about being hurt when you really are hurt. Those of us in the biz call that being passive aggressive.)

“Oh!” he laughed and went to bed.

I really was hurt. There was a time where that sort of thing would have had me all worked up. Many times I have gone to bed in that state. I would scrupulously avoid contact with him. If his foot brushed up against mine I would snatch it away so that he would KNOW that THINGS WERE NOT OK.

But once, lying in the disharmony our pillows inches apart, I wondered, if you measured, how far the true distance between us would be.

Miles.

Why?

I thought I knew: his smallness, unkindness, selfishness.

But aren’t you committed to love him regardless?

Yes.

Why won’t you reach across?

Breath catching, I knew I was afraid.

But why?

He’s going to reject me.

That’s ridiculous. This is your husband. He loves you. He chose you. He chooses you. Why are you afraid?

And I could see that all the stuff I thought was between us, the detatchment on his side, the lashing out then holding back on mine, when all the artifice was stripped away was really only fear.

Won’t you reach across? It’s less than a foot. It’s within your grasp.

It seems so far.

I remembered the science museum we visited annually when I was a child, Impression 5. There was a tunnel you could walk through that had all sorts of different surfaces. The path changed so that at some points you were walking on gravel, then creaking boards, then brick, I can’t remember it all. The walls were covered with objects for you to touch as you passed, probably to try and guess what they were. I wouldn’t know; I never touched a thing. I pictured sharp and dangerous objects. It was all I could do to walk through the tunnel. I don’t know why I did. I hated it. I wasn’t phobic, just extremely scared. Whenever I got to the creaking boards I was afraid to step, picturing myself falling, the rough boards cutting open my shins. But I couldn’t stop. It was a popular exhibit so there were always kids behind. I had to keep going so I hustled almost running through. I didn’t experience all that it was intended to be. I didn’t reach out and explore. I stumbled forward with my arms either hugging my sides or stretched out to defend me from imaginary threats.

But it was a stinking children’s museum. It had to be safe. It was meant to be fun, pleasurable.

Yes.

Oh.

Are you still afraid?

Yes.

What will you choose?

And I decided from then on I would risk and reach across any separation between him and me. I would not wallow in pity. I would not choose fear. I would choose love.

Tonight I get to do it again. The grace is that I am not afraid. I know when I get into bed our pillows will probably be less than a foot apart, as always.

And if I push mine closer there won’t be anything separating us at all.