A Blog Hiatus Explained

Until late last night we had no internet connection. It was like Gilligan's Island around here, as primitive as can be. Nothing but a 13-inch television with a fuzzy picture that changed every time you moved the small length of coaxial cable hanging loose from it, serving as a makeshift antenna. If I had coconuts I would have tried to build a radio but there were no coconuts to be had. Stranded in a snowstorm watching fuzzy Doppler images of Arctic Blast 2008. They upgraded it from Stormwatch. The old title had lost its dramatic punch. Imagine my relief when the UPS man brought the modem on Wednesday night. I could fulfill my obligations to Stephanie and the blog audience, and end the deafening silence at blog central.

In other news (you see how destructive exposure to too much Storm Watch coverage can be) there is plenty of other news, but I am hesitant to report it. The blog is at a crossroads. Since its inception it has been Marie Watch 2008, and now that is problematical. Part confessional, part plea, part argument, the blog has exposed nearly every detail of our lives, losses, fears and hopes, and for a newly rejoined tentatively married couple that would be an enormous risk. Previously the blog audience has warned me off poker, Duck football or sex, so I would have to choose my blog topics carefully, and I'm not that consistently good a story teller.

If Marie and I are to find happiness or harmony together, or merely survive the storms and difficulties we face, I have to respect our privacy. I can't air my grievances here; I can't toss my fears on the water like bread for waterfowl at the park. It's a poor food that destroys the wings of hope.

She and I are at a terrible crossroads. Our bliss lasted one day. All through the stresses and challenges of moving day we were patient and tender with each other. I didn't finish unloading until eleven Saturday night, and we were blessed by God, because the storm didn't start until the next morning. I drove the truck back clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip but made it back to the Beaverton U-Haul yard without incident.

In the three days since all the old hurts have emerged, all the old fears and insecurities, and there were confessions and vengeances and grievances and sorrows. It wouldn't do to tell my side of the story here, or plead one case on these pages and another in our desperate strained two a.m. conversations. It will have to be enough to say there have been betrayals and failings and turnings apart, and everyone is in pain. Everyone is covered with shame and doubt, hurting within and without, and forgiveness and reconciliation seem like a distant and improbable hope.

I love Marie. I want to be with her, and with her alone, for all of my remaining days. I want to love and comfort her and honor her, but my behavior and my choices haven't always done so, and neither have hers. We are troubled, hurting people, and I'm not sure if we can forgive or accept each other. The bond is not broken but the tender fabric of intimacy and trust has been rent, and something so beautiful and so fragile is not easily repaired. Perhaps it can never be. Love is not possible without trust, assurance, and forgiveness. You have to feel absolute freedom to believe in one another, to know the other's heart. Our hearts our guarded now. A cold wind of uncertainty scalds our skin.

There's a negotiation so delicate here I can't possibly retrace it on these pages. It would endanger the last hope we have to say anything more, and I'm not sure the details would interest anyone. Besides, I'm not a good enough writer to put words to this kind of searing regret and hurt. My poor prayers are not enough: I have $6 in my checking account, and Marie has an ultrasound on Christmas Eve. The realities of life don't wait for anyone. You can't pretty up the truth or explain it away.