We'll Sweep Out the Ashes

Marie and I did an incredibly courageous thing in the last few days.

First, we reunited our home after ten months of separation. We packed up our boxes and gym bags and scraped together a thousand dollars and took the enormous risk of trusting each other with the rest of our lives and our hopes. We could have turned away. We could have continued the numbness and escapes of our divided lives. Marie is a captivating and alluring woman, with an essence that can light a room or chill one in an instant. She could have another man in the time it takes to smile. But she chose me. I'm a vigorous old dog, resourceful and stubbornly independent, always finding a way to make my way through life, and I chose her. I wanted her more than the lure of the open road, more than all the illusions and dimly lit paths the world has to offer, far more than the "safety" of not trying and not risking and not belonging to anyone. I belong with her, and she, thank God, belongs with me.

We could have turned away or given up, or given in to despair or bitterness. A dozen times, two dozen times, we almost did. Hope is the most wonderful thing, but it is remarkable what it can endure. We overcame ten thousand bitter and poorly chosen words. We overcame a hundred rash acts. We overcame searing abandonments and empty wrenching hours. We kept trying. Love won. That's an incredible thing in a world that tosses corrosive poisons into the waters, daily and hourly. Turn on the television for an hour and invariably you'll encounter innuendos and leering cheapness that can burn the retina of your mind's eye, half the time to sell a beer or a car or cheap steak sandwich. We overcame it all. We chose life and hope and a new beginning, and thank God we did, thank God He gave us the strength and heart to love that much.


It won't be easy. But it will be better and richer and more full of abundance than anything we have ever done. We know it's a process that has to be completed carefully, and we're seeking counseling, together and separately. In the last two days we have had the hardest, best conversations we have ever had, and we have had to face fears and failures and secrets, and we did so with a transparency and courage and compassion I didn't know we had within us. Shame feeds on secrets, and I've spent my life running, running from secrets, shame and doubt. I've always tried to hide when I should have stepped into the light, and my wife, my remarkable, incredible, unceasingly desirable and wise wife, let me do that. I spoke to her gently and without defensiveness. I confessed the dark, deplorable underside of me, and she heard and listened, and vented her justifiable and considerable anger, and I listened, and heard her, and acknowledged her pain and her need, and we grew, and learned, and began the transformation of a broken relationship to a healing and joyous one. We became new and renewed people, by believing in one another and the God who made us, and choosing grace over bitterness and regret. It wasn't easy and it isn't over. Both the hardest and most joyous days are ahead. But I'm amazed at what love can do and overcome, if given the chance.

We had the best evening yesterday, just a simple one but grand. After I assembled the kitchen table we sat at it and ate cheese and apples and talked. Marie has finished most of the organizing and unpacking and she set out Christmas decorations, a Nativity scene, candles, a Santa Claus, a tiny ceramic tree (our lovely fake tree goes up this Saturday) and the march of the sinister snowmen, a tableau of red-scarved snowmen with their arms in the air, set out in rows on a small coffee table, looking eerily like yuletide zombies on the prowl. We suspect that they'll attack Santa Claus in the night, for stealing all the glory, but Santa is tougher than they think. He's endured hundreds of bitter arctic winters and traverses the entire world in one evening, lugging a pack that brings joy to billions. Malevolent snowmen are no match for him: Christmas is safe, and so are we in one another's arms. And that alone is more delicious than two plates of Christmas cookies, and the rarest and most valuable present in the world.