By Maggie Kelly
Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons.
~Blaise Pascal
More than twenty-five years ago we stood at the altar, two freshly-scrubbed kids wearing fancy clothes with the same fervor as children playing dress-up. Responding when spoken to and reciting the empty words the pastor prompted, we took our vows and left the church with absolutely no comprehension of the impact that evening would have on the rest of our lives.
Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons.
~Blaise Pascal
More than twenty-five years ago we stood at the altar, two freshly-scrubbed kids wearing fancy clothes with the same fervor as children playing dress-up. Responding when spoken to and reciting the empty words the pastor prompted, we took our vows and left the church with absolutely no comprehension of the impact that evening would have on the rest of our lives.
I was running away -- always running away -- from something. This time it was childhood. It had been horrible, replete with the wrath of the hurtful hands and cold heart of a calculating, manipulative mother. I longed for nurturing, but received none. I wanted a life like the families I saw on TV. I wanted a mother who'd fix my hair in beautiful ringlets and ribbons, a mother waiting with cookies and hugs for me after school. I wanted a mother who would warmly greet my daddy at the end of his long day at work.
Instead, my mother was a tyrant, and I fled from her straight into the arms of a product of the same dysfunction I was escaping. Through no fault of his own, my groom was about as ill-equipped at dealing with married life as I was. His parents, although married for many years and still enduring one another's company, were alcoholics and lived in perpetual denial of their affliction. In his family, a good time was when everyone got to watch his father get drunk and pass out in a plate of beans.
Misery does indeed love company, and so we stayed with each other for quite some time -- long enough, in fact, to have three children. If dysfunction breeds dysfunction, we contributed heavily to its cause. We had less business having children than we did marrying in the first place. I remain thankful for the merits of good counseling, which each of the three has received.
I don't know exactly when I knew it was over. It wasn't a specific day or hour or moment. In fact it was a blur of time when I felt my words weren't comprehended and my actions were misconstrued. I just knew when it was time to go -- and I went. Tumult followed for many years. We endured each other's injuries and insults, and hurled daggers of retaliation. The children were innocent victims often caught in our crossfire.
But the ensuing years proved to be an amazing healing tool. The healing ointment of time is called perspective, and it is applied it in small subtle doses. It seeps gently under the skin and results in a calming and soothing of the heart and mind. This salve is a gift.
When we open gifts, we mentally put them in one of two piles -- the first, things we love and plan to use; the second, after muttering polite thanks to the giver, remains unused, untouched, and is eventually forgotten.
My ex-husband and I used this gift of time and perspective. Each of us, in our own way, utilized the strength that had come boxed and wrapped. We threw away the paper wrappings and bows and with them, a great deal of unnecessary debris. What emerged was clean, purified. Images of a world filled with hate and bitterness were replaced with serenity and beauty. Words that once rolled off harsh tongues were squelched and from sweeter lips come words of praise and encouragement and thanksgiving.
Gifts such as these lead us down new paths. Our paths obviously veered in different directions, yet with the anchor of the children, somehow stayed close enough. The road I took led me to the heart and arms of a wonderful soul, my husband of nearly eleven years. The years with this saint of a man have taught me to trust, to love, and to give of myself without holding back. But I wouldn't have achieved this level of appreciation for these blessings had I not endured some hardship and pain. Our family has grown with the addition of two more children. We have been blessed.
Instead, my mother was a tyrant, and I fled from her straight into the arms of a product of the same dysfunction I was escaping. Through no fault of his own, my groom was about as ill-equipped at dealing with married life as I was. His parents, although married for many years and still enduring one another's company, were alcoholics and lived in perpetual denial of their affliction. In his family, a good time was when everyone got to watch his father get drunk and pass out in a plate of beans.
Misery does indeed love company, and so we stayed with each other for quite some time -- long enough, in fact, to have three children. If dysfunction breeds dysfunction, we contributed heavily to its cause. We had less business having children than we did marrying in the first place. I remain thankful for the merits of good counseling, which each of the three has received.
I don't know exactly when I knew it was over. It wasn't a specific day or hour or moment. In fact it was a blur of time when I felt my words weren't comprehended and my actions were misconstrued. I just knew when it was time to go -- and I went. Tumult followed for many years. We endured each other's injuries and insults, and hurled daggers of retaliation. The children were innocent victims often caught in our crossfire.
But the ensuing years proved to be an amazing healing tool. The healing ointment of time is called perspective, and it is applied it in small subtle doses. It seeps gently under the skin and results in a calming and soothing of the heart and mind. This salve is a gift.
When we open gifts, we mentally put them in one of two piles -- the first, things we love and plan to use; the second, after muttering polite thanks to the giver, remains unused, untouched, and is eventually forgotten.
My ex-husband and I used this gift of time and perspective. Each of us, in our own way, utilized the strength that had come boxed and wrapped. We threw away the paper wrappings and bows and with them, a great deal of unnecessary debris. What emerged was clean, purified. Images of a world filled with hate and bitterness were replaced with serenity and beauty. Words that once rolled off harsh tongues were squelched and from sweeter lips come words of praise and encouragement and thanksgiving.
Gifts such as these lead us down new paths. Our paths obviously veered in different directions, yet with the anchor of the children, somehow stayed close enough. The road I took led me to the heart and arms of a wonderful soul, my husband of nearly eleven years. The years with this saint of a man have taught me to trust, to love, and to give of myself without holding back. But I wouldn't have achieved this level of appreciation for these blessings had I not endured some hardship and pain. Our family has grown with the addition of two more children. We have been blessed.
Soon, my husband and I will attend a wedding ceremony in a local chapel. Undoubtedly, one of my sons will usher me and my husband to our seats. I think guests of the groom sit on the right. As the bride walks down the aisle, I'll remember what I learned so many years ago in another time, another state, another life. I'll smile as she meets her groom, and I'll pray that God grants them many happy years together. A chapter in my life will close, the one that has been read and re-read, and now is filed away under "lessons learned." A new chapter will begin for the father of three of my children. He begins this marriage older, wiser, and more aware of what it takes to nurture a relationship. And I'll wish him well -- from a seat in a pew on the right.
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