Babies don't like to submit to their trainers, usually... but... if all goes well, they figure out that good things come to those who shut up and wait; and, behold! a model child is crafted. From wet black modeling clay, they are furnace fired into stunning white porcelain figurines, oogled at by the parentals, friends, and all the family. These porcelain people grow up to be achievers, mature and wise. Successful. They run foundations, found charities, invent spectacular things, and invest in all the right stocks. They live in houses where the paint does not peel and the front porch is not bedraggled.
This is scriptural. I can prove it... just not right now.
And then there are the rest of us.
Judging by the normal setting on my Strife Dial, you can imagine the shelf of greenware from which I long ago fell. That perch was a 70's home big enough for the 5th of six children to find refuge mostly; but when I was needed for something, a huge, bellowing "...ELLLLLLLLLENNNnnnnn..." would emit from some faraway room in the house & my skin would crawl. Then I'd calculate, like Calvin whispering to Hobbes, how long I could keep the yeller waiting without getting into serious trouble. Whatever the trouble was (& it was always trouble I was in), I'd just disavow that I had anything to do with whatever the matter was, and leave the disgruntled parental or sibling to suffer. (It always worked, and that's why God, in all His power and majesty, gave me a son who is just like me. Genetics. Glorious.)
I must've been an especially nasty child, because by the time we were teens, I was calling my sisters A-holes (and not the abbreviated kind) when it came to defending my stuff, or borrowing theirs. I'm not sure what Mother thought of this, because we nary spoke, so I THINK I must've been a handful.
I can safely conclude I am STILL one, because I know for a fACT that I am lousy at the submission game in marriage. This much is certifiable.
Before I scratch my chin over my latest display of marital brashness, I do like to ponder the Little Ellie who never had to win an engagement in the war of child-vs-parent because her parents were almost wholly disengaged. Stretching my mind back as far as it will go, it's clear: we just avoided each other.
That brings me to today.
As a four day old zygote, I can plead ignorance over my motivations* for a total lack of honesty during today's squabble. Like the sinful child evading her sister's questions and disavowing responsibility for things, I am way too comfortable with lying. I THOUGHT I was being submissive in recent weeks, following hubby's lead and settling on a third-rate painter to paint our house, third rate hardware & fencing, and third rate everything. Juan the Man (my heroic Dad) would NEVER settle for third rate anything. But, since my hubby is not Juan, and if we don't have funds for top notch quality, then third rate will have to do, right? I felt sincere telling the handyman today that one of his low quality fixes was no big deal. And a few days back, when paint splatters appeared all over the un-dropclothed front porch, I actually muttered to myself, "it's only a house."
But when a few more quality-control violations struck today, the spirit of calm began to shatter. My Not Nice tone over a tuna salad dinner was met with that deer-in-the-headlights squint from my man which I've long known means that he senses I'm going to snap, and he will therefore be checking OUT for awhile.
Honesty? Ew. No, it wasn't honest to accuse the poor man of not caring. Of course he cares about you. He just doesn't know he's supposed to care about quality. His origins were too earthy for that. But he is not some remote version of your nonexistent perfect parent. And it's not his fault that he is not Juan the Great, my oh-so thoroughly imperfect parent.
A wife in the mold of a Baptist Born Again'er submits. I know this, I've subscribed to it, I've heard and agreed with all the teaching on it, but I just don't have the tools to make it work.
It must start with recognizing that marriage is not about "you." And it starts with telling the truth about what you want in marriage and in home repairs. Can lying people even know what they want? Probably not... being disconnected from "truth" leaves you pretty disconnected from yourself; disabled in the transparent honesty department.
So, I guess submission demands honesty, and if you can't get that from your family of origin, your shrink, your being dashed about by a life of poor choices or from some high tech alteration to your deficient DNA (don't think I'm retarded, but that was my nickname growing up: "Retard..."), you'll get it from marriage sooner or later, if you hang around long enough. It comes from engaging in calm, patient dialogue. It comes after learning how to "shut up and wait" and from cultivating the ability to be OK with not always getting your own way; things this little zygote isn't sure about, because it's SO DARK in here.
And, because the grown-ups were once remote and distant, the certainty of a Creator who cares is still such a remote possibility; an abstraction. But, if I persist in believing that the black clay can miraculously emerge polished, elegant porcelain someday, I'll try to keep at it, remembering the cosmic dream of a God who loves His creation, and who breathes life into it in the fulness of time.
Honestly, it really is 'just a house.'
"If you can't see what I'm up to, well, I promise you'll find out soon enough. TrustMe."
OK. Once I'm born, I'll be GROWN UP THEN. Right? (Er, well, not exactly...let's talk more on that topic another time, little Z.)
*They say, "DENIAL IS NOT EVEN KNOWING THAT YOU'RE LYING."
This is scriptural. I can prove it... just not right now.
And then there are the rest of us.
Judging by the normal setting on my Strife Dial, you can imagine the shelf of greenware from which I long ago fell. That perch was a 70's home big enough for the 5th of six children to find refuge mostly; but when I was needed for something, a huge, bellowing "...ELLLLLLLLLENNNnnnnn..." would emit from some faraway room in the house & my skin would crawl. Then I'd calculate, like Calvin whispering to Hobbes, how long I could keep the yeller waiting without getting into serious trouble. Whatever the trouble was (& it was always trouble I was in), I'd just disavow that I had anything to do with whatever the matter was, and leave the disgruntled parental or sibling to suffer. (It always worked, and that's why God, in all His power and majesty, gave me a son who is just like me. Genetics. Glorious.)
I must've been an especially nasty child, because by the time we were teens, I was calling my sisters A-holes (and not the abbreviated kind) when it came to defending my stuff, or borrowing theirs. I'm not sure what Mother thought of this, because we nary spoke, so I THINK I must've been a handful.
I can safely conclude I am STILL one, because I know for a fACT that I am lousy at the submission game in marriage. This much is certifiable.
Before I scratch my chin over my latest display of marital brashness, I do like to ponder the Little Ellie who never had to win an engagement in the war of child-vs-parent because her parents were almost wholly disengaged. Stretching my mind back as far as it will go, it's clear: we just avoided each other.
That brings me to today.
As a four day old zygote, I can plead ignorance over my motivations* for a total lack of honesty during today's squabble. Like the sinful child evading her sister's questions and disavowing responsibility for things, I am way too comfortable with lying. I THOUGHT I was being submissive in recent weeks, following hubby's lead and settling on a third-rate painter to paint our house, third rate hardware & fencing, and third rate everything. Juan the Man (my heroic Dad) would NEVER settle for third rate anything. But, since my hubby is not Juan, and if we don't have funds for top notch quality, then third rate will have to do, right? I felt sincere telling the handyman today that one of his low quality fixes was no big deal. And a few days back, when paint splatters appeared all over the un-dropclothed front porch, I actually muttered to myself, "it's only a house."
But when a few more quality-control violations struck today, the spirit of calm began to shatter. My Not Nice tone over a tuna salad dinner was met with that deer-in-the-headlights squint from my man which I've long known means that he senses I'm going to snap, and he will therefore be checking OUT for awhile.
Honesty? Ew. No, it wasn't honest to accuse the poor man of not caring. Of course he cares about you. He just doesn't know he's supposed to care about quality. His origins were too earthy for that. But he is not some remote version of your nonexistent perfect parent. And it's not his fault that he is not Juan the Great, my oh-so thoroughly imperfect parent.
A wife in the mold of a Baptist Born Again'er submits. I know this, I've subscribed to it, I've heard and agreed with all the teaching on it, but I just don't have the tools to make it work.
It must start with recognizing that marriage is not about "you." And it starts with telling the truth about what you want in marriage and in home repairs. Can lying people even know what they want? Probably not... being disconnected from "truth" leaves you pretty disconnected from yourself; disabled in the transparent honesty department.
So, I guess submission demands honesty, and if you can't get that from your family of origin, your shrink, your being dashed about by a life of poor choices or from some high tech alteration to your deficient DNA (don't think I'm retarded, but that was my nickname growing up: "Retard..."), you'll get it from marriage sooner or later, if you hang around long enough. It comes from engaging in calm, patient dialogue. It comes after learning how to "shut up and wait" and from cultivating the ability to be OK with not always getting your own way; things this little zygote isn't sure about, because it's SO DARK in here.
And, because the grown-ups were once remote and distant, the certainty of a Creator who cares is still such a remote possibility; an abstraction. But, if I persist in believing that the black clay can miraculously emerge polished, elegant porcelain someday, I'll try to keep at it, remembering the cosmic dream of a God who loves His creation, and who breathes life into it in the fulness of time.
Honestly, it really is 'just a house.'
"If you can't see what I'm up to, well, I promise you'll find out soon enough. TrustMe."
OK. Once I'm born, I'll be GROWN UP THEN. Right? (Er, well, not exactly...let's talk more on that topic another time, little Z.)
*They say, "DENIAL IS NOT EVEN KNOWING THAT YOU'RE LYING."
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