Sacraments on the refrigerator

Just like every other mom with a minivan, I think I’ve got a story to tell.  They must give out your google blogger password with the title to your Dodge Caravan and your Baby Bjorn.  All of us middle-class mommy bloggers have gotten wise on our own self-reflection.  I make fun of them because I am one of them.  I, too, have a few moments where God, like an AT & T customer in the 80s, reached out and touched me, moments of sacramental grace within the mundane.

    A few years ago, my husband and I were embroiled in a serious fight.  Grieving the loss of my father and navigating a change in career, I wrapped myself up in anxiety and narcissism.  My husband finally stood up to my bratty behavior, and then I fought back.  We said all the usual things, not really true things, but the things you say when you feel rotten and are angry:  “It’s always all about YOU!  You don’t UNDERSTAND me!  You keep trying to change and it never gets better!  You NEVER loved me!”  When I spoke those last words, my husband took a wrinkled, dog-eared scrap of paper out of his wallet and threw it on the table.  “Look at that and say I haven’t love you all these years,” he said.

    I stared at the scrap of paper, yellowed, wrinkled, and tattered, with my name and an old, old phone number.  Nine years ago, I’d given that number to him, on the night we met.  Nine years before this fight, where I questioned his devotion to me.  My husband, who is absolutely unromantic, unsentimental, straightforward, and brutally honest, had kept my phone number on the exact piece of paper in his wallet for all this time.  I had no idea he would do such a thing.  The moment I gave him that number was not one of those angels-singing-softly-lighted romantic moments where you realize you’ve met someone special.  It was a random night of partying at a random club with random people.  That chance meeting resulted in a long, meaningful relationship, but we surely didn’t know it then.  He had kept that scrap of paper through our dating, engagement, and marriage, through family crises, deaths of loved ones, vacations, new homes, fights.  He kept that one piece, which suddenly showed me how much he loved me.  It didn’t mean much, except it symbolized everything.  It symbolized the love that had been there all the time.

    One of our friends says, “Well, that must’ve shut her up.”  Yes, that little scrap of paper is a bit of a trump card in our marriage.  It is displayed on our fridge, now, with all the family snapshots and childrens’ artwork.  It reminds me that, even when I didn’t recognize it or acknowledge it, he loved me.  It is a symbol, a sacrament, of our relationship, something tangible to point to the love between two people.  I am not holding up my marriage as an example of marital bliss; we have our own bag of struggles, I assure you.  That moment, when my husband showed me that scrap of paper, which he held precious for so long, is a moment when God showed through the love of two people.  The best way we can experience the love of God is through each other.  There are moments of relationship with a spouse, parent, child, friend, or even a kind stranger where other people embody the unconditional love of God.  

    God loves us, whether we recognize it, acknowledge it, or return it.  God in Jesus Christ loves us when we act like narcissistic brats, when we question everything, when we treat the gifts we’ve been given in our life like a pile of crap.  Jesus loves us, whether we deserve it or not, and he always has.  When I was fighting and denying him, he was busy loving me.  When I was running away, he was keeping me safe.  Eventually, in my despair, I made the accusation, “You never LOVED me ANYWAY!” Then, I looked up and saw him, hanging on the cross.  It had been there all the time.  Yes, that will definitely shut me up.