Rings

I married Pete almost 15 years ago.  He's 18 years older than me.  He had a double bypass the year before we were married.  I was born the year he graduated from high school - I was a child still.  You can imagine that our family and friends had reasonable concerns about our future together.  In their polite way, they asked us whether or not this was a "good idea."  What if she isn't good for the boys?  What if she grows tired of him?  Are you ready to care for him or for the boys?  When we boiled down these concerns, they all seemed to asking this question, "do you know what you're getting into?"  And the answer to that question was, "no." 

Did we know what we were getting ourselves into?  No. 

I officiated a wedding this past weekend - a young couple from my church.  They've been together since high school.  As I got to know them, it was clear that they knew each other well and I even believed if I were to ask them, "Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" they may actually have said, "no."  They had already begun to make life and love together, life is fragile and unpredictable.

When we were choosing their vows, they wanted to say something that sounds like something they would actually say.  We worked out a new wording for the exchange of rings that I just love.   

I give you this ring
in hope that whenever you see it
you will remember that I love you. 

Remembering doesn't seem like much of a "doing" thing.  But I'd dare say that's it's essential in a partnership. 

Our wedding vows were based on the famous prayer attributed to St. Francis, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace."  Let me just say... we seriously didn't know what we were getting ourselves into!

Pete, I vow to be an instrument of peace in your life.  Where hatred grows, I will sow love.
when I am wronged, I will open my arms in forgiveness.
when there is discord, I will bring harmony.
where there is error, I will seek the truth with you.
when you doubt yourslf, I will have faith in you... 

Granted, I'm comparing the wording of her exchange of rings to my vows but I'm so intrigued that our vows are filled with "doing" - sowing love, opening my arms, bringing  harmony, seeking truth... we imagined a very busy life.  As if we believed that in doing all of those things, life would work out.  If I sowed love, opened my arms, etc... our life and love would be fill in the blank:  faithful, loving, successful, meaningful, healthy. 

Poet Laureate Donald Allen wrote a book of poems to and for his wife Jane Kenyon who died of cancer.  I haven't gotten past page 13, where I found this one: 

He hovered beside Jane's bed, 

solicitous: "what can I do?" 

It must have been unbearable 

while she suffered her private hurts

to see his own worried face 

looming above her, always anxious to do 

something when there was 

exactly nothing to do. Inside him, 

some four-year-old 

understood that if he was - thoughtful, 

considerate, beyond 

reproach, perfect - she would not leave him.

His wife, the one who is sick, having to endure her issues while answering the endless questions about doing and caring and controlling those things within his reach.  Him, the caregiver, suffering as he watches his wife leave him, reaching and groping, grasping and clinging to life.

Isn't there something I can do?  I want to do something.  We want to do something.  We want to participate in each others' life... and death.  Marriage to me was about participating in life together.  Partnership is about making life and love together. 

But sometimes there isn't something to be done.  And when that is true, I am grateful for the gift of remembering.  Remembering that Pete picked me and I picked him. 

After I pronounced the couple married, we watched them kiss, little simple kisses.  One kiss, then they looked at each other, two kisses, three kisses, stop for a look again, four kisses.  Then the bride face contorted into a glee-filled smile as she leapt forward to give him a long, loving hug. 

Sometimes there are days with nothing to do but remember.  And yet remembering causes me do what I can and so when I got home, I climbed into bed and gave Pete a long, loving hug.  That was my doing for the day.