We laugh about it now, some 15 years later. But at the time?
Not so funny.
The doctor, with his face mere inches from mine, was sweating as he gripped my left wrist, employing a tool that looked like a can opener to saw apart my wedding band.
This thing is impossible to cut, he moaned, grimacing at my husband, like a helpless child whining for sympathy. Care to spot me here? He said to Jon. I’m exhausted.
Cry me a river, I thought rather uncharitably while trying to sit perfectly still. It’s my finger that is stuck, not yours.
Of course I spoke none of this aloud.
An hour earlier that afternoon, I was standing at our kitchen sink, attempting to slice through frozen chicken.
When the blade slipped, it traveled full speed, slicing my finger so swiftly, so deeply that I had no time to remove my wedding band as I watched my finger balloon. I lunged for paper towels to staunch the flow, but they did nothing. I squeezed my finger hard and applied as much pressure as I could, growing increasingly queasy as my husband raced me to the walk-in clinic, where we were escorted into a utilitarian room and met by a young doctor and his shiny cutting gizmo, which apparently required more effort than his smooth hands cared to exert.
After my husband pitched in, and following what felt like an eternity, the ring broke, and the horrifying choking sensation in my ring finger ceased. I was heartbroken to see my wedding band in pieces.
//
I have long enjoyed good health. With the exception of the ring episode, I have experienced few injuries.
Until now.
This past year has been uncharted territory, wild and uncomfortable, marked by frequent limping and pain. It is remarkably humbling to accept that, at least for now, I have limitations.
Yet through ongoing affliction, the Lord has granted me a sweet comfort, a balm: my husband. In this unbidden round of weakness, I see clearly that I am married to an Ephesians 5:25 man, who has faithfully served me while simultaneously shouldering his own heavy workload.
For 32 years, my primary job, and greatest delight, has been caring for my husband, our family, and our home, working hard to build a sanctuary in this noisy, distracting world. My labors to cook, clean, homeschool, organize, and build a peaceful, orderly home have been a deep joy, not an unwanted chore.
Now, as an empty nester, I am stunned by how jarring it feels to be physically sidelined, and how strangely lonely it seems to require help during this season of injury. I often feel like a nuisance, a burden, and oh, how I long for my former independence, a return to normalcy. Hasn’t it always been thus? One of my very first recorded sentences as a toddler was: I do it.
So yes, receiving help has never really been my strong suit, but nevertheless, here I am. God has carved out this path of suffering for me, and I would do well not only to accept it, but to kiss the Potter’s hands that are shaping me.
My bi-vocational pastor husband, who, trust me, has enough on his plate, has risen to embrace this fresh challenge by serving me daily, without one smidgen of complaint. His ongoing question throughout each day is: Kristin, do you need anything? As he goes on to fill both bird feeders up to the brim, water plants, steep hot tea, take out our dog, vacuum the living room, mop the floors, or surprise me by bringing home dinner. This man continues to outdo himself in showing honor, choosing to come alongside me in my season not of plenty but of want, not in my better but in my worse, not in my health but in my affliction.
Let’s face it: it cannot be fun.
While he has long been a servant-minded man, I have felt his presence more fully this last year.
//
When we stood facing each other in a quaint New England church over 32 years ago and said I do, we were young, tan, fresh-faced and strong, plus utterly naive to the full weight of our vows. A bold promise spoken unto God: till death us do part.
All is typically bliss on the wedding day, but once the warp and woof of life together as husband and wife begins: work, bills, all-day morning sickness, broken-down cars, children running fevers, and frivolous disagreements that soon chafe, the honeymoon comes to a screeching halt.
Such trials serve as a looking glass, reflecting who we truly are, for better or worse.
Lest you imagine my husband and I have a perfect Christian marriage, know that we certainly do not. Here is the plain truth: there is no such thing as a storybook marriage, because every husband is married to a sinful wife, and every wife is married to a sinful husband. And who truly wants a flimsy fairytale, anyway?
Not me. I prefer a rugged, Velveteen Rabbit marriage, hard-won, in which two people keep trusting God as they grow older, committed to dying more and more to themselves, taking up their cross, and following Jesus. Marriages made of Christian disciples, one man and one woman anchored in the Lord, will not keep score, but strive to serve the other tirelessly, through good times and bad.
Our decades together have at times been rocky, and at times peaceful, most certainly an adventure, full of gently sloping hills and pitch-dark valleys; I love yous, mingled with plenty of painful apologies. God has graced us with the gift of a long Christian marriage, not a fairy tale, but a union that continues to gradually strengthen with age and fatigue and injury and wrinkles. This is only possible because God is at the center; it is he who joined us, and he who continues to chisel us through many sufferings until one day soon, we will resemble his magnificent Son.
What God has joined together, let man not separate.
//
This thing is impossible to cut, said the doctor many years ago.
As it should be.
Did I tell you my husband scooped up my severed wedding band and paid the jeweler to solder it back together?
This is the hard-working man whom I married. I tell you, he is no quitter.
Like God, he keeps taking our broken pieces and repairing them, while loving me, still.
For life.
A gold circle without end, scuffed but intact, till death us do part.
