Or For Worse

For better or for worse. We had a “for worse” last night.

I had a completely different post scheduled for today, but something happened last night that I haven’t been able to stop my mind from thinking about, my soul from processing, and my heart from reeling from.

Yesterday was a normal-ish one for us. Mitch and I carpooled to work together, him dropping me off and then going on with his day. I had a day trip to a water park with our students. We had a blast, playing in the water and in the hot sun all day… they loved it, as they usually do this trip. Returning back to the church at the end of the day, Mitch was waiting for me and together we drove home after I wrapped up a few last emails that needed sending. Plans of grabbing Subway on the ride home and taking it back to the house to sit, eat, and catch up on a few television shows kept us encouraged on the long drive home, knowing that our day could finally stop and we could finally unwind and relax. I took a nap on the drive; I’m tired all of the time anymore and long days like this one are proving hard, sometimes making me so tired I feel sick.

Back home, the house seems more familiar now, something I’ve been struggling with lately. The evolution of house to home is a slow fade, but these days mark days of progress. The house is cool, a respite from the hot air outside, some mail on the table, a handful of dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed, the faint, pretty smell of a Glade air freshener I’d bought the other day wafting around, and the couch inviting.

Our night is pretty well summed up in that picture above. Relaxing, eating, waiting for baby kicks. Unwinding. Sooner or later, bedtime came and Mitch went off to take a shower. I stayed on the couch, mustering up the energy to get up and begin the process of getting ready for bed. And then the sensation that I have grown to dread, and sometimes to fear, came over me. The one where everything I have worked for that day, all the energy I’ve spent, and all that I’ve digested wants to revolt. I know this feeling well at this point. There’s only so much I can do once it’s here and it usually always ends with me submitting to the physical weakness of my body and sprinting for the bathroom.

This time felt different, though. I dashed for the closest option, but for the first time, my body gave out before I expected. I only (just barely) made it to the sink. The sink full of dishes, full of to-do’s, full of home-making in the process. The kitchen that we’ve been cooking our first meals in our new home in. Next to the kitchen table that still wobbles a little because the legs need tightening, but holds so many memories of friends and family. My body recoils against the sink and any last remnants of control I have disappear as the sickness washes over and through me in harsh waves, one after another.

Tears start to fall as I gasp for breath and panic sets in because as I take in my situation, I realize… I need help. Usually, I can work through it, flush it all away, brush my teeth, and move on. But not this time. For some reason, this time I am helpless.

I called out to Mitch, who had been showering down the hall. I think he recognizes the desperation in my voice because the intensity in response, “Hang on, I’ll be right there!”, jars me back to what is happening. And then, for the first time in all of this… and maybe in all of our marriage… my body is filled with shame. Embarrassment, yes, and I’ve surely been embarrassed in front of Mitch before. But I’m learning that while embarrassment and shame are neighbors, they are completely different. Embarrassment is “what I’ve done”, while shame is “who I am”. And in this moment, I saw myself.

I am putrid. I am dirty. I am covered. I am the culprit of this mess. I am weak. And I was filled with shame, knowing that Mitch would soon walk into the room and see me as vile as I saw myself. Tears turned to sobbing, as I leaned against the counter, listening to Mitch jump out of the shower and run down the hall.

I remember saying, “Don’t come over here!”

“I don’t want you to see it.”

He did, of course, and said, “Step back. Come this way. I will clean it. Don’t worry about it, I will clean it.”

And, oh, I fought. “No! No, I don’t want you to clean it!”. The shame and humiliation coarsed through my body; all I wanted to do was prevent the man I love most in the world from having to enter into my darkest, most ill-inviting space.

But Mitch fought too, at one point sternly taking control of the situation, “Leslie, don’t argue with me. I need you to step back, I will deal with this.” He walked me back to the bathroom and the sickness came again, this time mostly out of disgust for myself and what I knew Mitch was about to deal with. I got into the shower as he grabbed the yellow latex gloves from under the sink and headed back to the kitchen. The shower was warm, but my tears were hot and burned my face as they continued to fall.

It was then that I realized the depth of unconditional love. And in that moment, Mitch taught me something about Jesus that I never saw before. My sickness was just plain vile and as I watched Mitch march right through the bathroom door into the thick of it, I realized that my sin is just as crude, just as dark, just as putrid.

And yet… without a question, Jesus steps right into it and says, “Step back, don’t worry about it, I will clean it.”. I think I often gloss over the nature of sin. Yes, it’s a word. But I saw the pure ugliness of it as I watched our sink, our home fill with the worst parts of me.

And yet…

I tried to hide it, tried to protect Mitch from it. I tried to deal with it on my own. “I don’t want you to see it” were the exact words out of my mouth. It was too putrid, dirty, weak. And yet.

“If you step back, I will deal with this.” What an invitation.

I showered myself clean, all the while hearing Mitch clean up the sink and floor and then the clink of dishes, meaning he just went ahead and washed the pile that had been sitting there, waiting, too. I cried myself to sleep that night as Mitch rubbed my back. These tears were different, though. Tears of deep humility, reveling in the fact that I am deeply, deeply loved. By my husband who waded through the worst of me. But also, by Jesus, who did the same and did it first. When we realize how deeply we are loved, it is life changing. It is humbling. It is heartbreaking, in the best way possible.

Mitch, I have always said that God brought you to me because He knew I needed you. I have always said that you are continuously teaching me. But on this completely normal-ish Tuesday night in July, you really changed my life. I know Jesus a little bit better because of you. Because you chose to love as Jesus loves. And I’m not sure that you realize it, but I can tell that my heart feels different. “Thank you” doesn’t quite cover it, but I think you know. Or at least, I hope you do.

“And I pray that you may have power to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” (Ephesians 3:18-19)