There Will Be Blood

It’s one of those seasons where there is so much to do and little to write.  My business is going well, so well that my husband had a little chat with me re: the amount of time I am putting in to it.  I can understand that, some what, but I don’t feel guilty.  If he wants to play with me then he can’t watch Ice Station Zebra and Dangerous Catch all evening long. 

I am having trouble with my etsy purchase, mostly because the guy running it takes 3-4 days to return emails, or he doesn’t return them at all.  Oh, and when my logo/return address label/web address stamps came (it took a month to get here) one of them was for Karibou Kindness, an etsy store – not the stamp we ordered at all.  (As if you didn’t figure that one out yourself).  I had to go mail some cards anyway, so I mailed the rubber stamp to the folks in Provo.  The vendor had the nerve to send me a letter along with the stamp saying if we had any opinion, different than a five star rating, to be in touch and they will fix it.  This is what I want to do:

Tell them I require the www.ccc-cards.com stamp as proofed before

In addition I want a stamp with my name, Molly Malakoa, and phone number so I can stamp it on cards and give it to people instead of scribbling out my phone number on a small lined piece of paper.

come to think of that, maybe it’s not necessary.  I can probably make the business cards with the stamps due me.  One with the web address, one with the address and a hand written phone number.  I can even    wait until we’re about to leave and then write my phone number on the card to make them feel special.  I can write the website as well, which I think is a safer way to be in business.  I don’t know why I am being so careful about that.  I’ve had panic attacks lately – I nip them at the bud with my Ativan, but the fear remains.  

I thought I was going to die if I didn’t buy a muti-box of glitter.  It was large and beautiful.  I left the store but I had to come back.  It’s safely in my drawer right now.  Don’t try to take it, and you can’t borrow any.  Go ahead and try.  There will be blood.

 

The Family Tree Project

There are a lot of problems with the Family Tree Project. It’s not Mr. B’s, Small’s teacher’s, fault, but I am just uncomfortable with the entire idea.

When they assigned it to my aide’s daughter, she called it nosy. I don’t have much of a problem with that – but can see there are times when revealing my past would not do me well. When I worked in the capitol, I would introduce myself using my first and last name – both are rare. Occasionally someone would scrunch up their nose and try to think where they had heard the names before. The Capitol’s major and I share the same name, and that was probably why, but once or twice I said, “you don’t know anyone I’m related to.”

Now, fifteen years older, I see that was a snotty thing to say. While my parents were state employees, stirring around in law enforcement and tax evasion, my paternal grandfather was a tom cat, sprinkling the rest of us around the country. He was guilty of a lot of poop and I have never met him, nor will I ever. The man is dead, and lays in a pauper’s grave in the town my father grew up in.

My maternal grandfather was a carpenter. My grandmother was an artist. I have no shame that comes in that, but I do not bear their name. I can’t brag that I am one of them as soon as I am introduced to someone new. Those grandparents will take up a large amount of my daughter’s family tree. Their children might be another story, one being a leech and another a meth user. In my own recovery, though, I have met many an addict that is a genuinely good person who happens to have some serious problems that they solve (or don’t) using drugs. I am naive enough to believe the drugs I take are different than the drugs they do.

Enough for now. Monday my husband and I start marriage counseling. We’re dropping the baby at 3:30 and the sitter will have her until 7. Will keep you up to date.

Just Married! (For ten years)

I’m up and down.  Therapy is going well and my husband and I are going to go to marital counseling and he is cool with it.  Last time we had any sort of family therapy the social worker said she’d never met such resistance.  There wasn’t resistance, it’s just that my husband is shy and very private I  keep some things to myself. I’ll participate in therapeutic groups, but I am guarded.   My new psychologist pointed out that every time she tried to steer things about my marriage I guided that boat away.  I went to a counselor and I didn’t bring my husband up for over a year and she respected that.  Not exactly relevant and we will see how therapy goes.  We have been on three dates in the last two and a half.  It’s kind of ridiculous.  If I’m not on top of things we don’t spend any time alone at all.  Ah, I’m complaining.  

 

I wonder if you read the Break (the blog entry above this one).  I may do the yoga tonight as prescribed and I really hope I do.  It’s the only time I feel in control.  I don’t know how spending 30 minutes  doing one thing effects your whole day.  I have a good idea how a pill or a drink do, though.  It might be the same with the exercise.  I’m sure there are people I could ask (hello, Hubo?) but I don’t want to know.  Not now anyway.  I feel like I need to get my lifer in order.  I just realized that I say that all the time, and that I do not know what it means.  It meant getting my weight under control and reading my Bible.  It’s time to re-evaluate.  I don’t know exactly where to start.  My work book given to me by my therapist is about automatic thoughts and emotions and how to look at things reasonably.  I’m not so great about that, but everyone has a place to start, right?  The psychologist said I was better off than a lot of her other clients.  I did creative things, had good organizational skills and worked towards getting well.  A lot of hers just lay on the couch and watch t.v. all the time.  I remind myself of this.  It is possible for me to be better, but my life is worth living.  I just want more from it

Bells Might Ring

A lot of my friends are getting divorced, or want a divorce. It seems kinda funny to me, but I’ve heard this story before. Most of us marry in our twenties. A lot of us divorce in our thirties/early forties. Some of us want to remarry, and divorce with the hope they will find someone better, others swear they will never marry again.

My therapist is about six feet tall and has a Ph.D. She has been married five times and told me that her husband of many years is almost perfect. She says that moving out to California was a challenge before because of her liabilities, namely the height and education. I don’t know if Californians are less intimidating here in California or what, but she met her husband that day she moved here. Good for her. She is a smart cookie and I like her much more than I thought I would.

She rarely works with bipolar patients, but that is okay. She said that I do quite well. Many of her patients lie on the couch and watch t.v. all the day. I do creative, productive things and have relationships. I liked that she said that. I wonder if it is a disguise or what. My illness doesn’t spread over everything I do. There are days I am totally in control, and there are others where I run up a $350 bill on art supplies. Last week I had really bad cycling. I had minutes where I said, “What is bipolar, anyway? I don’t have it, I feel great.” By the time I parked my car I was ready to die. That went on about three days. It was thrilling and disappointing. I wasn’t sure if it what would happen. There was no living in the present. I like that idea, living in the present can be wonderful so some people, but when one is suicidal, there is nothing to comfort yourself in that moment. To live with a mood disorder means living in the next moment, and knowing that the moment will change.

More about that later.

Sabotage/Submarines/Serafina

I made a delicious, sweet, crispy bowl of popcorn today, popped in pure virgin coconut oil It was fantastic and I ate a ton of it. Weight Watchers be darned! I knew what I was doing for the first time. I was not just crunching on some of the best popcorn I ever had, I was making sure I didn’t lose any more weight.

I’m nine pounds away from my goal weight. I’m tall, so it’s 169 pounds. I now weight 178. I weighed 207 and I was, as precious T says, “Hiding under a mound of fat.” We go to Weight Watchers together and she lost four pounds last week. I lost .8, which B considerately pointed out to me, “is a glass of water.”

So, what’s the deal with this popcorn? It’s obviously self-sabotage. But why? I think this is one of the whys: What if I lose all this weight and my life doesn’t change? What if it all stays the same? I’m 35, cute enough but not as cute as the “older” girls who take gymnastics at Small’s old studio. When I’m overweight, and alone, no one opens doors for me. I don’t get at lot of smiles from strangers. I would like that back. But what if nothing changes? It’s not just the pounds on a scale that I hope to change.

B wants me to do kettlebells most everyday. According to one of his gurus, Kettlebells and push-ups or weighted squats and push-ups are the easiest way to take off fat. I could do this. It would speed things up considerably: Weights are like that. I would look sleeker, muscle burns more calories than fat. Would it solve anything? Would he and I still fight? Would he be satisfied with just that short routine? He says he wants me to do it for himself, not for me. Do I even know what that looks like? Am I brave enough to find out?

Yoga is a very good thing for me. It stretches me out, gets out the kinks in my lower back and heals my left shoulder (injury sustained by sleeping awkwardly in a van back in 2001.) when I do it consistently. Do I do it every day? No. According to something I read someone at my level should be practicing three times a week. I believe them, I’m honestly just not truly ready to commit.

It’s all like having triplets. I have three things I want to do most everyday and it feels like too much. In reality, it’s not. Weight Watchers does take about an half an hour a day. Kettlebelling? Probably twenty minutes. Yoga? Between 15-50 minutes. I have that much time. I’m a writer and I work at home. But still, I don’t really want to do it because I do not want to be strong, sleek and powerful. I want to be kinda tubby, a good-enough mama and a good-enough person. If I wanted to do more, I honestly would. The evidence says that I do not.

I am reminded of a writing contact T gave me. I could have written for her friend’s magazine. I was too shy and I didn’t do it. Or at least that was my excuse. Reflecting back, years later, I believe I just didn’t want to do so. If I did I would have pursued it and would have done a fantastic job. I thought I wanted it, but I didn’t want it badly enough. Blew it.

I used to believe that the person who is unhappy single will be an unhappy spouse. B completely changed my mind. After we got married, I was still a slave to my moods (not diagnosed with bipolar yet) but he was mostly happy and said to a friend, “it’s like all those years of loneliness have been washed away.” I can be the moody one or the thankful one as far as this great big change happens to me. I do not know which one I will be.

P.S. I get to babysit today! LS is watching Small during my parent teacher’s conference and I am watching her son during his. It’s a thrill, really, to have someone trust me enough to watch her kid. LS is an easy person to do things for, and she is generous. Can I praise God for this? I’ll even share my popcorn.

P.P.S. The title of this post doesn’t mean anything of substance. Or at all.

She didn’t want me anymore

I’m noticing a theme in my entries. A good portion of them talk about losing friends, how I felt about it, and why I think I felt that way. I can tell you that my feelings are as real as the experiences, but they’re not the whole story.

Most relationships are fluid. I don’t know why it happens that way. I have a few sturdy relationships, those that last and get stronger sometimes, then weaker, but are always close. My brother is one, Mauditmo is one, and I hope my husband is one.

What makes them different than the other people I’ve written about? I don’t know. My brother and I are almost four years apart. He is so physically gorgeous I had a therapist once ask me if there was any animosity on my part. (He looks like one of the guys from those teen vampire flicks) There has never been any animosity, for one I had been raised by my parents to believe I was one of the most beautiful girls the world had ever known. I realize now that is not true. I am not unattractive, but I have acne scars and Hermione hair (most of the time). I am also thirty-five and rarely wear make-up. If I cared, I would. I think if he had been the sister I so desperately wanted, of we were closer in age I might have felt that way, but I didn’t, and never have. I doubt I ever will.

I think what makes Mauditmo and me friends after all these years is devotion. We are hardly alike at all. Her family background and mine are polar opposites. She likes four seasons, she gets to study and write all over the United States. I forwarded her a funny youtube video and she not only didn’t laugh, she told me her life was not a whole lot different than it was at twenty-one. She doesn’t do anyone’s laundry but her own. I do a lot of laundry, tiny dresses and panties, sweaty t-shirts and a lot of lounge pants. We’ve traveled together, loving the coast while we headed to Canada. We’ve taken long round trip friends to the city where both of our extended families still live.

She is also considerably smarter than most people, including me. I am considerably more spiritual and am devoted to Jesus. Religion is not on the radar for her. She’s studying at an extremely prestigious writing school and I am writing a blog in my two story track home. My seven year old is waiting down stairs for me to help her learn to ride a bike. She doesn’t really want to. My husband says she just doesn’t want to do something hard.

I best go.

My husband is the one I worry about, to be honest. He loves me; I love him. We are supposed to sustain this love forever. It’s a source of fretting. I think we will be together, and I have reasons why: our vows. We both promised in sickness and in health and there has been a lot more sickness around here lately. Good thing it’s so specific.

The odds for us are not good. 90% of marriages, where one partner is bipolar, end in divorce. B wants to approach heaven with the confidence that will come with making a marriage to a bipolar woman work. It’s not only my issues, though. He knows that, and certainly God knows that.

Believing in the One

For many, many years I worked in youth ministry at an Evangelical Christian Church. Please don’t stop reading – I’m not going to walk you through the Four Spiritual Laws (I have a problem with them anyway.) I’m not going to offer a free Bible if you subscribe. I’m just going to talk about dating, courtship and marriage. Just that.

In our group we discouraged dating in High School. It was a time to be “on fire” for God and to focus on His relationship with us and ours with Him. We should study, have a lot of fun, and do our best to remain pure in every single way. We saw kids who were strong in their faith felled by relationships. I would say to the girls, and I believed it then and believe it now, that the question we should ask is not, “How far can we go physically?” but rather, “How far can I go to be a blessing to God?” I don’t know if anyone ever listened to me, but it’s a good question. I should ask myself that more often.

I heard a lot of stupid things about marriage and dating at that time. One of the kids once told me that relationships were like a pyramid with God at the top. The two of you are on the edge, and the closer they get to the top the closer they get. I didn’t buy that for a second, and I told her so. The unmarried members of the staff were far more Godly and could be committed to God because of their singleness.

I read some books. A lot of them focused on saving the entirety of yourself for your one true soul mate. I wanted (still do) for the to wait for marriage to have a physical relationship, but I don’t think there is a call to wait for that soul mate. I saw relationships continue a lot longer than they should have because they believed since they were both Christians they wouldn’t have been brought together if they weren’t perfect for each other. I’ve also seen young people stay in physical relationships because they believe to be “married in the eyes of God.” They weren’t. (If there is a call for me to write more about this here, or to dash out an email I will). But that’s the danger of one of the “soul mate” designs.

Here is another reason why: Say some kids decide they like each other. They decide to be in an exclusive relationship. The do not have sex of any kind. (This is actually pretty funny to me – do you think you’re fooling God by “just” having oral sex or “just” groping one another?) The couple does share a lot of things with their girlfriend or boyfriend but the relationship doesn’t work out. Not only are they broken-hearted they feel like they’ve dishonored and misunderstood God. They thought that this relationship was going to be their last, but it wasn’t. Their faith in God’s leading takes a blow and guilt sets in. They feel that they did something very wrong.

I think it’s not necessarily true. After I become a Christian, I learned it was possible to love God through a relationship that didn’t ultimately end in marriage. We shared a lot of our lives together and I believe he saw us on a marriage track. I didn’t feel the same, but after a short time, we were able to be good friends. We didn’t belong together and the reality was both of us knew it. He came a long way to attend our wedding.

Some people argue that a heart that is never broken is no way to begin a relationship. I don’t know if I agree or not. In Genesis, the Bible says, “And Isaac brought Rebekah into his mother Sarah’s tent, and she became his wife. He loved her deeply, and she was a special comfort to him after the death of his mother.” We can be there for each other, renew our souls and teach us trust. I’m not recommending serial dating, I don’t think that’s healthy either, but there are many rules that we taught that aren’t necessary true or Biblical.

The paths are different for everyone. It goes back to everyone’s Journey. I believe in seeking counsel, but I also believe that ultimately the decision needs to be 100% up to the couple. That said, I don’t think you can be 100% sure. You can be sure about your commitment to marriage, but without some sort of doubt you can’t have faith. Marriage is a huge act of faith. What are you to know about the next five, ten or fifty years? You can’t know what will happen in one year. We were married about two and a half when I was diagnosed with bipolar illness. I’m quite sure my husband clung to the fact he told God and everyone, he married me and would stand by me “in sickness and in health….as long as we both shall live.”

I know that my husband is the “one” for me. Ya know how? Because I’m married to him. I took a huge leap and found myself in love, pleasing to God and matched up. We’ve had quite a bit of troubles sometimes, but we are still together because we told God we would and because He is welding us together. We disconnect sometimes and truly connect other times. We both promised each other, and the people that watched we get married that we would do all we could to serve and love each other. We promised God we would, too. When our pastor asked B why he was sure I was the right one, B said it was because of the sense of “peace”. It’s funny to hear a man I respect and admire ask the question I think is most silly. He has an enviable relationship with his wife and family. For him, there might have been just “one”. I’m okay with that, even though I believe it is not true of every couple.

Happy Birthday, Mama (G)

(Although I consider this G rated, there are some things about child birth you may not want your young children to read about)

Seven years ago tomorrow began the longest, greatest stretch in my journey. I became somebody’s mommy.

I got pregnant Thanksgiving, started vomiting the day after Christmas and stopped being sick August 24, when I began to labor. During those eight months, I would sometimes had to throw up in the middle of the night. I had a trash can by my bed. Those nights led to particularly terrible days.

With my attitude, I sort of deserved to be sick. I knew several women who were very sick, sicker than me. They were on bedrest, or had very high blood pressure, or diabetes, in addition to their vomiting. I secretly thought, “Sure, they can be sick, they don’t have jobs to go to.”

If was as if my body responded to my arrogance. The morning bell for my math class would ring, I would run to the bathroom to throw up, and get back in time to teach. Nausea would be at break. I had a freshman boy doing some studying in my class and when I started puking my guts out he came in to my tiny office and patted my back.

Not everyone was so kind. I had a co-worker remind me that, “this is what you wanted.” I thought the comment, while probably well intentioned, was stupid. Who signs up for eight months of vomiting? I had another person tell me that his friend had tried for years to get pregnant, and when she finally did she said the nausea, “felt good.” As if.

We went to the hospital and should have been sent home. I labored and their information turned out to be unhelpful. They wanted to give me pitocin to rush things along, but I really wanted to give birth unmedicated. They told me to walk up and down the hall. I did, obediently. After a while of this, another nurse told me it would inflame my cervix. Thanks, nurse.

An annoying white woman came in to her shift and the other nurse introduced her. The first thing the new nurse said to me was, “I have ouchies.”

This pissed me off to no end. Number one, I can only tolerate baby-talk with babies, not even with nurses, and especially not when I have been in labor for eighteen hours. Also, we had requested that medication not be offered. She didn’t care, she just wanted to be cute. I asked my husband to get her the hell of of here and he wouldn’t. The labor was made manageable in the shower and my husband was right there with me. I got out of the shower and was gasping for pain. I did that every single time they took me out for vitals. The for last time they told me I was going to have an epidural and going to have pitocin.

No, I wasn’t.

Earlier in the labor a nurse suggested nubain. She was a former midwife and said it worked mildly to help labor along. I know you home birthers and unassisted birthers are gasping in horror. I’m sorry, but it was our only hospital option. I was afraid of pitocin because I heard it can cause a rodeo of contractions and make things totally unmanageable. An epidural seemed as reasonable as a shot of heroin to me. After they told me I needed it I started to cry.  My husband asked some important questions about the nubain, and they were not really answered. The ouchie-nurse said that the epidural wouldn’t effect the baby, but they didn’t know about the nubain for sure. We knew what she said about the epidural was not necessarily true.

We took the nubain. It put me to sleep in between contractions, and fifteen minutes later, after being dilated 3 centimeters for nineteen hours I was 10. I didn’t remember what that meant: I was too drowsy. I had been awake for twenty hours. They were cheering and looking at me for a response. I sort of woke up.

The doctor told me to push when it hurt. Abysmal advice, but I followed it. I asked for a mirror so I could watch, and that did nothing except me think, “huh.” I ultimately looked at my husband, who was holding my leg. His face was filled with shock and awe and was the only thing I could really see. The baby popped out shortly after that. I asked if she was a boy or a girl. “A girl”, said the doctor. I had secretly wanted a girl, I had whispered it to her while she was in my womb. I got her.

Looking back, I had a hospital managed birth. I never wanted that, I thought that I could have a birth on my terms and I couldn’t. I don’t have the choice to make again. If I did, I think we would have scraped together the money to give birth at a birthing center where I could have relaxed in the tub and been given real assistance in delivering my baby.

Now I will probably never have the chance again.

I saw my OB (who was on vacation the week I gave birth.) I told her about the nubain.  She said I could still say I had an unmedicated birth.  Nubain was like a tiny, homeopathic remedy.  I didn’t believe her, and don’t believe her, but I do tell anyone who asks that I did it without an epidural.  Although of course things would have been ideal without the drug, I believed that was the only thing that made my baby’s birth’s possible.  (I know that is not true, now)

All that to say, in the end, I got my baby girl.

Step 3?

Someone tell me how to make amends.  I spent $260+ on clothes, shoes and a shelf.  And a few other things.  I knew how much it was and I knew I had to talk to B about it, but he got to our check register first.  He was furious.

$260 is a very large sum of money for us.  We have little to live on for the rest of the month, for gas and groceries.  (We have a lot of food in our larder, don’t send us grocery store coupons.)  He wants me to return as much as I can and make amends.  He wants me to clean the house.

From what I read on AA webpages, making amends needs to be something linked to the offense.  Returning the goods or repaying the $260 are good examples of making amends.  Asking “what can I do?” is not a good example because it shows the offender doesn’t understand the nature or depth of the offense.  B wants me to scrub the house.  I am doing it, but I am neutral.  I’m not doing it because I want a clean house.  I honestly don’t care one way or another if the house is clean.  I’m not motivated by love.  I love my husband but I am not cleaning to make him happy.  I just feel nothing about this job.  It’s true I’ve spent about an hour on the computer when I could be scouring the shower floor, but my knees were hurting.  And I hadn’t looked at  facebook all day.

He was very very very angry last night.  He didn’t sleep well and he was still angry at me when he left for work.

I thought we had arrived at some understanding.  When I go on a spree (and this won’t be my last) I move blithely through the store, picking out things I like and things I think I should have.  The later is the danger, because I don’t want to take those things back.  Sure, I’ll return the things I just like, but the things I need, like the $6.99 swimsuit, are different stories.  I got a lot of pants 70% off and I do not want to return them.  They fit me, unlike much of the other clothes I have.  And it’s only $14 I’ll get back.  It seems not worth the trouble to do so.  I am really not myself when I’m shopping.

When I come down from the high, I feel really guilty.  I am ashamed at what I did.  I am convicted that not lying is not the end of God’s instruction, but deception is also condemned over and over again.  I hide the things I bought.  I take off the tags.  I seek out more.

There is an embossing plate collection that I have a 50% coupon for.  It’s ten plates, and plates are usually $4.99.  After the coupon, they could be $1 each.  I want them.  I think I need them and have to have them.  I know I am wrong!  But the drive is in me and I almost feel desperate to own it.  I try and think about how I can get the $10.  Can I return something so I have the cash?  Can I take money from the community change drawer?  (If you have ideas, just let me know.)

I don’t know what I’m going to do next.  I have to go this afternoon to return the shelf and some clothes.  It won’t be enough, I know.  I won’t be “allowed” to buy anything for a very long time.  I hate being treated like a child.  People say that B can be controlling, and it’s true, but I think part of it is trying to manage a mentally ill spouse.  He doesn’t know anyone else who has a wife with bipolar, and 90% of bipolar people’s marriages fail.  He and I both are committed to our marriage.  He needs support but we’re not going to drive an hour + for a support group filled with a bunch of sick people either (a) feeling sorry for themselves or (b) 300 pounds because they take Seroquel and use it as an excuse to drink a milkshake everyday. I was on that path and want to stay as far from it was possible.

Sigh.  I wish I could fix things, and I’m sure that I can, but I’m not going to do as good of a job as possible.  I won’t blame it on the mania, I’m just too selfish.

I’ve known you three months. Will you marry me?

I was asked today why Christians get married so fast.  Is it the no sex outside of marriage, thing?  Or what?

What I write here is solely my opinion.  I can’t really know why other people get married so quickly – We took our time more than others.  Partially because we were old, in the Christian world.  Well, actually, my husband was old in almost any world – he was 37.  That felt ancient at the time.  Now that I’m 35, it doesn’t seem so old, although it feels like a huge change in lifestyle is more than my thirty-five year old life could take.  I was twenty-six at the time, and I’ll count it before you do – there are eleven years between us.  That is a different story.

We went on a date November 2, Casablanca at the FOX theater in Oakland.  He said he was going with a group of friends, and when we I got there, there were no friends.  He said he asked some people but no one else could come.  I believe him, although I think you probably don’t.

For whatever reason, we got to spend some time together but he didn’t ask me out for four months.  At that time, after we saw a school play, I told him it was time for us to date.  He agreed and told me he wasn’t going to call my dad and tell him that he wanted to marry me.  Let’s remember, this is more date 1 1/2 than two.  Date 3 1/4  was his mother’s house for an Oscar Party.  For some reason that didn’t feel weird at all.  He held my hand and kind of petted me a lot.  His mom brought out the family albums, and I admit that that made it a tad weird.  She said she assumed we had been dating a while, who would bring a new girlfriend to meet his mom?   Later she was a tad embarrassed, but I think that is reasonable, and not a big deal.  It didn’t scare me off.

So, in our case, it took four months to go from watching a movie without holding hands to I want to marry your daughter.  We dated, we had a lot of fun, and a few months later he told me that he was going to go to our Pastor and tell him he wanted to marry me.

He didn’t really check with me.  There was no proposal, just marriage talk.  I was okay with that for a while, then I got freaked out.  If we married quickly, we could have married that summer.  We didn’t.  In fact we didn’t get married until the next summer, and didn’t officially get engaged until February, and married in July.

I’ve heard from an especially vocal pastor’s wife, many times, that Christians shouldn’t have long engagements.  I think it’s one of those things each couple has to decide for themselves, and it’s not really her business anyway.  We wanted a five month engagement, and I admit things heated up considerably between us when we were officially engaged.  We weren’t having sex, heck, we weren’t even making out.  We did a lot of wrestling, though.

I know many couples that met, dated for three months and were engaged three months.  There are more than a few that had a new baby before their first anniversary.  (Many conceived on their honeymoon.  It works for them.  I think the idea of “trusting God” comes in the whole thing.  They believe they are in God’s will and they want to jump on it, as some miracle of faith will guarantee a happy marriage.  I hate the phrase  ”trusting God.”  I love God, He is my father, friend and lover, but the times that I hear that I generally want to scream.  ”I am not going to observe in the 2nd grade classrooms to pick a teacher because I am going to trust God.”  (Passivity is not the same thing as trusting God.)  ”I don’t have health insurance because that means that I am not trusting God with my health.  If you have insurance and get sick it’s because you aren’t trusting God.”  The phrase is used to bully and manipulate.  Maybe you aren’t ready to do something, even though you feel compelled to.  Does that mean you aren’t trusting God?  Does anyone have the right to tell you that?  I’m thinking no.

There are other reasons, too.  My friends were going to get married, but had a very narrow time period when they would because of her visa status.  They planned ahead, kept their engagement secret, and were not engaged a super long time. My friends were having a long distance relationship and couldn’t live apart any longer.  Others got pregnant and felt compelled to marry right away. I know one couple that met and married within a week.  They have six kids and live in relative peace.

So will I marry you?  Okay.  I guess so.  I will.  I did. I mean, not right now.  I mean.  No.  Yes.  Sigh.  Can I have a minute to think it over.  Or a day?  Or a year?