Marriage: Like Oil and Water



By Tetine view original here.

“Like oil and water, that’s what we are,” laughs Jon, my hubby of twelve years, whenever I do something that drives him nuts, like let soap suds dry in washed cups, giving that next cup of coffee a ring of sour foam, or leave keys dangling in the front door (“Are you trying to leave an announcement for all the burglars in the area?!”) or sit in his Herman Miller in damp gym clothes, leaving a sweat spot on the seat, just for him.

Oil and water—that’s what we are, me the oldest born, him the youngest. Me the realist, him the idealist. Me thinking eating is about living and him thinking living is eating. Me out the front door ten minutes early, him putting on socks in the car. Me drinking coffee straight up, him drinking a little coffee with his Cold Stone creamer. Me focused on the task at hand, him pausing to ponder life.

But it’s our similarities, like our love for competition and all things athletic, that keep us loving life together. When we were college sophomores playing Speed in the Student Center, he beat me ten times in a row, and I threw the deck of cards in his face, and he laughed saying, “well, how bout another round of ten, make it twenty losses for you?” When he schooled me in basketball, I gave him a little roundhouse kick to the backside, and he just laughed until I started laughing. He stopped laughing when I beat him in a 5k by half a mile (secretly he’s proudJ), so this year we’re signing up for a mud run so we finish together.

We’re minimalists wearing thrift store steals, carrying flip phones, and driving rusty vehicles with missing door handles. We’re readers with ten books on hold at the library and a fetish for Amazon and Half Price Books. We’re talkers planning date nights with witty repartee over a glass of Moscato. We’re dreamers and cynics railing against the mundane, fighting for the beautiful.

We’re sinners needing oceans of grace.

Jon’s favorite verse—Galatians 2:20—has become our marriage verse, keeping us learning and loving through oil-and-water moments, the joys and pains of life. Our first year of marriage, teaching AP Lit. to seniors, buried under Hamlet essays and grading grammar tests, I wanted to make Jon something special for Christmas, so I decided to cross-stitch Galatians 2:20  in Greek—the whole verse—even though needles, thread and crafty things don’t come naturally to this wife.

But on Christmas Eve, with half the verse stitched on cloth cut too short to stretch, I drove to the custom framing shop down the street and begged the guy behind the white counter to help me figure out what to do with my half-verse stitched on too-small cloth. He helped me pick out a frame, directed me to some sticky-board for the cloth, and offered to cut a mat out of discounted remnants. I watched as he cut the rose-colored mat on the white counter with an exacto knife, watched as his fingers slipped and blood oozed.

As co-workers scrambled for the first aid kit, I stared at red blood oozing on white counter and thought of my half-verse: “I have been crucified with Christ, therefore I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”

It’s only after dying that you really live, that Christ lives in you.

Dying to Self, living to Christ, blends husband and wife together.

Christ living in me, living in Jon, breathes joy into our marriage, giving Grace for every-day oil-and-water moments and Hope for years to come.

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