Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: The Question
I knew something was wrong with our Suburban for a while. But, like most things, until it was an emergency, I was not going to do anything about it. My husband was still in season working 16-hour days when it started sounding funny, so I didn’t have his help to diagnose the problem. I thought that maybe there was some debris stuck in the wheel or tire. Surely, the squeaking sound I was hearing off and on was eventually going to resolve itself, right? After a month or so of rationalizing the strange things I was hearing from my car, I finally caved after Dave commented that it was driving funny. When we returned from our annual post-season vacation to Hawaii, I made an appointment to have it checked.
The 15-minute drive to the mechanic was peaceful, the bright winter sun warming my face as we laughed and sang along to the music, still in vacation mode. The mood changed in an instant as I went to hit the brake, and my foot slammed all the way to the floor. The whole car shuddered as I vice-gripped the steering wheel, willing the car over to the side of the road. When I finally had the car pulled into a safe space, I realized time had warped to a standstill. As I relaxed my hands and took a few deep breaths, time began to move forward again. My entire body was shaking as I unloaded the kids and the stroller, still reeling from how quickly it all happened. Dave drove the final two blocks to the repair shop while I waited at the park, still trembling as I watched the kids happily racing around the playground, unaware of the miracle that had just occurred for us to walk away unscathed.
An hour later, the mechanic called. “Well, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, the entire wheel bearing came clean off, and the brake on that side failed as well. The good news is, we can get the repair done today, and you’ll be back on the road!”
Are you kidding me?! I thought. What if we had been driving down the freeway when that had happened? What would I have done if I had been alone?
Overwhelmed with relief, we turned the day into a family adventure. We played at the park, got coffee, and went for a long walk by the creek. The glorious and rare sunny February day felt idyllic considering the circumstances, and we made the most of it. We picked up the car after dinner, grateful that we were safe and relaxed after a fun, spontaneous family day. It wasn’t until we got home that I allowed myself to acknowledge that the wheel was coming off our family, too.
Unloading the kids from the car, exhausted from the roller coaster of a day, Dave jolted me back to reality. “Hey, Jason and I are going to go grab a beer.”
The joyride of our post-vacation glow and the relief of a near-catastrophe-turned-unexpected-adventure came to a grinding halt as I stared down the face of how I really felt. Sure, the season was over, and his hours were better for family life, but he was still going to be on his own program when something came up that he didn’t want to miss out on. I was left to take care of our home. Alone. Again.
“So, I’m just going to put the kids to bed by myself then?” There was no doubt my cutting tone revealed the anger I felt at yet another night left to manage on my own. He paused, looking at me for an indication of what his next move should be.
“No, it’s fine. Just go.”
He waited, gauging my reaction and words for their merit. I felt the icy claw of resentment slowly replace the heat of seething anger coursing through my body. Knowing that my feelings had not made a lasting change before, even if I spoke them aloud, I turned on my heels and started the bedtime routine.
It wasn’t until later that night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep despite the million thoughts in my head, that I began to process what I was feeling. In my anger, I wanted so badly just to roll over and go to sleep, to somehow make him pay for his decisions with a few days of distance and silence. I had done just that many times before, and although it didn’t actually fix anything, it made me feel better, and I knew how to manage that response. The problem was, I had started the book The Power of a Praying Wife, and I couldn’t shake what I was learning. I had opened it a few months earlier in my desperation and loneliness over a long away-game weekend. Looking for anything that would fix my silent struggle, I reached again for the book that had been a wedding present but sat collecting dust on our shelf for years.
The very first chapter made it clear that in order to pray for your husband, you have to first start “by praying for his wife.” The book is filled with topical prayers to pray for your husband, but I never got to any of those. I kept rereading the first chapter, unable to move on. On those late nights during the season, I had started asking the Lord to show me what I needed to change. Lying there again this night, I felt the distinct impression that I was not supposed to go to sleep, that I wasn’t to retreat to my old way of handling it. Tired and frustrated, I went to the next place of comfort: the fridge.
Staring blankly into the glowing light, I heard the guys talking downstairs. They had decided to stay in for drinks and cigars instead of going out. Curious, I crept to the top of the stairs to listen in. Were they praying? Now I was really confused. What was going on? After a few minutes of trying to hear what was being said, I settled back into bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I waited for whatever it was that I was supposed to be staying up for.
A little while later, my husband lumbered into bed, smelling strongly of cigars and beer. I think he was surprised to see me awake. Normally, I would have gotten into bed and willed myself to sleep so I didn’t have to deal with his coming in late. If he felt my resentment, he certainly didn’t let on. Instead, he excitedly launched into how great it was going to be having the players over to our house. “You know, to witness our marriage and family, to see how we do it here.”
Then the whisper in my heart changed everything, just as the brake failure on the Suburban had earlier. I waited quietly for a minute, gathering up the courage for what was about to come out of my mouth.
“This marriage?” I breathed out.
“You don’t think so?” he scoffed.
“I mean, I think we love each other. I think we have fun together. I think we do day-to-day life together day well. But do I think we have the type of marriage that the Bible talks about? Not really.”
The silence lay heavy in the darkness. I didn’t dare move, afraid if I rolled away, we might pretend I hadn’t said anything, and the conversation might end.
“Are you happy? I asked, somewhat bracing myself.
His response was immediate, hitting like a ton of bricks.
“No.”
It was flat. Truthful. Stark.
My relief was immediate. I wasn’t crazy. All this time, I thought that I was the only one feeling this way. I thought that something must have been wrong with me for feeling unsatisfied when so much of our life was good. This? This was new. Acknowledging that we were both profoundly dissatisfied had never happened before.
Nothing more was said after that. I think we both knew something deep in our marriage had shifted. As we drifted off to sleep in the silence, I could feel it. The tiniest spark of hope was kindled, beginning what would eventually turn into a wildfire, burning down the old marriage and bringing something entirely new from the ashes.