A Journey in Marriage: Detach and Attach Part 1

At the time of writing, my time on earth has been measured to put me in a category of the early forties.

My first conscious memory is of an incident when I was maybe three or four years old. This means that I’ve got a recollection of being me for almost four decades. As God would have it, those four decades could be neatly cut in half to portray two very different parts of what it means to be me. The underlying truth in both those parts is that God is good and He knows what He’s doing. The corresponding part of that truth to bear in mind is that although He’s good and He knows what He’s doing, I don’t always know that, I don’t always believe that and I don’t always experience that. It’s sometimes only when I look back that I can see with the benefit of hindsight aspects of this truth shining through what at that time was something so foggy with uncertainty and anxiety.

All of this is a useful prelude for a journey into marriage.

The first model of marriage I witnessed was the union of my Dad and Mum. For at least the first twelve to thirteen years of my life, the safe cocoon of my home meant that I genuinely had no understanding of divorce. I didn’t see it. I don’t recall hearing much about it and there was nothing in the cocoon of my home that hinted to it. My Dad loved my Mum. My Mum loved my Dad. This wasn’t displayed in physical affection or verbal sentiments. This was displayed in them being together. This was displayed in sun-rise and sun-set and my parents being together. This was seen in the consistency and regularity of Dad and Mum working diligently throughout the week to maintain the home for their three children.

Their love for each other and their commitment to their children also created a bond between them and their children – and especially their middle child. I was referred to as a Mother’s Boy, partly I think because I was the firstborn son and Dad had the bond with his firstborn child. Partly as well because of family resemblances to Mum’s side of the family. Whatever the reason there was a bond there between Mother and son.

There was also a strong connection to unsaid conventional foundations that served me well for the first twenty years of my life. Dad may not have been overly affectionate or verbose, but he was dependable. He was faithful. He was steady. He supported silently. He never actively did anything to suggest a great deal of disappointment in his children. So that degree of silent support formed an attachment and a steady ground on which my sense of being human found something assured.

An attachment is appreciated when its tested.

The attachment to the relationship with my parents and my acknowledgement of the strength of their marriage was something I experienced and observed when I got to my teenage years. Considerable external pressure was placed especially on my Mum. Subsequently I could reflect on the damage that this pressure could have had on that marriage. At the time for all the grief and aggravation, Mum had Dad to turn to. Not that he always understood, not that he aggressively, expressively and vocally defended my Mum, but he didn’t let her down. He didn’t leave her. He stayed with her. He stuck to her. He gave her the space and grace to evolve in the trying season and my Mum emerged with a renewed understanding of the key relationships in her life, especially the one she had with God. That renewal certainly influenced me significantly as I observed her change by exploring a lot of the creative gifts that either lay dormant or were not expressed beyond the four walls of our family home.

All of this took place as I went through my teens and was struggling with identity issues and questions. So in my uncertainty and confusion, God was good in giving me a platform of hope in seeing the resolute and dependable union of my parents. Their devotion to God, their devotion to their children and crucially their devotion to each other.

As you might be able to appreciate, this established a strong attachment to my parents.

So imagine being told to leave that …

(to be continued)

(Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash)

For His Name’s Sake

Shalom

C. L. J. Dryden