I’m in a phase where I don’t attend weddings very often. Instead, I learn yet another couple whose wedding I attended is getting divorced.
Dim is the memory of two people vowing a lifetime of committed togetherness. In its place, I hear the anguished first-hand accounts or, as is more often the case, the second- and third-hand mentions that Jack and Jill are splitting up, have already split up, or—didn’t you know?—split up months or even years ago.
That’s how it works, of course. People don’t send beautifully adorned divorce announcements, complete with a few blank lines from which you can circle your reaction upon hearing the news:
A: Saw it coming even before you were married.
B: So sorry, though let’s be honest, we barely know you any more.
C: Very troubled, sad, and confused—say it ain’t so!
Even before I became a father, one of my first thoughts upon learning of a couple’s divorce was, “At least they didn’t have any children” or “That’s got to be especially tough because of the children.”
And now that I am a father, with each new revelation of a couple parting ways, I put myself in the shoes of the divorcing dad—how impossibly hard it must be to tell his children that he’s not going to be with Mommy anymore. Inevitably, I think back to shortly after my 11th birthday, when my parents assembled us four kids in a sweltering living room to let us know they were separating.
My sister, just shy of 15 years old, let the tears flow. So did I, as I fidgeted with the adjustable strap on the back of my Little League baseball cap. Finally, firmly, calmly, my dad asked me to put the cap down. Meanwhile, my two brothers—a year and two years older than me—were so stoic, it was scary.
In the following months, embarrassed and ashamed, I didn’t know what to tell my friends. To my closest friend, I broke it this way: my dad had moved to a town next to Boston—about 20 miles closer than our home—because it meant a shorter commute to his job. My pal’s response was classic: “Can’t he take the bus?”
Fast-forward 15 years and I married Bridgett—whose parents also divorced when she was young. I knew she made a great partner; it was my own preparedness and wherewithal that I had questions about.
It was only through the grace of God that I began to learn what it takes to be a good husband. At least now I am much more likely to recognize when I’m falling short (which is often) and am therefore quicker to dig myself out of whatever hole I’ve created.
By the way, did you know there are books on marriage? I made that brilliant discovery a few years after we tied the knot in Bridgett’s mom’s and stepdad’s backyard. A short time later, we were so enlightened and enlivened by Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages that Bridgett and I bought 16 copies for siblings and cousins.
In a note to each, we humbly emphasized that we were not making any kind of commentary about the state of their marriage, but that we had gotten so much benefit from reading the book that we felt compelled to share it with them. We received barely a peep in response, and to this day we don’t know if anyone read much beyond the note. Some are no longer together.
The natural state of things is for stuff, when left unattended, to fall apart: our bodies, our cars, and, yes, our marriages. So it takes a conscious, intentional effort to counteract the erosion that can set in from so many things, large and (more often) small. Credit-card bills, buying new shoes for the kids, doing the dishes, doing the laundry, remembering to take out the garbage, and on and on it goes.
Bridgett and I do what we can to dispatch of those necessary, but cluttering, details in Post-It notes, e-mails and voicemails to one another. That way, when we do have those precious moments alone with one another, we can talk about bigger-picture stuff—and, hopefully, nip festering issues before they grow out of control. (Rough translation: I stop being so selfish and lazy.)
I don’t presume to know how our approach may differ from those in our lives who have opted to end their marriages. And I don’t pass judgment. But if you are married, or are thinking about it, I hope you are lucky enough to know that it isn’t about luck, or the alignment of stars, or whether that partner of yours is ever going to change all those annoying habits (which you were blind to, or used to think were so endearing, when you dated).
Joyfully, grudgingly, usually most imperfectly, we have placed our marriage as a priority over our sometimes-glamorous-seeming but ultimately marriage-endangering careers, over our children’s activities, and over our desires for bigger, newer, shinier stuff.
Being a success in marriage, as in any endeavor, takes work. So here’s the question we all need to continually ask: Is it worth all of the attention and all of the effort?