Baby Steps

3.  Baby Steps

 

All marriages are mixed marriages.[15]

 

A good marriage is one which allows for change and growth in the individuals and in the way they express their love.[16]

 

If you like romantic comedies and great dancing, try the movie Shall We Dance,[17] starring Richard Gere, Jennifer Lopez and Susan Sarandon.  It’s the story of “… a bored, overworked Estate Lawyer (Gere), upon first sight of a beautiful instructor (Lopez), who signs up for ballroom dancing lessons.”[18]

In the course of the film Sarandon, who portrays Gere’s wife, is asked, “Why is it, do you think, that people get married?”

My hat’s off to the scriptwriter.  Sarandon replies, “Because we need a witness for our lives.  There’s a billion people on the planet … I mean … what does any one life really mean?  But in a marriage you’re promising to care about every thing – the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things – all of it, all the time, every day.  You’re saying, ‘Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it.  Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.’”

When Vicki and I looked back and described our marriage to others we’d say, “We grew up together, all the while stepping on each other’s toes, contesting over who would lead and who would follow, rubbing each other raw over petty things … but still loving it!”  And in the process of growing up and steadily defining our roles we witnessed each other’s lives.  We noticed.  And we cared about everything.

Vicki and I were blessed to come from counter-cultural families.  Marriage promises were taken seriously in both of our homes.  To reinforce what we both believed about marriage, on our honeymoon I said to Vicki, “I will never divorce you.  I won’t ever use that word – divorce – in an argument.  I won’t joke about it because it’s not funny (like ‘Honey, if you burn the toast one more time I’m gonna divorce you.’).”

We embraced and renewed the vows we had made just days before, word for word.

From the very beginning of our life together we had a few complications.
We were married between my second and third year of college.  She had dropped out of Evangel College six months before our wedding to build up a little nest egg. 

After we married I took a semester off.  Well, actually … it wasn’t my choice.  I was expelled from CBC!  I had violated a school policy on fireworks – I set off a shoe-box full of TNT in the courtyard of my dorm during finals, the last week of my sophomore year.  By the time the smoke cleared Dr. Donald Johns, the dean of students, was in my room.  An hour later I was leaving the campus; Dr. Johns went to the Registrar’s office and withdraw me from my classes.  I was not to come back.

From July to December we lived in northern Virginia, working hard to add to that reserve – Vicki as a civil servant secretary in the Government Services Agency (Crystal City), and me working for various construction companies.  Vicki’s maternal grandparents loaned us a twenty-eight foot long RV-type trailer, and it served us well as our first home.

I had written a letter of apology to the Administration of Central Bible College, and they graciously accepted me back as a student – with probationary conditions you wouldn’t believe.  But I was so happy about returning to CBC, I would have signed anything.  I loved that school and desperately wanted to complete my degree work there.

In January of 1974 we moved back to Springfield, Missouri.  We used part of the money we had saved back East for the first three months of rent and a security deposit on an eight by sixty foot mobile home owned by a local pastor.  The mobile home felt huge – such a step up from the RV we had been living in for five months.  We bought our first dog, Dandi, and began playing house.

While living in Springfield during my last two college years Vicki and I worked in the national headquarters building of the Assemblies of God, she full time and me part.  It wasn’t a difficult life.  I attended classes, played on a Triple-A softball team, went fishing with my buddies, drove a public school bus for a while (another part time job), and worked as an intern in a local church on the weekends.  Vicki stayed connected to her college girlfriends, got heavily involved in church and college activities, attended my softball games, and learned to cook and entertain.  We shared household chores.  She did the laundry and cooked while I washed the dishes, cleaned the toilets … periodically … and vacuumed. 

Coincidentally, that pastor’s first name was Lowell!  Do the math and come up with the odds of that happening!  Lowell and Edna Ashbrook took us under their wing, and gently walked us through our first ministry experience.  We were there for about sixteen months, lapping up southern hospitality and making new friends.

Louisiana was safe.

In May of 1977, I received a call from an Assembly of God church in Bethesda, Maryland.  They elected me their “senior” pastor.  Actually, I was their only pastor, and not so senior at the ripe old age of (barely) twenty-five!

Bethesda is an affluent suburb of Washington, D.C.  Our little church met not far from The National Institutes of Health (NIH) and The Bethesda Naval Hospital.  I had grown up just around The Beltway in Arlington, Virginia – so I was familiar with the sophisticated ins-and-outs of living in our nation’s capital.  From preschool to high school I had been shoulder to shoulder with children whose parents were diplomats working at the State Department, career government officials and civil servants, as well as high-ranking military personnel stationed at the Pentagon.  I had learned to drive on Pennsylvania Avenue.  I had biked to the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, the Capitol and even the White House.  I had played soccer when it wasn’t as popular as it is today with kids from Saudi Arabia, Israel, Mexico, and England.  The DC area was definitely in my comfort zone.

Vicki fit right in.  She loved Washington.  She loved the amenities, the shopping, and the excitement.

When we arrived there were only 20 adult members and a handful of teenagers at Bethesda-Chevy Chase Assembly of God.  (When we left attendance was averaging around 150 adults and the name had been shortened.) 

While attendance can measure something of the healthiness of a church (because healthy things grow), when Vicki and I thought about Bethesda we talked most often about how we matured.  While we were there we developed into a productive and successful husband-and-wife team.  We spoke of mid-1978 to mid-1983 as “years of significant change,” and remembering our time in Bethesda as some of the best years of our lives.

We were very fortunate.  For the first five-and-a-half years of our life together – the two years in Springfield, the year-and-a-half in Louisiana, and the first two years in Bethesda – we were pretty much inseparable.  Our work schedules allowed us significant time together.  We lived just 30 minutes from my parents, and 45 minutes from our best friends at the time – my older sister Judy and her husband Norm.

Bethesda would be our home for five years and during those years Vicki often told me that our marriage provided her with a deep sense of fulfillment and joy.  I deliberately used the word joy because she wasn’t always happy with me.  

Now is as good a time as any to make the distinction between joy and happiness, since those two words will come up, time and time again, in our story.

Joy, to me, is a strong confidence that life is good, and that living is more than just existence.  Joy doesn’t come and go because of changing conditions.  Joy is not situational.  And I believe that the deepest form of joy comes from knowing that God loves you and me, no matter what we do, or what happens in life. 

Happiness, on the other hand, is totally connected to temporary circumstances.  Happiness is fickle – we can move from happy to unhappy in just a moment.  A friend might scowl, the air conditioner might break down, our environment might be altered, or a favorite football team might lose.  That’s when happiness goes out the window.

Vicki found joy and experienced true happiness late in 1978 when she met Sue Peterson.

Sue was a gift from God to Vicki.  They meet in a Lamaze child-birthing class at Sibley Hospital, and the two girls became friends.  Sue and her husband John began attending our church not long after the birth of our first children, Britta (to the Petersons) and Brandon (to us).  Sue and Vicki experienced the infancy through toddler years together.  They shopped and worshipped together.  They became very close … the proverbial “two peas in a pod.”  It wasn’t long before they were best friends; in just a few short months the two girls would be leaning heavily on each other.

       

Generally, life was good.  Besides good friends, I had a descent income.  We lived in the cutest house in a safe neighborhood.  We three – we were a family.  Vicki was cut out for motherhood.  She did it well.

Then, just eight months into parenthood, something happened.  Not something “bad,” but something very complicated … and complicating.  We were told that Vicki was pregnant again.  We had agreed before Brandon was born that it would be best to wait at least two years before trying to have a second child.  After Brandon was born, and because of his incessant nighttime colic-induced crying, we were thinking an even longer wait might be wise.  This news – that we were pregnant – didn’t fit our plans.  Suddenly, we were unhappy.  Some of our goals were being blocked by these new circumstances. 

When Vicki was told she was pregnant she was at work.  She took the rest of the day off.  She cried from the moment she got home with the news until late at night.  We had a restless, almost sleepless night.   The next morning, after telling me she’d be okay, I left her sitting in our living room and went to work.  Later she told me what when she wasn’t attending to Brandon she was sitting on our sofa, crying.

And then … the crying stopped.  Thirty-six hours of tears, and then she was okay.  That was the way Vicki managed most of the trauma in her life.  She would cry, admittedly wallow in a pity-pond for a while because, she said, “It felt so good.”  She’d complain, and protest to God … and then they – she and God – would work things out.  I learned that she needed time to process her feelings, and that she liked to process her feeling with God … not me.  That was her style.  She described those alone times as “going into a shell.”  She’d pull in, like a turtle, for a while, until the feelings of crisis would pass.  Then, she’d be all right.

She came to me the morning after and said, “Well, Lowell … I trust God.  I was mad at Him for a while, but I know He would never allow anything to come into our lives unless it was first filtered through LOVE … His love for us.  I’m okay now.”

The joy returned.  Vicki was soon happily preparing for the arrival of our second baby.

When Christopher arrived in July of 1980, we already knew that we were having another boy.  And by the time he came we were more than okay with the idea of having boys so close together in age.  We saw more positives than negatives, and we quickly got excited about Chris.  We just knew that the boys would be devoted and loving to each other.  They would be ideal playmates.  Brandon could pass down clothing to Chris.  They could share toys and interests.  And all that became true.  Brandon and Chris became best buds.  So many of our family pictures – posed and spontaneous – had Chris and Brandon, hand in hand, walking down a beach or along a forest’s path.  One picture has them napping holding hands.  It’s one of our favorite photos.

It’s been said that parents are often so busy with the physical rearing of children that they miss the glory of parenthood, “just as the grandeur of the trees is lost when raking leaves.”[19]  That would not be the case with us.

We considered the first eight years of our marriage to be filled with contentment and cheer.  Sure, from time to time we had had to deal with something unpleasant or embarrassing, but for the most part life had been smooth sailing.  What Vicki and I had experienced during those few years was like taking introductory dance lessons.  There would be a few stumbles, a few awkward moments and few stubbed toes, but nothing so painful or traumatic that we wanted to quit.

When it came to Vicki, it seemed God was gently stretching her, exercising her heart, mind and will, and preparing her emotionally and psychologically for center stage.  We didn’t know it then, but Vicki was in training.

Probably the biggest area of Vic’s life God worked on in Bethesda was her “fear factor.”  If you ask me, I felt the fear of making a mistake was her biggest enemy.  She was afraid, not of being disappointed so much as being a disappointment, and that was rooted in perfectionism.  It was about the only thing that could invade her happiness, disturb her peace, and then affect her contentment. 

Mark Twain once said, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.”  During our time in Bethesda God ever so gently helped Vicki explore her fear of making a mistake, and she courageously did so.  Later He would help her learn how to resist it.  However, Vic never did learn to master it.

Our five years in Bethesda went by so fast.  Vicki and Sue, along with Britta, Brandon and Chris, were inseparable.  The congregation I served “grew” me into a pastor while it grew in numbers and community impact.  The close proximity to my parents and my older sister made that time special as our family video and pictures bear out.

Vicki began to feel she was losing a grip on our family history.  Everything seemed to be happening so fast.  The boys were growing up; our lives were in a constant state of flux.  Memories were fleeting.  So in January of 1982 she made an announcement.  She came into my office, said, “Lowell, I’m going to journal,” turned around and walk out, and left me wondering, “What was that all about?”

I had no idea what she was talking about.  Journaling?  Later I was told that journaling could be anything you wanted it to be.  It could be a daily, private record of your life; another name for that style is “diary.”  (To my British friends I must say that you’ve got the diary thing all wrong.  What you call a diary is really a calendar, or a date book.  You should get that straight.)

  If Vic had said that she was going to write in a diary I would have gotten that, but she said, “I’m going to journal.”  She explained to me that she wanted to document, in detail, the important events in her life, note significant growth experiences (so that she could reference them later), and leave them as a legacy – as a means of communicating important life lessons to her children and grandchildren.  From the beginning she intended her writings to be private, meant for her eyes only, until she departed planet Earth.  That way she thought she would remain ruthlessly honest.  Vicki’s apparent goal was a transparent written record of her life.  She wanted to write about all things human, be it mundane, controversial, conflicted, or celebratory.  Most of all, Vic said, she wanted to document her conversations with God, and chart her spiritual journey. 

Vicki mentioned that our relationship was certainly going to be a part, maybe even the biggest part, of the record.  That made me nervous.  Wouldn’t you feel a bit uneasy if your goof-ups were going to be put down for posterity, so your kids and grandkids “… wouldn’t screw up in the same way Granddad did?”

Vic began journaling on notebook paper first, and then in a simple spiral notebook.  Her very first entry was a doozy, dated January 27, 1982:

I finally see it; it finally breaks through this cloud that has been hanging over me!  I had never seen it before, but there it was – Acts 6:1-4 – “… it would not be right for us to neglect the ministry of the Word of God in order to wait on tables …”

For 8 ½ years of marriage and 6 years of ministry I have expected Lowell to carry an equal share of the household responsibilities, and especially since the children came, I have resented, more and more, his free time and my confinement to the house.  But now the Holy Spirit has brought this verse to life, and I can see that it is truly my responsibility to keep our home in order and care for our children, releasing Lowell to be the pastor and minister as God intends.  Surely I have held him back and slowed God’s work through his life.  He is being used (mightily) by God, even at this time with (sic) the burden of guilt and responsibility that I have put on him.

But I do not feel discouraged, only excited as I realize that I can be an integral part of this great ministry – that although I may not be used in mighty ways within the church body at this time (as my desire has been), I can do a more important and necessary job as I learn to become the [partner] God desires me to be.

I will make his home a haven of retreat where he can be refreshed in body and spirit.  I will take on myself any burdens and responsibilities that will lighten his load for (sic) more effectual ministry for You.  I will be an example of gentle love for my children to follow as they grow up before the Lord with tender hearts.

My resolve is strong today.  Lord, help me to keep the excitement of this moment!  As days run into weeks and years, let me never grow weary of “waiting on tables” or waiting on my beautiful family – my gifts from God.

 

Then, on April 6, 1982, she wrote,

I’m growing, Lord.  But it hurts sometimes as You stretch me and pull me out of the hold I’ve been in.  You’re showing me things in my life that are not pleasing to You and finally I really want to change.  It’s so much to expect of myself but … “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”[20]

This is what You’re showing me:  You have given Lowell to Bethesda Assembly of God as a gift.  You have also given Lowell to me as a gift.  He has been placed in a position of godly authority over the church … and over me.  Your will is being worked through him.

Now, this is it – I have to trust YOU enough to submit to Lowell in our home, and I must trust You to see that Your will is done in our home through him.

It’s not Lowell I’m putting my trust in.  In the past he has bitterly disappointed me and many times has not lived up to my expectations of “the perfect man.”

He is not perfect, as I am not perfect.

But, praise God, it is not Lowell I have to trust, but You are the One I put my faith in.  You, Oh Lord, are the One I commit my life to and the lives of my children, knowing that “… I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep what I have committed to Him until that Day.”[21]

I have to trust You enough to direct and guide Lowell to the right decisions and directions for our family.  And I DO!  I really do, and that excites me.

And here’s another “biggie.”  I have to allow Lowell to be exactly what He is – nothing more.

I brought into this marriage high expectations of what a husband should be.  These were formed by many things – everything my Dad was and wasn’t, the fairy tales I had read as a child, and then the romantic love stories I had read as a teenager.  These all helped me create a mental image of the “perfect husband” and naturally, since I had been given else in my life I had ever wanted, I fully expected to be given a “perfect husband.”

Oh, I know that everyone said there was no such thing … but when I met my true love – to me, he was perfect.

Then, suddenly, as weeks turned into months and years, my dream-come-true began slipping.  I was disappointed, confused and angry, and I felt completely betrayed.  My new husband was very human, not to mention very young and inexperienced.

And in the face of my bitter disappointment in MY crumbling dream HE dared to criticize ME for my imperfections!

Why, I had never been criticized in all my life … and I was furious!!

Now I realize that the only way I could have expected a perfect husband was if I thought that I was perfect.  How wrong I was, and how amazing that it took me so long to realize it!!

Well, now I know that Lowell is perfect – for ME.  He is the one in all the world that God chose for me, and I know that I could make no better choice.

And I love him dearly.

Today, once and for all, I put to death my childish dreams of a “prince charming” who never has and never will exist.  In my heart I give Lowell the freedom to be ALL that he is … with no stipulations that he must be anything more, simply because I expect him to [be].  If he wants to play games and watch cartoons, then I allow him that release from the tensions of the ministry.  If he refuses to pick up his clothes after 3 or 4 reminders, then I will remind myself that there are many, much more important tasks that he does joyfully and willingly.

I’m sure that I will never be all he expects me to be, and he will never be all I expect him to be … but all long as we are working toward being all that Christ expects us to be, then there is nothing more that we can ask of the other.

Again, I renew my resolve to support my husband, to hold him up in prayer, and to release him to be all that God wants him to be as he follows God’s call on his life.