“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.”  ~ T.S. Eliot

I didn’t have a word for 2018. Seemed like my declaration from the previous year was in need of more than the allotted 365 days. I had coined 2017 “the year the bullshit ends”. Doesn’t have a very spiritual ring to it, and yet, it was spoken in total faith. Of course I was referring to Phil. I’d had enough of the crazy. Enough of the chaos. Rhythm, discipline and routine is what was needed around this house. And I regularly reminded him. I even gave midnight, December 31st as a deadline for his shit-show to be cleaned up… or else. 

But I am not without grace so I granted an extension. 

About midway through 2018, I awoke one morning with a prayer…a cry as to why these patterns persisted in this man and therefore our life. A rather simple yet direct response came, “Did you think you wouldn’t be affected? Did you think the rewiring and redirecting (aka, “bullshit ending”) would leave you untouched?” My short answer was, “um, yes.” (It’s not my bullshit we’re trudging through). But the Spirit went on to say, “you believe you’re still being made into one flesh as if ‘one flesh’ is some level you attain and the end result is relating well with one another. This isn’t true. The sacred mystery of marriage is that you two became one when you swore your vows to me. Whether or not you hold up your end, I will always hold up mine. So when I’m purging Phil of harmful patterns (at your repeated request, no less) you’ll not only feel, but endure the pain. I don’t work on his deficiencies, without exposing yours. In sickness and in health, the two are one.”

Yeah. Mind blown.

At a particularly low(er) point, when anxiety had all but derailed me, I lashed out at God. Real good. It was not pretty. I’d grown weary. Why was it taking so long to right our course? Where was the hope that all will be well? Sitting on my deck I demanded the Lord show himself to me. Like, right now. With my eyes. Why won’t you help my faith that is faltering? Although no actual being appeared, the Spirit again spoke. He whispered, “you see me everyday. Every. Single. Day. with your eyes.” And in that moment Phil’s face appeared in the chair next to mine. “Sometimes,” the Spirit reminded, “I present myself as weak and in need. You’re looking for the Savior, but I am showing you the man. I was and am both. Another great mystery. When I was a stranger, you took me in. When I was in prison, you visited me. When I was naked, you clothed me. When I was crazy, chaotic, erratic and unreliable … when I was Phil, you loved me.

Of course, this made me cry. Soft tears, not angry ones like before. 

I’d like to think I’d have believed a baby in a manger was God’s promise kept. Or that a 12 year old claiming God to be his Father would not furrow my brow. I’d really like to place myself at the base of a rugged cross, weeping for a man bludgeoned beyond recognition, simply because he was dying and alone and over the course of several years had grown precious to me. Then I probably should love the Jesus right in front of me. The one who presents as such a mess these days.

Because if breakthrough is to occur (spoiler alert: that’s my word for 2019), then the bullshit I’ve been ardently praying for relief from will be ours. Together. That’s what marriage is. That’s what these years are for. In sickness and in health, good times and bad. 

I’ll live my best life on the other side. The last of the great mysteries revealed.