A journal entry from August 2017
/Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Today I was working out in the back yard, cleaning it up, putting it back together. I cleared the cobwebs from around the chairs, dusted the pillows, and watered the flowers. The sun was shining and blue skies provided a cheery roof over my head. Beads of sweat trickled down my back as I worked, my dogs cheerfully sniffed the corners of the yard. As I watered the flowers in their pots, I was struck by the similarities to my own life.
These flowers that I planted in the spring, enjoyed the look of, and mildly tended to, blossomed and spread their new roots. Infrequently, I cared for them, but enjoyed their beauty whenever I glanced at them. I watered when I thought about it, the dry soil soaking up the moisture with gratitude. Soon, the hot summer sun beat down upon the flowers. And with summer’s arrival, we departed for our house in Utah - gone for five weeks without once looking back. I had hired a college-aged boy to water the flowers, but didn’t think they needed water much more than once or twice a week. He tended to them as best he could; though, frankly, I think he got them once a week at best.
They withered under the pressure of the constant sun, never complaining, silently letting the life slip out of them. Resigned to their fate.
Then we came home from Utah. Burdened with a heavy heart, I had little energy to care for the flowers. Seeing their yellow, shrunken bodies felt like a mirror to my own soul. I was drowning in a sea of heartache, and had little energy to care for anything else.
Once, while on the phone in the backyard, crying and pouring out my pain to a friend, I absentmindedly emptied the watering can into the flower pots.
A few days went by, and I found myself outside on the phone again. The backyard seemed to be a safe place to have conversations outside of the ears of my children, and I began to take and place all my private calls there. I noticed a little life coming out in the flowers, so I watered every time I was out there.
Then, a week or so later, Josh noticed the herbs in their pot reaching and stretching for the light, so he moved them. Traded their partial shade for a glorious spot in the sun.
They rebounded almost miraculously.
And so did the others. Slowly, painfully, my beautiful flowers have begun to come back to life. Cradled in sunshine, watered, and cared for, they are blossoming and breathing new life into a spot that once looked barren and lonely.
Just like our marriage.
Little by little, we have behaved in ways that are both natural and new for us. We have conversations where we both feel seen and valued. We share our vulnerabilities, our dreams, our heartaches. We tenderly touch – a hug before walking out the door. A kiss when we are reunited. It’s simple acts of love, yet ones that feel more genuine than any others in our 23 years together. I yearn for his touch in the same way his herbs reached for the sunshine. I need his body to join with mine. I crave him and feel as though I can’t get enough of him.
We are putting the care into this marriage that we should have. We are loving each other purely, gracefully, and it is paying off. Our withered hearts are blossoming under this new care. Just like the water for my flowers, love is the balm that heals our broken garden. And we, the careful gardeners, will never let it go unwatered again.
