Part 3

three months later...

Part 3:


One clear, sticky summer night, as most of the suburbs relaxed in their air-conditioned homes, I sat on a couch with a thick upholstery, every so often squirming in an attempt to increase the distance between my own arms and legs and those of my friends on either side of me. The thick-pile carpet beneath my sandaled feet did little to decrease the temperature of the room, which, from pre-teen and teenage boy sweat, was becoming sultry.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a small woman sat quietly across the room from me, attentive to the introduction of my pastor and youth leader. Her white hair was unpretentious and practical. She wore her summer dress with its mandarin collar and floral pattern. But she fascinated me immediately; I knew she had been a missionary to Japan for many years.
As she told the story of her journey from youth to old age, from girl to grandma, her speech was unadorned, almost distant. Repeated in her story, however, was a simple phrase that she took from I Corinthians 6. She discussed her own calling to the mission field, and the realization that she must follow wherever God may lead:
I am not my own. I am bought with a price.
Immediately I was still. I felt as if someone had reached inside me, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I felt those words call me, as they had called her, to missions, to the work of the Gospel in a foreign land.
I am not my own.
In the silence of my own heart, that phrase reverberates. It’s hard to hear when I am moving. The business of my life drowns out the echo; the conversations of practicality and everydayness dominate, clamoring for my attention and claiming importance. But the words remain, and while circumstances have led me to stay in the States for the time being, her words still remind me of my identity. They remind me of Christ’s precious blood shed for me, and of my dependence on him for my very breath.

* * * * * * *

The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on my left side through the classroom windows, making me drowsy after a filling lunch of pizza and pop. My teacher’s voice felt like the sun; relentless and tranquilizing.
“Laura? What theorem do we use for the first proof?”
I came back to earth with a jolt and stared at my teacher blankly. Quickly I tried to find the proof we were on.
“Laura?”
I was dumb and mute, and I failed to respond. The heads of my classmates craned forward to see my face, to figure out why I wasn’t responding. She always knows the answer, they were thinking.
“Theorem 5.1,” I muttered finally, in a desperate attempt to get the eyes of the class off of my back.
“Hmm.” The teacher smiled. “Nope, it’s 6.1,” she looked cheerfully down at me. “You see, class, Laura really isn’t that smart.”
The class laughed, and I, in another attempt to blend in, laughed as well. She had said it with such a complete lack of spite or meanness that there was nothing else for me to do. I laughed again after class when I shared the story with the girls whose lockers were next to mine, and again at dinner when I related the story to my family.
Laura really isn’t that smart.
It’s okay if you laugh; it really is ridiculous. It’s one of those moments that hopeful teachers like myself pray every day to avoid, and gasp in shock when they hear that a teacher has actually said something so demeaning to a student. I can’t say my life has been scarred forever because of those words, and I’m sure that teacher will be happy to know that. I can say, though, that those words echo back every so often, causing me to share the story with fellow educators, who are sure to laugh and express dismay. I like making people smile.
But despite how many times I’ve shared the story, my heart continues to pinch a little. And I’m reminded of the resonating power of words, especially ones spoken without thought.

* * * * * * *

With this ring, I thee wed.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I felt incapable of making any decisions at the moment, least of all one of such importance as wedding vows. My pastor had given Ryan and me a sample of traditional and more modern vows. The small voice said inside me, you’re an English major, dummy. Shouldn’t you be able to put together something beautiful and poetic that captures the moment forever? Yet I felt completely inadequate and unable to face the task. Not to mention the time factor; when would I find time to pour into wedding vows when I felt as if my classes were an avalanche, simply waiting for my sneeze before they poured down the mountain, crushing me beneath their weight?
As usual when unable to make a decision, I picked up the phone.
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“Why wouldn’t we just use the traditional vows?” Ryan asked, as if there were no issue at all.
“Don’t you want our vows to be unique? To stand out? I don’t want the same old same old.”
“Uh, no.”
Of course not. Always ready to be new and innovative, Ryan would revert to tradition on such a significant event in our lives.
Thankfully, I had a fiancé (and now, a husband) who not only was able to make a decision, but also was able to recognize the value of tradition. The repetition of words often cause them to loose their meaning. How many times have I said “I’m sorry,” with each new utterance bringing me closer to not being sorry than before? That danger occurs with ceremonial words, as well. But while these words can slam the door on all imagination and hope, they can also open it to life and possibility. There is something sacred about ceremonial words, about uttering with my husband the phrases that I had heard from the time I was a little girl – almost sacrilegiously, such as the incompetent priest in The Princess Bride, and reverently, such as the clergyman in Pride and Prejudice. The act of repeating together words that had been uttered for hundreds and hundreds of years, by men and women of many shapes, sizes, ages, geographic and cultural backgrounds, only increased for me the intensely communal act that taking my marriage vows was. With those words, I not only joined myself to one man for the rest of my life, but also to a community of men and women who had gone before me, who had walked the path of marriage, taking up its burdens and joys, ending both faithfully and unfaithfully. With those words, I made a promise that must resonate with me as long as I still draw breath, for it is not only within my own heart that it was spoken, but also within the hearts of the hundred and eighty people who gave their assent to our marriage.
As long as we both shall live.

* * * * * * *