by Rory Feek
Forty-Two
MONEY
I never knew how much money we had. Never. We could’ve been broke or been millionaires, and I would’ve had no way of knowing.
Joey handles the money in our family. At least, she always did. Early on in our marriage, I had proven myself not to be very good with money, at least in the managing of it. So she took it over and made the rules. She managed how much came in and how much went out and knew what we could afford and what we couldn’t. I was on a need-to-know basis when it came to our money situation. Not that she didn’t trust me with it; it was just easier that way. And better.
My wife was very good with our family’s finances, mostly because money didn’t mean anything to her, I think. When I say it didn’t mean anything, I don’t mean that she didn’t care about it or that she blew through it like it was going out of style. It wasn’t like that. What I’m saying is that money didn’t mean to her what it means to most other people. It didn’t mean happiness or power. And it wasn’t a goal of hers to have a lot of it. Or to have a big stockpile of it. She only wanted enough. That was all she needed. All we needed.
Joey was old-fashioned when it came to money. She was against us having debt. And when we did, she wanted to pay it off, or down, as soon as possible. Like me, she didn’t have much growing up. But unlike me, her folks had instilled in her a very strong work ethic and a sense of pride when it came to paying back what you owed right away. And of being frugal. Joey wasn’t a shopper. She didn’t enjoy going store to store, looking for the next thing to make her feel better about herself or the life she was living. Buying things didn’t make her happy. For her, she only wanted what we needed. Nothing more, nothing less.
I think she had a keen sense about our human nature to always want more, no matter how much we already have. And she wanted us to be better than that. To stay off that empty treadmill, and others like it, that most of society seems to find itself on these days.
Some couples try to keep separate bank accounts. Hers and his. Make it so that a portion of their money is for him to do what he wants, and some is hers to spend however she chooses. Joey didn’t like that idea. Everything was ours. And it all went into the same pot. If there was something I wanted or needed, I would just ask her. And she would tell me if we could buy it or not. I didn’t always like her answer, but I always respected it. I knew it was coming from a place of love, not a place of control or power. Sometimes when I knew we were doing well and I wanted something and she told me no, it wasn’t because we couldn’t afford it. It was because she knew I didn’t need it. Or even more, she knew it wouldn’t be good for me. Or for us.
Us . . . our marriage . . . keeping it solid and secure was always the goal. And she and I both were smart enough to realize that money is usually one of the things that makes or breaks marriages. We strived to not let that be the case for us.
Joey also knew our kids were watching. If we had an emptiness inside of us that we were using money to fill, then they would most likely grow up to do the same thing. She wanted them to at least see that their parents were trying to take a different path, even if in the end they had to learn it the hard way. The girls are older now and making their way in the world. And I can honestly say they are both much better with money than I was at their ages. Much, much better. That is all Joey’s doing. I wish I could say it is mine, but it isn’t.
And lastly, Joey knew that I was watching. I know that she never had any idea that this time would come and I would be the one making the financial decisions for our family, but she knew I was beside her all those years, paying attention to the decisions she made on our behalf. And I was watching. I saw the difference that “doing the best right thing” makes. And I do my best to keep that going.
During the almost fourteen years of our marriage, I would find out that I could do pretty well at making money—but taking care of it and being responsible with it were never my strong suits. Thank God Joey taught me to be better. To see money for what it is: a blessing. A blessing that God gives us that we can use to bless others.
Forty-Three
RHYMES WITH TEX
I think there’s some statistic somewhere that says that if it’s not money that does in a marriage, it’s sex. And I can understand that. Sex is like money, only a thousand, million times more powerful.
C. S. Lewis calls selfishness and pride the great sin. But I think sex may be running in a close second. It’s a monster. If you polled a thousand men on the street right now and asked them what they are thinking about, 995 of them would say sex. They would if you could get them to be honest. But you won’t. Men can’t be honest about sex. That subject’s too hard for them to talk about. To be honest about. I get it. I’m one of them. Men. We’re wired weird.
Even when we’re married and we’re happy, we’re thinking about it. Even when we just had it, we want more of it. Well, after a nap we do. It’s a strange thing. And I, for one, do not have it figured out. But my wife Joey did. At least, she had a good grasp on a lot of it.
It was easier for her. Easier to understand men, I think. Most women walk around throwing their hands up in the air when it comes to men and their desires and needs. But not Joey. She understood men and how they’re wired, or at least she understood the man she was married to.
To her, it came down to nature. It wasn’t me being weird; it was me being me. How God made me. How God made all of us. With wants and needs that are so deep inside of us that we can’t think straight sometimes, and we let those needs do the thinking instead of our hearts or the brains in our heads.
Joey knew her husband was a man. And she was the woman God had given him. That was all the information she needed. For her, my needs were her needs. That was her job. Her blessing. It may not have been the job she wanted all the time, or even half or a quarter of the time, but it was hers just the same. She loved me. And she knew that for a man—at least this one—sex was one of the ways I needed her to express her love for me.
I can’t tell you that our love life was perfect because it wasn’t. It was like everyone else’s. Amazing at times, with fireworks that lit up the bedroom sky, and strained at other times, with her on one side of our king-size bed and me on the other. Confused. Upset. Disappointed. Not understanding her and mostly feeling that she didn’t understand me.
But we tried never to go to sleep angry with each other. And with few exceptions, we never did. We both knew the words “I’m sorry,” and we raced each other to say them. Not at first. Early on, those two words were hard to say. But through the years we learned that was where the magic was. And we couldn’t get our apologies out fast enough. We might not have always been able to work out our problems, but we tried not to take them to bed with us. To wake up with them still there in the morning. Each new day brought its own unique challenges without adding ones from a day that had already passed.
This is a subject that matters. That really, really matters. And like all things that scare us, there’s really only one way to approach our fears. Head-on. That being said, Joey and I have always been very private when it comes to private matters. She would want me to say it without saying it. Or try to. Either way, it needs to be said. Especially to and for us men who have no one to go to for answers when it comes to this stuff. And we desperately need help. The world is bombarding us with images and information that show and tell us the opposite of what we actually need to hear: the honest truth.
I am no different from anyone else. Especially any other man. Except, maybe, I’ve failed more than most, and sex has been a big part of that failure for me. It’s a key part of the wound that is deep in me, that is in most of us, and it is what has gotten me into trouble the most. It’s where I have disappointed myself and others more times than I can count. It’s what I stay the most confused and conflicted about. And it’s also where I have found the most healing and sense of accomplishment in my marriage.
I have never cheated on my wife. I know that’s not a big deal for a lot of
people to say, but it is. For me it is. I have been true to her. And I am so very proud of that.
When Joey was in hospice and nearing the end, her sisters gathered around me and asked me how I was doing. They said, “This must be very hard on you . . . very tough on you, physically. All these months. The past year and a half.” I knew what they were asking. And I told them it was. But then again, it wasn’t. I was committed to their sister. And I don’t mean in only an “I love her” sort of way. I’m talking about a commitment that I made to her. That I made to myself.
When we got married, I decided there would be no one else but Joey. And that meant no one else. Not in real life and not in my head. I committed to not allowing myself to experience the greatest expression of love that a person can feel without my bride being with me. Not ever. Not once. And that was a big, big deal. She didn’t ask for that. Or require it. I wanted to give it. To see if I could do it. If I could be that true to someone. To Joey. To see if I could not only be true to her but also true to myself. Committed to myself for her. And I was. To the end of the line.
When you come from where I came from, from who I was, and you have the undeserved opportunity to love a woman like Joey . . . it was the least I could do.
And I believe that it made a difference. There was never a time when I didn’t want my wife. Never. And I believe my desire to honor Joey and her desire to honor me are part of why God has given us such a beautiful marriage and love story. I don’t just believe it; I know it.
Where do I go from here? What does the future hold when it comes to these things for me? I don’t know.
All I know is that I was hers. True to her.
I am still hers.
Forty-Four
THE NAME GAME
Feek? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.
For years I didn’t use my last name. For lots of reasons.
First off, it was a name that was easy for kids to make fun of in school, and as I got older, it was much the same.
Secondly, when I was growing up, my father was a bit of a rounder, and though I know he meant well, he didn’t leave much of a legacy for our last name. I had no idea where the name came from or even where the people in past generations who used it came from. So when I moved to Nashville in ’95 and was about to sign a publishing deal, as the lady handed me the pen to sign—and potentially etch my name in stone on albums and CDs if I ever had any success—I asked her, “Should I use my last name Feek or my middle name Lee?”
She kinda laughed and said, “Feek? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard. Definitely use Lee.”
So I became Rory Lee, songwriter. For the first few years in town, everyone knew me that way. And when I had my first hit song, that’s the name on the back of the CD.
But then Joey and I got married, and the name became an issue. It had actually become a concern a couple of years before that, as I stood at the end of our driveway after buying the farmhouse, trying to decide whether to use Lee on the mailbox or Feek. I pondered that one for a long time and finally settled on Lee.
When we stood at the altar and took those vows together, Joey also vowed to take my name and wear it proudly. But she asked me if she could continue being Joey Martin for her music career. I was leery of her doing that and told her so. She just listened and didn’t really say anything. Sometime during our honeymoon, though, the subject of her using her maiden name came to a head. We were talking about her music career, and I told her again that I thought she should use Feek and not Martin. The main reason I felt that way was because I was insecure about losing her to the music business or someone else, and I secretly thought that saddling her with my name would let people know that she was taken. (She had to be . . . or why else would she have a name like that?) It’s embarrassing to admit that now. But it’s true.
Somewhere in the middle of our blissful honeymoon and arguments over careers, kids, life, and a million other things we hadn’t worked out before saying I do, she said again, “I will gladly take your name and wear it proudly every day of my life, but I would like to be able to go by Joey Martin for my dad and my family when I’m singing.”
The conversation got heated, and I think there might have been some tears involved. I put my foot down and said, “No. It’s not right.”
Then she looked at me and said, “How can you say that, when you don’t even use your own last name?”
I hadn’t thought of that. But she had, and rightly so.
I told her that was different, but I knew it wasn’t. She had me cornered. I caved and gave my blessing for her to use her maiden name, and we dropped the subject. For years we never mentioned it again. Not once.
But then one day in a songwriting appointment with Allen Shamblin, the name problem showed up again. Allen had cowritten Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me” and was an exceptionally profound thinker and man of faith. He started telling me about a recent trip back home to Texas that he’d taken and how their local church had a revival that shook the town to the core. People were coming to Christ, and change was happening in the congregation like never before. It had all started with the pastor standing in front of the congregation one morning and facing his greatest fear. He reached up and removed the toupee he had worn for years. Allen said everyone knew the pastor wore one, but no one ever said anything out of respect. They could sense that it was a big deal for him. But when he found the courage to get out from under the shame that he’d been carrying around, it caused a chain reaction in the lives of the people sitting in the pews. It was a great story, and I think we wrote a song about it, or part of one. But afterward, I drove home that evening, deep in thought.
A few hours later, after the kids went to bed, Joey and I sat on the bed together, and I started weeping. She didn’t understand what was wrong, so I told her. “I have to start using my last name,” I said. “It’s killing me.” I told her how I was leaving no legacy for our kids, and that now that they were teenagers, people didn’t know whether they were Heidi and Hopie Lee or Feek. Not only did I not have any pride in my last name; I wasn’t instilling any in them. And that was wrong. Joey knew it was a big deal to me. We cried together and prayed together. I nervously told God that I needed His help to face my fear, and though I would probably be undoing all the progress I’d made building a name for myself in Nashville as a songwriter, I was putting it in His hands. I believed that something good would come of it.
From that moment on I started introducing myself as Rory Feek and claiming what was rightly mine. The funny thing is that no one cared. I mean, no one. It was all in my head. As a matter of fact, a few weeks later I told the story to one of my industry friends, and he said, “Man, Rory Feek is an awesome name.” He actually liked it better. And so I started liking it better too.
Before long I found that God took that commitment I made and lifted my name higher than it had ever been lifted before. Amazing things have come to Rory Feek that Rory Lee would’ve never dreamed possible. And I believe it’s because I made that change and faced that fear. I learned that on the other side of fear is joy and blessing and, even more so, peace.
Forty-Five
TEN PERCENT
I’ve never been a good tither. It just didn’t make any sense to me.
First off, I was always poor. And I couldn’t give 10 percent of what’s already not enough to pay my bills. I could, but it wouldn’t be smart. The second thing was, even if I’d had money, I certainly wasn’t going to trust the church with it. Not a certain church in particular, but all of ’em. The whole darn lot. It was hard to see the difference between Brother Bobby at the local Church of Christ, with an attendance of fifty on a good Sunday, passing the hat around, and someone who was on my TV in a three-thousand-dollar suit, begging for my money so he could upgrade to the latest luxury jet to fly to his winter home in Cancun.
I didn’t trust any of it. But when I’d get to feeling generous or exceptional
ly guilty, I would drop a twenty in the plate, instead of the three ones or handful of coins that I usually put in on Sundays, if I gave anything at all. I think Joey felt a similar way too. She never said so, but she also never asked me for a calculator to figure out what 10 percent of our weekly checks was. We were apathetic to the whole thing.
A few years into our marriage, though, that changed. And again, it happened in the most unexpected of ways.
I was in a meeting north of Nashville with a big merchandise company, Richards & Southern. The owner, Terry, was taking me all around, giving me the tour of the buildings and telling me how they had grown it from a little postcard company that his daddy had started years ago to a multimillion-dollar merchandising business with big artists like Kenny Chesney and George Strait as clients. But as we walked into one particular room and he was in the middle of telling me how these new machines they’d bought had revolutionized his company and helped his profits skyrocket, he stopped midsentence and stopped walking too. He looked back at me and said, “No, Rory, that’s actually not true. That’s not what happened.”
Then he told me a different story. About how he and his wife, Sheri, hadn’t been going to church much, but in the eighties they had started to go more, and he had been convicted to start tithing, to give 10 percent of everything he made. And how it was a terrible idea and he thought it would bankrupt them, but he did it anyway, and instead of ruining his business, the next year it grew. So he gave more, and the next year it grew twice as big as before, and pretty soon the 10 percent he was giving to the church each month was more than he had made in a whole year before he had started tithing. He finished by saying, “That’s really how it happened, Rory. That’s how it’s happening now.” He told me how good it feels to give, that it’s not really his money anyway. It’s God’s. He’s just getting a part of it back. Terry was honest and said he wasn’t sure what the church does with it, but that’s not for him to know. He was just learning to give with a cheerful heart, and it had made all the difference in his business and in his marriage.