Love Warrior

by Glennon Doyle Melton

  Since this will be in writing, I feel able to answer her.

  It’s hard. Right now it’s not the emotions that are taking me down, it’s the logistics. I thought that Craig and I had a good division of labor in our marriage, but I think what we really had was a division of power. I don’t know how my life works, so I feel powerless all day. I don’t know how to fix our air-conditioning and we’re melting in here. I don’t know where our money is or how much of it there is or if our bills are getting paid. I don’t know how close I am to the limit on my credit card because I don’t know the limit on my credit card. Apparently our entire life runs on passwords: our bank, the kids’ medical records, everything. I don’t know the damn passwords to my own life. The car stalled today and someone stopped behind us. It felt dangerous to let him help, but what choice did I have? The kids and I have become completely dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  Also, we can’t eat anything from a jar because I can’t open jars. When I try, I end up in furious tears because, Damnit—I should be able to do this. I know the kids are thinking, This is why we need Daddy. And last night I finally got the kids to bed and I was tired all the way through to my bones, so I melted into the couch. I picked up the remote and I couldn’t get the damn thing to turn on the TV. Fifty buttons on that thing and not one button said “on.” I felt so desperate. Without booze, TV is all I have to take the edge off. At night, I need a mental break from trying to solve this impossible puzzle that is my life. But I couldn’t have my break, because I’ve never learned how to use the damn remote. I considered waking up Chase to ask him to help, but I couldn’t suggest that he needed to be the man of the house. So I pushed every button six times and worked myself into a rage and considered smashing the remote into pieces. But I didn’t. I just lay there on the couch and stared at the ceiling and wondered how many women return to crappy marriages simply because they really just want to watch some damn television at the end of the day. A lot, I bet. Who do you think makes those remotes? Men. The remotes are a conspiracy. The remotes are tools of our oppression. Some woman needs to invent a Liberation Remote. I’d do it, but I’m too freaking tired. The thing I keep thinking is, I have to learn these things so that if I ever remarry, it’ll be because I want a partner, not because I need a handyman. So I’m trying to learn my life. I found the numbers of a mechanic and an air-conditioning company and I put them on the fridge next to a list of my online passwords. I feel a little stronger every time I look at it.

  A week later I receive a package from Lynn. It’s a rubber jar opener, and a note that says, “So we can always open our own jars.”

  * * *

  Craig keeps the promise he made in the bathroom. He shows up. I walk out to the van in the morning and find it cleaned from top to bottom. I climb in and notice that the gas tank is full. I come home to piles of groceries on my front step. I open an e-mail from Craig listing the kids’ upcoming dentist and doctor appointments along with a note saying he’ll take them to everything so I can rest. He sends me lyrics from the Mumford & Sons song “I Will Wait” and says that every night he drives, listens to their album, and cries. I stop by the school and he’s in the classroom, stuffing the teacher’s envelopes or reading with the kids. One day I open the front door and find three wrapped birthday gifts for parties the kids are invited to that weekend. Underneath the packages is a note: I can’t stop being their dad or your husband, Glennon, even if I have to do it from far away. His efforts feel different to me than they have ever felt before. He is loving us by serving us, and this kind of love feels steady, creative, and selfless instead of needy. I have told him there is no hope that I’ll love him back, and he is loving me anyway. This isn’t transactional love, because I am not reciprocating. This is interesting to me.

  One afternoon I open the mailbox and pull out a letter addressed to Craig in flowery, female handwriting. I stand in the street and stare at the pink envelope for a moment. No return address. Jesus. Adrenaline soars through my body and I can’t tell if I am terrified or excited. Is catching Craig in the act victory or defeat for me? I don’t know if we are teammates or opponents anymore. I sit down on the grass and remind myself that if I open this, I will never be able to unsee whatever is inside. I swallow hard and tear open the envelope. Written on the page inside are three short sentences: Craig, thank you for your commitment to our women and children. Your dedication and kindness are appreciated by all. The kids love you! With Respect and Gratitude, Donna. The printed emblem on the card reads THE SHELTER FOR ABUSED WOMEN AND CHILDREN. I reread the letter several times. Then I go inside, call Craig, and read the letter aloud to him. “What is this?” I ask.

  “I’m trying to be better, Glennon,” he replies. “I’m just trying to learn. And when I can’t be with you guys, I need to do some good.”

  * * *

  The kids are seeing a therapist to help them with the separation. Even though I told Craig I was filing for divorce, something has kept me from calling a lawyer. Divorce is what I want, but it’s not what I want. There is no decision that brings me peace. One afternoon in March, I go to the kids’ therapist’s office to discuss their progress. She says, “Glennon, you need to make a final decision about your marriage as soon as possible.” She explains that kids can handle divorce or reconciliation as long as there isn’t ambiguity.

  I look at her and say, “So you’re saying I should rush my decision?”

  “Yes. I guess I am saying that,” she replies.

  It’s bad advice. Hurrying certainty is never a good idea. But she seems convinced, and I feel relieved to be backed into a corner. I’m so tired. And I’m worried about my kids. Every day they ask me when Daddy is coming home and I haven’t been capable of telling them never. I change my mind. I decide to invite Craig home.

  Sometimes it’s not love that brings a woman back—it’s exhaustion. It’s loneliness. It’s that she’s fresh out of energy and bravado and she’s tired of being afraid of night noises she never even noticed before she was alone. Sometimes it’s not the noises—it’s the silence after the baby says a new word and there’s no one to be amazed with. Sometimes a woman just needs her life’s witness back. So she looks down the barrel of her life, sighs, and thinks, Maybe a compromise is okay. Maybe too hard to leave is a good enough reason to stay. That’s what I decide. Love is not a victory march; it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.

  I call Craig that evening and tell him that he can move back in. I say, “We’ll take it slow and try.”

  He is silent on the other end and then he says, “Thank you, Glennon.”

  He walks through the front door that evening, bags in hand, and the kids climb on him in the foyer while he holds back tears. He unpacks quietly, sheepishly, and as I watch him reclaim space in my closet and our life, I feel rigid, closed, and afraid.

  That night I stay in the closet to change into my pajamas, keeping as many closed doors between us as possible. When I’m half-dressed, I hear Craig walking toward the door. My pants are down around my ankles and I am afraid he’ll walk in on me naked. My heart thumps against my chest and I try to quickly yank my pants up over my knees, but I fall to the floor and hit my head hard. My cheek scratches against the rough carpet, my heart races, and I can’t move because my legs are trapped inside my pants. I lie on the floor and as tears of frustration surface, I pray he won’t come in and see me like this. When I gather the energy to stand back up, I pull my sweatpants up and my hoodie over my head so no inch of my skin is exposed. Even though it is only eight o’clock, I climb into bed. I curl up tightly, as close to the edge as possible. I don’t want Craig to join me. I don’t want to share my bed and my closet and my life with him. Instead of being a relief, Craig’s return feels like an invasion.

  The next morning, Craig takes the girls out to breakfast. Chase and I go to the local zoo and find ourselves standing in front of the lion’s cage. The massive, majestic cat paces back and forth, muscles rippling under his coat, passing just inches
in front of us. The lion stops and stares right at us. Chase and I stare back, entranced, silent, until Chase says, “He’s so beautiful.”

  I whisper back, “Yes, yes he is. Isn’t it weird that we can just stand here, noticing his beauty, without being afraid?”

  Chase says, “Yeah. It’s the metal bars.” I hold on to one of the bars and think of myself crumbled on the closet floor and then curled up at my bed’s edge. I consider how my fear and anger have skyrocketed, how the bit of tenderness I’d gathered for Craig has disappeared. I am terrified and angry again and that is because I’ve lost my bars. Living separately was keeping me safe. But now my bed is his bed again and my bars are gone and it is difficult to see any beauty in a lion or a man when you are terrified of being torn to shreds.

  For two weeks, I try to build my own bars with extra layers of clothing, a turned back, cold shoulders, and scowls. I feel the need to protect myself by being distant and nasty, so that Craig will be constantly aware of my pain. But I can’t show my anger often because of the kids. They need normalcy and hope. So one night I pull Craig aside and say, “If you see me smiling, don’t take it as forgiveness. Don’t take it as weakness. For God’s sake, don’t take it as happiness. Don’t for a second hope that my smiles mean I’m over it. Every smile from me is an act for the kids. What I look like on the surface in no way reflects what’s going on inside of me. Inside, I’m angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. But I’ll act because acting is the only choice I have left. You’ve even taken away my right to be honest with my face, my voice, my being. At least when you were gone I was honest. Now I’m just an actor. It was bad enough that you betrayed me, but now it’s like you’ve forced me to betray myself.”

  And betray myself, I do. For two weeks I smile. I pretend. I send my representative into my marriage. I pat Craig on the shoulder while the kids are watching. I pour his coffee in the morning and laugh at his jokes at dinner. Inside, I feel like I did in my wedding night bed. Alone. Fearing I’ll never feel safe with a man a day in my life. Wondering if I’ll just be an actor forever.

  * * *

  One Sunday morning in June, I walk into the kitchen and find Craig making breakfast. The kids sing while Craig flips pancakes. Sunlight pours in through the window and music fills the room. It all looks idyllic and perfect. It looks too good to be true. I stand still and watch until Chase says, “Mama! Come over!” They all turn toward me with hopeful smiles and I understand that all I have to do in that moment is step inside, take back my role as happy wife and mother, hug Craig and with one look say, Let’s start over. Let’s just forget. Let’s be Mr. and Mrs. Melton again. I’ll resume my roles of wife and mother so the rest of you can have your happiness back. I want to be able to do that for them. I want to be able to make this okay for them more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. My mind understands stepping in to be the most practical choice and my heart longs to be held and loved and enveloped back into the fold of this family.

  But the still, small voice won’t allow it. The still, small voice insists that if I walk back in now, I’ll be rejecting the gift inside of this crisis. Crisis. Sift. This is an invitation to allow everything to fall away in order to be left holding what can never be taken. The invitation in this pain is the possibility of discovering who I really am. Eleven years earlier, when I found myself stunned sober by that pregnancy test, I’d looked around and decided that adulthood meant taking on roles. Adults became and so I became, became, became. I became a wife and then a mother and a church lady and a career woman. As I took on these roles, I kept waiting for that day when I could stop acting like a grown-up because I’d finally be one. But that day never came. My roles hung on the outside of me like costumes.

  Those roles I once used to clothe and define myself have been torn away. And that’s why I wake up each morning paralyzed, disoriented, stripped, naked, exposed. Wondering, Who am I? Who was I before I started becoming other things? What is true about me that can’t be taken away, that has nothing to do with the people I love or the work that I do? Who is the woman who will or will not step back inside of this family? That is the question that needs to be answered before I make this decision. I’ve only begun the work that needs to be done here. Not yet, the voice says. Not yet. See this through. Unbecome, Glennon. Unbecome until you uncover who you really are. And so I smile at my people and then I turn away and walk back into my bedroom. I lock the door.

  I go to my computer and look up nearby beach hotels. I find one a few miles away, call the front desk, and discover that the rooms are much too expensive to consider. I book a waterfront room anyway. I pull down my suitcase from a high shelf on the closet and pack a bathing suit, cover-up, pajamas, flip-flops, tea bags, three candles, and matches. I go back out to the kitchen and ask Craig if I can speak to him. He comes to the bedroom with me and I tell him, “I’m going away for a couple of days. I need to figure something out. And I need to be alone to do it.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Go ahead. Take your time. I’ve got everything here covered.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I check into the hotel. I sit down in my room and look around. I resist the urge to turn on the television. I need to sit with the quiet; I know that much. I open the sliding glass doors that lead to the small balcony, lie down in bed, and fall asleep. Before I open my eyes the next morning, my ears awake to the sound of the waves hitting the sand. It stirs something inside of me. The sound of the water speaks not to my spinning mind or yearning heart, but to my still, strong soul. The water is speaking in a language I knew before the world taught me its language. I lie there and I let the sound of the surf massage my soul for two hours. I let it speak to me and I do not speak back. I just receive. I understand with great gratitude that I could rest here forever, offer the sea nothing in return, and it would never stop speaking to me. The surf is gentle and selfless and steady. This is not a transaction; it is a gift.

  I feel the need to be closer to the water. I stand up, pull on a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and throw my hair into a ponytail. I gather a blanket from the closet and walk down the stairs toward the beach. I spread the blanket out on the sand right in front of the Gulf’s rolling waves. Now, I can not only hear the water, but see it and feel the cool breeze on my face. Everything is aqua—wide open in all directions. As far as I can see, there is only sea, sand, and sky. I curl up and fall asleep on the sand. When I wake it is late afternoon and I feel hungry. I leave my blanket and when I go back to my room to make tea and gather snacks, I keep the doors open. I cannot stand to be separated, not for a moment, from the sea. I carry my tea and snacks back to my blanket and as soon as I sit down, the sun hits the horizon and its white light shatters into all the colors of the rainbow. Now I am surrounded by reds and blues and oranges and pinks, and the sky seems to curve around me like I’m in the center of a snow globe. The sky, the breeze, the colors, the warmth, the birds dancing in the surf, the pelicans trusting the sea for their dinner—all of this forms a message to my weary heart. I feel overwhelmed with love, with beauty, with attention and reassurance. I feel held. I feel safe.

  The surf continues to hit the sand rhythmically and dependably and I trust it will continue. The sun is setting but I know it will rise again tomorrow. There is a pattern to things. This makes me wonder if I can also trust that there is a pattern, a rhythm, a beauty, a natural rise and fall to my life as well. I wonder if the one holding together this sky might also be capable of holding together my heart. I wonder if the one making this sky so achingly beautiful might also be working to make my life beautiful, too.

  The top of the sun disappears into the water, and even as I watch it go, I know that I am the one doing the leaving. It is staying in the same place, shining on and on. I will just have to be patient and rest until I can see it again. Light disappears sometimes, but it always comes back. And after I say good-bye to the sun, I applaud loudly for the one responsible for the show. I’m flooded with awe, relief, and comfort. I feel a
chill because the sun is down now. Everything is as it should be. All is well.

  The other people on the beach start to leave, but I am not ready. I stay still, so I learn that the sky keeps exploding once the sun is gone. Deeper reds and brilliant purples continue to wrap around me like blankets until it all fades into pitch navy. Then I turn around and catch a glimpse of the moon, a silver boomerang in the sky that seems to have appeared out of the literal blue. But I know the moon’s always there, too, waiting for its time to be seen. The day has to fall to make way for the night and the night has to surrender its place so the day can have its turn. This strikes me as a holy rhythm. I wonder if whatever created this rhythm of the tides and the sky and the sun and the moon has a holy rhythm for my life, too. I consider that perhaps I’m in the middle of a cycle. Maybe there is a time for everything. Maybe there is a timekeeper.

  My eyes fall below the moon to the plants that line the beach, every shade of purple, green, and pink. I think, maybe some loves are perennials—they survive the winter and bloom again. Maybe others are annuals—beautiful and lush and full for a season and then back to the earth to die and create rich soil for new life to grow. Maybe there is no way for love to fail, because the eventual result of all love is New Life. Death and resurrection—maybe that’s just the way of life and love. I decide that regardless of whether my marriage reveals itself to be an annual or perennial love, there will be new lushness and beauty and life that comes of it.

  I can only see my toes through the white flashlight of the moon. I note that even at night, there is some light to see by. We are never without light. There is no true disaster. I find myself thanking the moon and the one who created it. I use the moonlight to gather my wrappers and my mug and my blanket. I stand up, look around, and notice I am the only one left on the beach. I’ve been sitting on the sand for eight hours. I walk back to my room and I do not stop to wash my feet at the fountain. I keep all the sand and salt attached to me. I need to bring it with me inside. I sit down on the bed, the sandy blanket still wrapped around me, and I call my mom. When she answers, I say, “Mama, I think I found something today that my soul loves. I sat on the beach for eight hours today. I listened to the surf and I felt like it was speaking to me. It was reassuring me or something, trying to show me how things work. And then when the sun set, I felt so held by the sky, like it was covering me and protecting me.”