It's All About Him
Page 14
And in the shadow of the cross
We’ll live on bended knee
With this prayer I commit
That we both become as one
He in us and we in Him
Saying vows to one another
Hold them fast in your heart
’Til the day we see the Son
Two in one, one in two
That’s the way it’s go to be 2
Two in one, and one in two. We had learned that Alan and I couldn’t be truly one by the power of our own commitment. We could only be truly, intimately linked if we were both dependent on God. We could only be one inHim. It was supernatural . . . the sense that flawed human beings are able, because of grace, to have peace with God . . . and consequently live in peace with one another.
Beginning Again
Tears filled my eyes as I remembered how I had felt on this day just one year earlier.
On that prior gray December anniversary, I had been lost, so full of fear and anger that I could not imagine ever feeling joyful again. I had also been full of shame. I felt rejected, exposed, and humiliated by Alan’s defection.
I had also felt, way down deep, that it was all my fault. I knew that wasn’t true. But it’s hard for your intellect to win an argument over your feelings, especially when something bad is happening.
My feelings had told me that our separation wouldn’t have happened if I had just been a little better. Maybe if I had been thinner, smarter, younger,more beautiful, more confident, more fit, funnier, more adventurous, more whatever, then Alan wouldn’t have strayed. Maybe if I hadn’t made stupid mistakes, or perhaps if I had not been selfish, needy, or clingy . . . maybe then I’d be okay. In my shame, it was all about me—my faults, my deficiencies, ways in which I didn’t meet a perfect standard.
Many women struggle with this type of thinking. You don’t have to have a celebrity husband to feel such humiliation when he leaves. Shame is an equal-opportunity adversary.
Some of us struggle with it because of traumatic events in our past. Many of us feel shame because of a lifelong feeling that we just don’t measure up, and we’ll go to any extent of denial to cover it over, because it hurts. I recently read a magazine article about shame in which the author wrote, “Avoiding humiliation was practically my religion.”3
She went on to say she eventually learned that “my level of shame was always under my own control, that I would endure exactly as much humiliation as I consented to feel, and that instead of tolerating this awful feeling, I could simply dispense with it.”4 This is admirable. But I had no idea how to “simply dispense” with shame. I didn’t know how to exert enough willpower to get rid of it by myself. It had to be taken away by Someone who had a lot more power than I did.
This is where my new relationship with God worked another miracle. As I learned more about Him with my head and experienced His love with my heart, I was absolutely overwhelmed. His love was so big that it crowded out my shame. For a lifetime, I’d tried to be “good enough” . . . good enough to merit my father’s love, good enough to make Alan proud, good enough to be considered a “good Christian.”
Now I knew that I simply couldn’t be good enough. What a relief to cheerfully admit my inadequacy! On my own, I could never be in a relationship with a perfect, holy God. But Jesus was good enough. Perfectly good. And because of His death on the cross, in my place, for my sins, God credited Christ’s perfect righteousness to my account. My debt was paid in full. Cancelled.
As I said earlier, like anyone who was raised in the South and grew up in church, I’d known about this all my life. But I didn’t really know that it had the power to take away my shame. I didn’t discover this until I hit difficult times in my marriage and felt broken into little pieces, raw and exposed.
Then I read in the New Testament, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”5 Jesus took all my sins on the cross. He scorned their shame—and He obliterated shame’s power in my life.
So I didn’t have to get rid of my shame by the power of positive thinking, like trying to lift a weight that my muscles simply could not budge.No. That weight was lifted from me, freeing me and leaving me lighter than air.
God’s love for me was like a cleansing flood, washing away the sad little rags of shame. I was freed from the need to try to be “good enough” to earn anyone’s favor. I knew I was loved with an everlasting love simply because of Jesus.
So now, on this December afternoon of 1998, a year after my cold winter of despair, I had found a new relationship with God . . . and He had made possible a new relationship with Alan. God had taken away my shame and blessed me with a “double portion,” as the Old Testament puts it, with “everlasting joy” for this life and the next.
I couldn’t believe it.
After Alan and I said our new vows to each other, Robert asked if there was anything else Alan would like to say. Alan talked about how our new platinum rings, like our new marriage, were stronger and more precious than the gold rings we had worn for nineteen years. He humbly made a promise to me in front of our children and our friends to be the man, and the husband, that God wanted him to be.
Then Robert gave us a closing blessing:
And now, may the God of all grace, forgiveness and restoration guard your hearts and minds.
May His tangible love continue for you, Alan and Denise, for your children and for your children’s children.
May His wisdom direct your decisions.
May His Holy Spirit guide your emotions.
May His Word lead your way.
May His blessing be abundant.
May His forgiveness and grace give you freedom and creativity.
May His peace give you assurance and comfort.
And may His lavishness bring renewed celebration, today and forevermore.
Those whom God has joined together, let no one ever separate!
Amen!
Chapter 20
A WORK IN PROGRESS
I even asked the Lord to try to help me:
He looked down from Heaven, said to tell you please;
Just be patient, I’m a work in progress.
Alan Jackson, “Work in Progress”
He who began a good work in you
will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
Philippians 1:6, the Apostle Paul
I would love to say that after Alan and I renewed our vows, we I were instantly changed into perfect Christians and the perfect couple. It would be great if life was like those extreme-makeover shows on TV, where people are rejuvenated into ideal versions of themselves, what they’ve always wanted to be.
But lasting transformation takes a lot longer than an hour-long TV show, or the amount of time it takes for plastic surgery to heal. Reality can be disturbing: I’ve come to realize that life’s journey isn’t a quick transformational spin, but a long, hard trek of slow growth in an upward direction. Spiritually speaking, sanctification, or becoming more like Jesus, is a lifelong process.
Growth in human relationships is the same way. In our committed-but-not-perfect marriage, Alan and I get up every morning and take each day as it comes, with a renewed pledge to each other and to Christ. We know our progress will be slow . . . but we’re moving in the right direction.
Big Hair, Big Fun
One of the unexpected benefits of this may sound superficial, but it’s not. I’ve found that as Alan and I are at ease in our relationship with each other because of God’s peace in our lives, we laugh a lot more. Our relationship is a lot more fun. We’re free!
One weekend recently, we were staying at a friend of a friend’s lake home. The owners were not there, but they had pulled out all the stops to make us comfortable in their absence.
There were fresh flower arrangements in every room. There were gift baskets full of fruit, chocolates, and fine wines. T
he kitchen was fully stocked with just about anything we could have wanted. It was incredible.No hotel in the world could have given more care to make us feel comfortable.
The first evening we were there, we’d made reservations at a nice restaurant that our friends had recommended. I went into the luxurious master bath and took a long, hot shower, enjoying the designer soaps, shampoos, and gels our hosts had left for us. I wrapped myself in an enormous, fluffy towel, put on my makeup, and then got ready to do my hair. In order for it to look full and smooth, I’d have to blow it dry with a round brush and a strong hair dryer. The bathroom was stocked with curling irons, ceramic straighteners, everything. Humming, I opened drawers, searching for what I needed. I knew it was right there somewhere.
No hair dryer.
There were about six other fully stocked bathrooms in this lovely home. Still wearing my towel, I called to Alan. He was already dressed and ready to go.
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “can you check the other bathrooms and find me a hair dryer?”
“Sure,” he said. He went down the hall, and I could hear him opening drawers and cabinets.
He came back. “There’s no hair dryer anywhere,” he said.
* * *
A MOMENT LATER, THE BATHROOM DOOR BURST OPEN, AND ALAN STRODE IN, AN ENORMOUS LEAF BLOWER IN HIS ARMS. HE FLIPPED IT ON, AND A TORNADO OF AIR BLASTED THROUGH THE BATHROOM. ALAN LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE FROM T HE T EXAS C HAINSAW M ASSACRE.
* * *
I was already envisioning my hair, wet and plastered to my head, drying in pathetic clumps. I clenched my teeth and smiled.
“This house has absolutely everything,” I said.“There has to be a hair dryer somewhere. And you have to find it!”
Alan knew not to mess with me when I was having hair issues. He skedaddled away to search some more.
A few minutes later I heard a triumphant shout from the direction of the garage.
“Nisey!” Alan called. “I found one!”
Thank goodness, I thought.
A moment later, the bathroom door burst open and Alan strode in, an enormous leaf blower in his arms. He flipped it on, and a tornado of air blasted through the bathroom. Tissues flew everywhere. Alan looked like someone from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
But I wasn’t going to question God’s provision.
“Okay!” I shouted over the din as my hair whipped in the hurricane-force wind. “You hold it steady, and just move it up and down when I tell you!”
Needless to say, when we finally arrived at the restaurant, I had very big hair. But it was dry.
Finishing the Race
Even as Alan has supported me in hair issues, I’ve tried to affirm my love for him by entering into his interests.
Ever since I met my husband, he’s been crazy about cars. His father was a mechanic, and Alan inherited his love of vehicles and his habit of constantly buying, trading, fixing, and selling cars, boats, you name it. Once when Alan was a young boy, his daddy went to a flea market and came home with a broken street sweeper. This was not on his mother’s shopping list. It had big suction vents, rotating black brushes, and wide tires. Daddy Gene got it running, and Alan remembers riding up and down his driveway in Georgia, sweeping the hard dirt till it shone.
Alan hasn’t brought home any street sweepers lately, but in the interest of marital unity, I’ve tried to participate in his love of cars. A few years ago he wanted to do a big car rally, a four-day drive called the New England 1000. I joined right in. The idea was for each team to drive preplanned routes through the beautiful countryside, keeping careful track of mileage, timing, and our oil gauges. We were to check in at designated stops throughout the day and have our official time logged by the rally officials. Alan, of course, was our team driver, and I was the official navigator, which meant I had to read the map and keep us going in the right direction.
We drove a blue AC Cobra, a serious two-seater race car with no top and no windows. We had brought matching black full-body jumpsuits in case of rain, full-face helmets, a stopwatch, a notebook, directions, and pit-stop instructions. We were locked, loaded, and ready to do our 250 miles per day.
* * *
WE STOPPED FOR LUNCH, CHANGED INTO OUR WATERPROOF JUMP-SUITS IN THE REST-ROOM, AND CAME OUT LOOKING LIKE NINJAS.
* * *
All was well until the rain began. At first it just drizzled, but then the clouds rolled in, and a heavy, cold, drenching downpour settled down on the Northeast, centered right above our car. We stopped for lunch, changed into our waterproof jump-suits in the restroom, and came out looking like ninjas.
As the rain continued, I became less and less tolerant of my husband’s beloved hobby. The little windshield had wipers, but I had to use a chamois every other minute to wipe down the inside of the windshield so Alan could see. At first I squeezed it outside the car, but then I realized it really didn’t matter. Our little blue Cobra was filling up like a leaky rowboat.
Then my jumpsuit decided to stop being waterproof. Like the car, it began to gradually fill with rainwater. I felt like I was sitting in a wet diaper. For hours. My hair was plastered to my cold head, I could not feel my fingers, and by the time we finally pulled up to our lodging for that evening, I was so cold I could barely speak.
When we went inside, I was absolutely flabbergasted to discover that everyone else in the entire rally had given up because of the rain. They had skipped the meandering, scenic route and had come directly to the hotel many hours earlier. They were warm and dry, sitting by a roaring fire. Alan and I—who both looked like refugees from Waterworld—were the only participants who had driven the entire route for the day—without any cover!
Furious, I rushed into the hotel room, stripped off my sopping suit, and stood in the hot shower for about an hour. By the time I emerged, pink and gently wrinkled like a prune, I was actually able to be civil to my husband again.
At the end of the week, after the thousandth mile, the rally people had a big closing banquet. As awards were handed out, Alan and I were surprised when our names were called. “And to Alan and Denise Jackson,” the emcee said, “we present the Good Sport Award, for staying out in the rain and not giving up when everyone else did!”
Everyone laughed, and I stood up. “Thank you so much,” I said. “I’d just like to add that car rallies are not my usual thing; I did this for my husband. And I want you all to know that I will be receiving a very large piece of jewelry from Big Al when I get home!”
I was kidding, of course, and everyone roared with laughter. It was a light moment . . . but when I thought about it later, I realized that crazy road rally was in some ways a picture of what God had allowed Alan and me to do in our marriage. It had been tough and uncomfortable, but we hadn’t bailed out. We had stuck together. We were both determined enough—or maybe I should say stubborn enough—to stay the course.
And by God’s grace, we plan to finish the race!
Chapter 21
WHAT REALLY MATTERS
Did you weep for the children
Who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don’t know
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below
Did you burst out in pride
For the red white and blue
The heroes who died just doing what they do
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself to what really matters
I’m just a singer of simple songs
I’m not a real political man
I watch CNN but I’m not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
Alan Jackson,
“Where Were You? (When the World Stopped Turning)”
face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully,
even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.
But the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:12–13
On the morning of September 11, 2001, Alan was at home. I was at my Tuesday morning Bible study. The children were at school. When I heard the news, I rushed home, and like everyone else in the country, Alan and I stood in front of the television, our hands over our mouths, tears in our eyes.
A few weeks after that terrible day, Alan woke in the middle of the night. The melody and a few lines of a song were running through his mind. He crept downstairs to his office and sang into his little hand-held voice recorder, worried that if he waited until morning, he’d forget it all. Then he came upstairs and quietly slipped back into bed, not realizing that what he had just recorded would touch so many who were suffering from the 9/11 tragedies.
The next morning he finished writing the song. It was called “Where Were You? (When the World Stopped Turning),” and it eventually went to the top of not just the country charts, but the general market and pop genres as well. It struck a chord. As USA Weekend later reported, “The No. 1 success of ‘Where Were You?’, which captures a myriad of reactions to the terrorist attacks, has elevated Jackson to a new plateau of fame. People who had never before listened to country music bought his 2.5 million-selling ‘Drive’ album and came home to the core values of God, country and family that the genre has typically embraced.”1
For his part, Alan said that he didn’t really create the lyrics for “Where Were You?” “God wrote it,” he said later. “I just held the pencil.”2 In some ways Alan is a very complicated person. In other ways, as his song says, he’s just a singer of simple songs. His simplicity nailed what many people felt about September 11. It touched many for whom the attacks were not only a horrible catastrophe, but also a wake-up call about what really matters in this life.