Grandview also proved to be a place of solace and wisdom. I remember one morning in particular when I’d driven to work in tears—worn down and worn out from an argument with David the night before—and right as the bell rang for first period, my friend Helen, who was the Latin teacher, stopped by my room and asked how I was doing. There was something about her tone that unlocked the floodgates, so I stepped out in the hall and gave her the (relatively) short version of life at home. Helen, in her no-nonsense, native Bostonian way, immediately understood that I was concerned about my marriage, not angry with David, and within minutes she honed in on something I’d suspected but never said out loud:
“Sophie. Y’all may need some counseling.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked. “I’ve thought the same thing, but it doesn’t make sense. He says that he loves me, I love him, he has a great job, we just bought a house. . . .”
“Sophie. Stop it. None of that matters. Y’all are having trouble. It’s normal. You need help. It’s not your fault, and it’s not his fault—but you can’t fix it on your own.”
I didn’t have any words. I just continued to cry.
“Do you hear me? You can’t fix it. The Lord doesn’t need you to fix it. Support each other, yes. Love each other, absolutely. Find a good counselor, for sure. But release yourself from the responsibility of figuring out how to fix it. That’s not your job.”
I nodded my head and tried to wipe the mascara off my cheeks.
“And one more thing,” Helen said. “Stop comparing your marriage to everybody else’s. You’ll wear yourself out, and David will start to resent it if he doesn’t already. If God wanted you to have somebody else’s marriage, He wouldn’t have given you the one you have.”
It was, without a doubt, the perfect word at the perfect time.
Anybody who has walked through an “ick” time in their marriage knows there are no easy answers and no overnight solutions. But my talk with Helen, if nothing else, led to some honest conversations with David about what was really going on. He admitted some particular areas where he was struggling, as did I, and it was so much easier for us to communicate when I wasn’t constantly asking what could I do or what had I done or why was he mad. And after almost two years of wondering if our marriage would survive whatever was going on, just knowing that we were both willing to fight was an answer to prayer.
Gradually, thank the Lord, the marital fog started to lift. That didn’t mean the problems disappeared, but it did mean we had moments when we could see our way through them. We were all about seizing the day and making the most of the years ahead and many other themes that might be the basis for a Richard Marx ballad.
There’s not much about those three years in Baton Rouge that I would call easy. But the Lord’s timing was perfect, and He was so gracious to us in the midst of the hurting. He opened the door at Grandview Christian (through Spanish, no less), He led me to a work environment where the Word and worship were paramount, He provided such a sweet sense of community despite the fact that Baton Rouge and I (along with the allegedly stolen wheelchairs) hadn’t gotten off to a great start. He gave David and me a sincere willingness—over a period of several years—to do the hard work that it takes to get better.
And don’t misunderstand: if the Lord hadn’t done any of those things, He would still be just as good, just as loving, just as merciful. But seeing how He had provided far more than we could have ever known we needed was a huge encouragement, almost like an assurance that there was something far better waiting for us if we could just get to the other side.
I assumed our time in the Creole State would go down in our personal history as a season of perfecting a roux, developing an appreciation for turducken, and maybe even learning to hum along with the LSU fight song. But as it turned out, God had bigger things to teach us.
Because here’s the thing this INFP learned over the course of several years: sometimes the only way to real peace is through some pretty deep valleys.
It’s a lesson David and I were both learning firsthand.
DESPITE MY COMPLETE inability to tan or even make friends with the sun, the beach is my favorite place on earth. And since David’s brother and sister-in-law have a condo near the Gulf that’s about four hours from our house, I’m able to get my beach fix at least two or three times a year. It doesn’t matter if it’s sunny or cloudy or burning-up hot or freezing cold; as soon as I look out at that big ole stretch of Gulf, my soul exhales.
I was there just a couple of weeks ago, and on the last day of the trip, I woke up way too early, thanks to a puppy that decided that 4:45 in the morning was a fine time to go outside. I tried to fall asleep again once she had taken care of business, but after tossing and turning for a sweet forever, I finally decided to get up and make some coffee and watch the sunrise.
You know, just like I used to do way back in my early twenties.
The water was as smooth as a sheet of glass, more silver than blue, and gradually the darkness started to give way as the sun broke through the early morning haze with streaks of light pink and lavender. Parallel to the beach, a lone boat held course—careful not to disturb a few dolphins swimming in the distance—and fishermen dotted the shoreline, casting and reeling in their lines in perfect quiet.
Perfect, peaceful quiet.
A woman caught my eye as she carefully—almost delicately—made her way down the walkway to the beach. She looked to be in her early sixties, and while it was evident that she was carrying something, I couldn’t quite make out what it was.
When she reached the sand, she seemed to have a clear destination in mind, so I followed her line of sight—and that’s when I saw him: a sixty-something man, bearded and tan, standing at the edge of the water with what I presumed was a grandbaby in his arms. He turned as the woman got close, and he smiled at her, warm and familiar, as the deep, sugary sand slowed her steps. Once she was close enough, she handed him a mug, kissed his cheek, took the baby from his arms, and sat down in a nearby chair.
The man sipped his coffee as he turned back to the shore.
The woman held the baby and watched her man watch the water.
They stayed in their respective places for twenty minutes at least, and they were the picture of contentment.
They weren’t standing side by side, but their togetherness was undeniable.
When David and I first got married, I easily could have listed the top forty-nine things I wanted in a husband—things like calling me in the middle of the day just to tell me he loved me, frequently surprising me with flowers for no reason at all, and supporting me unconditionally through any struggles that might arise with my hair. Basically, I wanted a husband who would meet all my emotional needs and make me queen of his universe.
But real problems and real life have a way of changing your outlook. In fact, I think David would agree that once all the issues—his and mine—of our first three years of marriage were out on the table and in the light, so to speak, our priorities got really clear really fast. In the past I’d always been fixated on the little stuff: Why didn’t he sound happy when I called him at the office? Why was he annoyed when I told him the story about that student? Why didn’t he run over to hug me the second he walked in the house?
And that wasn’t a one-sided deal. Little stuff bothered David, too. Why did I let all the clean clothes hang out on the guest-room bed? Why couldn’t I remember to get my oil changed? Why did I walk off in the middle of a conversation to get a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator?
(In my defense, there are some conversations that require the ice-cold refreshment and the caffeine infusion of a Diet Coke.)
(My timing wasn’t always the best, though.)
But once we started to think and pray and talk about how to move forward together, we started to realize that dealing with the big stuff—seeing the big picture—is so much more important. And once we honed in on how to manage our expectations over the long term instead of keeping score in the
short term? Well, both of us seemed to have a whole lot more grace to share. Little by little we realized that it was more important to protect the covenant we’d made than to insist that the other person jump through a never-ending series of hoops.
And don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying that sometimes little things can’t turn into big things.
I’m just saying an ongoing crisis in your marriage—whether it’s related to family or health or strongholds or expectations or fidelity or whatever—has a way of persuading you to pull the lens back a little bit.
I think that’s why the couple I saw on the beach struck such a tender chord in my heart. There was an ease and a warmth between them that was evident even from the balcony where I was standing. And unlike my newlywed days, it wasn’t because I thought they’d achieved some perfect state of being married. Because you know what? If they’d been together longer than about four months, they’d no doubt dealt with some hurt and some heartbreak and some hard times. Everybody does.
Do you hear me, single people of America?
EVERYBODY DOES.
But that doesn’t mean you just shrug your shoulders and quit.
It means you fight for your marriage. You fight for your person.
And to be clear: I know full well that there are people who dug in and fought for their marriage and fought for their person but things ended anyway—and it wasn’t their fault. That breaks my heart. But I’m mostly talking to the twenty-seven-year-old me here: One day you will see a precious sixty-something couple on the beach, and you’re going to remember that being a newlywed didn’t solve your problems as much as it exposed them. You’re going to know that sometimes God is most merciful when he shows us the depths of our brokenness. And you’re going to look at your husband and be so glad that you hoped.
Oh yes, ma’am.
Because when things are looking mighty grim, you hope.
It was right before our third Christmas in Baton Rouge when David and I started talking about moving to another city. There was nothing wrong with where we were—in fact, I was crazy about our neighborhood and the area surrounding it, not to mention my school and our church. But none of that changed the fact that I craved being closer to our families. Plus, since David’s line of work wasn’t limited geographically, we had options.
It didn’t hurt that we were young and adventurous and maybe just a smidge naive.
We had a couple of other criteria, now that I think about it. We figured it would be nice to be close to a decent-sized airport, and I wanted to be in a state where fried chicken was the go-to dish for special occasions.
South Louisiana was a blast and all, but I was jambalayaed out.
So one coldish January night, we sat in the back bedroom of our house and made a list of places we might want to live. All of them were directly tied to family except two: Birmingham, Alabama, and Destin, Florida. I vetoed Destin because I didn’t want to lose the joy of the beach vacation by already living there, and the location didn’t really solve any of my oh-my-word-I-miss-my-family issues.
Destin was David’s number-one pick, by the way. But when I explained my reasoning, he crossed it off the list. Never let it be said that he has not sacrificed for his bride.
So. We looked at our little list and discussed the pros and cons of each for, I don’t know, INFINITY NIGHTS IN A ROW. We also prayed a whole bunch and tried to be sensitive to the Lord’s leading.
That sounded very spiritual, didn’t it?
That’s because I’m leaving out the part about how I worried and fretted and cried that we were never going to figure it out and what if we make the wrong decision and HOW CAN WE KNOW FOR SURE WITHOUT ANY DOUBTS WHATSOEVER THAT THIS IS WHAT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO DOOOOOOO?
Oh, rest assured that when there’s a big life decision on the line, I can flat-out bring it with the crazy.
So it’s a good thing, I reckon, that the Lord isn’t deterred by a little bit of bellyaching when He’s leading folks to move to a new place (please see: Israelites) (please see also: me). And over the course of a couple of months, He made it crystal clear to us—through some very specific guidance—that Birmingham was where we were supposed to be.
We had no idea why, mind you. We didn’t know anybody there, and we’d never spent that much time in the area. But to our utter surprise, everything started to fall into place. With the help of some friends, David got work details squared away. I found a job. We sold our house, packed our stuff, and hugged our neighbors, and on July 1, we bid good-bye to the bayou.
I was so excited that I honked my horn repeatedly on significant stretches of I-59.
Clearly my first objective for our new life in Alabama was to KEEP IT KLASSY, SISTER.
The April before we loaded the U-Haul in Baton Rouge, David and I made a quick trip to Birmingham so we could look at some different areas where we might want to live. We were operating on total faith since at that point we weren’t entirely sure what my job situation was going to be come summertime, but we both had such peace about the move that we felt like it was smart to go ahead and figure out the housing end of things.
I’d found a great Realtor on the Internet and instantly liked her when we talked on the phone, and she met us late one Friday afternoon when we arrived at the hotel where we were staying. We didn’t have a huge budget, but since the housing market was booming at the time, we felt like it was smart to take whatever money we made off our Baton Rouge house and invest it in a place to live in Birmingham.
Oh, 2000. You were full of economic promise and brand-new subdivisions.
We spent most of that afternoon and the next day driving from one part of Birmingham to another. Everything we looked at was either too sixties or too rundown or too smoky or too expensive or too something-about-this-feels-dangerous.
By Saturday night we were reminding each other that the trip had been good and worth it even if we didn’t find anywhere to live. We’d gotten more familiar with Birmingham, we’d honed in on a few areas we really liked, and we’d grown very attached to the rolling hills and cooler temperatures. There’s a quote by Philip Yancey that says faith is “trusting in advance what will only make sense in reverse,” and that perfectly captures how we felt that weekend. We didn’t know why, and we didn’t know how, but somehow a city that we’d rarely visited and had never lived in had impressed itself on our hearts, and all we knew to do was trust that the Lord was behind it. It was probably the first time in my life I’d been that certain about something I had no logical reason to know.
The next morning we decided to go to breakfast and then drive down a stretch of road that I’d traveled a few times with Chox and Joe when I was younger. Some dear friends of theirs had moved to Birmingham when I was in high school, and sometimes we’d stop by their house when we were on the way to see Sister and Barry for a weekend. The houses in their neighborhood were a little north of our budget, but I remembered it as having lots of pine trees and crape myrtles and mimosas, all of which reminded me of my hometown.
A strong sense of familiarity came over me as we passed by buildings and shopping centers I hadn’t seen in more than ten years. I absentmindedly flipped through a new-homes magazine that our Realtor had sent us a couple of weeks before, and when I spotted a subdivision that looked to be off that same road, just a little farther down, I showed the picture to David and said, “We have plenty of time before we leave—wanna go check it out?”
He did, so we kept driving.
I’ve often wondered if our reaction to that drive would’ve been the same if the morning hadn’t been so picturesque, but the air was cool, the sky was blue, and as the suburbs gradually shifted into wide-open countryside, the scenery took our breath away. We drove up a mountain, back down it, then turned and wove through some of the prettiest rural roads that you ever did see. Dogwood and azalea blooms practically formed a tunnel leading out to the subdivision, and by the time we parked in front of one of the houses we wanted to see, I think both of us knew that
we’d found our place.
We’d never even considered the possibility of living out in the country. But I’ll be doggone if the country didn’t win us over on that drop-dead gorgeous Alabama morning.
A couple of hours later, we drove across town to an open house our Realtor was hosting and told her we wanted to put in a bid on a house in the Far Away Subdivision.
“How in the world did you find a house all the way out there?” she asked.
David grinned at me, then at her, and shrugged his shoulders. “We just kept driving, I reckon.”
Adjusting to life in Birmingham (or in our case, right outside it) was as effortless as anything I’ve ever done. I still missed Mississippi, mind you. But we were so much closer. And the Lord showed us over and over that He had made a way for us, from our little house in the country to our sweet neighbors (two of whom moved here from Baton Rouge not long after we did) to my job as an English teacher (did you hear me? I said ENGLISH TEACHER) at a wonderful Christian school. And get a load of this: on my first day of summer workshops, I realized that I’d driven countless times by the church that had started the school; it was just off the interstate that I knew by heart from the summer I’d worked with Sister and Paige as I traveled back and forth from Myrtlewood to Atlanta.
Isn’t that just something else? I’d traveled the road to the church for twelve years before I ever got there. And that’s to say nothing of the Alabama barbecue that the Lord saw fit to bless us with in our new hometown.
But let me tell you something else I realized after that first day of workshops: I had a whole lot of catching up to do in the area of biblical scholarship. And if some of your eyes bugged out when you read that because you were expecting that I was going to make some smart-aleck remark like “capri pants wardrobe” or “contemporary Christian music collection,” oh no. I am so serious about the biblical scholarship remark. It was evident right away. My new school placed a strong emphasis on biblical integration in each subject area, so when a teacher talked about, say, what she had planned for her calculus class that year, a casual conversation might morph into a discussion about the consistency and order of God. That was usually the point when I’d think to myself, Sister, I believe it’s time to up your theological game.
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