Shadow Boxing.

Mark 10:8-9....."and the two will become ONE flesh so that they are no longer two but one. Therefore, what God has joined together let no one separate."

There's a scene in one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride, that for years has proven to spur many a successful quote-offs in my family. It's the scene when Princess Buttercup is being forced to marry Prince Humperdink against her will, but there are whispers among the wedding guests that her true love, Wesley, is coming to save her.

I know I make an obscene amount of references to movies from the 80's but really, in terms of movies, who can disagree that my decade produced some goodies. We probably could have gone without parachute pants and unfortunately, Vanilla Ice ended up being sort of a dud, but still, who can forget that little priest in his gaudy wedding garb with his oddly pigmented face and champion speech impediment.

"Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaaa, todayyyy. Wove. Twue Wove....." Prince Humperdink interrupts and urges him to the grand finale before the important stuff even has a chance to be said. "MAN AND WIFE. SAY MAN AND WIFE!" To which he responds forlornly, "Man. Annnnnd. Wife."

If you're equal parts hopeless romantic and hormonal pre-teen like me, your reaction might have been similar to both mine and Fred Savage's at the time, "STOP! NO! This can't be happening! Where's WESLEY?! He's supposed to save her! She can't marry HUMPERDINK." And as your heart broke and your face fell, you knew, or seemed to think you knew, that the damage had been done. There was no going back. They were married. One. It was over for Wesley.

We all know how the story ends so I'll spare you the dramatic detail because this post isn't really about getting married or who gets who or if all ends well, it's about the afterbirth of marriage. The one flesh part. Which can be tricky and most of the time isn't all that cute.

The other day I was RAGING. I was hormonal, the yummy soul food, time with family, twinkling lights, everything is merry and bright, time to toss the leftovers and get on the scale, post Christmas depression had hit. I was on a roller coaster of emotion; elation at being chosen to be the mommy of two precious little girls and sorrow at not being chosen for their younger siblings. Gearing up to take down a MOUNTAIN of Christmas décor and head dive into more house construction AND it was New Year's Day; the FIRST day of the year; full of promise and hope and newness and change and things unknown and reflection and preparation and black eyed peas but for some reason I could NOT pull myself together which made me feel worse considering it was 'supposed' to be all those things. So naturally when things don't feel right and I'm a mess I do what I do best. I would love to be able to tell you that I took a deep breath, made a green smoothie, went for a jog, read my Bible and gave it all to God, AS USUAL, but that would be very, very untrue. Rather I looked for the nearest, unsuspecting, target and when I found him, I attacked with the enthusiasm of a caged raccoon. I picked and I nagged and I rolled my eyes and I lashed out and I ignored and I said hurtful things on purpose and made mountains out of molehills and in general had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day only made worse by the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way in which I acted toward someone I love and cherish very much.

Of course after the smoke had cleared and he was still standing, guns undrawn, rock solid and unmovable, AS USUAL, I ended up in a puddle of awful, guilt ridden, self loathing tears on the floor. As I choked on the embarrassment and shame and the pitiful apology that could have been avoided entirely had I made a smoothie, gone for a jog and given it to God, I wondered aloud "WHY? WHY do I always beat up on you? You've done nothing. You're so precious to me. You are never anything but loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful. I don't know why I do that. I'm so sorry." The words that came out of this loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful man's mouth next, were truly straight from God in my opinion. Simple in structure but holy and profound to me that day.

"We are one person. It's easy to beat up on your spouse because it's like beating up yourself." 

And there it was. What God has joined together, let no one separate. Not even you, Whitney.

It crushed me. I had always read this verse through the eyes of a child it seemed. Naïve and foolish. Assuming this was speaking of the dangers of outside influences; affairs, etc. Things that led to the ultimate separation of divorce. And I'm sure it was, but in that moment I knew there was much more to it. This idea of one flesh. This idea that what I do to me, I do to he.

When Andis and I were engaged we went to pre-marital counseling. One day our counselor read THAT VERSE. Every woman knows the one. Regardless of how you feel about it, it's the one that has made my skin crawl more times than any other verse, ever. "Wives, submit to your husbands."  He turned to me and asked me how that made me feel. I tried to hide my contempt but it came out before I had a chance to wrestle it down. "AWFUL!", I said. Submission was a dirty word in my world and my parents could probably attest to the fact that it had always been. Andis, however, looked like he had been slapped. "It's not about that," he said quietly. "It's about mutual love and respect. Caring for someone else as much as yourself."

"Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do the Lord.....Husbands, love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.....in this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife, loves himself.....for this reason....the two will become one flesh. THIS is a profound mystery." Ephesians 5: 22-32 paraphrased

Submission to one flesh. Selfless. Sacrificing. Honorable. Holy. Mysterious.

All those times that I thought I was shadow boxing there was actually someone else in the other corner of the ring.

He. Me. One flesh.

I get it now.

Time to put the gloves down.

I USED to think roller coasters were fun.

I've never been a bungee jumper or a zip-liner or a skydiver. Well there was that one time but it was only because I was trying to impress the man I knew I wanted to be my best friend until death do us part. Considering I wanted to back out, screamed bloody murder the ENTIRE WAY DOWN and probably had a pee spot on my jeans afterwards makes me think the odds might not have been in my favor on that one. He married me anyway so all's well that ends well.

Roller coasters on the other hand? Bring. It. On. Something about being strapped in and someone else pushing the lever that makes it TOTALLY different on the risk scale and WAY doable. And I do. If theme parks weren't so dang expensive and hours away, I would be on roller coasters every weekend if I could. Roller coasters to me are like roman candles; amazing and wonderful and exhilarating and shocking for .02 seconds and then it's over. And being over is good because there's a certain rollercoaster threshold that we all have and let me tell you; once surpassed, it is ALL DOWN HILL; literally AND figuratively.

Yesterday I reached that threshold, but the ride unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, DID NOT STOP. I felt like I was 6 again and on the Merry Go Round for the first time. You remember the Merry Go Round don't you?! That awful kiddie ride that looks so beautiful and fun from the outside, like it's made of candy and rainbows, but once you get on you realize it was designed by Satan himself. Why you people encourage your kids to get on that thing is beyond me. I guess maybe the picture BEFORE the one of them projectile vomiting on you turns out pretty cute, perhaps?

So yeah, yesterday. At one point I just had to grab a brown bag and pray that Mary Poppins would save me and my horse would LEAP off of the ride and go pogoing through the country side so I could get some AIR. It did not happen. Instead, this is what did.

About an hour after the meeting to determine if we were the right 'fit' for the girls had commenced and our caseworker had presented the 70 page Goble stack of information, she left the meeting so that the adoption committee could arrive at their determination. She got in touch with us to say that she had received overwhelmingly positive feedback, that everyone seemed to be pleased with what The Goble Family had to offer, and that we should have a decision shortly. Yay! Our three girls seemed so close that I felt as if they were locked in the next room and I was waiting patiently to be given the key that would open the door to our interconnected futures. I still held a soft, sad spot in my heart for the fact that their brother would not be joining them, but I had already settled myself into a forced peace about that some time before so rather than being excruciatingly painful it was more like a quick, band aid ripping pinch and then it became more of a dull ache. Until I read the rest of the email.

Sam, she went on to inform us; piece number three of our four piece puzzle; the little boy that runs away from me in my dreams, the son that my husband would not yet have, the one that, mere MOMENTS before, my mind was pushing way down into the heart caverns where things not yet understood live, WAS in fact also available for adoption! I had no words. I had no breath. All of my dreams, my prayers were about to come true. Our puzzle would be complete and our babies would not be separated after all. God was good. So good.

But we continued to wait. And by wait I really mean: prayed, cried, paced like a starving lioness, tried to distract my busy, over anxious, OCD imagination with Facebook, Pinterest, Google, YouTube, GodVine, Grey's Anatomy and even some work thrown in for good measure.

And then it arrived. The email outlining the fate of our future. And I saw them. Those three little words. YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED. In that moment time stopped, and those three little words were more profound then all the I Love You's and I Hate You's of which I had ever been on the receiving end. They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. They were the words that were paving the way to a future filled with laughter and giggling and screaming and fighting and pancakes with way too much syrup and allowances and chores and sleepovers and tickle wars and pain and tears and scrapes and cuts and bruises and passing grades and failing grades and little league and little dribblers and broken hearts and hopscotch and family game night and bedtime prayers and manners and maybe none of that but maybe all of that. My babies were on their way home. It had been a long journey, but then again, it was only just beginning....................for two of them.

"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck."

Isn't a tornado formed when the warm air of the south and the cooler air from the north sweep into each other and the effects of the two opposites create the perfect storm? There is no explanation for how I felt but that's as close as I think I can get at this point.

Inexpressible joy and confidence. Indescribable confusion and fear. The golden key that unlocked the door to the room where my two oldest girls were being kept, had been handed over on a silver platter while the other two keys had been put in a bottle, sealed and sent out to sea. You know that moment when you are laughing so hard that you start to cry or that moment when you are crying so hard that you can't help but laugh? The two emotions must be similar enough in nature that your mind and heart literally become confused and exchange one for the other, even if just for a moment. How can one heart have enough room for such overwhelming joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time?

And then I knew. In that moment I had become a mother.

And while one side of my heart swelled with pride, anticipation and thankfulness, the other side shrank back in the face of fear and doubt. But just for a moment. A moment is all it took for me to remember my new title and all of the responsibility and strength that it carries. For to whom much is given, much more is required. So like the growing embers in the belly of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit, a fire had been lit in me that would not soon be put out.

".....suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one (or two). Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?" Luke 15: 8

The answer to this is a resounding YES. So in the meantime I'm off to hunt for a good deal on some scuba gear.

The Examined Life.

I want you to think back on your life; all of it. From if you were a preemie to the relationship you had with your father to if you were spanked to how you did in school to the sexual relationships you had to the drugs you did or didn't do to the regrets you have and the missed opportunities and things accomplished and what went right and what went wrong and how many do-overs you wish you had and what physical ailments if any that you have and your ideas about God and punishment and how you would handle this thing and that thing and the other thing. And I want you to spend months writing it all down; in essay form and questionnaire form and multiple answer form and all of the pages and pages in between. And when you're done; after you've read and re-read and edited and re-edited and had your husband and your mom and your best friend look at it until they just didn't want to know anything more about you, I want you to look at that STACK. It's a pretty hefty stack no doubt. Probably 70 something pages or so. And I want you to ask yourself, 'Is it ALL in there? Does that stack represent WHO I am? After reading it, could you walk away and be able to describe in detail what it means to be Whitney Kay Goble? Satisfied? Ok.

Now I want you to imagine a panel of about 12 people sitting around a table and reading through the 70 pages of notes on your life; yes, all the nitty gritty details, all the boring details, all the in between details.

Now I want you to imagine that panel of people, with that 70 pages of notes spending an hour or two determining if you were 'fit' to be a mother and not only a mother but a mother to several little babies to whom you have already knitted your soul.

Keeping in mind they have never met you. They will likely NEVER meet you. And even if your caseworker does a bang up job and even makes an adorable little scrapbook of you so that they can get a 'feel' of who you are, how could they possibly REALLY know?

They won't have access to your smile or the way you tell a story or the way you make people feel. They will never know what great hugs you give or how passionate you are or how psychotic you can be when you have found that THING; that thing that drives you. They won't ever get to see your kid friendly and fun holiday snacks or how good you are at organizing or how creative you can be or how, at family parties, you can be found on the floor playing checkers with the kids. They won't know about that time you stood, all 5'4'' of you, in between 40 very at risk youth and young adults who were about to start, what most likely would have been a fatal gang fight and talked them down with logic and humor and capri suns. Or that time, in order to keep your staff safe that you had to lock yourself in a room for hours with that boy who was so emotionally disturbed that you weren't sure if he would kill you, or himself first. Or the fact that you get up at 5am every morning just to 'practice' being a mom and the time it will take you to get everything done in order for everyone to have as successful of a day as possible. Or the hours you spend on your knees, in tears, in prayer over the lives of the children who did not come from your womb but who have been born of your heart.

And then I want you to imagine trying to 'RELAX' as the second hand on the clock ticks about 10,800 times while those 12 people read through that 70 pages of notes to try and make 1 decision about the lives and those several little kids and one hopeful mommy and daddy.

Yeah. I didn't think so either.

Lasting Impressions.

I've been thinking a lot about this idea that what you put out on the internet you 'never get back' so to speak. How a photo, video, thought or comment can 'go viral' without you having to do much of anything more than hit that tiny little word, 'POST'. How in under 24 hours, you, what you said, what you did, what you took a photo of, what you 'posted' can make an impression on hundreds of thousands of people that you don't know from places you've never been, cultures you don't understand and backgrounds you could never comprehend.

I was thrilled to have a visit with a dear friend from my past yesterday. As we were driving around, having breakfast, laughing and talking about past, present and future and generally having a great time, she made reference to me 'cussing like a sailor'. It took me aback for a second because you see I USED to cuss like a sailor. I admit it. I did. For a long time actually, and it probably started, oh, around 3rd grade and ebbed and flowed in tsunami sized waves over the next 20 years. And though I'm not exempt from the rogue expletive flying out of my mouth from time to time in crisis, as a general rule I try to express myself in more creative, less personally offensive ways these days. So being the 'non-swearing like a sailor' person that I'm trying to be now, it was sobering to realize that how I am STILL known by this old friend, SEVEN years removed from a time when our paths were consistently crossing, is so contrary to who I think I am now. But those two Whitney's; the swearing like a sailor Whitney and the non swearing like a sailor Whitney are actually the very SAME person. I did not die and come back to life in a different body, with a different soul and different vocabulary habits. All of the choices that I have made, the things I have said and done, the ways in which I've acted, not acted, pretended to act, all culminating up to this point are who I am. Though many of us wish we could cut out chunks of our past and toss them to the sharks or borrow MIB's mind swipey things and erase everyone's memories of us then, we cannot. Despite the grace of Christ through the love and mercy of others that covers our many sins and allows us to continue to move forward, grow and change, we're still stuck with the impressions we've made on others from start to finish.

And the impact is sometimes, oftentimes, much deeper and more significant that we realize. The web defines 'going viral' as objects or phenomena that are able to replicate themselves or convert other objects into copies of themselves when these objects are exposed to them. This has become a common way to describe how thoughts, information and trends move into and through a human population.

Hmmmm. To replicate or convert upon exposure. That idea doesn't just apply to youtube videos on the internet. It applies to you and to me and to every single person and situation we encounter along the way.

I'm sure my dear old friend isn't bothered in the least by her memories of me being 'the ultimate sailor'  but what about the countless other impressions I've made; negative AND positive through the years that have literally left permanent (and maybe not so permanent when they should've) imprints on the hearts and lives of others? To what are those who cross my path being 'exposed' and more importantly, TO WHOM?

I really can't say I'm sad to see 2013 go, but let me tell you, it is a year I will NEVER forget. Nor do I want to despite the heartache it held. 2013 burrowed itself deep into my spirit and began a conversion in me that will not soon be shaken. This events of this year have been refining; breaking me down, chiseling away at the unimportant, the distractions and revealing the truest parts of me; in my character, in my purpose, in the vision I have of myself and the future..in every part of my life.

And I'm glad for it. Because as a goldsmith continues to purify gold until he can see his own reflection shining back from it, I know that my God and Creator sees a little more of Himself when looking into my face as an effect of this year.

"You now rejoice in this HOPE, even if it's necessary for you to be distressed for a short time by various trials. This is necessary so that your faith may be found genuine. Your faith is more valuable than gold, which will be destroyed even though it is itself tested by fire. Your genuine faith will result in praise, glory and honor for you when Jesus Christ is revealed. Although you've never seen him, you love him. Even though you don't see him now, you trust him and so rejoice with a glorious joy that is too much for words. You are receiving the goal of your faith; your salvation." 1 Peter 1: 6-9

So goodnight 2013. In a few short hours we lay you to rest, like so many others this year. And tomorrow we rise from the ashes and trade our mourning in for dancing. And ohhhh, 2014, I think we both know, there will be MUCH to dance about.

 

Satisfaction with Real Life > Obsession with Secret Life: MOVIE SPOILER ALERT

Last night Andis and I watched 'The Secret Life of Walter Mitty' and though it had some over the top bizarre day dreaming scenes and silly jokes, overall it made a pretty profound impact on me. Walter Mitty is dissatisfied with his life. His job, his dating life (or lack thereof), himself in general. So dissatisfied in fact that he often 'daydreams' himself into amazing adventures wherein he is naturally the brave, creative, risk taking hero. Whether he is jumping out of helicopters, skateboarding across Greenland or hiking the Himalayas, his dreams are a far cry from the reality of his boring, predictable white washed desk job of a life.

Even though I am 99.9% satisfied and in love with my life I found myself resonating with his restlessness. Who of us hasn't dreamt at one time or another of the vibrant, technicolor life that the unchartered waters of our future has provided? There was a time when I made a million plans to do a million things that all involved adventure, mystery, danger and intrigue. Moving to the Philippines to save AIDS infected abandoned babies in the mountains? Check. Quitting school to become a break dancer? Check. Joining an organization that found the sex trafficked child victims of stateside families? Moving to Mexico City to be a missionary? Becoming an advocate against the Japanese slaughter of dolphins? Biking across the entire U.S, hiking the Appalachian Trail? Check. Check. Check. Check and CHECK.

Which is why I and probably so many others were drawn to this movie. It reminds us. Stirs the adventurous streaks in our spirits. Allows us to revel in the dream of leaving the dishes and the day job behind and doing something crazy big. But there was a bigger lesson to be learned from witnessing the secret life of Walter Mitty.......

A while back I ran into a friend and noticed that she seemed a little down. I asked her what was wrong. She thought for a minute and replied that she 'just wished she were different'. You see, my friend is shy. If I were to guess, she's probably the shyest person I know. And she hates that. She wishes she were more social, more outgoing and talkative. I AM social, outgoing and talkative and I love it so I of course could relate. However, if being outgoing, social and talkative is a gift I've been given (my husband may venture to say it's a bit of a curse from time to time), then being a good listener is NOT a gift I've been given. But guess what?! There is something my shy friend is so good at, that she should probably get an award! LISTENING. She's an AMAZING listener. Hands down probably the best listener I've met! And I would know because I do A LOT of talking. So if being a good listener is a gift that she's been given, then wouldn't being shy, (which has helped her develop into being a good listener), ALSO be a gift that she's been given?

You see we suffer from a 'we can do ANYTHING' mentality. And the things we think we must do well have grown to an insurmountable capacity with social media and the disease of comparison fanning the flames of our feverish drive to do and be different than we are. I'm not saying that growth and horizon spanning, self stretching goals aren't healthy and even necessary, but figuring out what we're good at, and pursuing those things and figuring out what we will just never be good at and letting it go sometimes, seems like it might be worth a little of our time.

Which brings me back to Walter Mitty. More important than breaking out of our own status quo to climb mountains and have adventures is finding the mountains and seeking out the adventure in the lives we are now living. Because if it is truly the life we are meant to live, it's exactly where we should be. Even if it includes day jobs and dishes.

My Pa-Paw Baker said it best when he said, "If you ain't where you are, you ain't NOWHERE."

And then there were Three.

"Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but THEN we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but THEN I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely." 1 Corinthians 13:12

I feel like I've been hit by a MACK truck. Actually, no, that's not good enough. I feel like Mike Tyson has sucker punched me, bitten my ear off and then his pet robot warrior has picked me up and thrown me in FRONT of a MACK truck and after a few forwards and reverses over my crumpled, pancake flattened like body, I have been peeled off of the sidewalk and flicked into the Atlantic and now the below freezing waves are washing over my body and cementing this pain into my cells like memories.

Sam, the third piece of our four child puzzle, has been placed with an adoptive family. And it's not us.

If our caseworker wasn't so tiny and cute and lovable and amazing I might have tried to pitch her right out the door like an unwanted salesperson interrupting dinner, last night when she delivered this crushing blow. We KNEW this was a possibility. We did. But sometimes knowing a thing doesn't prevent the overwhelming pain of a thing. And of course, as we were putting on brave faces and blinking back tears and choking on the worst news of the month from across our kitchen table; the table that has the perfect amount of chairs for a family of SIX, not five; we asked the same questions as you are probably asking now.

WHY would they break up a sibling group when there is a couple who wants ALL OF THEM?!?! How could they DO THAT?! Who could possibly be better for him than US? What are their names and where do they live and how can I make them DISAPPEAR? And what about his sisters? What will they do without HIM? Oh. My. Gosh......his SISTERS.  How must they be feeling right now? Knowing that their brother has been placed and they have NOT. Are they scared, sad, angry, confused? Are they putting on brave faces and blinking back tears and choking on the worst news of the year too? Oh, their sweet little hearts. The jealousy, the fear, the worthlessness, the insecurity, the LOSS. Each feeling I know well....

And then I saw it.

Just for a moment, just a glimpse and a blurry glimpse at that, but still, there it was. The story. The story that's being woven into and through the lives of these children, the story that's been woven into and through our lives and the connection between the two. It's messy and broken and like the back of a tapestry as it's being woven, it doesn't make sense. But to judge each chapter on it's own, isolated and removed from the context of the entire story is enough to infuriate you; so you slam the cover closed and using your best wind-up, launch it across the room and into the wall, never to pick up again.

(Like that moment in the Neverending Story when Atreyu loses Artax, his beloved white stallion to the Swamp of Sadness. Every 80's baby remembers that one. And I would bet that if it had been a book and not a movie, there would have been a significant 'book smashing' movement across America then.)

But then you realize it's not your book. You didn't write it and you don't own it. It's merely been lent to you. So, you mutter curses against the author under your breath as you take the walk of shame across the room to pick it up, smooth the pages and bite your lip as the tension between crushing sadness and potential gladness wages war on your will. Should I read on? I cannot. It's simply too painful. But two little words answer that question for most of us. WHAT IF? What if I just don't understand because I don't have all of the information? What if tomorrow everything changes but I miss it because I'm scared? What if there is good news right around the corner, on the next page? WHAT IF there are three little girls who need a daddy's attention as much as a mommy's in a castle all their own so that they can heal and grow and one day be able to accomplish God's purposes for them? And WHAT IF there is one little boy who needs to be the PRINCE of his new parents hearts, in a kingdom all his own to heal and grow so that one day he can accomplish God's purposes for him? We all know how that battle ends because we were created for the hope that every new chapter offers; like a tiny seed planted in the secret places in our hearts, we believe the unbelievable, see past the unthinkable and dream for the happy endings that we KNOW must be there, even if the space in between is so sad that you feel like drowning. So we read on.

And instead of hurling insults at the author of the story, the creator of this unfinished masterpeice, I think I'll choose the high road and take Julia Robert's advice from Mona Lisa Smile.

" Do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. Stop talking and LOOK. You're not required to write a paper. You're not even required to LIKE it.....you ARE required to consider it."

So here I am. Attempting to consider all that I do not see and understand about this unfinished story and dreaming of a day when I get to meet a little boy who's heart and life I will love from afar as he excitedly becomes the missing peice of someone else's story.

Because the fact remains. There are still THREE.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHCUoDf7KGA&feature=player_embedded

NOTE: Our adoption of the girls is still in the early stages of the process and though it's 99.9% certain we will be moving toward that end as we are the only family currently applying for their adoption, there are always hiccups and unforeseen obstacles. At this point there is nothing we can do but wait for more information. Thanks for your continued prayers and support!

A rib is worth a Thousand Words.

 “Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him. I will protect him because he knows my name. When he calls to me, I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble. I will rescue him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalms 91:14-16

If you have ever made your man cry (and I KNOW all of you have because there is NO WAY I am the only mean and spiteful, heartless, self-centered wench out there), you will probably agree with me that it’s the most awful, heart wrenching, make you sick to your stomach, promise to never do it again, shocking and debilitating experience ever. Worse than a root canal. Worse than a fight with your mom. Worse than that time your bestie ditched a cry fest/FRIENDS marathon/ben and jerry binge with you to hang out with someone way more fun and upbeat. Worse than getting through the thirty minute long Wal-mart line with everything you could possibly need for the next ten months and realizing you left your wallet at home. Worse than the first time your child ever said ‘I hate you’ or you stepped on the scale and it said ‘I hate you’ or during that performance review with your boss, when they might as well have said ‘I hate you’. You get it. Worse than the worst, ok?

And after you get over the initial paper bag on an airplane I can’t believe I just did that vomit in your mouth moment, the shock and bewilderment sets in and you realize, THEY DO HAVE HEARTS AFTERALL. Even if they don’t communicate like you and they don’t cry at every Hallmark commercial that comes down the pike and they don’t need to tell you EVERY SINGLE MILLISECOND how much they love you and they prefer high fives over long emotional hugs and a good quickie over lots of movie-esque making out, they DO have a heart and shock of all shockers, it’s actually 25% BIGGER than yours.  

I was at a Christian wedding a few years ago and par for the course, the officiant pastor talked about how God designed woman; not from man’s head to lord over him or his foot to be beneath him but from his rib, to walk alongside him as a partner in life. And usually the analogy ends there and everyone smiles and moves on to the rings and the kiss and the cake, but this time it was different. This time, the pastor went on to talk about the significance of the rib.

The rib. Strategically placed as a protective covering over one’s vital organs, namely, the heart; to keep safe from harm or injury. Huh. Interesting. You mean we, as women, as wives, might actually have been given a worthy and honorable position that comes with great responsibility rather than just being simply ‘made from man and for man’? You mean there’s more to this whole ‘wife’ thing than dishes and laundry and kids and food and sex? You mean instead of spending my energy and time fighting for equal rights and equal pay and equal say and equal everything in order to prove that I am equipped, able and important when standing next to my man, there is something I can do for him that he can’t do for himself?

As I was reading up on ribs I learned that we humans have 24 ribs; 12 pairs. And in the world of anatomy and physiology these ribs are designated into three groups; true ribs, false ribs and floating ribs. I thought this was so poignant considering. True ribs are actually directly connected to the sternum (the steel like plate behind which the heart hides). False ribs are connected to cartilage that is also connected to the sternum (think nose and ear like material; not particularly fragile but not stone cold steel by any means) and the floating ribs aren’t connected to anything which is why they are so easily moved. In fact some people don’t even have them; that’s how worthless they are. And of course, I couldn’t help, but ask myself………

“Whit……what kind of rib are you?”

Are you the floating kind? So far removed and disconnected from the heart that you might as well not even be there? Floating around, now you see me, now you don’t, it’s not really my job to protect your heart kind of attitude? Would the heart even miss you if you didn’t even exist? Would it feel a loss? Would it feel vulnerable, unsafe and exposed or would it just keep plugging along, one beat at a time, not even cognizant of the absence of your protection? Or maybe the false rib. Definitely there, definitely connected, definitely aware of the importance of your position but not really committed when it comes down to the nitty gritty. Are you easy to cut away under pressure or when a problem or painful situation arises? Out of self-preservation would you rather abandon ship, plead the 5^th, detach and walk away from your job to protect the heart? When the goin’ gets tough do you get goin’, even if only emotionally?

Or are you TRUE? Are you so deeply committed and connected to your job of protecting the heart that to tear you away would literally splinter and destroy you? Would someone have to cross over your ‘dead body’ in order to access the precious heart you protect? Come hell or high water, thick and thin, better or worse, for richer or poorer in sickness and health did you come to love, cherish, have and hold until death did part you and your heart?   

Only you can answer this question. God forbid your husband answers for you because I fear, if we’re really being honest here ladies, we probably have a little work to do. Let’s face it, we all know what major damage we can do in about 3.2 seconds to these hearts whose care and protection has been entrusted to us and if we’re REALLY being honest, we probably HAVE, more times than we care to admit.

The other day Andis said to me, “It’s really important to me when you are THERE. Just there. Even if you don’t do or say anything, just having you next to me gives me strength.”

 A heart is made to be a heart. A heart can’t BE a heart and PROTECT a heart at the same time so I might suggest that in between this life we’re building for our family; with work and laundry and dinner and soccer practice, we stop and take a second to think about how and why we were created and what a glorious honor it really is.

 “A wise woman builds up her household, but a foolish one tears it down with her own hands.” Proverbs 14:1