“All reality is iconoclastic. The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your mere idea of her. And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faults, all her unexpectedness. That is, in her foursquare and independent reality.” A Grief Observed — CS Lewis
I start to write this letter now as I wait outside your infusion room in the Japanese hospital we’ve become all too familiar with this year. I’ve come to see you on my lunch break; I’m waiting for the nurse to let me in to see you. The adrenaline-fueled suspense of how you’re doing wears on me. Are the IV meds making you feel weak? Are you feeling lonely? Are you okay?
This moment of suspense feels like our entire past year. Like the apprehension I immediately feel at the start of each day wondering how much pain you’ll awaken with. The odd feeling of dressing you whenever your joints are too inflamed to move — it sounds romantic for old couples to dress one another, but aren’t we too young for such duties? The sinking fear that rushed through me when you called me home to rush you to the ER because your face was swelling up. The despair of hearing you cry in the shower. The day I broke down sobbing in my clinic office. The hopelessness I’m tempted with when you ask “what if I never get better?”
And then I was ushered into your room. I’ll never forget the look on your face. You were lying back with your arm straightened toward the IV line, peacefully reading a book with legs crossed. “Oh hi Ethan!”, you happily exclaimed. In that moment, I saw in your face that of both a tender child and an old, matured soul. The peaceful face of a child nestled in her mother’s arms interlaced with the resilient complexion of an older woman who has seen and withstood the troubles of this life. Your serene presence inside that hospital room defied our circumstances.
Shatter my finite ideas of who I conceive you to be.
The paradoxes we find in our partners seem to amplify in marriage. You’re not who I thought I married. How could I have possibly conceived the real, fullness of your dynamic being? It is how you are my patient, yet still my caregiver. My subject and my sovereign. My friend and my lover. My joy and my sorrow. As much as I thought I knew you before we married, I’ve since learned how small my “knowing” is. The moment I comprehend you, something changes — whether it is you, me, or something beyond us. Everything has always been in constant change, has it not? The only difference in marriage is that two of those ever-changing objects have chosen to dance together in relentless proximity and intimacy. Love promises to be unceasing amidst ceaseless change.
And so even as we grapple with the suspense of your hopeful recovery, I find myself ever more drawn to you and the ocean of your complexity that continues to reveal itself. Each day, I am increasingly struck by your incredulous positivity, and cannot believe how we manage to laugh in the most dreadful moments. How do I describe your strength in joking about your swollen fingers looking like “yummy sausages”, even as you lay in the ER bed for 10 hours? Your resilience further manifests as a deep compassion for others. You’ve never lost sight of the suffering of others — throughout this year, I could never understand how you managed to give so generously, cook for others, and host our friends and family. Perhaps this first year of marriage has shown us that it is exactly the unexpected hardships of life that frame the growth of a marriage and each partner’s character. Although I still grieve our difficult year, its circumstances have truly revealed your caliber.
Dearest Lucy, being married to you has allowed me to live my life alongside the most beautiful mind. As a scientist who asks questions for a living, you have taught me not to fear what I do not yet understand. You have shown me the common thread between faith and science, in how both pursue truth, and nothing but the truth. You have patiently walked with me as I’ve wrestled through the doubts this year has brought on. I’d like to conclude this letter with a thought about me and God, because I know that is how you worry for me most. It is that I’ve begun to wonder if the same acknowledgement of my limited cognition about you also applies to my knowledge of God. After all, where was I when He laid the earth’s foundation?
God, You’re not who I thought I believed. Why have You remained silent while we pray for healing day after day? while I ask for just a hint of Your presence? When I desire to love Lucy, at least I can stretch out my arms and hold her close, feel her breath in mine. But You, oh how all of my thoughts, fantasies and passions expressed toward You have found only frustration.
Perhaps I should also begin to ask You to shatter my finite ideas of who I conceive You to be. Help me to trust in You, and live in obedience even as I wait upon You to show me. If You are the vine and I am the branch, hold me even as I hang in suspense.
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