As far as I’m concerned, she gets a pass on everything.” Derek had just hung up the phone with his mom. She was canceling plans to come down to Denver for dinner and wanted to know if we would make the half-hour commute up to her house instead. She’d been changing plans a lot lately, which often meant us schlepping kids a half hour each way, no adherence to bedtime, and late-night car rides home filled with exhausted screaming from the backseat. Changes that would have annoyed me in the past. But Derek was right. She should get a pass. She was on chemotherapy, and so was Derek’s dad. They were living a double cancer life, and they deserved to act like pure lunatics if they wanted to.
I knew my big-picture husband was wise, so I decided to follow his lead. Give a pass. Comments she made that in the past I would have resented: I gave a pass. Plans changed that were an inconvenience: I gave a pass. It was easier to let things slide when she was so sick. I couldn’t fault her for not wanting to make the half-hour drive. And there was the possibility these were our last days with her. Her prognosis was not good. Would this be the last birthday she would celebrate for this grandchild? The last Thanksgiving she would be at the table?
As I made the conscious decision to let things go, I noticed my attitude started shifting. I remembered past comments and how internally I’d stewed, and realized how often I simply chose to take my mother-in-law’s words the wrong way. Give a pass. I was doing a better job of keeping the main thing the main thing.
It was easy to be gentle with a grandmother dying of cancer. It was not so easy with a husband who seemed fully capable. Capable to meet my needs. I was angry that he wasn’t able to snap out of his funk. And because of my anger, the invisible wall grew thicker, taller. A barrier between us. I couldn’t go to him with my daily hurts or with my isolation because he was the reason for my isolation. Well, the wall was.
A silence developed. My confidant, the person I dreamed with, was slipping away, emotionally unavailable. Gone were the late-night talks, the whispers of love, the confessions of hurt. We spoke about life’s logistics, but real-life matters, those of the heart, were off-limits. I didn’t want to hear that he was unhappy, and he knew that, so he didn’t want to talk about it.
The nights were the worst. Lying in bed, I’d hear his steady breathing indicating he was asleep. And I’d wonder if this was it. Maybe Derek’s fears were justified; maybe this was as good as life got. Two kids I adored. A husband who seemed distant. In-laws who were sick. God never promised me life would be easy, but where was the joy? I couldn’t become one of those women who got her needs met through her children. But I was starting to understand how that could happen.
So I prayed. Prayed like I’d never prayed before—out of loneliness. God, please fix us. Fix him. Fix me.
In time I heard the shallowness of those prayers. They implied we’d get to a point where we’d arrived, and I knew that was impossible this side of heaven. We were works in progress until then.
The prayers evolved to God, change us. Things weren’t working, so something had to change, and it seemed like it should be us. God was consistent, never changing. He wasn’t the problem, so we must have been. But I knew that implied that when Derek changed, then I would be content. That it was about him.
The prayer finally became God, change me. Oh, that honest self-examination can be painful. Harsh. I knew God wanted me. My heart. And he didn’t want it anger-soaked. Dipped and saturated with resentment. And I knew I couldn’t change on my own. I’d tried and I’d failed. God, change me. Help me to love him better. To not be so selfish. Change my heart.
The nightly prayers as I heard the breathing next to me spilled over into morning prayers as I made my coffee. Scooping the grounds into the filter, I prayed, Lord, change me. I’m starting this day with a terrible attitude. Change me.
Gabi would cling to me as I dropped her off at preschool. I was annoyed, wanting to maximize my two hours of errand running without a three-year-old, and she wouldn’t let me leave. Lord, help me to remember I’m the adult in this relationship. Help my patience right now. Change me.
The “change me” prayers began to seep into other areas. As I looked at our bank account on the computer screen, the pending bills more than the amount available, I prayed, Lord, change me. Help me to trust that this will work out. Help me to trust that you will provide. I kept praying because I saw it was making a difference. I felt better when I sent up those silent prayers. I was involving God in my every struggle. Not to change the circumstances but to change my heart.
After a while I could look back and see my prayers were being answered. He was changing me. It was true my anger was melting. I wasn’t so quick to snap. But it was more than that. I was realizing my actions weren’t defining me; my anchoring in the grace giver was.
The fruit of the Spirit—love, patience, self-control—we’d spent a whole year at MOPS learning about it. Before that, I didn’t know these qualities were more accessible, more evident the closer you were to their source. So I went to the source with more frequency. God, change me.
Months later we found out Derek’s disposition was more than just a bad mood. It was chemical—he was clinically depressed. Once he was treated, I felt I had my old husband back. His spark and his humor returned.
But he wasn’t returning to the same wife. I’d changed. Before I got to that place of change, I’d had to walk through some dark months. Dark for me. Dark for us. Had I not felt so angry, so alone, I wouldn’t have gone to the source of love as consistently, as desperately, as I did. But when I finally did, his grace was waiting and took me in and changed me.