I just finished Elaine Miller's book, We All Married Idiots, and discovered that, sure enough, she's right. David Bogdan married an idiot. Chances are good that you did, too.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Friday, April 19, 2013
Where to Find Idiots: Thoughts on Marriage and Church Relationships
I just finished Elaine Miller's book, We All Married Idiots, and discovered that, sure enough, she's right. David Bogdan married an idiot. Chances are good that you did, too.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Why Some Men Don't Get Enough Golf
Now this made me sad, because I'm a firm believer that married couples should be playing golf. I had to wonder why the man wasn't getting any golf. Perhaps the scenario I've observed in so many homes repeated itself in his house as well:
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Nobody Messes with My (Unemployed) Man!
Yesterday someone called to check and see how things are going with Dave's job hunt. He meant well and I appreciate his effort to pick up the phone and let us know he cares. Let me repeat: I so appreciate that he cares.
But as the conversation developed, I felt less cared for and more judged. I could hear in his words that he views my hubby (whom he's never met) as a man who sits around burping and scratching when he should be out working. The man who just spent three years at perhaps one of the most competitive universities in the world, studying things like polymers alongside Chinese students who never sleep, working eighteen hours a day to come out with a decent grade in Cornell's graduate chemistry program.
Yeah, I'm bragging. I'm also pounding this keyboard too hard. Nobody messes with my man. My man who got home at one o'clock in the morning, slept for four hours, then awoke at five to make the one hour drive to school again--for six and sometimes seven days a week. This is not the kind of man who is content to sit on the couch all day and read Hunter magazine.
But I didn't point any of this out to my phone-a-friend friend. I politely thanked him for caring and said good-bye.
I hesitate to write again about our "situation." Unemployment is a reproach, an icky disease that people discuss behind your back. It's not like having cancer. Cancer isn't your fault. But unemployment is, right? It's something you can fix, and should. That's why my friend called me up on the phone. Because he's a fixer.
That was yesterday. Tonight my hubby asked me to pray with him. So I knelt beside him on the couch (you know, where he drools all day instead of working) and tried to pay attention to his prayer. If you know him, you know that his voice can put you to sleep and I mean that in the kindest way. His is a deep, soothing voice, and his words are carefully thought out, one at a time almost. So I knelt there and soon was thinking about fashion, and wearing jeggings this winter, and big rings. Suddenly I felt the couch shaking. I put my arm on Dave's back and it was shaking, and I realized he was crying. "Oh God, please use us for your glory. Don't let us miss what you have for us, because we're too busy smelling the roses. Do with us whatever you choose. We give our lives to you."
You know what? Dave may never again wear a white lab coat and goggles. He may never realize his dream of developing something groundbreaking and useful for humans in this life. We may never get to take that cross country trip in an RV and show our kids America. But it's fine by me. Life is short--and then the real life begins.
But as the conversation developed, I felt less cared for and more judged. I could hear in his words that he views my hubby (whom he's never met) as a man who sits around burping and scratching when he should be out working. The man who just spent three years at perhaps one of the most competitive universities in the world, studying things like polymers alongside Chinese students who never sleep, working eighteen hours a day to come out with a decent grade in Cornell's graduate chemistry program.
Yeah, I'm bragging. I'm also pounding this keyboard too hard. Nobody messes with my man. My man who got home at one o'clock in the morning, slept for four hours, then awoke at five to make the one hour drive to school again--for six and sometimes seven days a week. This is not the kind of man who is content to sit on the couch all day and read Hunter magazine.
But I didn't point any of this out to my phone-a-friend friend. I politely thanked him for caring and said good-bye.
I hesitate to write again about our "situation." Unemployment is a reproach, an icky disease that people discuss behind your back. It's not like having cancer. Cancer isn't your fault. But unemployment is, right? It's something you can fix, and should. That's why my friend called me up on the phone. Because he's a fixer.
That was yesterday. Tonight my hubby asked me to pray with him. So I knelt beside him on the couch (you know, where he drools all day instead of working) and tried to pay attention to his prayer. If you know him, you know that his voice can put you to sleep and I mean that in the kindest way. His is a deep, soothing voice, and his words are carefully thought out, one at a time almost. So I knelt there and soon was thinking about fashion, and wearing jeggings this winter, and big rings. Suddenly I felt the couch shaking. I put my arm on Dave's back and it was shaking, and I realized he was crying. "Oh God, please use us for your glory. Don't let us miss what you have for us, because we're too busy smelling the roses. Do with us whatever you choose. We give our lives to you."
You know what? Dave may never again wear a white lab coat and goggles. He may never realize his dream of developing something groundbreaking and useful for humans in this life. We may never get to take that cross country trip in an RV and show our kids America. But it's fine by me. Life is short--and then the real life begins.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Say No to Crack!
I am about to become an instant prude—a totally uncool, narrow-minded, old-fashioned biddy. It’s been nice knowing you.
The fast-approaching hot weather compels me to finally say what I’ve always kept in the confines of my home and discussed with only my husband. To be blunt, I hate immodesty.
Oh brother, I hear you groan. She’s one of those.
Actually, I’m one of many who are hesitant to voice what we wives have been thinking and feeling about the issue. And that is this: Please cover your cleavage, loosen your shirts, lengthen your shorts, and say no to “crack.”
I know you’ve heard and been turned off by pleas like this before, but perhaps no one has ever explained why it is and should be an issue—especially for Christian women in the church. Simply put, our men—our husbands, sons, worship leaders, pastors, elders, nephews and brothers—are human. It’s not that they are perverts and need to redirect their eyes. And it’s not that we wives are insanely jealous and insecure about our own bodies. The fact of the matter is, normal--even Christian--men are visual. God made them that way. And he gave them wives to look at half naked--not you.
When my husband and I are in Christian circles, he's been known to mutter about scantily clad women, “Put on some clothes.” He’s speaking for all the guys. It’s hard enough when they’re out there during the week, constantly fighting the temptation to “look.” Church should be a safe haven for them. Women should respect their brothers in Christ in the way they dress. And they should respect their friends’ marriages. If you think my husband has “a problem,” read For Women Only, by Shauntie Feldhan. You might be surprised at how men are wired.
Yes, there are those men who do have a particularly serious problem in this area. Put yourself in the place of their wives. You come into church hoping your husband finds deliverance from his addiction to porn. Instead, there’s one more hindrance in the row in front of you—the lady who doesn’t respect you enough to dress decently. She worships God impressively, while she makes her brother stumble.
It never ceases to amaze and sadden me that, while we'd never think of offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic, we don't think twice about tempting men with something infinitely more difficult to resist--a glance at our boobs, butt, thighs and belly.
On behalf of all of my brothers in Christ, let’s dress to help—not hinder them. I’ve been guilty too. I hate throwing out that cute red halter top. But I’ve got a responsibility to our men—and to please God.
You can be sure I'll take a lot of flack for this post--from Christians.
Oh, and check out what the guys have to say at http://www.crosswalk.com/11537027/page2/.
( For those freedom-flaunting individuals who embrace an "all-that-matters-is-love" philosophy, I challenge you with this: Look your best friend in the eye and tell her you're playing by the Golden Rule when you knowingly lure her husbands eyes to your skimpy-clothed body. I dare ya.)
The fast-approaching hot weather compels me to finally say what I’ve always kept in the confines of my home and discussed with only my husband. To be blunt, I hate immodesty.
Oh brother, I hear you groan. She’s one of those.
Actually, I’m one of many who are hesitant to voice what we wives have been thinking and feeling about the issue. And that is this: Please cover your cleavage, loosen your shirts, lengthen your shorts, and say no to “crack.”
I know you’ve heard and been turned off by pleas like this before, but perhaps no one has ever explained why it is and should be an issue—especially for Christian women in the church. Simply put, our men—our husbands, sons, worship leaders, pastors, elders, nephews and brothers—are human. It’s not that they are perverts and need to redirect their eyes. And it’s not that we wives are insanely jealous and insecure about our own bodies. The fact of the matter is, normal--even Christian--men are visual. God made them that way. And he gave them wives to look at half naked--not you.
When my husband and I are in Christian circles, he's been known to mutter about scantily clad women, “Put on some clothes.” He’s speaking for all the guys. It’s hard enough when they’re out there during the week, constantly fighting the temptation to “look.” Church should be a safe haven for them. Women should respect their brothers in Christ in the way they dress. And they should respect their friends’ marriages. If you think my husband has “a problem,” read For Women Only, by Shauntie Feldhan. You might be surprised at how men are wired.
Yes, there are those men who do have a particularly serious problem in this area. Put yourself in the place of their wives. You come into church hoping your husband finds deliverance from his addiction to porn. Instead, there’s one more hindrance in the row in front of you—the lady who doesn’t respect you enough to dress decently. She worships God impressively, while she makes her brother stumble.
It never ceases to amaze and sadden me that, while we'd never think of offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic, we don't think twice about tempting men with something infinitely more difficult to resist--a glance at our boobs, butt, thighs and belly.
On behalf of all of my brothers in Christ, let’s dress to help—not hinder them. I’ve been guilty too. I hate throwing out that cute red halter top. But I’ve got a responsibility to our men—and to please God.
You can be sure I'll take a lot of flack for this post--from Christians.
Oh, and check out what the guys have to say at http://www.crosswalk.com/11537027/page2/.
( For those freedom-flaunting individuals who embrace an "all-that-matters-is-love" philosophy, I challenge you with this: Look your best friend in the eye and tell her you're playing by the Golden Rule when you knowingly lure her husbands eyes to your skimpy-clothed body. I dare ya.)
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Inside the Mind of a Controlling Woman
So I'm at this wedding reception and I go to get a drink, only to realize they've run out of beverages. "Why do I always find myself in these situations?" I mutter. "Am I the only organized person on the face of the earth?" I look around and see that no one is rushing to remedy the problem at hand and decide it's once again time to get involved.
I hate this! Part of me chides, "Let it go, Mary. The world won't end and you won't die if this party goes on without anything to drink." Then I notice the bride sipping from the bottom of her wine glass. I look at my watch. Three hours left--to dance, socialize, and get thirsty. I can't let this happen. I suck it up and casually stride over to her mother, the hostess. I kindly offer to "help" replenish the beverage station. She gives me the you're-only-a-guest-here stare and I flit away red-faced. For a moment I'm tempted to become part of the fresh floral arrangments and keep my mouth shut. But then, I wouldn't get watered.
My reputation is again superceded by the needs of others and I march with determination toward my son. Not only is he well respected (unlike us "controllers") but he's got connections. I explain the problem only to hear him say he'd rather not be bothered with it at the moment. This time I perservere; he knows what I'm all about. And I know he's my son and I'm his mother. In a few moments I'm giving orders to the attendants. They scurry about without question as guests look on, including the hostess, wondering who I think I am. I don't care. We need drinks.
Long story short, the bridegroom was quoted in the Cana Times for serving the best wine in Galilee at his wedding. My name was never mentioned, nor did anyone ever thank me for saving the day and the wedding. Do I care? Never! It was my Son's doings, anyway. He did tell me later that they needed me. That was enough. But I do hate to control. Really.
(This story adapted from the Gospel of John, chapter two.)
I hate this! Part of me chides, "Let it go, Mary. The world won't end and you won't die if this party goes on without anything to drink." Then I notice the bride sipping from the bottom of her wine glass. I look at my watch. Three hours left--to dance, socialize, and get thirsty. I can't let this happen. I suck it up and casually stride over to her mother, the hostess. I kindly offer to "help" replenish the beverage station. She gives me the you're-only-a-guest-here stare and I flit away red-faced. For a moment I'm tempted to become part of the fresh floral arrangments and keep my mouth shut. But then, I wouldn't get watered.
My reputation is again superceded by the needs of others and I march with determination toward my son. Not only is he well respected (unlike us "controllers") but he's got connections. I explain the problem only to hear him say he'd rather not be bothered with it at the moment. This time I perservere; he knows what I'm all about. And I know he's my son and I'm his mother. In a few moments I'm giving orders to the attendants. They scurry about without question as guests look on, including the hostess, wondering who I think I am. I don't care. We need drinks.
Long story short, the bridegroom was quoted in the Cana Times for serving the best wine in Galilee at his wedding. My name was never mentioned, nor did anyone ever thank me for saving the day and the wedding. Do I care? Never! It was my Son's doings, anyway. He did tell me later that they needed me. That was enough. But I do hate to control. Really.
(This story adapted from the Gospel of John, chapter two.)
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