Luky
IT WAS our nineteenth wedding anniversary, and my husband was away from home. Not counting the times he had been to hospital, this was the first time he had ever been away from us. The people he worked for had sent him on a study course. 'Why didn't you tell me it was going to be our anniversay?' he'd asked me the previous day as I saw him off. 'If I'd known that, I would have told my bosses I couldn't make it.' 'That's why I didn't tell you', I said, 'I didn't want you to miss a golden opportunity of eating three meals a day cooked by somebody else, civilised surroundings, no raucous shrieks of children, and no night shift on the mine. I think it will do you the world of good.' But he was unconvinced, being a family man first and foremost.
Timeless
I had known I was safe in not mentioning the anniversary date to him. I knew he'd never remember it. Most men have poor memories for dates, but he must be worse than most. He was filling in forms one day, and you should have seen the clerk's face when my husband asked me: 'Honey, what's my date of birth?'
Anniversaries always make me thoughtful: this one was no exception. Looking into the fire, I travelled back nineteen years in my mind. How much we'd shared together - not all of it moonlight and roses, I'm afraid.
Being human beings, one with red hair and the other with an Irish temper, it took a while before we learned to tread carefully over each other's feelings. The longer you are together the better you understand each other, but our first years together were punctuated with disagreements.
One day a man who did marriage counselling came to see us, not in a business capacity but on a friendly call. We had just had a sharp disagreement, but had composed our features and modulated our voices shortly before his arrivel.
Where are they?
He was sipping tea and stretching his legs closer to the fire as he sighed: 'Marriage problems, marriage problems ... everyone I meet has marriage problems. I can't get over it. Are there no happy marriages? Doesn't the perfect marriage exist?'
We said nothing. Then he looked at us and said, very sweetly and sincerely:'But of course it does. Look at the two of you. I've never known a more united couple.'
Then we burst out laughing. 'If we're supposed to be an example of the perfect marrage', I couldn't help saying, 'then God help the sacrament of matrimony.'
Thankful
But that happened a long time ago. As the years pass, the edge wears off one's temper. You learn to be grateful for your parent's kindness and generosity - your appreciation grows. No longer do you find yourself looking for faults and flaws in your partner's character when you're in a bad mood.
When I look back now, I can only see love and kindness, patience, generosity and respect, loyalty and sincerity, for all of which I'm deeply grateful. I think one is terribly fortunate in life to have someone on whose shoulder one can cry, someone who is on your side even when you're in the wrong.
I have known widows who have never stopped thanking God for the privilege of having shared years with a partner who was kind and loving to them. I appreciated my husband's love then and always.
On the day we were married, driving away from the church, we switched on the wireless and a man's voice sang: 'This is my lovely day, this is the day I shall remember that day I'm dying.' I always want to cry when I hear that song.
Some smiles
But there were laughs, too, and it's those I recall most of the time. Telling my children about the ups and downs of the nineteen years that night, I recalled the evening I reached my lowest ebb. We were both working in Johannesburg and living in Brakpan. Coming home one night at a quarter to seven (we had left that mornng at seven), we were talking about our financial situation, which was to say the least unsound. I was weary and depressed, It was raining cats and dogs and we were really feeling sorry for ourselves.
In the soup
Crossing the veld,* I missed my footing and slipped into a puddle. Helped by my husband, I scrambled out covered in mud. 'This is the end', I though. 'I've had it; this is too much!'
Looking for sympathy to my husband, I saw that he had turned away.
'Look' I said, 'don't let it upset you too much. I'm all right.'
Suddenly my compassion changed to anger. He wasn't crying at all; he was actually laughing at me!
So much for chivalry. But before I could draw myself erect, I was laughing too, mud and all.
We must have looked an odd pair as we entered the house, mud all over and laughing ourselves sick. Yet, if you ask me, that's the best and most therapeutic part of marriage - having someone to laugh at you when you start taking your silly little problems too seriously.
*Veld - Afrikaans word for dry field
*Photograph of flowers was taken by Rev. Catherine in South Africa. Please feel free to use the photo copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose
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