Anniversary

My husband was a professional driver for more than twenty-five years. He drove vehicles more than eighty feet long across the country for days on end without so much as a fender bender. And yet...

...when I'm sitting in the passenger seat of our personal vehicle, I have this uncontrollable urge to tell him to slow down...

    ...move back

        ...get over

            ...or, just let me drive.

And, since I have suddenly been overtaken by candor, I have to admit, I can be a much more aggressive driver than he. The difference is, I say, I know what I'm doing.

I've often wondered about this as we've been driving along. When Scott and I began dating, riding with him was fun. I felt safe and secure. I mean, who wouldn't? A driver with a resumé such as his --how could I feel the least bit at risk? So, what changed? How could I have had so much confidence in him when I barely knew him, yet, years later, when he's proven himself to me time and time again, I take issue with his driving? Well, there are a few explanations that have come to me.

First of all, he doesn't know everything. When we first began our relationship, he "wowed" me with his knowledge of this and perspectives of that. It was all so new! Discovering his story and hearing of his adventures. As time passed, I began to realize he wasn't perfect; that his opinions were different than mine and he wasn't as well-versed in some things, things of which I knew quite a bit. I mean, if I can't trust him to use correct grammar in front of a loan officer, how could I trust him to merge onto the highway properly? I cringed when I watched him get the Double Jeopardy answer wrong --Can he even read a map?!

Secondly, I've got more of a stake in his driving than I did years ago. When we were dating, his truck was his truck; now, his truck is our truck. When we were dating, his speeding ticket impacted his insurance; now, his speeding ticket impacts our insurance.

Third, and this is the explanation I think bears the brunt of the argument: I am a self-centered, self-righteous individual. I think I have control when I drive. I think I've got the situation licked when I'm handling it. I think the risks he takes are careless, while the risks I take are calculated. I think his missteps are avoidable; mine are accidental. I do know what I'm doing, but it's the fear that grips me when I don't know what he's doing that makes my knuckles whiten. And this applies to far more than the journeys we measure in miles. It's an attitude, a me-first, me-best attitude. And it doesn't always rear its ugly head; maybe my gracious husband would say it doesn't often rear its ugly head, but it's there. It might show up when a child needs correction or a project needs to be tackled. It might show up when finances are stretched or relationships are rocky or sleep is needed. And, while I admit it, while I fully own it, it doesn't go away. Not in full, not yet. But that's what marriage is: two people bring their junk, simultaneously working to scrap it or refurbish it while, in some strange and miraculous way, it becomes a Life together. Imperfect as they both are, they join their resources and attempt to show one another grace. Because though one may do better at a thing or two, no one is better. (And he shows me much grace.)  

Before death ever does us part, neither of us will be perfect. But Scott will patiently, gently, sometimes through clenched teeth love me as though I am. I don't deserve him. But I will continue to try to love him as well as he loves me. Because of a promise we made eighteen years ago.

Happy Anniversary, My Love!