Matrimony

Dowels flew across the air. Screws rolled imprecise paths down the carpet.

Flathead?
No, Phillips please.

Step-by-step directions were announced in declaration.

Are you sure?
Yes, I read directly from the instructions.

Playful bickering ensued, and stubborn assertions sparked debate. Four hands busily twisted, hammered, turned, and lifted. A bookcase, boxed in pieces at first, was arranged correctly after an hour and a half.

My childhood fantasies had been bound haphazardly in a three-ring binder. Tedious hours were spent glued to the floor with photo clippets from Good Housekeeping and Country Living acting as my tangible windows to the future. I eagerly pasted the dreams onto paper. The simple illustration of a kitchen dinette surrounded by rays of sun and holding support to a bowl of fruit sparked thoughts of treasured mornings spent with a family of my own.

Visions of a man resided in the binder; he changed alongside me. The child in me yearned for a friend, the teenager added the physical necessities (at first, a blond), and the maturing woman envisioned a leader. No, I could not picture him yet, but God knew him, and He was arranging the union behind the scenes.

At fifteen, the Lord joined my path with his: a dark-haired, rebellious drummer in a punk-rock band, a born leader, a believer in Jesus Christ. There was no record of such a man within the confines of my picturesque binder, but I am sure the Lord knew the distracting binder would perish, or get lost - as I confess it did. Naturally, we heard and acted on the Genesis command.

So two became one: one body, one life.

Thoughts of theological foundations and reflections spin in my head: covenant, the Bridegroom, redemption. Impractical to a woman who can barely see past the end of the 24 hour day. But then, there is french toast at 5pm, for the night shift nurse who just awoke from a daylight embraced sleep; cloth diapers hang on a wooden rack, washed, rinsed, and stripped for the baby on the floor; Chai tea, a necessary surge of caffeine, was bought and placed lovingly in the fridge door.

A messy, but blessed, life. Pieces lie on the ground, like an un-built bookcase. I stare at it now, this bookcase, the fruit of our labor. Indeed, one life is to be lived.