By Barbara Rainey
First posted on EverThineHome.com
In high school, I discovered watercolor painting. It was love at first practice. I eagerly invested time, lessons, and supplies to become like seasoned watercolorists whose extraordinary works of art I admired.
Though I was passionate about this medium, I soon discovered it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Too much or too little water create two different problems; too much paint makes the sparkle of the white paper disappear; and wet paint that bleeds into other still wet colors can create what artists call mud. Coaxing purity and luminosity from paint and paper took more practice than I ever dreamed.
I saw hints of another kind of purity and transparency when I began dating my husband. The invitation to an authentic relationship—to be known and loved, to create beauty on the clean white paper of marriage—was what I’d longed for all my life. I eagerly said, “I do.”
A few years ago my youngest daughter, Laura, said “I do” with similar excitement. Her gorgeous autumn wedding was preceded by a couple’s shower, generously planned by friends and family. Most married five years or less, the attending couples shared their newly acquired wisdom with Laura and Josh.
Collectively, their repeated advice was “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Last to share were our son, Samuel, a marriage therapist, and Stephanie, his wife of 16 years. He and Stephanie locked eyes, knowing their words would flip the others’ wisdom upside down, and then in unison they advised, “DO sweat the small stuff!”
Who was right?
This morning I walked into our kitchen to find my early-rising husband cleaning the island, his favorite landing strip for backpack, file folders, keys, and mail as he flies into the house after his day at work. Never mind that his office is literally three steps inside the front door—the kitchen, a dozen steps into the house, is where his wheels touch the ground.
Years ago, I made known my request for a tidy island. After it went unanswered for far too long, I made a choice. I decided I’d rather have my husband and his messes than have a perfectly clean island. He mattered more to me than the messes he creates (as if I never create my own ... ). I also realized I had my own idiosyncracies. I decided to sweat the small stuff this time.
This small attitude of superiority in my heart, if ignored and not confessed, would have become a veil between us, clouding the transparent purity of our hard-earned marital intimacy.
Dennis and I are not beginner artists anymore. Experienced, yes, but not exempt from ongoing difficulties in creating the beautiful art of our marriage. Our union is our own unique painting of God’s image in us—the mysterious sketch of Christ and the church. This high and holy art must be nurtured daily.
And so I chose to confess my small but potentially hurtful attitude, knowing it wasn’t pleasing to the One I love most, my divine Artist. My husband never heard the brush of dark, ugly paint that almost made mud. The small stuff ruins daily intimacy and oneness. And it adds up over time, dulling the Light of the World, who longs to be seen in us.
For a long time in our marriage, I did not understand how easily His light can be hidden, nor did I understand how brightly He can shine when the dark big stuff comes uninvited to our lives. One day I remembered a principle of art: The light of pure paper or white paint shines brightest when it is contrasted with the dark. Master artists use deep, dark colors next to, even touching the lightest lights.
In marriage, it means trusting the Master Artist when He executes this technique, adding dark, to reveal more beauty and luminosity in your marriage and in mine.
Over our fifty-plus years of marriage, we have experienced more dark paint on our canvas that I ever imagined, including near-death experiences, handicaps in our children, a prodigal, financial setbacks, the death of a newborn granddaughter, and many agonies known only to God.
The big stuff, the dark swaths of deeply pigmented paint, can kill many marriages.
But the truth is that hardships and suffering often reveal transparency already dulled—oneness already compromised, the light of Christ already hidden behind layers of silt.
When the small stuff of marriage isn’t diligently attended to, then big-stuff crises provide plenty of reasons to quit an already muddy marriage. Marriage, like watercolor painting, is much harder than we thought. Singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson penned these words about his marriage: “It was harder than we dreamed of; that’s what the promises are for.”
The promise of “I do” that we made at our wedding ceremonies matters. But here is the best promise of all: Nothing is too hard for God (Jeremiah 32:17). God knew we’d need this promise from Him, because our promises fail.
No marriage, no spouse, no circumstance is too hard for His redemptive resurrection power.
Our marriage has been harder than we dreamed but so worth it in the end. Because we haven’t stopped believing in each other or in our Savior, we’ve beheld the beauty of God’s transformational power. I want to shout this truth from the rooftops, to proclaim it as loudly and widely as I can: The art of marriage is worth the effort, worth the work! Like Jesus, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross (Hebrews 12:1-2), we too can find great joy and fulfillment, even happiness, in marriage if we believe in God like Jesus did.
And so often when a spouse decides to quit, it’s a refusal to believe. He or she is saying to God, “You aren’t powerful enough to fix my spouse and my hard circumstances.”
Quitting on our wedding promises is ripping up God’s glory, throwing the mud of unbelief on His painting in you before it’s complete. It’s refusing His arm of love reaching for you!
Oh, where would we be if Jesus had given up?
Where would we be if He had quit?
The good news is He didn’t!
I’ve seen miraculous proof in thousands of marriages stained with the most egregious sins, yet resurrected by a God for whom nothing is impossible.
May you courageously, tenaciously believe in Jesus’ Resurrection power for your life and marriage, in the small stuff, in the big stuff, and till death do you part.
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