He thinks I can’t build a fire.  He thinks he’s better than me and smarter than me.  He thinks every meal I cook could taste at least a little better.  And, worse yet, he thinks I’m not funny.

And it burns. me. up!

So yesterday, I said ENOUGH!  

That’s right.  I’ve had it up to HERE!! (I know, I knowwww.  Bring on the short jokes.)

But seriously!
I’m done.

I’m tired of constant competition that should be camaraderie.  I’m tired of anticipating the imminent criticism any time we embark on a project together.  I’m tired of bickering over tiny details because neither of us can stand the thought that one might know more than the other on any given (mind you, completely inconsequential) topic.  I’m tired of spending an inexhaustible amount of energy trying to prove to him that I have brains in my head and I know what I’m talking about, and I’m so OVER vying for his admiration.  I’m tired of having to explain why something I’ve said is funny, when literally everyone else in my life thinks I’m one of the funniest people in the room.

Speaking of which – HERE’s a funny story.

When I was in college, my social club (that’s a fancy non-sorority-private-university way of saying sorority) spent an evening writing notes of affirmation to one another – each sister leaving with about 30 encouraging notes to take back to her dorm room and revel in.  When I got home and began rummaging through my notes, I was unexpectedly overcome with disappointment, as I unsealed each envelope, one by one, to read 30-something variations of the exact same theme:

 

“You are SO FUNNY.”
“Thanks for making me laugh.”
“You always make us laugh.”
“You are hilarious!”
“You alllwayyyyyys maaaaake me laughhhhhh.”
“Youuuuu arrrrrre sooooooo funnnnnny.”

Even now, I remember the words playing in slower and slower motion, as I ripped through each envelope faster and faster.  Reading the first part, only to toss each note aside, I scrambled to find evidence that I amounted to more than my Sahara-dry sense of humor – which I knew, deep down, was really just my exceptionally well-developed self-protection against intimacy.
But, really?  Not even ONE?  I couldn’t help but gulp back a lump in my throat as the reality set in. Is that all I amount to?  A good laugh?

 

I equated funny with lack of depth or real contribution, and I remember praying emphatically that night – at the ripe young age of 19 – that the Lord would change me.  Not take away my humor, necessarily – but add to it.  That I might be one who is known – as more than just the Laugh of the Party.  I felt sure there was more to me than biting sarcasm and quick wit, and I wanted God to help me find it.  And let me tell you – while it took years of transformation – He did exactly that!

“Hannah, did you know you have a gift of encouragement?”  I remember, as if only a week ago, precisely where I was sitting when my colleague spoke those words to me over 15 years ago, as they dropped into my 24-year-old lap like a ton of life-altering bricks.

Me?  An encourager?  Didn’t you mean to say I’m funny?

That was the beginning – the awakening of my authentic heart, breaking through a well-built wall of witticism, without fear of actually being seen.  Now, when I’m around friends, the words I hear – far more often than how funny I am – are words about how thoughtful and encouraging I am.   Talk about an answered prayer!  Over the years, I’ve even come to embrace my sense of humor as a uniquely beautiful piece of a more well-rounded puzzle that I bring to the table.

But then came marriage.

Marriage is a funny thing.  My marriage isn’t an overflowing package of affectionate cuddles by the fire, laced in love letters and tied up with fancy romantic-getaway bows.  Sometimes that’s a hard thing to accept, especially in an in-your-face, social-media-saturated society.  Truth be told, we don’t have a whole lot in common.  I am always on the go – I love adventure and the arts, trail-bike riding, coffee and wine, folk music, and anything creative.  I dream of winter ski trips and summer hiking adventures or romantic summer walks along the beach followed, perhaps, by an occasional couples massage.  As best I can tell – he mostly loves amusement parks, rock music concerts, football, a variety of tv shows, an occasional round of golf, RTIC mugs, and working on the yard.  Finding things we genuinely enjoy doing together, as a couple, requires intentionality.  Gift-giving holidays usually consist of each of us going out and buying ourselves somethin’ real nice, with the other’s blessing (and, of course, full assurance that they would have bought it, themselves, if they’d known better).  I’ve had many a friend remark on my uncanny ability to knock it out of the ballpark with my gift giving, yet somehow in 12 years of marriage, I’m batting roughly zero in choosing home-run gifts for my own husband.  True story.

But what if my value doesn’t come from my ability to pick out the perfect gift –  for anyone?  Or from my ability to make someone laugh?  Or from my level of intelligence, or [insert gaspmoji] – even from my fire-building skills?

 

What if the lack in my marriage has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with my own faulty internal dialogues?  

What if – although I despised it when I was 19 – I staked far more of my identity than I’d like to admit on being funny?  So, when my husband’s sense of humor doesn’t line up with mine, I feel unworthy?  What if my insatiable craving to be validated as a smart person and a deep thinker isn’t meant to be satisfied by my husband?  Because what if that’s not, in fact, where my worth comes from, at all?  Oh, I know it sounds all cliche and Christian-pretty to say this, but this is real stuff, and it hit me like a close-range basketball blow to the nose this week. (That’s really happened to me, so it’s more relatable than a kick to the teeth, but I digress.  You get my point.)  Hear me on this because it’s a big deal.

What if there is a person in your life (spoiler alert: it doesn’t have to be your spouse – it can be your mom, your father-in-law, your kids, your BFF, your sibling, your colleague, or absolutely anybody) who is strategically placed and called (by no fault of his/her own) to unveil your deepest fears and insecurities, that they might lay bare before a King who longs to burn them up in the fire of HIS APPROVAL; vying, with unrelenting covenant-level commitment, to convince you of your worth, which is based entirely on who you really are, utterly unaffected by the perception of anyone (and I mean ANYONE) else in the whole wide world?

(Or whole wild world, as I aptly called it, as a kid)

 

So where was I before my epic rabbit trail, there?
Oh, right.  I said Enough!
No, no no – NOT to my marriage!
Enough – to an inner dialogue that says I am not enough.
Enough – to the lies that my worth is somehow contingent in any way, whatsoever, on approval from any person, whatsoever.
Enough falling for the sleight of hand of a crafty deceiver who gets his kicks by tricking me into hurling accusations at the one person who, quite possibly, least deserves the weight of responsibility for my own insecurity.
To the schemes of hell that systematically lay a foundation for competition where there should be camaraderie and affliction where there should be affection.

My marriage doesn’t look like the rosy happy-go-lucky, romantic variety that permeates social media.  But, what if my husband’s love for me isn’t in the moments that he understands my sense of humor or surprises me with romantic getaways or willingly smiles for a selfie?  What if he doesn’t know how to do some of those things, and it’s not a reflection on me (nor his feelings for me), at all?  What if his love is demonstrated in the way he does laundry and dishes on weekends, and the way he takes the kids to soccer practice, and the way he freely blesses me to go out with my friends to do all those adventurous things I love, and the way he makes me feel desirable no matter how big or small or sexy (or not) I feel? But, perhaps most notably, what if it’s in the way he stays – steadfast, unwaveringly by my side – choosing me even when I’m the most unsightly person (both inside and out) on the planet, hell bent on haphazardly heaping the weight of my insecurities – like hot coals – onto his head and holding him helplessly responsible for them?  Maybe that’s where his love is.  And maybe that is the evidence of how deeply he cherishes every intricate detail of me – even if he never, in all his life, makes me a cup of coffee in the morning or reads my silly little insignificant blog.

Yesterday, I built a fire.
My anxiety soared as I watched it dwindle to (what appeared to be) lifeless ash before Jeremy came home from work, my mind reeling with the impending, albeit unintentional, condescension on the horizon.

“Did you build a fire?” he asked – just as I’d predicted.  But, suddenly I felt a shift, as a sense of angst lifted from my shoulders.

What if it’s okay that I’m terrible at building fires?  What if that doesn’t say one single cursed thing about my value?

And, so I started a new dialogue.

“Well, I tried.  I guess I don’t really know how.”
“It looks like you built something.  There are still hot coals in there.  You did fine – just needs a little kindle.”

And just like that, I re-kindled our fire.

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