Sneaking Romance into the Work Week

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Last night, we maneuvered city streets, wove in and out of rush-hour traffic, and held creased paper map outstretched. "The parking ramp should be right here, on Chicago and Lake Street." Yellow awnings flapped cheerily in the winter breeze, and snow melted into slush. After a u-turn and my man's skilled stick-shifting, we slipped into a dark cement stall.

Inside the global market, vendors with Middle Eastern hummus and gyros stood beside Vietnamese bubble teas, Chinese kungpao chicken, Asian curries, Swedish biscuits and lingonberry jams. Mexican salsa verdes and corn husk tamales lined side alleys, while an American diner inside boasted cheeseburgers and "the best fries in town." Hand in hand, my husband and I meandered the halls, trying not to get lost in the rows of stalls and shops. A wooden giraffe towered over me near a Ghanian stall selling spotted goat horn rings. In the next shop, veiled Somali women leaned regally across counters, elegant and robed, their golden jewelry wares dangling from shop walls.

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In the center of the market,the ceiling broke away into sunny glass skylights. On a stage, musicians gathered, unpeeling and unfolding conga drums, baritone saxes, flutes, and guitars from their protective wraps. Nathanael and Friends, the 5:30-6:30 pm set, were three African-American men whose smiles split faces.We shook hands, talked of sound systems, drums, and the drummer's Marine tour of duty overseas. As they built up audience participation, we played "Guess that artist" to a Doobie Brothers' song from my past, and Marco was called up to drum with them for a song.

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Shoulders touching, we bent over sesame chicken, and slurped a cold chai bubble tea. Resting back against our chairs, we bobbed in time to folk rock. Pink-clad Latina pequenas danced nearby, while a proud grandma smiled and tugged their clothing straight. Nine to fivers headed home, weary from the day, nodding heads to the beat as they crossed the marketplace. Moms grabbed an easy supper for Cars Two-toting preschool boys, and a produce cashier danced in time, drumming against his right thigh to the beat, oranges stacked high beside him.

"Celebrate good times, come on!" belted the trio, whaling away on the sax, drum and guitar.

Man and I leaned over the last sips of bubble tea, kissed, and picked up our purchases. Injera bread, hummus, and guava nectar were for another day, another date. Holding hands, we walked out of the market and across the street, into normal.

Rekindling the romance in our marriages can be done on a shoe string, on a Thursday. The sun set across Minneapolis, staining pink against leafless trees and stark red branches. We grinned, held hands, catching glances across the stick shift and traffic. "That was fun," we breathed, steam brushing up against frosted windows. Traffic whirred by. We fell silent, relaxed and happy in the twilight.

Pink-stained trees dipped into snowbanks, and we chose romance.

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Rekindling Romance a Moment at a Time

“Do you like amaretto?” he asks. 

Grocery bags flank his feet. “I wanted to get you something different. Plain coffee seemed boring and not like a gift.” He hands me a bag of whole coffee beans, knowing I like to grind them fresh for each brew.

We are learning new ways to speak love, my man and I.

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“I can chop your ginger too,” I offer. Our eyes brim slightly from sliced yellow onions, and the fragrance of fresh garlic fills the kitchen deliciously. He cooks behind me, prepping ingredients for the Mediterranean couscous that makes us salivate already.

We are learning new ways to speak love, my man and I.

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Entwined on the battered sectional, against a chocolate wall, we read together. I aloud, him following over my shoulder too, as we follow The Life of Pi and laugh at stories of Richard Parker and flashing rainbow dorado fish.

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 Twenty years of knowing each other is never enough, and romance blooms further with intentionality. We pause more, linger longer, kiss more, text often, thankful for our years together.

We are learning new ways to speak love, my man and I. 

I love hearing from you. Tell me about the one you love. What are ways you two are intentional about romance?

Linking with Imperfect Prose.

Tacos, Rescues, and Lovers

We pass the white plastic coffee carafe around the room, twelve women with Bibles splayed out, pens raised. During the video presentation, we fill in blanks, scribble notes, and sip from styrofoam cups. When the lights are flipped on again, we laugh, ask questions, and discuss the material from our week’s study. 

This room that has been painted tan, then blue, then grey, then cream. For fifteen years, white coffee carafes have been passed, and women of all ages have been stirring in cream and sugar, and feeling God stir in them. The Bible study facilitators and books have changed, but always there are women gathering, grabbing coffee and dipping into God’s word. 

This morning, we studied Genesis –beginnings-- and heard the plot forming of a cosmic love story played out on a grand scale. This Creator who built a world, created people, and has plans for them, loving them fiercely, selflessly. Foreshadowed throughout his book is a tale of a wound that cuts him deeply, but brings life to others. 

Gathering my books afterwards, I stuff them in a sequined shoulder bag, gaily end conversations, and head home to make lunch. 

Adam. One man alone in a garden, naming beasts, full of passion, potential, and new life, suddenly glimpsing how alone he was, with no one to share all his love, excitement and new ideas. The Creator in the wings was waiting, letting this lesson sink in, wanting man to know how alone he was, how incomplete he was without woman. Then, when asked, the Creator sallied forth, put the man to sleep and wounded him, piercing his side to bring life to the man’s second half, his love and new companion. 

Male and female, intertwined, life from each other; and in marriage, one unit. Created to be a deeper picture of the intertwined relationship of the Three-in-One-God; and a picture of how much the Son loves the Global Church, his bride. Later in history during a Roman torture scene, we see a wound that cuts open his side—and Jesus gives life to his Bride. 

At home, as laundry piles and the dishwasher hums, I ponder this relationship. Love and passion between my husband and I, I get. Love and safety with God as my Abba Daddy, I get. That comes easily. Seeing God as my Lover that I long for and miss comes harder to me, but it denotes a deeper passion and intimacy that I am intrigued by tonight. 

After tacos tonight, I headed to the garage with a ladder, some S--hooks and a plan. Standing the blue metal ladder precariously against the door to our house, I leaned on tip-toe, assembling a chain from which to dangle suitcases and backpacks. Suddenly the handle of the door supporting my ladder turned and my four year old opened the door. My ladder slipped. I screamed and grabbed onto rough garage rafters, as the ladder tumbled uselessly out of reach.

“Mark, help! Daniel, shut the door! Help!” 

Dangling from the rafters, far above cement steps, I was stuck and terrified. 

Mark’s arms came around me then, laughing wryly at the mess I was in. 

“Let go,” he demanded. 

“No! You just have one arm holding me.” 

“Let go. I’ve got you.” His shoulders against me, his arm wrapped tightly, I trusted and let go. 

And suddenly, this rescue by my human-husband helps the idea of a God-Lover holding me tightly make a bit more sense too.

You Had Me at ...Avocados

He was waiting outside the bathroom door for me, flowers in one hand and two avocados in the other hand. I grinned and kissed him, pulling him close. It was our wedding anniversary, and my husband was speaking romance to me in my own language. Having lived overseas for many years as a kid, I crave mangoes, avocados, and guavas, yet the frugal woman in me hates splurging too often on the exotic produce. My husband knows me well and woos me in avocados!

YOU are being wooed and romanced too. You are studied, understood, and known intimately. The Artist knows your cravings, knows your sweet tooth desires, knows your hidden longings. He remembers what makes you smile. He records your tears, and cradles your broken heart. He woos you --woos US--like a Lover bringing flowers.

I am on a journey to see God's gifts, to thank him, to run to him. This journey, this new discipline, is exciting! The "dare to live life fully right where you are" renews my way of thinking, forces me to see the gifts, name them, and run to the Giver. My family has joined me in this. We now have a "Gifts"/gratitude book that we keep on our kitchen counter and add to daily as desired. It delights me to see various hand writings scrawl their gifts across the page... daughter, her friends, son, my visiting parents. Like a guestbook of naming gifts and thanking the Giver, the Artist, the Lover. He romances and woos us, like a husband holding flowers and avocados in my hallway.

 

What about you? What gifts have you seen from the Artist today? We counted a huge rainbow yesterday that spanned our sky, enjoying family today, sweet cantaloupe juice, laughter and games as a family, and "happy for a great summer," says my daughter.

Captain, My Captain ... and God as the Greatest Psychologist

Okay, some feedback from yesterday's post reminded me that you may not know me well enough for me to not explain myself. Yesterday's post spoke of me threatening and forbidding my husband and being critical of him. That's wrong of me, obviously, and partly tongue in cheek!

And actually in our house, my husband is the boss. We believe from a look at some parts of the Bible that he is the leader of our home. We also believe that we are equal, and that both of our feedback is important. He has the hard job of loving me and the kids in the sacrificial way that Jesus loves his church -- thus putting my, our, needs above his own, and dying to what he wants for the benefit of our welfare. Whew! Hard job, huh?!

So in any hard decisions we may have to make, my husband and I talk over the issue, give feedback, weigh each other's ideas and then choose. In the hard cases where we don't know, I love resting in the fact that this is his choice. Isn't it great that God is a master psychologist, giving marriage advice from around 62 AD that counselors today say make for a fulfilling marriage?

And me? My marriage job in obeying God is attempting to meet my husband's psychological needs of being respected. By me being his biggest fan, by my believing in him and cheering him on (giving honest feedback), and submitting to his lead in the dance of life... I am his wife, his lover and his friend.

As a passionate independent woman, I sometimes forget and take the lead in the dance of life. Several years ago, I chose an affectionate pet name for my husband as a reminder for my heart of who is leading our dance. "Captain." Our teens at youth group love it, and grin at us when it comes up. "Captain" is a natural part of my conversation now and a term of love.

So, yes, yesterday's post was showing my wrong attitude then, and being honest about my struggles. Thanks for stopping by, for reading, for growing with me. I appreciate you being here with me. Thanks for your great feedback and support!

What about you? What pet names do you have for your man and why?

(P.S. For you history buffs out there... know where the "Captain, my captain" term came from?)