I don't recognize us on tv.
Bed-hopping thirty-somethings who can't commit
and perennial adolescence bear little resemblance
to our ten years and two littles.
I don't recognize us in church, either,
in the mythology of headship and obedience.
Who really knows what happens in a marriage;
books tell it slant, or backwards.
We just try to follow Jesus
hand in hand.
There was that time, last summer, when I asked the priest
could he recommend a counselor?
A sage who loved freedom and mystery and Jesus?
He couldn't think of any. (Not one.)
We never wanted to reinvent the wheel;
we're not discovering the New World,
just persevering in love.
Last night, it was eleven before you came home.
You're the man-child whisperer, aren't you,
teaching those boys what grace and strength can be.
I realize I may have glimpsed you onscreen after all,
if Coach Taylor were a camp director,
and a feminist.
inspired by #mutuality2012 and shared with imperfect prose.
image of my sister & her husband by Amy Reams Photo.
