Church usually wears me out. A little lunch in my belly sends me right into a Sunday afternoon recovery snooze. Today, “Marriage Sunday,” was no exception.
We were one of five couples celebrating a multiple-of-five-years anniversary this year, which meant we could speak for 5-7 minutes about marriage. I talked about our monthly dates as keeping us connected and having fun, M noted how we have worked through rough spots, and then we sang one of my songs, one about relational stick-to-it-iveness.
Other couples had fine things to say, as well, including the story of “the spaghetti incident of 1983,” when the new husband threw the pot of spaghetti out into the yard (she didn’t cook again for a month, until he apologized), the need for a “cat” in every marriage (Commitment, A…oops, I forget, and T…rats, I forget that one, too), and the advice not to speak of one’s spouse’s faults in public–issue forth praise only (this advice came from a couple married 50 years, from the husband, after he called their first year of marriage “the year of whipped cream,” since in that year she always masked dessert with plenty of it. I guess past faults now rectified are acceptable for public deprecation).
The song leader chimed in, too, announcing that Jesus didn’t have a cat and wasn’t married.
The service ended, finally, at nearly 12:30, and we all trooped downstairs for a potluck. Fortunately, there was a huge cake in honor of the married couples, because the rest of the desserts were all gone by the time I got to them, except for some delicious apple crisp. I had some of both.
We sat at the same table as did the music leader, who told us about a cross-over jazz musician’s use of the rhythm 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2 (and so on).
Anyway, as I scraped up the last of my apple crisp and what was nearly the last of my cake (I snitched a bite more on the way out), N woke up and promised to cry soon, so we high-tailed it home, where Hawthorne’s introduction to The Scarlett Letter failed miserably at keeping me awake.
