“Why don’t you pray?” he asked softly.
Of course. I would certainly need strength in the days ahead, not only to hold my tongue but to learn the lessons intended and grow rather than getting mired in anger and frustration. I knelt and asked for the strength to submit to my husband, for the wisdom to learn the lessons he intended for me, for an open heart that would let me learn and grow from this discipline, for the will to stay the course. I asked for those things sincerely, but I was not at peace. The protests and frustrations still bounced inside me and when at last I rose and went downstairs to wash the dinner dishes and prepare for the morning, I did not meet Aaron’s eyes because I wanted to hide the anger in my own.
I found, as I became engaged in my work and the anger subsided slightly, that I could not meet his eyes. My pride ran strong in those days, and every time I looked at him and did not speak I was humiliated anew. I felt as if every glance transmitted a message, flashing neon over my head: I am not allowed to speak. I am being punished. I was so focused on the shame of being disciplined that I neglected entirely to be ashamed of my behavior, of the awful thing I’d said that had set this all in motion.
At 10:00, I headed upstairs again, glancing toward my husband and realizing that I was not even free to tell him that I was retiring. It was earlier than I usually went to bed, but I could find no place for myself in the silence and so I said my nighttime prayers and tried to settle myself for the night.
When Aaron came up the stairs an hour later, I still lay wide awake and rigid. I turned away from him when he entered the room, facing the wall. He said nothing until he’d undressed and slipped in beside me and then he said, “Don’t hide from me. Marriage must be honest. Whatever is in your eyes, I want to see it.”
I bit back a thousand retorts about the difficulty of being honest when one wasn’t allowed to speak, about how honesty required expression, but I rolled toward him. Still, I found myself unable to raise my eyes to his. I think that he expected to see anger, and he probably did, but much more: deep humiliation, uncertainty, something that couldn’t be named. He drew me close to him and I let myself relax against him, reminding myself that he was the husband I loved and trusted, who loved me, who certainly had seen me in shameful circumstances before and who was not responsible for my current suffering. The last reminder came as a bit of a shock, but I instantly saw the truth of it. He was only doing the job the Lord had given him, to guide me and correct me. My actions had brought us to this point. In fact, I realized suddenly, this would be hard for him as well. Not as hard as it would for me, of course, but he was paying a price for my impetuousness and disrespect as well, and paying it willingly in order to help me grow.
Continue to Part III
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