There is a sticker on my windshield with a date on it. When I remember to look at it it is a niggler to take the car in for inspection. Otherwise the steady stream of getting from work to the store to church to the girls' school would ripple by without me attending to upkeep. But our mechanic, the one who has kept a fleet of cars running long past when I expected them to, goes over the vitals and fixes things I cannot identify. 

There are of course instances when John or I notice a disturbing noise, or a wobble in the steering. Then we become proactive and take it in. Last month the mechanic recommended all new tires and brakes. John gave a nod and handed over the money. Two weeks ago John and I were headed on a slightly longer than usual ride and I asked if we needed to pump up the tire. The one that leaks, and has for some time. Stopping for air had become a familiar ritual.

"Mario put on new tires. We don't have to do that anymore."

Last week was rough for our marriage. The strain of circumstances left zero time for connecting: me often being asleep before he even got home from a day of meetings, and me leaving to go sew harem pants before he was awake. The backlog of tears pressing on my eyelids made for stilted conversation, even the sparse kind like "Did you give Ben his pills?"

I could not imagine a scenario in which to unpack the events, and the underlying emotions. But then it was Monday. Marriage group night. The place we go without advanced planning or deliberation. 

We arrived in a familiar space with friends who have traveled the last two years with us. We have heard one another's stories of elderly parents, and medical procedures, hurting children, and joyful vacations. Here I could exhale. 

No one solved any of the issues I threw at their feet. They didn't need to. But in the safety of this community of care I could lay my burdens down.