Marriage Moats- Look for the Hurt

Published: Sat, 09/01/12

Marriage Moats

Caring for Marriage

Today I opened a snarky email from a woman telling me why she unsubscribed from marriage moats. It is the second less than complimentary epistle she has written just for lucky ol' me, and I admit I was actually shaking. I have never met this woman, though I did hunt her down on Facebook. I wasted a few hours, pretending to do other things, mentally composing barbed comebacks. I was after all an impressionable preteen when my sisters were pouring over MAD Magazine and Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions.

"So sorry you do not like them. Let me know if you want your money back. OOPS! That's right. You never sent a lousy dime!!!"

"If you are this polite to people trying to serve you I wonder how you treat your local mugger."

But there is this nagging phrase that a friend said last week echoing in my ears.

"Look for the hurt."

One of her criticisms is that I mention children too much. She does not have children and finds the distraction supremely annoying. So she clicked on unsubscribe and probably added an expletive or two. Maybe she even spit on her keyboard.

Look for the hurt.

Duh, Lori. Is there pain around the fact that she does not have children? How could I pile on more hurt by making her wrong for being sad? Someone who aches for a baby can only stay quiet for so long listening to a woman rambling on about her nine. Including identical twins, for crying out loud.

People who do not care, don't care. Poking them does not get a reaction. But if there is a tender spot, pooled with a blood blister of longing, or fear, you are likely to get kicked in the face if you prod.

Sometimes John responds in ways that surprise me. If I leap to defensiveness, I add more layers of insulation between us. If I look for the hurt, they slip away.

Grief comes in many disguises. Anger, impatience, contempt, apathy. But when I remember to peel away the veneer, I find myself not locked on the other side of a brick wall protecting myself, but reaching across the distance with an open hand.

Photo by Kat Gatti

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