I ask a lot of people for help. I start hounding in late August for workshop presenters for the conference in February, and keep at it until the last of the Halloween candy is stale. I tap couples on the shoulder at church to ask if I may take their picture for the newsletter, and prod mentors to call their mentees. I interview couples who have a poignant story to tell, and promptly spread it around to five hundred readers. I beg musicians to tickle the ivories, caterers to cook, extroverts to handle the registration table, crafters to donate raffle prizes, artists to engage children while their parents learn new skills. I wheedle women to beautify the bathrooms, psych students to play with random pods of kids, and funny folks to help us laugh after a four course meal.  

 

People have been known to say no to me. Sometimes they feel guilty about this. But I am more clear than I once was, that it is not about me. 

 

My marriage is swell. John and I are headed on a trajectory that has been kiln dried by autism, poverty, twins, mental illness, unemployment, death, a quarter century of diapers, juvenile hall, and an unresolvable difference in closing cabinets. We will more than likely keep at this marriage thing.

 

There are couples for whom the future is more pocky. I pray for them. They are the ones who start out skipping. Their lush weddings enticed bridesmaids to fly across the coast, and grandmothers to wear their best lavender perfume and drop earrings.

 

But after a few years the inner riptide of their parent's divorce, or the thrashing angst of tantrummy kids distracts them from what they once were for each other and can be again. The monotony of macaroni, and the absence of unhurried eye contact start to deplete their too scant reserves. It felt like plenty of love when they began. More than plenty. Abundance. Yet the affection falls away like Maple mittens in November, leaving behind the poky branches of Expectations. 

 

When I ask for help... I ask for them.