But she did not reach the shore. Hypothermia and Gulf stream currents sucked Diana back. Box jellyfish wrapped their barbed tentacles around her, zinging poison throughout her nervous system. Her attending physician leaped into the water to stab her with benadryl, but he too was attacked. After a day and a half of continuous stroking in brutal conditions of frigid waters, fogged vision, shoulder pain and exhaustion, Diana dragged her beaten body into the boat. 

 

Yet could anyone be so crass as to label such an expedition as a failure? Did the victory of swimming three score miles somehow sink to the bottom? Could the months of training float away on choppy white caps, or were they forever etched into her ropy thighs?

 

There are people who give the full measure of their own endurance to creating a marriage. Yet the tentacles of adultery, or venomous distractions infect their goal. The dream is yanked down in a dark whirlpool.

 

But how could anyone dare to stand on the distant shore and shrug?

 

There is a woman who helped behind the scenes at the Marriage Conference this year with her son. Her own marriage died years ago, although her love for marriage is tenacious. Her little boy did magic tricks for couples at dinner, using cards and rubber bands. His mother was teary as she savored the sweetness of the moment. An innocent child, swathed in a room full of people honoring marriage, was building his own vision.

 

I would leap at the chance to be on his attending team. 

Photo by Andy Sullivan

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