The Art of a Good Marriage

At this very moment, as you are reading this, I am in driving up to Mackinac Island, Michigan to attend the wedding festivities of my two dear friends Jill and Josh.

I have been asked to be a reader at their ceremony, which is being held tomorrow morning at 11 am in The Little Stone Church on the island. They have made many great non-traditional choices for their wedding, all of which make it totally and uniquely theirs. Very special, I think.

One of those great choices that "breaks the rules" a bit is the addition of a reading from somewhere other than the Bible. The text of this reading is below, and it is really good advice.

I can almost hear my grandparents telling me this stuff from their point of view, about marriage in general, from the experience of those who lasted a long, long time. The exact story is blurry in my memory, but I do know that my grandparents met at an military dance in Iowa in their early 20s, and ran off to elope in Cheyenne, Wyoming a VERY short time later. Like a month or something wild. Clearly they took a risk on love, but it worked.

My grandparents, on my parents' wedding day, 1973
My Gramps is in heaven now, and enjoyed many long and happy years of marriage. I'm pretty sure that he's up there hoping that I make these choices for myself when I get married someday.

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The Art Of A Good Marriage
Wilferd Arlan Peterson

Happiness in marriage is not something that just happens.

A good marriage must be created.

In marriage the little things are the big things.

It is never being too old to hold hands.

It is remembering to say "I love you" at least once a day.

It is never going to sleep angry.

It is at no time taking the other for granted; the courtship should not end with the honeymoon, it should continue through the years.

It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.

It is standing together facing the world.

It is forming a circle of love that gathers the whole family.

It is doing things for each other, not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy.

It is speaking words of appreciation and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways.

It is not looking for perfection in each other.

It is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding and a sense of humor.

It is having the capacity to forgive and forget.

It is giving each other an atmosphere in which each can grow old.

It is a common search for the good and the beautiful.

It is establishing a relationship in which the independence is equal, dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.

It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner.
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Isn't that beautiful?

On this day, and from this day forward, I wish these things for my friends.

Not just those getting married this weekend, but those who have already made this commitment and celebrated this day. I will pray that they embody these sentiments each day of their marriage. And, as their friend and witness, I will do everything I can, when called upon to do so, to be a positive influence and assistant to making these very things come true.

Because, to borrow a phrase, that is the art of a good friendship.

Just Shoot Me

On the way home today, the bus was crowded, even though it was only 3:15 pm. I raced to catch it, and sat at the front near an old man. He had a cane, and was neatly dressed.

As the traffic slowed on Lake Shore, heading north, he started to mumble under his breath. Then it grew louder. And louder.

Then it was full out talking to himself, or anyone who was within a mere 10 foot range.

But clearly he didn't want, or need, a response. Just an audience.

He was not pleased with the bus driver. He was disappointed in the sluggish traffic. He was not happy with the soggy falling snow. He was cranking about the woman to his left's perfume. He was not overjoyed with the salt truck weaving in our lane. He wasn't happy with the Bears' season. (ok, that was mine, but it seemed fitting)

I could really only make out every 5th word or so, but we all got the gist.

This guy was one grumpy old man.

My mom, sister and I made a pact over this holiday: we promised that if we ever got really sore and crabby and grumpy and crazy as we aged, that we'd just shoot each other. Get us (and, frankly, everyone else) out of the misery. Save us the trouble of ending up as that old person on the bus that everyone is glaring at, and that is oblivious to it all.

Did I mention he was wearing a clinical face mask?

Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.