I began drafting this post around our 16th wedding anniversary in May. Well, now it's Father's Day; stress, regular life and vacation sort of sapped my creativity and time for awhile. (Or maybe, starting the fear series was more daunting than I had thought it would be.) Either way, this post is dedicated to my husband, a man who never shows fear, and the courage he had to give me another chance.
There is one singular conversation in Jason's and my entire history, which began in August 1995, that never had any kind of resolution. And it almost broke us up before we were even that serious about each other.
Neither of us actually recall the exact details. Or, perhaps, Jason (who has quite a good memory for intense conversations) may just say he doesn't remember because he doesn't want to have to recount the vivid, possibly grotesque memory of the ball of insecurity that I may have turned into during the talk, which I think may be pretty accurate. That's perfectly fine on my end; I truly do not recount the details. The specifics of that interchange are extremely vague and probably buried deep in my psyche. I just remember the tenor of the conversation turning incredibly uncomfortable. I remember being indignant and teary-eyed. I remember him acting blindsided, also indignant, and increasingly angry. I remember slamming the door of his car at the end of the evening thinking, "Well, that's done." He actually did tell me that my last (sarcastically delivered) word that night, as I exited the car, was, "Later!" And his was, "Later!"
I do know that I was the one who initiated the conversation, a pretty heavy topic, on a casual date that I think he expected to remain light and casual. Or perhaps he thought he'd get lucky, and my question was a total buzzkill.
The question that started it all was, What is your biggest fear?
To provide some context, we were 24. I had graduated college a couple years earlier, had only been in San Antonio a few months, and I was waiting tables. I was "in between" the types of jobs that my parents could brag about to their friends. I thought I had my proverbial "shit" together (in the parlance of our times) and rationalized that I was just taking the kind of spring break (albeit extended) that I never really got in college. Jason was going to school, chipping away slowly at classes, and trying to figure out what he wanted to do. And for whatever reason, the very subject of fear started this weird, tense fight between us.
I suspect we were both just giant balls of fear trying to figure ourselves out, honestly, and also trying to figure out if/how other one would fit in the picture. Perhaps it was that fact, along with a true act of God, that kept us from writing each other off. Because I left that car thinking he was a complete jerk. I suspect he drove away thinking I was crazy. And in my trying to have that conversation, and in his acting like it was completely stupid, we were both right, at least for that night.
The first truly adult relationship move I ever made in my life was to see Jason again. Something told me not to write him off. It was possibly my first courageous act, my first real risk, to treat the relationship as more than a dalliance that didn't pan out. He was courageous in continuing to see me, too--I guess something told him not to write me off, for which I'm grateful every day. For those of you who know our history, it's even more poignant now to think that we stepped forward with each other back then, hand in hand, when we didn't yet have any guarantee how strong those hands were alone or together. We have since faced some fair examples of having to nudge fear aside and do what had to be done. In those situations, my risk reaped amazing rewards, as Jason's courage has always been what led us through. I am proud of and grateful for the rock of a man with which I built this life.
But it doesn't work like that, does it? That's where faith comes in. Whether you call it God, or your higher power, or the Universe, or just your own intuition and self-reliance, you have to clear the noise, listen, grind through the fear, and move forward to that risk that is calling you to act on it. And grab a strong hand to hold when you do.
There is one singular conversation in Jason's and my entire history, which began in August 1995, that never had any kind of resolution. And it almost broke us up before we were even that serious about each other.
Neither of us actually recall the exact details. Or, perhaps, Jason (who has quite a good memory for intense conversations) may just say he doesn't remember because he doesn't want to have to recount the vivid, possibly grotesque memory of the ball of insecurity that I may have turned into during the talk, which I think may be pretty accurate. That's perfectly fine on my end; I truly do not recount the details. The specifics of that interchange are extremely vague and probably buried deep in my psyche. I just remember the tenor of the conversation turning incredibly uncomfortable. I remember being indignant and teary-eyed. I remember him acting blindsided, also indignant, and increasingly angry. I remember slamming the door of his car at the end of the evening thinking, "Well, that's done." He actually did tell me that my last (sarcastically delivered) word that night, as I exited the car, was, "Later!" And his was, "Later!"
I do know that I was the one who initiated the conversation, a pretty heavy topic, on a casual date that I think he expected to remain light and casual. Or perhaps he thought he'd get lucky, and my question was a total buzzkill.
The question that started it all was, What is your biggest fear?
To provide some context, we were 24. I had graduated college a couple years earlier, had only been in San Antonio a few months, and I was waiting tables. I was "in between" the types of jobs that my parents could brag about to their friends. I thought I had my proverbial "shit" together (in the parlance of our times) and rationalized that I was just taking the kind of spring break (albeit extended) that I never really got in college. Jason was going to school, chipping away slowly at classes, and trying to figure out what he wanted to do. And for whatever reason, the very subject of fear started this weird, tense fight between us.
I suspect we were both just giant balls of fear trying to figure ourselves out, honestly, and also trying to figure out if/how other one would fit in the picture. Perhaps it was that fact, along with a true act of God, that kept us from writing each other off. Because I left that car thinking he was a complete jerk. I suspect he drove away thinking I was crazy. And in my trying to have that conversation, and in his acting like it was completely stupid, we were both right, at least for that night.
The first truly adult relationship move I ever made in my life was to see Jason again. Something told me not to write him off. It was possibly my first courageous act, my first real risk, to treat the relationship as more than a dalliance that didn't pan out. He was courageous in continuing to see me, too--I guess something told him not to write me off, for which I'm grateful every day. For those of you who know our history, it's even more poignant now to think that we stepped forward with each other back then, hand in hand, when we didn't yet have any guarantee how strong those hands were alone or together. We have since faced some fair examples of having to nudge fear aside and do what had to be done. In those situations, my risk reaped amazing rewards, as Jason's courage has always been what led us through. I am proud of and grateful for the rock of a man with which I built this life.
Going back to the days after that night, I wish I could remember how it felt, to go forward despite wanting to run away and play it safe. If I could remember that feeling distinctly enough, it could provide much-needed validation for other risks I face. A gut-compass to tell me I was going in the right direction when I think about doing "the thing you would do if you knew you wouldn't fail."
But it doesn't work like that, does it? That's where faith comes in. Whether you call it God, or your higher power, or the Universe, or just your own intuition and self-reliance, you have to clear the noise, listen, grind through the fear, and move forward to that risk that is calling you to act on it. And grab a strong hand to hold when you do.
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