The Earring

Book 1 Part 5

Our first two years of marriage were, perhaps, a simulation of the real thing. We were wed, but we operated in an environment that allowed us to avoid the forced maturation that usually follows the vows. Our focus was still academia. Our jobs were scheduled around campus commitments, and our friendships and leisure activities were unchanged.

We had our share of spats, also a familiar constant. The difference was that we stayed under the same roof during the cool down period. We were both committed to working out our differences and too far away to run home to Mama.

Once, I did run away – but only to the dorm.

David was working as an orderly in a nursing home and usually got off at 10 pm.

I was sitting in my pajamas watching the news when the phone rang.

"Syd, can you come get me? The car was stolen," the tired voice of my new husband said.

"How?" I asked. "That car is our only transportation."

"I don't know. Call someone."

"Okay, but it may take a while. Don't go anywhere. I'll get there as soon as I can."

I called around until I found someone with a car who could take me. After throwing a pair of jeans on over my pajamas, I rushed across town to the nursing home. The place was dark and silent. The doors were locked, and no tired orderly waited impatiently. I managed to attract the attention of a nurse to ask about David.

"Honey, he left half-an-hour ago with Mark," she said in answer to my worried question.

I was livid. I had answered an SOS – for nothing. He didn't even have the decency to let me know he found another way home. Instead of returning to our student apartment, I asked my former roommate, the owner of the commandeered vehicle, if I could spend the night on her dorm floor. I did not call home.

A frantic David called the dorm, waking up my grumpy friend. Of course she knew where I was, but why should she tell the world's biggest jerk? This was the gist of her end of the conversation. He begged her to let him talk to me, but I adamantly refused.

The next morning when I exited the dorm, David was sitting on the front steps. He first tried to justify his actions, but when he realized how mad I was, he apologized for his thoughtlessness.

That incident resulted in a pact that contributed to the health of our relationship. We agreed to abide by Ephesians 4:26b, which advises, "Do not let the sun go down on your wrath."

I didn't have a lot of trouble with that injunction. I am not a sulker, and I do not carry grudges. I can count on one hand the number of times we broke that promise in our 30 years of marriage.

The first half of the verse, though, was not a part of our accord. It states, "Be angry and sin not." I am afraid that my sometimes-swift temper has resulted in too frequent violations of that command.

My temper resembles a Louisiana thunderstorm. A perfectly sunny disposition abruptly clouds over, spitting thunder and lightening, followed by a sudden deluge. The whole thing may last only thirty minutes, but the runoff may result in collateral damage, even after the cheerful temperament returns. Over the years, with divine help, the shrew mostly has been tamed but not without frequent repentance for the sins of the angry.

Probably one of my most memorable tantrums came when Zach was an infant and Josh was a toddler. I was changing the diaper of the wailing, hungry baby. Josh took advantage of my preoccupation, snuck into his father's study, and spilled a cup of coffee onto the sermon David was preparing.