Archives 2024

On our annual fast weekend to Michigan to close the cabin, I was reminded of how much I love road trips with you. That route is full for us…mountain views in all seasons, the first Kentucky Fried Chicken, a heart attack, the historic canal at Piqua, traveling with varied permutations of grandchildren with potty training, swimming pools, Boonesboro, Bucee’s. Even on this familiar repeated I-75 trek, we made some new memories and rediscovered older ones we had not visited in a while.

On our road trips, we tell each other our story. You and I started out with Sunday afternoon road trips seeking time away from campus as we became a twosome. We remembered some of those first road trips…lunch in St. Johns, Lumberjack Park, cows out at your sister’s farm, supper with Grandpa and Aunt Nellie. We cherished for the thousandth time a winter road trip to Red Wing in the snow and eagles on the iced-over Mississippi during our newlywed grad school years. And all those trips back and forth from Minnesota to Michigan. We laughed about our traveling cat life, after the newest kitten gave up and stopped yowling. Not everyone has traveled with as many as four cats or carriers stacked between grands in the backseat. See, a new memory–Smokey’s first road trip.

 Road trips give us time to revisit our favorite adventures and trips we are glad we took…hot springs in Tuscany, a funicular in Quebec, the Alhambra. Along with the places, we recognized the themes of our life together, the values of faith, family, community, and our marriage. These repeat wherever we live .

And as can happen with road trip conversations, we inevitably ran into some of the challenges we have faced in our 58-year relationship. There were some hard times with fear and unknowns. The road trip gave us time to reconsider how we had coped and grown through those times. We realized that some of those scary emotions still can bubble-up but now they have names, and we can honor them and not get stuck. Perspective is a blessing; it is gaining it that can be a pain.

Thanks for the road trips, sweetheart. So very glad to make them with you.

Love, Sylvia

Have I told you lately that I love you? Sometimes, I forget to say the words. You are my candle in the night. Your smile lights up the whole room. You refuse to hide your light under a bushel.

I know that words of affirmation are your love language, but I forget to say the words. We are better together. You calm me when we dodge and dart through downtown Detroit traffic. You use my love offering of tomatoes, cukes, okra and squash without complaining. You encourage (not shame) me into weighing in every week at Weight Watchers. You count my pills. You keep the books and sit by my side at Dr. Rob’s Garden at the Waleska Farmers’ Market. You help me minister to my Methodist Men. But, have I told you?

You cuddle me when I am blue. You expect me to be a better man than I am. Your unconditional love picks me up when I fall. You love me when I do not love myself. Sylvia, you are the best. You have allowed me to live out the fantasy. I have the thoughts; I have the feelings. It is time that I told you.

Love – Eddie Bert

Have you remembered  to say the words?

What is your love language? Your mate’s?

Dear Eddie:  I am grateful for our learnings about closure. I always heard the word closure to mean that something was over. The answer was final, subject closed. I learned that final rarely happens.

The word closure is used regarding unanswered questions or unpleasant experiences that people wish would stop. We hear it on crime dramas when families want answers. We hear closure used regarding grief. Because grief hurts, and no one knows how to make grief stop, people may short circuit the process for others who are grieving. I long ago learned that missing my dad is on-going and pops up unexpectedly over the years. Revisiting grief honors the relationship missed. Named and reexperienced, in perhaps shorter pieces, grief never completely reaches closure. You and I talk about these griefs. Our talks further bond us.

Interesting for our relationship have been two other kinds of closure. First, you demanded closure as an escape when you were uncomfortable and wanted to stop talking about something. That closure was complicated by my inherent need to solve anything NOW, with a million words if necessary. When “Ed’s need for Closure” kicked in, I would feel shut down and devalued. I learned something important. Your need for closure when you were uncomfortable was about you, not about me. I learned you could be flooded with emotion or unable to process everything all at once. When I gave you space, you surprised me. You came back to the discussions on your own. You did care about my input. We worked through things together. That became our new pattern.

Second, I discovered that you would give closure to me, to us, as a gift despite your discomfort. I first recognized this gift the summer Mama was dying in the nursing home. You announced, “We will make the trip to Spain that we have planned.” You closed the yes/no conversation when I would have seen the trip as impossible. And together we figured out how to do it. You chose for us, over your own discomfort, and helped me with mine.

Darling Eddie, our patterns have shifted as we have grown. I love you.

Sylvia

Does the need for closure play a role in your relationship?

What does it say about your inner workings? About your spouse’s?

Are there ways those answers can draw you closer? Change your patterns?

Darling Sylvia,

I trust you; you have my back. You support me, but my taking your input requires you to read what I need and what I can accept. You have learned to match your support to my needs. You somehow divine when I need a hug and when I need a kick in the ass. You know when to listen to my words and when to listen to my heart. You are my safe space, my cheerleader, and my partner.

Your support makes safe space for me. You get me with my insecurities. You truly know I am an introvert in noisy clothing. My intuitions and roles I choose can take me outside of my comfort zone. The non-verbal three-year-old in me prefers to crawl back behind Mom’s corner china-closet. You recognize my tells, and I feel your support as I work myself through situations. You trust the end even if my process is sometimes uncomfortable for you.

Your support helps me face my fears. You hold my hand for prostate cancer appointments. You make me feel safer as I hear scary things. You allow me to voice my fears to you while remaining an “adult,” if I have to.

Your support is affirming in much more fun ways, too. You cheer on my commitments in the community. You stir grits at dawn while I fix breakfast to haul to church for the Methodist Men. You share the hospitality of our home with “my” groups of men and students.

You are a supportive partner with “my” hobby/business cut flower industry. I crave your “ooh—ahhhs” over what is blooming in the garden. At market, we share the work and the loveseat. You excel in community building. After market, we collapse together in our blue chair and rehash all the miracles of the day.

Some 58 years ago, I came back to the dorm from Lumberjack Park amazed that you loved me more than I loved myself. Sylvia, you are a good person, a loving mother and grandma, but you are my lover and my best friend. I won the most important lottery of all.

Love you.    Eddie B.