So it's come to this. We're all here with you, to celebrate, and then laugh behind your back when you turn away.
You've found somebody from the world wide web willing to spend a lifetime with you. Outstanding, congratulations. But wait, before any blissful celebration can be realized; before that short march that precedes the long journey of a life well shared, tradition says there are some tips you should hear.
Now, I'm sure you've already learned some of these tips, because you’re living in shameful premarital sin, so you'll just have to bear with me:
Fear not--at least, not much. We’ve come to party with you this weekend so that you can hear the experiences of your friends who have trod the marital road before you. In the next two-nights, and three-days, we will laugh at you, ridicule you, and broadcast every worst Nick-moment that we can ever remember. You will cry. Remember, we're teasing with love.
But, this weekend we will also build on traditions, tear down some others, and present advice and hard learned lessons that will equip you with the knowledge necessary to let her run the rest of your life.
It is wise counsel, and we trust it will help you celebrate this institution as an institution that you, indeed, can't criticize.
Who can?
We can, of course.
I know that a single, divorced guy shouldn't be able to give any such advice, but I'm going to give some anyway. Just because I love ya:
1. Cheers; to the thousands of dollars you will save and then bleed out like a stuck pig-freely giving it away to your kids - Don't worry, it's only money.
2. Regarding September 18, 2010(Your wedding day! Tattoo this date on the inside of your forearm so you never forget it. On second thought, scratch that, JUST DON’T FORGET); a wedding is equal to the rise of your bride to that of goddess for a day, while you decidedly remain -- a background piece. My brother, be content, for I know this goes against the concept of Biblical headship, but you're just gonna have to wait until you leave the reception, because until then, she's in control. And you know what they say in any house of consequence--If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
3. Even though legions of relatives and friends will have assembled, and even though so many other people (not you) have worked hard for your wedding day to be perfect, remember:
It's all right to be scared.
It is not all right to crap your tuxedo.
4. Drinking guidelines for the groom: 2 waters for every 1 beer. If you test that theory, you will regret it, and she will be there to remind you every-single-day, anniversary, holiday, wedding reception…. Do you see a pattern here?
5. On the honeymoon: relax, enjoy everything, roll with problems, and don't sweat the small stuff… And don't argue on hotel balconies. Just don't.
My last piece of advice:
I know that you already do, but remember to live your life with the heart of a servant.......
So pick up my tux.
Crestview Elementary. Sixth Grade. A big day. A Huge day.
I was very excited.
The awesome part about this day was that the after school event had already been planned out. Where, when, what style, length of time. This day was so monumental that it called for bigger mood-setting scenery than the Crestview playground, yep, this called for a secret location which would have to be off-campus.
I was going to kiss my girlfriend and my sixth grade girlfriend was going to kiss me back. My friend was also going to kiss his girlfriend. Whether she was going to kiss him back, I have no idea, but as the four of us walked to the high school football stadium and went under the stadium seats, he and I were both gonna find out.
I felt like a stud. Heather didn’t care that my hair was grown out, over the ears and feathered back, or that my jeans were even lighter colored than stone-wash, and turtlenecks were big, at least for me.
Our lips met and we pressed them together for the entire pre-determined time allotment.
A nice long peck.
Stud.
My friend one-upped me and kissed his girlfriend longer using more than just his lips. Why would he do that? And why would he do that without telling me he was going to do that first so I could match him? I felt like less of a sixth grader compared to him, because I only used lips. It became a test of manhood so I went back in for more, and again, eyes closed, gave the best longest peck on the lips in the history of pecks on the lips. Turns out it wasn't good enough. She dumped me for a popular fifth grader, Mike Drabcek, a few weeks later. He was a good-lookin' kid. I was jealous.
Kissing girls in sixth grade under the high school bleachers was not an event that many other men my age had accomplished so really, Bill and I were leading the way for all of them and representing, big time.
The next year, seventh grade, I would have my first french-kiss. This one was not planned. It was also not at a secret location. It was in the hallway of Oltman Junior High, right next to the library. Matter of fact, Mr. Ullmer saw it and would eventually get me in a little bit of trouble.
I knew we were going to kiss, you didn't raise an total idiot. We’d been kissing at her locker every morning for months. I would look forward to this kiss from the very second that my eyes opened after you would wake me up in the morning to get ready for school.
So this morning was business as usual: My every thought revolved around the morning kiss at her locker, in front of the library, no matter how many people filled the hall and walked by watching us. No difference in butterflies, no difference in greeting, no difference that I would stand next to her at her locker while she chatted with all her friends. No difference in the fact that I stood there because I knew what was coming; our kiss. I was immovable. No teacher or event or fire-drill or tornado drill or student council meeting would have been able to get me to walk away from her locker, ever.
Finally, just before the bell rings, the moment I’ve waited for--I notice her slowly lean into me, but her head was tilted differently? Before my eyes closed I caught a glimpse of her mouth; it was open. I noticed, but I didn’t think anything of it until I felt the kiss -- her mouth remained open while I kept mine shut. She got a mouthful of puckered lips and I got a face full of tongue. That kiss would scare me from her locker starting the very next morning.
I soured on open-mouth kissing for the longest time. I had flashbacks of a wet wagging tongue coming at me, in slow motion, and it stunted my growth. I’m sure her tongue never officially wagged in any way, but-wagging-is how I remember it. I was only 13 years old.
Eventually, I overcame.
Prior to both kisses, I started sweating. My hands would sweat, my upper lip would bubble-up and my armpits were equivalent to yard sprinklers.
During both kisses, it felt like all eyes were on me. Like I had to perform. My choices brought me to this situation and now I had to deliver.
After both kisses, it felt like there was a bright white light shining on me from above and it followed me around for weeks. It felt like everyone knew what I had done and deliberately took some time out of their day to size me up.
Excuse me while I fast forward twenty-five-or-so years. The most loaded question of my life is laid before me on my first day of treatment. If I were sitting on that chair across from Regis and this was the final question to win a million dollars, I don’t know if I’d have a final answer. The question is so loaded that I can’t bare the thought of contemplating the answer.
If I answer yes, it’s like unloading the chamber of the hand-cannon aimed directly between my eyes. Its admission of such consequence that I may never recover. My friends may never recover, our family may never recover and the ripple-effect is too large to imagine. If I answer no, I’m the drunk guy that you see every time you’re at the bar, telling people I’m not drunk. I’m another guy who can’t see the writing on the wall, and sadly or not, I’m willing to be that guy.
As I sit in front of my counselor, there is a very long pause and I begin to feel the same symptoms as my first-kiss experiences - I started sweating all over. My hands sweat, my upper lip bubbles-up, and my armpits were equivalent to slip-n-slides. This is becoming a test of manhood.
The five minute silence isn’t me stubbornly buying time, refusing to answer the question. I’m remembering.
I’m remembering the first alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was no, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was like any other young kid who made a mistake and my actions seemed normal.
I’m remembering the second alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was no, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was like any other college kid who had blacked out a time or fifty, and binged on the weekends and my actions seemed normal.
I’m remembering the third and last alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was yes, that chances were good. My actions were normal for a guy who is in his mid-twenties with three DUI’s and a drinking problem.
I can’t sit still and I don’t like all the eyes on me. So what do I say?
Last Friday I wasn’t late, but my pace sure was quicker than normal. My heartbeat; definitely a little quicker than normal.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I wrestle with the stupid pocket liner to get my phone out while speed-walking. He’s texting me: “where you at?” It was an incomplete sentence, but I didn’t let it bother me, I knew what he meant. The closer I get to our meeting place, the more unsettled my stomach becomes.
My reply is “two minutes out.” Another incomplete sentence.
I need to talk to my brother, STAT. It’s been long enough.
I walk through the entrance and knew right where to look. We’d met here a few times before some Wild games. He always sits next to the big windows, and sure enough, that’s where he was - looking out the window at the city rush of 7th street.
I look at him the entire time I approach him and eventually we catch eyes. He returns my look with a smile. Quickly, and I mean quickly, I rehearse what words I want to say and how I want them to sound. You’remybrother,Iloveyou,thisissoimportanttome...
A hand-slap and a hug is how we greet. Everytime I hug him I’m amazed at how I’m his older brother but he’s bigger. Not taller, but beefy-er. Not chubby, but a little more filled out. In his face I still see the characteristics of when he was a baby boy with the world in front of him, not this well-developed man who now has a wife, takes care of 2-step-kids, works whatever schedule is needed to provide without complaining, loves God, and has without-a-doubt grown up to be a man of great integrity.
We sit.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey.” I say back, looking into his eyes. Then I smile.
“What?”
“What?” I ask back.
We get settled in.
I grab the menu and look at it. It’s nervous fill - I’m not that eager to order.
We make small talk which calms my nerves. We talk about work and marriage and step-kids and the never ending trials of our step-kids’ dads. I know he knows why I asked him to meet me but he doesn’t allude to it. He patiently waits until I have waited a tick too long because finally, he asks me “what’s up?”
It’s been eight years in the waiting, this conversation. So I start.
“I started a men’s group.” Not even close to how I rehearsed it.
“It’s my best of friends and we get together the first of each month. We meet up and check-in with each other on where we’re at in life, our marriages, parenting. It’s a good group to help each other become better men, better fathers, better husbands... stuff like that. Anyway, the other day we happened to talk about another friend of ours and our collective concern about his drinking. That led to us talking about things people do when their drunk and how most people look for drama, for no reason. It reminded me of you.”
He looks at me with no reaction. He just listens, curiously.
“Because that’s me. When I’m drunk, I seek out dramatic-effect. I do the dumbest things for no reason. So, I told the friends in my men's group that there was something I did a long time ago that I’ve still never made amends for and needed them to help hold me accountable. That night at my bachelor party, do you remember?”
He nods-yes.
“It’s important to me that you know, I do too. I think about it nearly every day. Sorry that I’ve never spoke of it since.”
There’s silence between us, which is fine. I don’t lose composure in moments of silence. He reaches for his now sweaty glass and sips his Diet Coke. I mirror him, like I was taught to do in college when being interviewed. Apparently it helps the other person relax or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention, but, I sip my Diet Coke too.
“I remember being in some room and for whatever reason - we had no beef that night - but for whatever reason, out of the blue clear sky, I started pushing you around, trying to bait you into fighting me. It took all of my friends to separate me from you. I don’t know why I did that. I’m incredibly embarrassed.”
Nothing yet. My composure during this silence feels like it’s about to crack.
“You cried. I'm so sorry that I put you in that situation, and that I made you cry that night. I hope you can you forgive me?” Exactly how I rehearsed it.
I stop to let him reply, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks away from me.
I also rehearsed earlier that day what I would do if he didn’t want to forgive me and in this moment that he’s not looking at me, I quickly, and I mean quickly, rehearse what words I want to say and how I want them to sound.
He has my full undivided attention and suddenly my hands feel like they belong to someone else and are a hundred sizes too big and I had no idea what to do with them other than keep them under the table clutching each other.
He finally looks at me, his eyes filled with emotion and love.
“Of course I do. I love you. That was a long time ago.” Your baby-boy doesn’t miss a beat with extending Grace. And he continues to tell me things that just absolutely pull at my heartstrings but things that are just for my ears.
He reminded me, that afternoon, how to be Graceful. How to forgive.
In the face of seeing Grace extended to me, I wonder: where is my extension of Grace to others? To my friends, my former friends, my wife, my former wife, my kids, you and Dad?
I’ve been wronged, by many. Some people sober, some not, some unintentional, some not. But then, that means, I’ve probably wronged ten times that many, right? Although I don’t truly believe that they ever have to ask me for forgiveness, I do need to ask them.
Can I be intentional about forgiving others? Wait, wait, that’s not right; not “can I be” but, “I want to be.”
The Bible speaks of how we can learn of, and have, a life of God's unconditional forgiveness of us, and then from that, learn to unconditionally forgive others.
Unconditional love, sounds like something that feels good. That’s what I want to be about.
I’m going to give that a serious whirl.
