We were walking in a Nigerian village and I was fifteen feet behind Todd. I happily was holding the sweaty hands of several village children, when I look up and see him.
We celebrate twenty years of marriage this fall and with that much shared history come wonderful vacations, terrible fights, seasons of health and seasons of sickness. We have had months on end of what-wonderful-kids-we-are-raising and difficult days in-between when we want to manage them rather than parent them, just to make it all easier.
We’ve had regular date nights, and habits we have formed and broken a dozen times over. On our best days, it’s our common practice to stop wearing any hat other than ‘spouse’ after 9:30 p.m. If the laundry isn’t folded or the email isn’t answered… oh well, we are co-missioning a marriage, which is a priority over all others.
Sharing a mission of any kind, whether it’s a desire to reach our neighbors, or grow up our children, or work for the vulnerable means listening more than speaking, and respecting our sometimes personality differences. It often means not ‘dying on every hill’ with each other and respecting when judging comes more naturally. We find co-missioning means rejoicing over relationships instead of closed deals and as a result have shared thousands of meals with people we aren’t related to.
It’s a constant fight to see the battle is against an unseen enemy and to stand back to back with each other in our daily war for God’s storyline.
So when I find myself in a sweet moment, and the battle stills and we are exactly where we want to be, my heart catches. On an African dirt path behind him, I take advantage of the moment, grab my phone and capture it.
