Let's Get Ready to Rumble

A Love Story Featuring Questionable Sportsmanship

A few weekends ago, Jon and I had one of the most impressive fights of our marriage.

Not our worst.
Not our loudest.
Not our most consequential.

Just one of those fights where every sentence carries a folding chair.

The kind where nobody is listening anymore.

The kind where both people are absolutely convinced they're the reasonable one.
And the other is a blasted idiot.

The kind where, if there had been a referee present, he would have quietly excused himself.

At some point, I became violently still.

Not calm.
Just still.

Every wife knows this posture.

It is the complete cessation of movement that somehow communicates hostility.

I wasn't speaking or blinking.
I may have stopped breathing.

The air was thick enough to spread on toast.

Then Jon said something so audacious, so recklessly confident, that I briefly questioned both his survival instincts and his desire to remain among the living.

"Yeah. Sure. Let's rally."

Rally? Rally?! RALLY??
OMG, Sir... What?

Reader, this man looked directly into the abyss and suggested we do another lap.

I laughed. Like a whole psychopath.

The laugh that emerged from my body belonged to a woman who had just released a flock of cursed ravens upon her enemies.

For a brief moment, had we not been traveling at highway speeds, we might have pulled into the nearest backyard and settled the matter the old-fashioned way.

Right hooks.
Clocked jaws.
Haymakers.

A heavyweight title fight.
Marriage edition.

Fortunately, civilization prevailed.....eventually. Sort of.

After enough time had passed for us to return to our regularly scheduled personalities, I found myself thinking about what had actually happened.

The easy conclusion would have been that we fought because we're different.

But the truth is exactly the opposite.

We fought because we're alike.

More alike than either of us would probably prefer.

We are both stubborn.

Both determined.

Both capable of digging our heels in until they strike bedrock.

His belligerence summons my indignation with alarming efficiency. One steps into the ring, and the other immediately starts taping her hands.

God apparently looked at one strong-willed person and thought:

"You know what this situation needs? Another one."

For years, I thought compatibility meant finding someone who balanced my weaknesses.

Someone softer where I was hard.
Someone quieter where I was loud.
Someone yielding where I was rigid.

And there is plenty of truth in that.

But increasingly, I wonder whether one of God's favorite methods is pairing us with people who expose us.

People who reveal us.
People who locate us.

People who force us to confront the very things we'd rather leave untouched.

Which brings me to Proverbs.

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another."
— Proverbs 27:17

We loooove this verse.

We embroider it on hokey pillows.

We frame it in mahogany offices.

We quote it at men's breakfasts and leadership conferences.

But have you ever stopped to consider what sharpening actually feels like?

Because if iron could talk, I doubt it would describe the process as pleasant.

Sharpening requires friction.

Pressure.
Resistance.
Heat.

Something must scrape against something else.

Something must give.

Something must be removed.

No blade becomes sharper by being left alone.

And maybe that's why marriage is so difficult at times.

Because God, in His wisdom, did not merely give us companions.

He gave us sharpening stones.

People close enough to see every rough edge.
People brave enough to challenge them.
People committed enough to stay when the sparks start flying.

The truth is, I don't need someone who always agrees with me.

I need someone who can stand toe-to-toe with me.

Not because he's my opponent.

Because he's my match.

The very qualities that occasionally drive me fricking bonkers are often the same qualities that make him dependable.

His stubbornness means he doesn't quit.
His conviction means he doesn't drift.
His persistence means he keeps showing up.

And if I'm being honest, the things that frustrate him about me are often the same things that make me who I am.

The fight wasn't evidence that something was broken.

It was evidence that two pieces of iron had once again mistaken sharpening for hostility. Or perhaps more accurately, that I had mistaken his approach for a declaration of war.

That happens more often than I'd like to admit.

I choose violence, and violence chooses me.
Companions. Co-conspirators. Old friends.

Which is precisely why I need the iron.

Shape me, O Lord.

Refine me.

Sand down the rough edges.

Expose the pride I cannot see on my own.

But I'll be darned if I don't occasionally take issue with the instrument You chose.

Surely, there was a gentler method.
A devotional, perhaps.
A quiet time.
A well-timed sermon.

Instead, You handed me this man.

This stubborn, relentless, occasionally careless, wonderfully aggravating man.

And then You dared to use him as a sharpening stone.

Touch Gloves

The temptation in marriage is to win.

To dominate.
To be right.
To land the final punch. TKO.
To keep score.

To walk away feeling victorious.

But every married person eventually discovers the same thing:

If one spouse wins, the marriage loses.

The goal is never to defeat each other.

The goal is always to become more like Christ.
Because without Jesus, there is no us. No marriage. No honor.

And unfortunately, becoming more like Christ requires friction.

Rinse Cycle

One of the great modern myths is that healthy marriages don't fight.

They communicate flawlessly.

They never raise their voices.

They always understand one another's perspective.

They finish each other's sandwiches.

They somehow resolve decades of personality, history, pride, trauma, expectations, and exhaustion with a gentle nod and a sippy-sip of oolong tea.

I don't know who those people are.

I suspect they live in Stepford.

The rest of us live here.

Among dirty dishes, overdue oil changes, crying babies, missed expectations, pink laundry, misunderstandings, and the occasional urge to Bloodsport our case.

Arguments happen.

Not because marriage is failing.

Because marriage is real.

The Bible never presents God's people as polished and conflict-free.
Abraham and Sarah disagreed.
Jacob and Rachel struggled.
Job and his wife saw suffering differently.
Even the disciples argued among themselves about status, importance, and who was right.

Scripture is remarkably honest about human relationships.

The standard isn't perfection.
The standard is faithfulness.

Not the absence of conflict.
The presence of grace.

Not never being wrong.
Being willing to repent when you are.

Not never hurting one another.
Being quick to seek forgiveness when you do.

Perfection is for plastic surgeons, social media filters, and The Keatons.

God never asked us to become flawless
He asked us to become holy.

Holiness often looks less like a couple who never argue and more like a couple who keep choosing each other after the argument is over.
Bloodied and bruised and choosing.

And to leave the ring a little sharper than when they entered.

Even if occasionally one of you laughs like a supervillain. 🩷