I drove through the roughest rainstorm I’ve ever encountered on my way home from work yesterday.  Torrential downpour doesn’t begin to describe it.  Sheets of rain and hail pounded the roof of my car.  I was stuck at 30 mph, likely an irrationally high speed given the conditions.  I could barely see the taillights of the car in front of mine.  My windshield wipers were on their highest setting.  I kept hitting puddles and skidding a bit as my tires sprayed walls of water in every direction. Then I watched a lightning bolt hit a transformer.  Sparks flew up in the air and I wondered what it meant…until I looked up and saw the traffic light ahead blow out.  Flatline.

In the split-second before whatever backup system was in place kicked in and the light changed to flashing yellow on my side, I felt a jolting combination of freedom and panic.  Freedom, because I was no longer expressly subject to traffic laws.  Panic, because no one else was either.

I think one of the biggest mistakes we can make in life is to abide by the idea that “that won’t happen to me” or its cousin, “that just isn’t us.”  I remember talking to people right after I got engaged about wedding planning and listening to their horror stories: late-night fights, desperate tears, occasional bloodshed.  I heard stories of caterers who didn’t show up, bands who were late, in-laws who were a chromosome short of pure alien.  I listened politely, nodding my head and wincing with the storyteller in the right spots.  Then walking away and thinking to myself, How sad.  To get that caught up in one event.  I’m so glad we’re not them.

Oh, how gently but heartily God must have laughed.

If the first test of married life is getting married, I need a remedial course.  I have made a business of majoring on the minors and making mountains out of molehills and, generally, losing my shit over every tiny detail.  I have uttered phrases that, were they to have come from someone else’s mouth, would have left me at best rolling my eyes and at worst, throwing up in my mouth. Phrases like “I feel so alone” and “I do everything.  Everything!” and “BECAUSE CHICKEN FINGERS ARE AN AWESOME FOOD, THAT”S WHY!”  My self-obsessed delirium reached a head last night and left me waking up in a state of pure yuck, leading to a car prayer time full of grace and tears.  Because sometimes, He opens my eyes to what life would look like if the storm knocked all the lights out, if redemption hadn’t happened, if I were the one in the drivers seat.  If it really were all about me.

And it is ug-uh-LEE, as my grandmother used to say.  It looks like a home that is a place to escape from rather than a refuge.  It looks like a lover who becomes foreign rather than friend.  It looks like a wall of mistrust.  It looks like having no place to go and no one who understands you.  It looks like navigating every storm alone.

This really isn’t about wedding planning.  I’ll be honest, I’m not going to apologize for wanting things a certain way when I have waited THIRTY-THREE YEARS for this day and this man.  (Although on a good day, I will admit that there is usually a more graceful way to go about letting my opinion be known than whichever way I chose.)  What this is about is life.  About all the ways I’m being asked to deny myself for a reason I can’t see through the rain.  Usually, for someone else’s good.  Being in a relationship, whether it’s as a lover or a wife or a parent or a friend, means constantly choosing to be better than I really am.  Because, just like John Casey told Chuck, the bad guys don’t take a day off.  And I refuse to be a sitting duck at target practice. Thirty miles an hour may be slow as hell, but at least I’m moving in the direction of home.

One of the many things the BF and I have in common is, THANK GOD, our sense of humor.  As day after day of a life together goes by, I am grasping just how important this possession is.  We even have a similar laugh: one that peals out suddenly and rises decibels above any other noise in the room, occasionally drawing the stares of those around us.  We both have the tendency to guffaw at everything, which means we have a laugh for any circumstance: the “That’s truly funny” laugh; the “I feel awkward right now so I’m just going to laugh” laugh; the “You’re not really funny but I’ll be conciliatory anyway” laugh (I’m working on striking that one from my repertoire as I rid myself of people-pleasing compulsions); the “You’re a crazy person but I love you anyway” laugh.

Actually, that last one is more his than mine, given that I unwittingly offer up so many occasions for him to use it.  Because there’s one thing the BF and I don’t have in common, and that is How We Clean Up Our Messes and Put Our Toys Away.  And the second I hear a crumb or a splash hit a surface where it doesn’t belong and I look up and rush to the scene with a Swiffer/paper towel/dust buster, I get that last laugh from him.

The thing is, I never felt like a clean freak until we started officially sharing the same space.  In my old apartment in New York, I could live with some mess–water stains on the faucet, slight ring around the bathtub, strands of hair on the bathroom floor–because it was my mess.  I had a gauge on the situation and I could control how out of control things got before I swooped in with a sponge and a bottle of bleach.  But now that the mess is shared, and now that we actually have a new and beautiful living space, I have entered freak status.  And though the results may be gleaming, the journey can be ugly.

An errant crumb or drop or scrap of paper sets me off because , unlike the rest of the world, it’s something I can control.  But by God (and isn’t He the ultimate one who gloriously escapes my clutches?), though I can’t control who the president is, I can damn sure make my stovetop shine.  And so I set about making my (oops…our) corner of the world sparkly and safe.  Then the BF comes in, blissfully unaware of my preordained vision, and trashes it all.

Last summer he had attained Likely Lifetime Partner status and was therefore invited on our family vacation to the Outer Banks. This tradition, three years old, involves my mom and I along with my sister and her husband and his family (some of the best people on earth) along with anywhere from two to four small dogs and a bar’s worth of alcohol.  Good times.  One morning, I came in from my Come to Jesus time to a mini-uproar in the living area.  Turns out that the crew had just solved the Mystery of the Socks on the Counter, perpetrated and confessed to by the BF himself, the newbie who had inexplicably left his dirty athletic socks perched right by the coffeepot.  The transgression earned him the nickname Socks and a story in our family’s canon.

Despite being highly organized with the bigger-picture stuff and nearly perfect otherwise, the BF’s negative tidy factor confounds me not just because it doesn’t align with my obsessive need to attain a flawless veneer but because I don’t understand it.  In what world would it make sense for five minutes in the bathroom to produce hurricane-like amounts of water on the countertop and floor?  Why is it easier to leave the hand towel in a tangled mess rather than hook it neatly over the rack provided for that purpose?  How do we reach middle ground between dirty dishes piled in the sink for days on the one hand, and my not being able to finish a thirty-minute sitcom without washing them on the other?  And to think…ours is one of the most functional relationships I know.

Which brings me back to the laughter.  I was watching a retrospective of The Cosby Show this week (this is what people do when they don’t live in New York) and was struck once again with how comforting a depiction of a good family being real is to my soul. (I’m also looking at you, Eric and Tami Taylor from Friday Night Lights).  The idea that good people can live together, have kids, and still laugh gives me hope for my own domesticity.  Because underneath it all, one of my more abiding concerns is not how good a job the BF is doing putting his toys away, but how he manages to deal with the much bigger issues that I bring to the table. I may keep a clean house, but what about that temper/residual childhood anger/identity struggle/need for constant affirmation? And such.  Oh well.  I can always find assurance in the fact that we laugh well together.  And that were he ever to leave me, it wouldn’t take long to track him down. I’d just follow the trail of crumbs.

Now excuse me, I have to go clean underneath a coasterless glass.

On one of our many double-backs through the Louvre, the BF and I passed a room partially blocked with a makeshift wall of wood and I peeked inside–just to make sure they weren’t playing a joke on us and keeping the real Mona Lisa hidden.  Instead of her, I saw sculptures scattered about in various states of coverage and repair.  Judging from the amount of wooden crates and plastic sheets strewn alongside the masterpieces, it appeared that I had stumbled upon a museum backlot: Where Sculptures Go to Get Facelifts.  While my fellow passerby tourists snapped photos of legit, purposely presented works of art, I turned away from them all to get this shot.  And thought about how my story has benefitted from a master refurbisher’s hand, and the accompanying periods of quietness rather than adulation.

I do some things well: organize, speak sarcasm, crack inappropriate jokes, lose my temper, drink wine.  But I’ve allowed my confidence to be crumbled over the years by the things I haven’t mastered: rejection, disapproval, patience, the unknown.  These are the issues over which I end up in the workroom.  In that quiet, alone-plus-One stillness, I’ve been scrubbed down and brushed up and whispered upon and prayed over.  The workroom has taken on various appearances over the years: failures, residency, New York…life.  Once, it was a car trip from Birmingham to Atlanta during which I missed a turn and ended up taking a two-hour detour through Chattanooga. He always finds me when I need to be found.  For some reason only He can see perfectly, I am worth the effort.

Anytime I’ve mastered one thing, I realize my complete inadequacy in another area.  I realized today that I’m learning my way around Atlanta (a conclusion reached when I drove to work without nervously peering at signs and got from there to the mall with only one U-turn).  Then I went to get gas and couldn’t find a pump that worked (a conclusion reached when they all had the amount of the last purchase still up and I was convinced my card would be charged for that gas).  I went inside and told the owner I needed pump 5 cleared.  He furrowed his brow and said, “They’re all clear, Sweetheart, you just put your card in and pick up the nozzle.” Thinking to myself, That’s what she said and don’t call me sweetheart, I and my red face returned to the functional pump.  Later I went back to work, where yesterday was good but today was even better as I’m learning the flow and getting to know everyone. After a particularly great experience with a patient, I stepped back into my office and sat down, smiling to myself. Then I realized that I forgot to put on deodorant this morning.

I will always be inept when it comes to something; I just hope that something isn’t laughing at myself for being inept.  Because my faith really took off once I learned to do just that–and around the same time realized that God would never laugh at me, but He sure does enjoy laughing with me.

Speaking of people who screw up a lot, I’ve been reading the book of Acts this week.  And loving it.  First, because of how history went from death to life-giving life in a matter of days.  Second, because the disciples had absolutely no idea what they were doing. And in their total lack of expertise, they were totally blessed.  My favorite part so far is at the end of the first chapter, when the eleven of them are trying to find a replacement for Judas.  They’ve narrowed the candidate list to two, and they begin to pray about which guy they should pick: “Lord, you know everyone’s heart.  Show us which of these two you have chosen.”  Next verse?  “Then they cast lots.”  And that was how they made their final decision.  Because when we don’t know, the least we can do is ask.  And when we still don’t know, we can trust that there’s no such thing as a gamble when Someone has always known.

I’ve been forced to answer, in various forms, the question “Who are you?” a lot recently, and with the effort of answering has come some soul-searching.  I’ve filled out applications for a license to practice dentistry in Georgia; I’ve read variations of wedding ceremonies and considered which one most closely reflects me and the BF; I’ve engaged in Church Search 2010, sitting in chairs and pews all over the greater Atlanta area, listening to music and preaching and waiting for my soul to feel at home.  Much of the changes in my life over the past few months have resonated with my sense of identity and left waves skimming across the surface of my mind in the form of questions: Who are you?  What do you like?  What do you want to be? What do you want to change?

I just wrote a brief bio for the website of my new job, and I thought to myself that if someone had asked me five years ago to complete this task, I would have struggled and sweated and thought about copying someone else’s and eventually, I would have made a list of the things I’ve done in life.  Then I would have subtracted the bullets, added articles and pronouns and commas and periods, and pressed send.  I am no stranger to describing myself on applications and resumes, but I always had the most trouble with the Interests section, with the part that’s supposed to convert me from a list of achievements into a real person.  Most of the fleshing out process occurred in New York, after a demolition in Birmingham, and at times it was bloody.  But it happened.  And here I am now.  I think we will always, at points throughout our lives, be asked by someone just who we are.

The answer, for me, is no longer Whomever you want me to be (see: demolition and fleshing out processes).  I’ll always struggle with making my identity a mirror image of the person who asks for it, will always work away from making People-Pleaser my default setting.  But as I’m growing older and hopefully wiser (ha!  I just accidentally typed wider), I am realizing that proving myself is less a part of my gameplan than being myself.  I prefer to take curves slowly in my car so that I can get home safely to the BF rather than go bungee-jumping to impress an audience.  I appreciate wine more because I (most days) have one glass over dinner and DVDs rather than a couple of bottles over the course of a night of bad choices.  I say no more often (sometimes, violently).  I laugh only at the jokes I think are funny, usually (awkward silences are still painful).  I roll the phrase Esse quam videri (to be, rather than to appear) around in my head and let it make a home there.

At work the other day I introduced myself to the mother of a new patient and sat to talk with her and get some information.  When I suggested that she should be helping brush her four-year-old’s teeth, she gave a tinkly fake laugh (I recognized it from my old repertoire) and said, “I don’t think you understand.  She doesn’t need my help.  She is independent.” While she spoke, her daughter grabbed items off the desk and did a handstand in my face.  I plastered on a fake smile to match the mother’s fake laugh (it’s okay to be fake if it’s for a job and you can recognize irony and your own self-growth–check the rules) and thought to myself, “She’s an independent brat and if you don’t start being a parent she’s going to turn into an independent asshole.”  But I just mentioned our blue plaque-revealing dye and made a vague reference to seeing what we would see (it’s okay to use cliches if you know you’re being ironic).  I walked away, amazed once again at the inner struggle I feel to go with the flow, agree with people, even when I don’t particularly like them.  I considered the difference between politeness and truth-telling and realized that they are not, as I once thought, mutually exclusive.  And that much of life and growing up and becoming myself has been learning how to do both, at the same time: honesty and grace, equal portions.  Not sparing people from the truth just to prevent a conflict.  Not dumping it on them with judgment just to make a point.  Just the honesty and grace from my side, then the faith that no matter what their personal relationship to truth is, I’ve done my part and can let go.  And not stay up that night wondering if they like me.

The familiar anxiety that rests as a pit in my stomach is my personal alarm system warning me that I’m getting away from living out of my personal relationship with truth and depending on something else to prop up my identity.  The funny thing is that the more effort I expend, instead of resting in that truth and relaxing into who I am because of it, the further I get from the best version of myself.  And the further I get into a performance that doesn’t deserve good reviews.  My favorite character in Sex and the City was Manhattan, and I didn’t make the effort to see the newest installment once I heard that the plot revolves around the girls traveling to Abu Dhabi.  New York was the heart of that story, and they traded in identity for a dollar.  Look how well that worked out.

The opposite of the aforementioned anxiety was what I felt last Sunday as the BF and I walked into a midtown church, passing a homeless man in the pew, and heard our favorite hymn being played.  The sincerity of the voices, the lack of performance, pierced me and I felt my eyes water.  This feels like Redeemer, I thought.  This feels like home.