Newlywed Love (#31)

February 11, 1970

About this time, Nate had a very rough night that culminated in a severe migraine headache. I had no idea what a migraine was until I watched him suffer through one. His agony was intense, and the only thing that helped was a darkened room with a cool cloth over his forehead and even covering his eyes.

MigrainesHe told me he had suffered through several migraines during high school, but nearly a decade had passed without a single one. Hoping they had just been part of bodily changes from boyhood to manhood, he figured he’d seen his last one.

But there he was, stricken with the worst one he’d ever known, flat on his back and unable to sleep, eat, or even have a conversation. He certainly couldn’t cope with going to classes.

As his “helpmeet,” I felt helpless. Other than to re-soak his face cloth for him, there was little else I could do. And so I sat on the edge of the bed and prayed, longing for God to make him feel better.

Just before it was time for me to go to work, he vomited, and then fell into a deep sleep. His last words before drifting off were, “You go ahead. The worst is over.”

The migraineI penned a quick note and left for school, tremendously worried about my young husband. What had caused this awful attack? Had I done anything to bring it on? And how could we prevent it from ever happening again?

When I returned home later, he was dressed and sitting at the table, bent over his law books. He said he felt drained but that the headache had been completely gone when he’d woken from his morning sleep.

We had a long talk about what might have brought it on and came to no conclusions. He reassured me over and over that it had nothing to do with me. “Since migraines are most likely caused by intense stress,” he said, “then having you alongside me could only help, not hurt.”

We wondered aloud if he should drop one of his classes or quit his job at H & R Block. Feeling fine again, though, he said he didn’t want to do that unless there were more migraines.  I admired his willingness to work so hard, especially since meeting his goals was as much for me as it was for him. But his bottom line was, “Let’s just see what happens.”

And so we prayed together about it, asking God to relieve Nate’s pressure and to keep future migraines away. In the mean time, I had one more question for Nate. “Do you think having some extra sex might increase the odds of never having another headache?”

He smiled his most handsome smile and said, “Well, why don’t we find out?”

And I was so glad to have him back again.

“The Lord has comforted his people and will have compassion on them in their suffering.” (Isaiah 49:13)

Newlywed Love (#29)

Newlywed Love (#29)

February 6, 1970

Nate and I had been married for 70 days when we hit some “white water rapids” in our adjustment to being husband and wife. Much like the misunderstanding that occurred when he bought the Christmas tree without me, this episode was similar. It was a minor disagreement related to how our varied upbringings had taught us differently — neither was right or wrong, just not the same.

As with the Christmas tree, my response was not to ask rational questions or use logic but to burst into tears.

I wasn’t weeping to manipulate Nate or get my way. That hadn’t even occurred to me. The crying was completely involuntary, and as always, I made no attempt to hold it back.

What I hadn’t considered was how upsetting my tears were to Nate, just as they had been in December. He immediately blamed himself for causing me to cry, which he saw as a catastrophe. This compounded the issue at hand and tipped the blame heavily in his direction. And that wasn’t right.

After our clash, we had restored our relationship quickly with lots of hugging and affirmations of love. But the next morning, as I tried to teach school, I was still bothered by my irrational tears and the extra stress they added to Nate.

I kept picturing his grief-stricken face as he tried to comfort me enough to stop my crying, and I felt terrible about it.

During my lunch break, I decided to write him a letter.

The only paper I had was a sheet of newsprint from my students’ art bin, but it was good enough. I wanted to reassure Nate of my unshakable love and also thank him for putting up with my tears. And I wanted him to know that my weeping wasn’t “the end of the world” as he seemed to think it was.

Letter.

I knew I couldn’t ask Nate to just get used to it, and I didn’t want him to go to the other extreme, disregarding my tears as insignificant. I loved when he comforted me. But I hoped he could learn not to see it as a disaster but just as one of the foibles of his bride.

I wanted him to know, in writing, how grateful I was for his patient, caring response to me the day before, and in a way, I wanted to apologize for upsetting him so much.

By writing a letter, I hoped to build up my young husband and sympathize with him for his having to accept me “as is.” And rather than hand it to him that evening, I decided to mail it – from Champaign to Champaign.

Envelope

That way the message would have greater impact than if I just said it out loud. He could read and re-read it, hopefully being uplifted each time.

I thought back to our pre-marriage days when both Nate and I had prepared for marriage by reading books about it. All the authors agreed that difficult challenges were sure to come, and we had said, “Oh, not with us.”

Now we were beginning to see what they meant.

“After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation.” (1 Peter 5:10)

Young Love (#124)

Friday, November 28, 1969

If we thought yesterday was busy, today was double that. Nate and I still had to secure our marriage license from City Hall. And the large room in the basement of the church still needed to be set up and decorated for the reception. The bridesmaids needed to practice their song together, since they had only been practicing as individuals till now.

Nate needed to chat with Pastor Sweeting, and I needed to touch base with the mothers of our child-participants to be sure they would be at the rehearsal tonight. Were their clothes in order? Did they understand their roles? Was there any reluctance among them?

And then there was my bridal gown.

Bridal gowns.I began pursuing that as soon as the store opened. It left me speechless to be told it was “on its way” rather than already hanging at the shop. “Just after lunch,” they said.

Nate and I needed to wrap our thank-you gifts for those participating in the wedding and reception (30 of them). A mountain of groom’s cake boxes had to be transported to the church, and someone had to make several more trips to the airport.

Marriage licenseBut first things first. Nate and I headed for Chicago’s Loop and the Office of Records to get our marriage license. Although it was a very nondescript office, being there was a highlight for us. We went right out and celebrated by making a 25-cent strip of photos to memorialize the moment.

The pictures would go into our “ENGAGEMENT TO WEDDING” scrapbook. Soon I would finish that one and switch to the one called “WEDDING THROUGH HONEYMOON.”

IMG_5374On our way back to Wilmette we stopped at the church to drop off a load of decorations and the boxes of wedding programs. We were excited to see that tables and chairs were already being put into place for the reception the next day.

 

FullSizeRender(5)When we walked in at home, we were greeted by the sweet sound of bridesmaids rehearsing their number. It was impressive how good they sounded, and I was so glad they were willing to sing during the ceremony. Their song, “Thanks Be to God,” was one of my very favorites. (l. to r. Glo, Jan, Mary)

From that point on, we began to divide and conquer. Mom, Aunt Joyce, and most of the others headed for the church to begin decorating, and Nate left to run groom-errands with his brother. When he kissed me goodbye he said, “I’ll see you at the church! Six o’clock!”

I headed for the bridal shop, silently praying my gown would be waiting for me. Traffic was horrendous, and it took me over an hour to make the 25 minute drive. When I walked in they must have recognized me by the anxiety on my face. After talking to them so often in the last few days, I didn’t even bother to give my name.

“I sure hope it’s ready!” I said, with a frantic urgency that was no act.

“Are you Miss Johnson?”

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“Anxiety in a [woman’s] heart weighs [her] down, but a good word makes [her] glad.” (Proverbs 12:25)