Crooked Hair and a Great Marriage

October 15, 2007

The gentle Puget Sound sun was streaming through a crystal clear sky that Saturday afternoon in early May of 1998. The sound of razor sharp metal edges slicing against each other as they effortlessly cut is still ringing in my ears.

I was sitting on the back patio of our Kirkland, WA condo. Before me was a rich, lush green belt that was more like an ancient rain forest ravine. The ravine dropped down immediately off our patio and went down some 120 feet to the bottom where a small spring fed the massive trees, the bed of thick ferns, and heavy undergrowth (not that any help was needed). The regular – almost constant – Northwest rainfall gave all the moisture any plant would ever need.

The scene was peaceful enough to calm down a ranting warrior heading into battle, but it had little effect on my arrogant and immature 25-year-old mind. The tension in the air was thick enough to be consumed with a spoon… I felt it and, worst of all, Margie felt it.

For the past 3 years of our marriage, I had absolutely refused to let her cut my hair. I preferred, in stead, to pay a “professional” $15 to $25 to provide me with a slick and stylish ‘do. Plus, I wanted my wife to be above “that” kind of demeaning work. After all, she was the queen of my universe… right? (A thing I should have remembered in actions and not simply in haircuts.)

But, the Lord has a way of humbling you. Since our move to Washington, we had hit on hard (dare I say extremely hard) financial times. The stress and strain of our circumstances was weighing heavily on both of us… and on our marriage. The simple fact is, we just did not have $20 to spring for a haircut. But we did have scissors and clippers – a Christmas gift from one of Margie’s sisters. Plus, over the years, I had had enough rotten haircuts to realize that even “professionals” can botch a snip job.

So it was, that I found myself in one of our wooden chairs on the back patio, wrapped in a black plastic cape, cringing at every “snip, snip” of the scissors.

But as nerve wracking as it was for me, it was 100 times worse for my dear and patient wife. She had been the receiver of more than one ugly blunt remark from my lips and knew the heat of my bitter, snide comments. In those days, I’m ashamed to say, that they came frequently and were heated with the flames of financial pressure and my own miserably low self-image.

Rising from the 30-minute torture chamber, I went into the bathroom to review my first home-delivered salon experience. Looking back, I have no doubts that no one in the world would have noticed the few crooked lines or uneven cuts… but I did. And worse of all, I made sure to tell Margie all about it, painfully pointing out each and every one with snide precision.

This painful encounter continued month after month, and, yes, even year after year.

Someone should have whipped me that first day – but they didn’t. So it continued… but not forever.

After a few years of this agony, I began to see myself as the selfish, ugly tyrant that I really was. For heaven’s sake, my poor sweetheart was doing the very best she could. Not only that, but she was saving us hundreds of dollars a month by giving me and our boys haircuts, relieving a bit of the financial burden for our family. And, she was putting herself humbly and patiently in the line of fire each time I sat in that chair. On top of all that, she was getting good at haircuts. Everyone could see it… except me.

One day while standing in front of the mirror, that still, small voice that has done more to impact the affairs of men and change history, snuck inside my heart and said, “So, how much comfort has that hair of yours been to you through all the years of struggle? And, while we’re on the subject, is the praise of a good hair cut worth the tears of your eternal companion and best friend?”

It was a sharp blow. It ran deep and pierced my heart

Of course my wife and her feelings were WAY more important than my hair and how I looked. Of course, the comments and opinions of others were infinitely less important than the joy of my wife.

So, I decided to change – even if, I said smugly to myself, her haircuts didn’t ever get better.

From that day on, every haircut I have received from my dear wife has been “The best haircut I have ever gotten.” “Man, you really out-did yourself this time, sweetheart. That looks awesome!” “Wowww! Look how even and perfect that line is! Nice job!” “I think I’m the luckiest man in the world to have a wife like you. Thank you so much for taking the time to cut my hair!”

The truth is, I stopped looking at my hair – though, lately even barbers and beauticians have remarked at how well my hair is cut. Instead, I started looking at my wife’s heart and accepting the tremendous gift of love, patience, respect, support, and courage that she was giving to me.

Actually, she had been giving it to me all along – it was just that I was only now starting to notice it.

But more than a better cut, the change in my words has given us something much better. It has given us an awesome marriage. You see, while I was noticing the bad haircut, I was noticing a lot of other things too. And you can be sure, I was quick to bring up those things as well.

It was a wedge between us.

My critical eye and lightning tongue was creating a dam that stopped up our love, our affection, our respect, and our friendship. Once I let go of my petty selfishness, the dam burst open, the floodgates flung wide, spilling joy, peace, harmony and happiness into our lives like we never could have imagined.

Once upon a time, I had crooked lines in my hair and a choppy marriage… today, I’ve got a smooth hairline and sweet marriage. But you know what? Seeing how good it can be, I’d take crooked hair and a sweet marriage any day.


There IS A God, And He DOES Answer Prayers – Part I

September 12, 2007

It was one of those things that you really don’t like to hear – didn’t want to hear.

The light in the small room was dimmed so that the ultrasound technician could see the screen better. With Margie lying on her back right next to the machine there was no way she could see the monitor. I guess the doctors got tired of women twisting their neck around to see what was going on, so they mounted a good sized TV on the wall where Margie could see everything the technician was seeing.

As a registered nurse, Margie knew what he was seeing before he handed over the bad news.

Marginal placenta previa.

Since Margie was only in her 20th week, the tech said that there was a good chance the placenta would move up as the baby grew and developed. Still, there was just as likely a chance that it would continue to slide down – which would mandate a c-section… an experience Margie did not want to have. The risks were even higher considering that one of her sisters had the same thing, and it DID move down and she DID have a c-section.

We came home that afternoon and sat all the children down to explain things to them. As a family, through previous experiences we had learned the power of prayer. So, we decided to include a sincere petition in all of our family and meal-time prayers that the Lord would help that slippery placenta move up and not down.

So, over the next 15 weeks adult voices and young voices and tiny little toddler voices rose to heaven eagerly pleading and begging the creator of Heaven and Earth to just help that placenta move up. Some of the children never quite got the name of it right – “Please help the macenas move” or “Please bless the bamestar to go away”.

Well, even if they didn’t get the request right, these 3 and 5 year old boys of ours got spirit of it all right. They love their momma with all their precious little hearts and they really, really wanted her to be healthy and strong and safe.

Most inspiring to me, was the unwavering and consistent faith of all 6 of our children (Mary, our seventh, is still a wee too young to talk, but I’m sure she has great faith too!). In every prayer, in every situation, they ALWAYS remembered to ask God to help their dear momma.

The day of the second ultrasound came and found our family kneeling in the front room with me, once again, lifting my voice to Heavenly Father. Please, please, bless my dear wife and the wonderful mother of these sweet children.

We returned from that visit with hearts lifted and souls satisfied. God had heard our prayers and, at least for the time being, all was well with Margie and the baby – the placenta had moved.

Now, some may say that it was coincidence, it would have moved all on its own. Maybe. But if you had been there and heard those tender voices and heard the love they have for their mother… and if you had been in our home on the day that we returned from the second visit to the ultrasound tech and seen the sublime joy and happiness in their eyes as we told them the placenta had moved… and if you had felt the intense feelings of peace that came over all of us BEFORE we went to the doctor… then, I bet, like us, you would be compelled to acknowledge that there is a God, and He does answer prayers.

There is a wonderful – though scary and nerve wracking – sequel to this story and how Sariah Marjorie Boswell came to our home….