Can we talk.

If you think weddings are all about endless trains, silk satin drapes falling effortlessly from ceilings, picture-perfect moments and gardens blooming gloriously from every possible angle, think again. That endless train took practice walking with, those silk satins had friends risking their lives on ladders for you, the photographer took forever to find and those flowers cost money. It’s no wonder at all that wedding preparations can be so stressful, and the cause for conflict between couples. When stress mounts, expectations rise and standards fall short, things can get ugly.

Some people fight. Some people seethe. Some people try to brush it under the carpet.

I love the way you always say, “Can we talk?”

Because that’s what women say, and what most men would run a thousand miles away to avoid confronting. But whenever we hit a road bump, you always chivalrously, courageously make the first move to say, “Can we talk?”

Even when you don’t want to. Even when you know it will just mean opening a can of worms. Even when you know it will fire a tirade of lamentations and perhaps unsupported accusations from me. You ask “Can we talk?” not because it’s easy, but because you treasure our relationship more than your pride, treasure our honesty more than your comfort, treasure our progress together more than you being right.

I was so mad at you yesterday.

And you ought to have been madder at me for being so. But you weren’t. Instead of arming yourself with self-righteous claims and defenses, you bought dinner and asked, “How can I be more encouraging towards you? How can I encourage you more?”

It takes a true man to say that. It takes a true man to ask “Can we talk?”, say “Can you show me how I can love you better?”, express “I love you.”

After my tirade, you had your turn too. And as we both shared, I noticed how we both so careful not to hurt each other. We kept saying “I felt this way because…”, and never “You did this…”, “You always…”, “You never…”

And in the middle of our conversation, I just suddenly fell flat and realized I wasn’t mad anymore. In spite of all the stresses of pulling a wedding together within a very short amount of time and an exam next month, in spite the million and one things to do and think about and the projects undone, in spite of us both not being very mature at times, you were a complete gentleman, carefully, patiently listening, holding my hand when I was least loveable, and telling me how my frown looks better upside-down.

It was raining. It was pouring so bad I wanted to head straight home in a train but you insisted, no, let’s go to church for bible study. We’ll take a cab down. And you were going even if I decided not to. That’s how you always are- these things matter more to you than personal convenience.  And you had committed yourself to spiritual discipline because you promised to lead me, in these matters, as a head of the household should. You knew going to church was worth it, just as how you knew we would be worth it. So you were willing to go the distance.

When we stepped out of the taxi onto the open platform, and the rain pelted on us as we hid underneath a frail leaf of an umbrella, you saw my face fall as I looked at the road we had to cross, filled five inches high with water, and all you said was, “Hold on to the umbrella, okay?” And you scooped me up like a father does a child, like a knight does his maiden and carried me through the endless puddle, across the open road and onto the pavement till we reached the sheltered church building.

“And that’s why you’re marrying a triathlete!” You beamed. 

I just can never stay mad at you for long.