Last Tuesday, I mistakenly decided to be cool. I walked out of the house in my snazzy, faux, black Hugo suit, a white shirt, and no tie. I was going to work, but I looked more like I was going clubbing. I walked past my beat up, 1996 Honda Accord, strutted down the sidewalk, and walked down the street to catch the public bus. About fifty yards from the bus stop, I saw my bus go past the 7-11, make the stop, and then move on.
At the end of our wedding reception, my wife and I walked past the rows of cheering family and friends, climbed into the getaway car, and drove away, utterly euphoric. On the way to the hotel, all the bickering we had done during the engagement seemed to evaporate. Truly, this was a fresh start. I remember thinking, “Wow, those vows really did change me. I don’t believe we’ll ever argue again.” We would not, in fact, argue again – until four days into our honeymoon.
My wife and I recently had one of those unpleasant, conflict-related experiences which are fun to laugh about later, but are not at all funny at the moment. I’m not actually sure we’re at the laughing stage yet, but as a therapeutic measure, I’m going to go ahead and tell the story (yes, I have my wife’s permission).
Most people don’t deal with rejection very well, and it’s remarkable how avoiding rejection seems to be the great motivator for so many throughout their entire lives. The fear of being deemed less worthy inspires career choices, marriage proposals, name changes, pregnancies, criminal activity, and a whole host of other, dramatic life choices.
Six days ago, my wife quite valiantly delivered our baby girl into the world. I was there cheering her on, like I knew what I was doing. But in reality, I felt like a helpless spectator on the edge of my seat, watching every cliff-hanger of every good TV show ever, times one thousand. I sat there on my metal stool, with my hands outstretched, ready to catch our baby, wide-eyed and trying to hold myself together.
Joshua Rogers 