Seasons of Change

The end of September and beginning of October bring seasons of earthly change in some regions, including where I live in the hills of Pennsylvania. The mountainsides change their colors; red and gold leaves drop from the trees to on the ground. The soft summer breeze turns cooler and scatters the fallen leaves around, changing the landscape, preparing it for the stark whites of winter snows.

Autumn colors create delightful kaleidoscopic horizons. I love when the colors change from trees of green to the deep reds of maples, the orange browns of the hickories, and the golden yellows of oaks. These changes remind me of a different change—the seasons of change in my heart.

Yellow or Green?

“How did you like the new shirt my mom gave me, the one I had on yesterday?” I loved wearing yellow. It complimented my strawberry-blond hair and dark eyes.

“It was okay,” my husband mumbled. “You know how I feel about green clothes.” Kevin hated anything green, including green vegetables, green paint, and green dishware. My closet didn’t even include any green clothing.

Of course, that point had nothing to do with the current conversation about my lemony-yellow shirt. And in fact, the above conversation never actually happened. I created it and use it often to explain a concept I’ve discovered. I’d like to say it came to me easily, but no, this issue only settled into a routine after many hard-fought years and tears of frustration … and a piece of sound advice from a neighbor.

Wedded Bliss?

Through elementary school and beyond, I’d dreamed of the day I’d become a bride and begin making a home for my loving husband. Oh, he’d be just like my dad, right? He’d love me, care for me, buy me flowers and chocolates, help me with the dishes and the vacuuming, take out the trash, mow the lawn. And he’d thank me over and over for all the loving things I’d do for him: make him liver and onions, heavy on the onions; sew patches on the ever-present holes in his old jeans; make sure his shirts were buttoned so they never fell off the hangers in the closet; and joy of joys, iron creases into his shirt sleeves. Ah, wedded bliss!

After an idyllic ceremony and even more perfect honeymoon, Kevin carried me over the threshold into our apartment, and I went right to work. I knew our relationship would one day be used to teach other young couples how a happy marriage comes from nurturing the love we had for each other, the love I showed through these acts of service started in my parents’ marriage.

Hold that thought!

Week one: “You don’t like liver and onions? But my dad loves them.”

“Then take them to him.” (My parents lived only a mile away.)

Week two: “There were huge holes in the knees. The patches look much nicer. My dad would never wear jeans with holes in them to work.”

“I don’t mind the holes. And your dad never wears jeans.” (True, Dad worked a job where he wore dress slacks.)

Week three: “Kevin, what happened to the hangers in your closet? They’re all mangled?”

“If you didn’t button the top button of my shirts, they’d come off the hangers without bending them.”

“But then the collars will droop and make wrinkles. Mom always buttons Dad’s shirts that way to keep them from wrinkling.”

“That’s why he wears ties, to hide the wrinkles.” (I don’t think that’s true.)

Week four: “That’s it! Stop ironing creases in my shirt sleeves. And don’t tell me how your mom always irons your dad’s sleeves. I don’t care. I’m not your dad!” (I thought I saw a pattern developing.)

Where’s the bliss?

Life went on. Week five, six, seven. I continued to do these things because I thought I was supposed to. After all, habits formed over ten plus years of ironing shirt sleeve creases and buttoning top buttons don’t break easily. Indeed, I’d even iron his pocket handkerchiefs into perfect squares if he wanted me to … just like Mom did for Dad. Of course, Kevin didn’t use handkerchiefs. Still, arguments began, some heating up to the point of tears from me, stormy silence from him.

One Saturday morning, after another bout of angry words, Kevin left for work. I didn’t work weekends, so I flopped on the bed and cried. I felt useless and unable to show my love to my husband. As I tried to straighten the bent hangers, I knew I needed to straighten our marriage, too, but I didn’t know how.

Help on the Way?

A few minutes later, I heard a knock on our door. I swiped at my tears with a tissue, glanced in the mirror on the fridge at my red eyes, and cringed at having to answer the door. I considered pretending no one was home, but I could see our neighbor through the window.

“Hello!” Mrs. Craker gave a cheery greeting as I opened the screen door. “Just baked these cookies and thought I’d bring you some.”

Instead of handing the plate over into my open hands, she grasped my fingers with her free hand and looked into my eyes. With the grace-filled wisdom of maturity, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Her gentleness brought a buried sob to the surface, breaking the way for the words to come forth, wave after wave. Finally, I came up for air.

“And this morning, we argued about his shirts again. I just closed the top button to keep it on the hanger. He ripped it off the hanger, tore the button clean off, and broke the rod in the closet. I’ve been doing this with my dad’s shirts for years. Kevin should change his way of thinking. My mom did it this way for my dad, and he always appreciated it. Why can’t Kevin be more like him?”

Mrs. Craker smiled a little and said, “Cathy, you can’t expect him to be just like your dad.”

Then she offered this advice: “Don’t try to change him. Change you instead.”

What?! Change Me?!

For a moment, I thought I heard her wrong. Change me? But didn’t she hear all I’d been telling her, all the things he kept doing? Why should I change? I wasn’t the one in the wrong.

“Does it really matter if he has a crease in his shirts? Or if he doesn’t want his top button closed? It may solve a few troubles and stop some arguments if you changed your ways, accepted him as he is. Those trivial things aren’t the real problem. Your heart is. Show your love for him by changing you.”

Change me. Give up my right to have it my way. Stop trying to change him. I sure had some thinking to do. I thanked Mrs. Craker for the cookies but held off on the thanks for the advice until I’d had time to process it.

Entering the Seasons of Change

I wish I could say I learned how to do this right away, but then I wouldn’t be human. But I gave it my best shot. I stopped buttoning Kevin’s shirts, never ironed another crease in my life, and made sure the liver and onions stayed at my mom and dad’s. I changed my thoughts on how to show the unconditional love necessary between a husband and wife and made the choice to let those little things not get between us.

Throughout His Word, God speaks to His people about changing their hearts, turning them toward Him, His ways. And the main thing He asks is for us to love—love Him, love others. Love unconditionally. Color and race don’t matter; neither does wealth or health.

My constant prayer remains, “Jesus, help me through the seasons of change every day of my life to love more, love higher, deeper. Love like You do.”

Back to the Yellow Shirt

What does this have to do with green and yellow clothes? Well, when I talk to other wives who deal with this type of situation—husbands who won’t put the cap on the toothpaste, who like the toilet paper on differently than they do, who won’t dust the furniture the way their dads did—I tell them the shirt story. If that shirt had been purple or red or blue and Kevin remembered it as green, was it worth an argument to prove the point? Changing myself allowed me to choose love, to not to make a big deal out of it. After all, does it really matter what color my shirt was yesterday?

What seasons of change are on your horizon today?