For Thomas on his 52nd birthday
Make haste, my beloved, and be like a gazelle on mountains of spices. - SS 8:14
Last Thursday morning when I walked outside, I was hit by the heady scent of wildflowers. Though I could see nothing blooming– it was still late February - the fragrance was strong. The wind was blowing briskly, the sun was shining brightly, and those sensations, especially the smell, swept me back to October in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when the chamisa bushes bloom.
Santa Fe holds a sacred space in my heart. It is where Thomas and I spent the first two years of our marriage. It is where we made our first home below the Sangre de Cristo peaks. It is where we became one flesh. And it is where we fought our first spiritual battle as a married couple.
Our time is Santa Fe was never easy. In fact, our first night as newlyweds there was a disaster. We spent it cramped, side by side, in the bucket seats of a Honda Prelude because our friend who had been housesitting took off to California with our only set of keys. It was too late, we thought, to call a locksmith, and we didn’t have enough money for a hotel. So much for being carried across the threshold!
That first night foreshadowed our first year. Nothing went as I imagined it would. Thomas quickly came down with mono and was sick for six weeks. I hated my first job, and routinely cried over my incompetence at my second. Money was tight. We had few friends. Worst of all, something had changed in me. I was moody, fearful, and easily offended - definitely not the glowing bride I had hoped to be.
Marriage had unearthed the deep wound of my father’s abandonment. I found myself unable to quell the voice of the enemy in my ear, the Accuser who whispered incessantly that Thomas didn’t really love me, that he would leave like my father had, and that I would be alone. I tried to resist the awful scenarios which played in my imagination, but they wore me down. The more depressed I became, the more plausible they seemed.
I felt for my husband. He was a noble man who deserved better. I wanted to be a joy to him. I wanted our first year to be filled with romance and wonder. Instead, it was a struggle. But looking back, I see that we were in the Father’s hand the whole time. What felt like failure was really a test.
“Love must be tested.” These are words my Father in heaven spoke to me a few years ago.
Instantly I knew that He was right. He always is. Even the love of His Son was tested. The Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness for this purpose. Forty days Jesus endured the voice of the Accuser questioning His identity. He resisted the scenarios Satan played before His eyes. Then again on the cross, His love was tested. Jesus’ suffering proved His love for us; but just as importantly, it proved His trust in the Father. Satan was permitted to test the unity of the Trinity by unleashing hell on our Savior. Jesus prevailed with His surrender to the Father, “Not my will but Thine be done.”
Our marital bond was tested in the desert, under the mountains named for Christ’s blood. And following the pattern of our Lord, Thomas’ surrender drove the enemy away. “Amy,” he told me one day by a rushing mountain stream, “I promised before God to be your husband. I will stay with you even if we are miserable for the rest of our lives, but I would rather not be miserable.” This second marriage vow, made in pain, without fanfare or the witness of friends, was both a death to personal dreams and a great spiritual victory. It was spoken in the power of the Holy Spirit, and I knew it. Thomas was not the father who left me. I could trust him. Believing that truth was my great victory.
From my vantage point now, I consider it rather an honor that our marriage was tested so early. Our heavenly Father knew we were young and unaware of our weaknesses. He knew we were isolated from family and friends. He knew we had no resources other than Him. And He knew that we loved Him. In the midst of the battle, He led us gently. He was faithful to give us moments of consolation and respite. Most of those came walking in the mountains. Feeling the sun on our faces. Breathing the clean desert air. Smelling the chamisa in bloom. Thomas and I fell in love in the mountains and they were always a place of comfort.
Our little adobe home was another place of refuge. Our house was surrounded by a thick mud wall which enclosed a small drive and a few flower beds. The wall radiated the warmth of stored sunshine on chilly desert nights. It protected us from the view of unfriendly eyes. And it set apart a space that belonged solely to me and my love – like the Beloved’s garden in the Song of Solomon.
The Beloved’s garden is filled with both myrrh and spices. It is nourished by both the north wind and the south winds. The first year of our marriage, the Father planted myrrh in our garden – a symbol of Christ’s death. Then He nourished the garden with the wind of adversity. He knew what He was doing. The garden belonged to Him and He desired its fruit. He tended it carefully for its fragrance pleased Him.
Last Thursday morning the north wind hit my face bearing the scent of Santa Fe and I gave thanks!