The last ten years have been pretty dang good to us.
Let’s keep this party going, shall we? It’s a fun one.
Photo by Let Me See You Sparkle Photography
This has been sitting in my drafts for FOUR YEARS. I rediscovered it a while back and decided it was time to update, finish, and publish.
I recently read an article about selfish love. And it got me thinking.
People talk about how something like half of all marriages in the US end in divorce. I have known a lot of people who are divorced, or whose parents divorced, or were impacted somehow by a divorce. Being a member of a faith that places a HUGE priority on marriage and family—not just in mortality, either, but for eternity—has sheltered me from a lot of it, though. I guess that’s why it has been so shocking over the last year or so to hear about family after family that is falling apart. Divorce is not just something that happens to other people’s parents anymore; it’s affecting people my age who I know + love.
I am heartbroken over these broken homes.
Our marriage isn’t perfect. Is there even such a thing as a perfect marriage? I mean, I try hard to be a good person, which I hope translates well into being a good wife. And David? Quite simply, he’s my favorite.
But let’s be honest. At the end of the day, he is just a man. And I am just a woman. We’re people, and we struggle, and much as we love each other, we don’t always like each other or our children or our circumstances. Life is hard, y’all, even when you’ve got everything you ever wanted.
Our anniversary is tomorrow. Ten years we’ve been at this now. Ten years still doesn’t seem like very many to me. But with so many not even making it that long, I have to wonder what makes our marriage different. Why, with all that we’ve been through—infertility, unemployment, the whole shebang—are we still together?
My needs + priorities + interests + preferences + parenting style are not the same as David’s. We have lots in common, sure, but plenty of differences too. And neither of us has a monopoly on what is right or best. Instead of expecting him to do things the way I do them, I try to step back so he can do things his way. He tries to do the same for me. We give one another space to be who we are, without unrealistic expectations or demands.
One of my favorite things about our marriage is how often we remind each other that we make a good team. When we work together, we get so much done! Our kids know that when he says something, asking me for a second opinion will only get them a, “I support whatever Daddy said,” and vice versa. On occasion I’ll disagree with his decision, but I wait to talk about it until after the moment has passed (and ideally the kids are elsewhere) so we can strategize for next time. They can’t play us off each other because we are in this together.
Which leads to…
Parents, children, friends, work, hobbies, finances…none of that comes before our marriage.
When priorities shift and thing start to feel off-kilter, we adjust. Adjusting usually means turning away from distractions and toward each other.
Life is hard. Kids are annoying. Work is stressful. Family dynamics get complicated. Money is tight. We are human and we make mistakes all the dang time. And when things aren’t good, we both tend to clam up and let it fester.
We’ve learned, though, that ignoring problems doesn’t make them go away. The only way to make things better is to acknowledge that something is wrong in the first place. Just admitting we have a problem goes a long way toward resolving it…and the sooner we do it, the easier that resolution becomes.
Finding silver linings can be a challenge. Gratitude changes everything, though, and even on the worst of days we can find something to be grateful for.
When I’m struggling, I can count on David to pick up the slack and make my life better. I can’t tell you how many weekend naps he has enabled me to take because I’m flat out exhausted. That small act of service does wonders for my state of mind. When he is overwhelmed at work, I do what I can to minimize stressors at home and keep him well fed. Good food helps everything, at least at our house.
Frequently I find that when I’m having a hard time, he is able to support me a little more than usual. It goes both ways, too; when he’s extra stressed, somehow I’m able to remain calm and pull things together with less effort than usual. It works out. As the old adage goes, “I lift thee and thee lift me, and we’ll ascend together.”
Perhaps we’re the only ones, but after ten years we still haven’t figured out how to read each other’s minds. So when something is bothering us, we sit down to discuss it and figure out how to correct the problem. Those conversations are almost always uncomfortable, but they also almost always lead to positive change.
It’s not enough to just talk at each other, though. We’ve both gotten much better about really hearing what the other person has to say, rather than waiting for the right moment to say our own piece. There’s a difference between listening to understand and listening for an opening. Plus honest communication makes us vulnerable. If I tell David something that reveals my own weakness, he could always exploit that weakness. I have to trust that when I open up, he will continue to respect + protect my heart. And I must do the same.
We avoid tearing each other down with the way we communicate. Rather, we focus on building each other up and strengthening our relationship.
All. The. Time. About stupid things. And when we can’t laugh about something…well, the only time that has happened was when I was deep in postpartum depression and needed professional help. David has unfailingly encouraged me to take care of my mental health. Now I laugh with him again.
If either of us ever loses our sense of humor again, we’ll know something’s seriously wrong. Until then, we’ll be over here quoting Heavyweights at each other ad infinitum.
Typing all of this makes it seem so easy. Some days it is. Other days it’s really really not, and we have to work hard to keep this thing afloat. It’s humbling. Sometimes it’s even humiliating. I hate being wrong, and I hate being bad at something.
But the more willing I am to be vulnerable with David, the more open + affectionate he is. The more effort we put in to drawing closer to each other, the easier it becomes.
At the end of the day, we’re in this together. And I feel pretty good about that.
I really like crypts and cemeteries.
I get that a lot of people think that’s creepy. Whatever. To me, they’re beautiful + fascinating in a melancholy kind of way that I totally dig.
When I was planning out what to see in Europe, I got weirdly giddy over all the crypts and cemeteries we could visit. I mean, I seriously considered making David rent a car so we could drive out from Prague to visit the Bone Church in Kutná Hora. It didn’t work out, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t spend plenty of time with skeletons.
Starting at the Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague, though, definitely set the tone for the rest of our visits with the dead.
See, I didn’t realize before we got there that the Old Jewish Cemetery is connected to Pinkas Synagogue…which is a Holocaust memorial.
I talked about it briefly in my (looooong) Prague travel guide. The interior of the synagogue is decorated only with names + dates. Every Jewish person from the Czech Republic who died during World War 2 is listed, including their birth + death dates. The walls are filled with thousands upon thousands of names.
Then you enter the cemetery. Thousands upon thousands of people were buried there between the mid-1400’s and late-1700’s, in part because the city wouldn’t allow Jews to be buried anywhere else. They’re piled on top of one another, making ground level in the cemetery significantly higher than on the street outside the walls. Crooked, broken headstones fill every corner. Many have small stones placed on them to indicate that the people buried below are still remembered.
I couldn’t stop weeping.
Later that same day we visited the cemetery at the Vysehrad fortress. What a difference. It was a lovely place and, as far as I could tell, still in use. The people buried there were well-known, well-loved, and their resting places are well-kept. It didn’t have the same feeling of reverence, though. I enjoyed Vysehrad, but Pinkas and the Old Jewish Cemetery had left an impression that it couldn’t quite match.
After a few more crypts and cemeteries, I started to realize what all those names in Pinkas were really saying.
Between Prague and Vienna, we stopped to spend my birthday in Brno, Czechia. Because who wouldn’t want to spend their birthday with piles of skulls?
No? Just me?
Back in the day, when a churchyard cemetery got too full it was common to dig up old graves, put the bones in an ossuary, and use the old grave for new bodies. The one at the church of St. James in Brno was shut down completely in the late 1700’s…and eventually forgotten. It was rediscovered in 2001, which blows my mind. Turns out it holds the remains of over fifty thousand people and is, after Paris, the second largest ossuary in Europe.
Many of the bones have been arranged to make for an interesting visit (check out the pillar of skulls + femurs up there) but the majority are not on display. Because, you know, 50,000 people is a lot. There are a few art installations throughout, the lighting is well-planned, and there’s somber music playing through most of the ossuary. I expected it to be entertainingly macabre. Instead, I was simply stunned by the scope of death.
So. Many. People. And we have no idea who they were.
We also stopped by the Capuchin Monastery in Brno to visit their crypt (shown above). We were the only ones there, which was nice. In contrast with the ossuary, it was a much more intimate + sacred space. The men buried there were Franciscan monks, beloved brothers who had devoted their lives to serving God and His children. Even just writing about it, all the tender feelings I had during our visit are coming back.
I know David felt like taking pictures was a little inappropriate—almost voyeuristic—but I disagreed. They rested so simply, so peacefully. I loved them. Is that weird to say? Because I did. Not in a touristy “oh my gosh I loooooved that place!” kind of way, but in a deeply personal, grateful one.
And then there was Vienna. Home of the Hapsburgs and their infamous egos.
We took a tour of the crypt in St. Stephan’s cathedral, where we got to meet two different kinds of dead people: the wealthy ones and everyone else. (I highly recommend the tour, by the way. It was inexpensive and so informative. Our guide did an amazing job, giving the entire tour in both German and English. Also a choir was practicing in the cathedral, and they burst into a glorious major chord just as our guide unlocked + opened a gate. I couldn’t stop giggling.)
On the one hand, we got to see the sealed metal urns wherein the royal viscera are entombed. That’s right. The king + queen + company had their bodies buried in one crypt, their hearts in another, and their guts in a third. So gross. I guess the idea was that by separating all the parts, they wouldn’t decay as quickly? Or maybe it’d make it harder for someone to steal the royal remains? Regardless, our tour guide told us that a while back one of the urns cracked and the stench was unbelievable. It took several days to identify the source of the stink and take care of it.
On the other hand, we got to see mass graves. Entire rooms where they had just tossed in the dead poor folk. When the bodies piled up, they’d seal off the room and start a new one. At one point, so many had died of the plague that the smell made it impossible to hold mass in the cathedral above. The solution? Send down convicts to clean up the rotting corpses so the wealthy people could go to church again.
As we walked past the dead, both revered and forgotten, I thought back to the names on the walls of Pinkas Synagogue. Not one name was larger or more prominent than another. Whoever they were in life, they were equals now. Even the proud Hapsburgs, trying to maintain their wealth + status even after death, were buried only feet away from the peasants they ruled + ignored.
Everyone dies. In that regard, not one of us is better than another. We are equals.
At the same time, every life is precious. Each of those skulls we saw, each mummified monk, each jar of intestines, each crumbling headstone…those were people. Someone’s child, sibling, parent, spouse, friend. They had interests, fears, dreams, sorrows, lives. And when they died—whether in a lavish palace or an impoverished hut—humanity was a little bit smaller for the loss.
While I will never know the names of all the dead people I met in the crypts and cemeteries of central Europe, I mourn for them all the same. Because each one was a person. And every person—regardless of where they lived, how much they owned, what they looked like, who they loved, or how they died—matters.
Photos: Ossuary at the Church of St. James in Brno, Czech Republic || Pinkas Synagogue & Holocaust Memorial in Prague, Czech Republic || Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague || Ossuary in Brno || Capuchin Monastery Crypts in Brno || same || St. Stephan’s Cathedral in Vienna, Austria || Karlskirche in Vienna