The ground beneath my feet had been eroding undetected for years.
Undetected? Okay sure, there were a few glitches along the way, but everything was fine now. I believed that. Really, I did. However, on this particular day, my life crumbled faster than a dry piece of cornbread.
The day promised nothing out of the ordinary, just middle of the workweek routine.
Well, except that my husband and I would need to switch cars.
Typically, JP let me drive the Camry. It actually had functioning air conditioning and heat, it rarely ever died at the stoplight, and it was just overall prettier than our second car, which we nicknamed “Old Blue.” He had to attend a funeral that morning, and we both agreed it would be disrespectful for him to hold up the entire funeral processional going from car to car asking if anyone could give the old girl a jump.
Switching vehicles seemed like such an unremarkable detail.
It turned out to be one of the most significant things that has ever happened to me.
Attending the funeral that morning allowed JP to sport a sharp suit and tie for a change. His handsome, athletic build set off the sparkle in his crystal blue eyes. I doted while straightening his tie. “Hey mister, you clean up nice.” A look of contentment instantly spit-shined his whole being. I could feel that we were thinking the same thing in that moment: oh, how we looked forward to the day when he would be much more than a teaching assistant!
While I taught first grade at a little private school, JP worked as a paraprofessional at Wilson High School, right around the corner from our tiny rental home. Being on staff there allowed him to coach basketball. Although his job ranked lowest on the pay scale, and coaching didn’t pay any extra, we hoped it would prove to be a critical career step toward his dream of coaching a college team. He just needed a way to break into that arena, and Wilson High seemed like a perfect opportunity. The varsity boy’s coach—we called him Coach—happened to be a former head coach at a state university. It was common knowledge that this man’s caliber of coaching ensured that one day he’d return to the collegiate level. And when he did, maybe, just maybe he’d take JP (and me) with him.
In spite of the huge financial sacrifice, I supported the decision. I believed in my husband and knew he’d be an excellent head coach one day.
After class that afternoon, I pulled Old Blue into the high school parking lot to switch cars so I could have air conditioning to run my errands. I spotted where JP had left the Camry and parked in the empty space beside it. The next logical step would’ve been to open the car door and get out. But my eye caught the sight of JP’s satchel nestled between Old Blue’s worn seats and the console.
On a whim, I decided to look inside it.
I don’t know why I looked.
But maybe once a trust has been broken—no matter if the offense was slight, no matter how many times the earth has circled around the sun since the latest breach of confidence, no matter if there have been apologies said and forgiveness given—I don’t guess it’s ever fully restored.
I had no immediate reason to be suspicious.
In fact, a couple weeks prior JP and I had a great heart-to-heart talk. I unleashed all my pent-up emotions and explained, “I feel like the school and Coach take advantage of your time. If they didn’t give you so many duties, then maybe you could find another part-time job to help us with our long-term goals.”
He’d assured me, “Beck, I know. But I believe it’ll pay off someday. Coach may be part of the big break I need. I want him to see how hard I’m willing to work.” If only it could have been that simple.
In reality, my frustration started way before his current job at Wilson High School. We’d been waiting eight years for his “big break,” a season of life I wanted to embrace whole-heartedly.
Deep down, a nagging question kept surfacing: I wondered if I mattered to him. The idea of “us” never made it to the forefront. In our almost eight years of marriage, we had lived in four different homes in two states, and at the start of every school year, our lives had been uprooted to chase another coaching opportunity. This time it landed us in Atlanta.
To add to the frustration, during this time I wasn’t able to conceive, which caused heartache too tender to touch. We’d exhausted every medical treatment that insurance would cover with nothing but scars and tears to show for it. The next step in our dream of parenting would cost us money—a lot of money. But it was worth it to me, and JP had given me the impression he wanted children too.
The day in the doctor’s office a year earlier had confirmed it.
All the air escaped from the room as the doctor explained my surgery had been unsuccessful. Additional steps would be required. At least I think that’s what he said. Finally, JP asked the question I feared to voice but felt frantic to know. “Are you telling me, she can still have a baby?” His voice sounded shaky and thin, yet somehow tenacious and firm.
The doctor assured him, “There are excellent possibilities. And yes, she could still have a baby.” My lungs exhaled a deep sigh of relief as JP’s body slumped back into the chair.
Leaving the office that day, my husband seemed committed to prioritizing our funds. We’d have to save up for the procedure, but we were on the same page.
The fact that my husband shared in my grief cradled my wounded heart. His gentleness was like a white-gloved curator caring for a fragile artifact. He desired our union to bring life into this world. Nothing could be more intimate or holy in my eyes. Although we didn’t have a lot of money, no one would love and enjoy their baby more than we would. I rested in believing God would use this heartache to strengthen our faith and love.
~
But ever since that day in the doctor’s office, I’d been confused. Neither of those things—baby or permanent roots—appeared anywhere near the horizon. I needed to know if JP’s hopes had changed or at what point we would ever become a priority.
On one hand, I wanted to be okay with the current plan. I believed in him. The last thing I wanted to do was to discourage him from his dream.
On the other hand, I wanted to shout, “Grow up and provide for us!” That felt selfish and petty. Wives were supposed to be their husband’s number one fan, right? But then why did my heart tell me something was wrong with this picture?
One day I couldn’t swallow it any longer. My frustration fueled my courage.
“Can we talk for a minute?” My tone strained.
He stopped, looked at me with a guarded expression, and then sat stiff-backed on the couch. A blind man would have seen his reluctance. Men hate that question. I should have started differently, but at least he was sitting.
I took a deep breath and prayed that he’d hear the ache in my heart without interpreting it as complaining or sounding like I didn’t believe in him. “You know I love you, right?”
His brow furrowed as he nodded.
“And you know how much I believe in you as a coach and love watching your teams play, right?” I felt like I was walking through a minefield.
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
“It’s just . . . Well, I want you to succeed. I do. With all my heart, I do. And I support you. But sometimes I, um . . .
I wonder if I mean as much to you as your coaching does?”
I had finally spit it out. I felt like such a baby asking, but I needed to hear it from him.
He let out a chuckle and smiled. “Yes, Rebecca. I love coaching, but you mean more to me.” His lighthearted tone urged me forward to bolder questions and thoughts I’d been harboring. He listened with that “You silly girl, that’s what I love about you” look on his face.
As the conversation ended, he leaned in close and planted a tender kiss on my forehead: his playful affection kissing away a mound of burden. I had expressed my frustration and he seemed to receive my words as I meant them. What a relief.
In return, he had convinced me how much he cared about our future . . . and about me.
So that’s not why I looked in the briefcase.