There’s a saying that goes something like this, if we’re to understand someone else we need to walk two moons in their shoes. For most of us we easily apply this to friends, nieghbors, and casual acquaintances. We give these people lots of grace and understanding for their little quirks, afterall they had a tough life, a mother who was overbearing, a father who abandoned them when they were a teen, or a handicap that held them back. But when it comes to our spouses, are we as generous?

I don’t like that question. Even though I asked it myself I have to answer no. I set almost an impossible standard for my husband. And yet, to truly love him, to understand why he is the way he is, I must see the world through his eyes.

A challenge to me, and to you, is to try walking in his shoes for one day and record what you find.

Let me know what you discover.

Roast beef on a bun slathered in BBQ sauce; homemade baked beans and potato salad eaten under the pine trees in a community park as a local rock/country/oldie band plays live music–all for six dollars. It’s the annual June Picnic in Craigmont, Idaho (population, under 600). I go every year to remember what life could be like–simple, pleasant, no one in a hurry. People have time to stop and ask me what I’ve been up to and how are my children. They share with me about their daughter who’s getting married, the new grandbabies, the job, the remodeling project, and none of it sounds like one upmanship.

The sun is warm and I’m too full for the huckleberry pie I had my eye on earlier that was being served by the Winchester church ladies. I didn’t win anything in the church raffle, but my sister did. She’s taking home the handstitched dishtowels. My cousin won the afghan.

My nephew and his wife leave early–a disappointing loss in the volley ball tournament. My brother tells me there was a good turnout up at the amateur logging exposition. My nieces and nephews all want to go up town and buy a Lion Club’s hamburger (voted best in the Lewiston Tribune’s latest poll). This after eating candy they’ve collected from the floats in the parade earlier. One said it’s like Christmas, Halloween, and his birthday all rolled into one.

My husband stretches out on the grass and takes a nap. I hear about my nephew who’s going to Iraq in October and my brother-in-law who will be climbing a mountain in a few weeks. My uncle talks about his cancer treatments and my aunt about the death of her son, but it’s not sadness that I take away from these conversations. It’s hope.

God’s not mentioned and yet he’s there among us–made more real by the everydayness of our conversations.

Since I was little, I’ve had this inner desire to be loved. Now I’m in a marriage that often doesn’t fulfill that deep need. To those who know my husband, this may be a surprising statement, becasue he’s a wonderful man on so many levels. But let’s face it, he’s not affectionate. He grew up in a home where love was expressed by how hard you worked. He saw his mother and father kiss once and can’t remember ever being held on his mother’s lap. So when it comes to showing outward affection for me, it’s like asking a blind man to describe his face.

Intellecutally I know this, but it still doesn’t quench the thirst in my soul. But it’s interesting how prayer helps. I will often pray that he’ll take my hand or put his arm around my shoulders or say some word(s) that express his love of me, and he does.

Another thing that helps–when I hug my husband, he has to to hug me back. When I take his hand, he has to hold mine in return.

I also remember: he needs my love probably more than I need his.

It can be difficult living with a man like this, but on the other hand, those moments when he remembers my need and shows me clearly that he cares are treasured highly.

If you live in a marriage like this, then I highly recomment my book When Love Dies: how to save a hopeless marrige. You can find it at amazon.com.

“I’m as useful as an old shoe tossed in the corner of a closet,” I moaned to God during my morning prayer time. It seemed like forever since I’d felt as if my life mattered. Oh, sure, there were things I was doing, but in the big picture what did they really matter.

The next morning my phone rang. It was a woman from New Jersey calling to ask me a question. She’d gone to Amazon.com to buy a book for a friend who was having problems in her marriage and she saw my book, When Love Dies. She bought it instead and one for herself. She’d read it and it had changed her life. She saw herself through the words I’d written and she’d forgiven herself and her husband for thirteen years of misery. She saw her husband with new eyes. She also had a new realtionship with Christ. It had made such a difference in her life, she’d bought three more copies to give to friends.

I wept as she talked. God was using me. I might not be able to see it, but my willingness to put on paper the journey I’d made through my marriage–putting it back together after wanting to divorce my husband–was still saving others.

This morning I no longer see myself as a discarded shoe. Instead I’m an important tool in God’s arsenal. I’m sharp and ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

Today I’m going shopping with my sister. I haven’t seen her for over a month and that’s a shame since we live within two miles of each other. She went back to work. That’s not an excuse, but a reason, I suppose.

Sisters are different than friends. Friends come and go, but sisters are ever present in your life. I have some friends from high school that I see about every ten years (reunions) and hear from only at Christmas time. Other friends, we get together once a year for our annual Fourth of July celebration. But my sisters–they’re there at Easter, Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals, and every celebration in between. There’s a special bond. We know our history. We’ve seen each other at our worst and at our best. We know each other’s weaknesses. And we love each other anyway.

Sisters–I’m fortunate. I’m rich. I have two of them. And I get to spend time with one of them today–shopping.

The buzz over the Da Vinci Code has brought to mind the importance of telling truth–even in fiction. I hear people saying to those that are upset over the misinformation that is being passed off as truth in this book to, “Get over it. It’s fiction.”

Okay, but where do we draw the line? How many people are reading this, and other books, and believing what they read? The line between fact and fiction becomes fuzzy and readers can’t tell the difference. As writers we have a responsibility to present truth.

Historical fiction writers do research to make sure that what they are presenting is as close to what actually occured as they can make it. They study language. Did that word even exist back in 1897? Could the main character have picked up a gallon of milk at her local grocery store in 1900? When was sagebrush introduced into the U.S.?

Most fiction writers that I know do as much research to make sure the facts in their books are as acurate as the nonfiction writers.

Why? Because we know the power of the written word. It’s easy to pass along misinformation to our readers. We also don’t want anyone putting our books down because they know we got the facts wrong–a doctor or nurse would know if we misstate a medical fact.

Dan Brown purports that his book is fiction. Okay, the characters are made up. But the facts behind his story must be historically acurate. No one should read his book and come away believing something that isn’t true. He owes us truth.

“Why is the sky blue,” asked my four-year-old son. “Why do dogs bark and cats meow?” “Why do we eat cereal for breakfast?” “Why does Grandma live far away?” “Why does Daddy have to go to work?” His questions were endless and there were times I wanted to yell, “shut up,” but I didn’t. Because I loved him.

The same is true of marriage. There are things my husband does that drives me absolutely crazy and if I dwell on them, they rub a sore spot in my soul and begin to fester and before I know it, I’m not liking him very much. Love looks over these things, as long as they aren’t self-destructive, and at some point they start to become endearing.

It used to drive me crazy, the way he ate his cereal in the morning. He’d dunk every flake over and over. Don’t try and figure out why that bothered me, it just did. I had to bury my head in the newspaper so I wouldn’t notice what he was doing. But after ignoring this behavior for a long period of time, I no longer even notice it. That’s what love is, not letting the little things bother us anymore–I’ll bet there are plenty of things I do that bug him too.

I watched an interesting program on TV tonight about the search for the Holy Grail. Dan Brown in the Da Vinci Code says he believes it to be Mary Magdalene, but for centuries it was thought to be a chalise, the cup that Jesus drank from the night before he died. This chalise has launched wars that lasted for hundreds of years and in the end, it looks like it all was the figment of a 12 Century writer.

But is it? Aren’t we all searching for something holy? It can take on many forms depending who we are. For a writer it can be that perfect story, for a poet a sonnet, for a painter a portrait, an architect a building, a baseball player that perfect game. It seems as if most of us have a need to search for the perfection whether it be within or without.

It’s my contention that the Holy Grail is only a breath away. It’s humbling ourselves, acknowledging that there is a power greater than us, and submitting our will to His.

Do you have the courage to take up the challenge of this search? The one that will lead to eternal riches?

Ephedra, Weight Watchers, diet pills, exercise, surgery–all lead to what our society holds up as the ideal–a thin body. Yes, I know part of it is for health reasons, but give me a break. When was the last time you heard anyone talk about what really matters–what’s going on in our hearts.

It’s my belief that if we worried more about the condition of the heart, we’d have less crime, fewer abortions, the divorce rate would plummet, and there would be fewer people with drug and alchohol problems. But, of course, we can’t teach about that in the classroom–things like self-control, putting others first, forgiveness–that’s too close to religion. And we can’t have that.

Instead, let’s worry more about the outer man and make laws to control him. That’s working really well.

My husband and I are fans of American Idol. I’ve come to appreciate Simon Cowell over the years. What we need more of in our lives is someone who tell us truth.

I’m a writer and I don’t need anyone telling me my writing is fine or great or okay. What I want is someone to speak up and say, “That performance can bee seen every Friday night in a karaoke bar.” I have to be better than that if I’m going to catch an editor’s eye.

Sure it’s hard to hear that your mediocre and we boo Simon for saying what he says, but he’s a pofessional. He knows. These young wannabes better listen. What they are being given is worth millions.

Now if only an editor would say more to me than, “This is not right for our house.” What the heck does that mean?