Twelve Months to Heal a Marriage

Twelve Months to Heal a Marriage

It took a battle against cancer for her to realize how deeply she loved her husband.

Amy Hauser with husband Tom

Sitting on a park bench, I tried to clear my jumbled mind. Maybe we should go our separate ways. The words echoed in my mind. My husband, Tom, had said them not half an hour earlier.

We’d been in the bedroom getting dressed. Suddenly I saw an expression on Tom’s face I hadn’t seen before. Resignation. Hopelessness.

“Maybe you’re right after all,” he said. “Maybe we are just too different. I don’t think I have the strength anymore to keep trying to make this work.”

Tom and I had never been fighters, but there was constant disagreement. We viewed almost everything differently.

But it had always been me throwing the verbal bombs, not Tom. I made dire threats just to get a reaction out of him. Tom was as steady and imperturbable as he’d been the day we’d married, two decades earlier.

Back then, his calm sense of purpose and his traditional manners had attracted me. I was young and unsure of what I wanted. What I wanted now— what I’d been wanting for years—was more emotion, more passion, more unpredictability. That wasn’t Tom. And so we lived in constant tension.

But go our separate ways? I never expected Tom to say such a thing. His words rocked me so hard I had to get out of the house.

I went for a walk to the park. My mind raced. I tried to pray. I sat on the bench, catching my breath in the cool November air. Was Tom serious? Would he really go through with it?

I hadn’t worked since our kids, now teenagers, were little. Tom had taken a significant pay cut to come here to Houston, leaving a career as a mortgage banker for one managing finances at a Christian foster and adoption agency.

We’d thought getting away from Des Moines, where we’d spent most of our marriage, might help. Obviously it hadn’t.

What now, God? It was all I could think to ask, because I didn’t know what to do. Then three words formed clearly in my head. Wait one year. Wait? Wait for what? I had no idea what the words meant. But something—Someone—seemed to be saying, Slow down.

I raced back to the house, confused about my future with my husband but certain about the message. Tom was still home. I told him about my prayer on the bench. He looked at me, his face unreadable.

“Okay, Amy,” he said. “If the Lord is telling you to wait, we will, and we’ll keep thinking and praying about it. We’ll trust in him and see what he has for us in the next year.”

I nearly collapsed after our conversation. How had we come to this? I knew that I had loved Tom when we married. He was handsome, considerate, sure of himself, a man of faith. I was the flighty one, just out of college, with big, fancy dreams.

We met at a company softball game in Des Moines. I was an intern. Tom was six years older, the company’s controller. Not long after, I took off for Chicago, where I expected to land my dream job and live a big-city life with a big-city husband.

It didn’t turn out that way. The dream job never materialized. Big-city life was tougher than I ever expected. Tom kept in touch. Before I knew it, I was back in Des Moines, and then we were married. Our first child arrived a couple of years later.

Would I have been better off if I’d just stuck it out in Chicago? a little voice in my head sometimes asked. If I hadn’t quit on my dreams? I often fantasized about that other Amy—big-city Amy, who worked in a high-rise and went to the theater with her nightlife-loving husband.

Maybe Tom would have been happier with someone else too. Someone who appreciated him for what he was, a steady, faithful provider. Would waiting a year help me fall in love all over again with that man? I doubted it.

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