helping women connect with their world
I remember the day I made a great personal discovery. It was 1972, and we were living in Papua New Guinea. I was lying on the bed feeling dead — emotionally, physically, spiritually. And yet half an hour later I was completely free of those symptoms and flew around the house packing boxes and tending to all the details of the next move out to the village.
What had lifted the depression and changed my paralyzed form into an energetic organizer? This is what happened:
Dorothy said she married a young, enthusiastic man in her hometown. They were surrounded by friends, family, and other believers. She was sheltered and secure. Bill began a successful career as a minister. First with several hundred then later with a 2,000 member congregation. After their first son was born, she became lonely as she saw less and less of Bill.
Dorothy tells her story:
I felt as if I had to make an appointment to see my own husband. I was discouraged and frustrated. Home was not home without Bill. I desperately wanted time with him, unpressured time that was not cut short by the demands his work. I wanted to know that my needs, and the baby’s, were at least as important to Bill as the needs of others. Most of the time, it didn’t seem that way.
Communication in marriage requires work. It takes time and effort to keep it healthy. Living and working cross culturally can add to the difficulties of communication with our husband. His work may involve hours of struggling to listen to people with deep needs. He’s worn out with listening by the end of the day.
We, on the other hand, may feel we are using every bit of our emotional reserves to deal with a life that seems totally foreign and unintelligible. The demands of keeping our children safe, our house clean, and food on the table don’t leave time and energy to listen to our husband’s plans for a future project or his thinking process in preparing his next sermon.
“Honey, I’m worried about Rachel. She hasn’t been sleeping well, and at 14 she’s too old to be clinging to us so much.”
“See if you can get her to talk, Janet. Being her mom, you have the best chance to hear from her. In the meantime, don’t worry. She’ll get over it. . . whatever IT is.”
The dark secret that haunts Rachel is sexual harassment. While going into town on the bus, a young man purposefully brushed her breast with his fingers. Insignificant? Unimportant? Hardly.