Two weeks ago I dropped off a birthday package for my goddaughter's third birthday. I chatted briefly with her family through the door and her parents remarked how hard it was to all of the sudden be working from home, homeschooling, and constantly tag-teaming with the kids. They looked at me and said, "I guess you and Roy have been preparing for this your whole marriage!"
I suppose this is true in many regards. We do homeschool and we don't share any outside work together, so it's a lot of tag-team parenting through rehearsals, concerts, and church services. We've worked through a lot of bumps and miscommunications and arrived, generally, at a rhythm that's consistent and manageable. I don't think either of us batted much of an eye when we faced the realization that we'd all be home together. It makes much of what we're already used to that much easier, with both parents in the same geographical location.
But that does not mean that we haven't faced new challenges. This man, whom I love and trust with all my heart, is seeing new facets of his lovely bride. There was one 24 hour stretch this week that was particularly revealing.
Let's begin on Wednesday night. I, disappointed to have missed out on my post-Easter, Floridian adventure with my two best friends, picked up a hair highlighting kit from Wegmans in an attempt to put a spring in my step. (Or at least a little life to my head.) I decided Roy was probably up to the finicky task of pulling tiny strands of my hair through a plastic cap and, even if he wasn't good at it, nobody was going to be seeing much of my hair for the next month or so anyway. So we put on a funny show and he went to work. And I really did trust him. He was gentle, thorough, and the final results were on par with the best of what my girlfriends do. I was proud--of his handiwork and myself for trusting without worry.
Fast forward 12 hours. I need to lay down a vocal part for one of those virtual choir numbers that have become so trendy in our isolation. I don't really want to do this--it wasn't my idea and I've learned a great deal about my voice over the past 6 weeks due to all church services being pre-recorded. In summary--I'm a harsh critic of everyone else's voices, but mine is chief among sinners. I hate my vibrato, my pitch, my attacks, my breathiness, my beltiness. Everything. I can keep a steady beat, but beyond that, meh.
Recording a vocal part means having a set of headphones playing the prerecorded instrumental track in your ear while you sing along and take a video recording of your bare naked singing. Then a recording engineer takes all the separate tracks, waves a magic wand over them (please God), and blends everything into an ensemble.
It takes time to get all the electronics set up and I require Roy's help. I do a first run through and feel pretty confident. I know the song inside and out, and have found from other recording experiences that it's best to get it over with as quickly as possible. I muster the courage to glance at Roy after and ask, "was that OK?"
He responded, "...yeah. You might want to give it a listen before you decide."
My already hypersensitive, critical ego completely disintegrates.
I end up doing a couple more takes, with Roy offering a couple of gentle tips (which internally feel like boxing blows to my face) before I decide that what needs fixing requires thousands of dollars for professional instruction and an equal number of hours practicing. Blubbering, I pick the least offensive take and quickly submit it before I lose my nerve.
Fast forward another couple of hours. This time I've received a couple of work emails that seem to be pushing changes and strategies that I don't agree with, nor find especially Biblical. Emboldened by my new hair, I sit down and fire off a pretty direct response, requesting more discussion and thought. Before hitting send I look over at Roy...am I ready for more vulnerability? "Could you peek at this before I send it and just make sure it has the right tone?"
He does, and, once I explain the circumstances surrounding the response, gets a little fired up himself. He helps me smooth out the rough edges and I send it into cyberspace forever. I'm a little surprised that I've bared my voice AND my writing to him so directly in the same morning.
And now we jump ahead another 6 hours. I'm on for the church's 5PM online devotional. I need my hands and an entire table to demonstrate the bread recipe I'm sharing. I need a cameraman to follow my movements. Roy is the only available option and, while I have no doubt he'll be fine, I can't help but marvel at yet another opportunity to lay it all out there in real time. Physical appearance, singing, writing, and public monologue all in 24 hours.
I complete the devotional and collapse onto the couch. I am exhausted. Roy is still there, present, smiling, and stroking my pretty hair.
I'm not sure what the takeaway is from all of that exposure, but it was probably a very healthy thing. I sure am thankful that, even when I wince with the sharp cringes of vulnerability, there is a faithful, loving human who gives every indication of being satisfied with his imperfect wife.
