Curtain Call

Decorations at our wedding reception, 15 January 2016 (courtesy Stephanie MacCabe, All in One Photography)

It was about four o’clock in the morning when the dark warm silence in our apartment shattered. A crash jolted me awake (so much for being able to sleep through anything), and just as terror gripped me, so did my husband. The clatter hadn’t even died away before Nathan had pulled me close and shielded my face with one hand. We froze like that and listened. Still disoriented from the abrupt wrench from sleep, I felt certain that a window pane had crashed in—perhaps the work of an intruder. Worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind until I was alert enough to recall that we’d heard similar clashes before, usually when Boston humidity had weakened the Command strips that hold our decorations to the wall.

“Did something fall down?” I whispered to Nathan—still quiet in case I was wrong and the crash really was made by some murderer now lurking in the living room. Nathan said he wasn’t sure, but after a pause he said he would check. His arms lingered around me for a moment, and then he rolled over, climbed out of bed, and left the room.

While he was gone my eyes adjusted to what seemed like too much light in our 4AM bedroom. I groggily pieced together my thoughts, glanced at the window, and called out to Nathan, “It’s the curtain!”

The blinds on one window in our bedroom look like pants on a toddler whose most recent growth spurt surprised his parents. They don’t go all the way down, but neither do they look like an intentional fashion statement—no tasteful capri or Bermuda shorts. They’re just not long enough, and awkwardly so. And because that window faces a neighboring building that I could probably reach if I stretched through the pane, Nathan and I don’t feel comfortable leaving so much of the glass uncovered. When we first moved into the apartment we broke down a moving box and tucked it under the blinds to make up the difference. That was Nathan’s idea, and one I protested, because cardboard in a window seemed tacky. Nathan, ever the logician, pointed out that lack of privacy is far tackier, so I consented to the box-blinds for almost a year.

Finally, one summer afternoon, I marched down to HomeGoods and purchased a curtain and rod. Installation was a cinch, because the previous renters must have had a similar idea and had left six Command strip-held hooks lining the crown molding just over the pane. Once I had laced the rod through the rings on the curtain, Nathan climbed onto the bed, reached out, and cradled the rod in the hooks.

We had installed the curtain over a year before the hooks peeled away from the wall and everything crashed and Nathan and I woke up and clung to each other in fear.

Even after we realized what had caused the shock sound, it took a while for our alarm to subside. When Nathan crawled back under the covers, he wrapped his arms around me again. Although I still trembled from fright and adrenaline, Nathan’s hug calmed me, and I thought, Boy is he gallant. His first thought was to guard me—his instincts kicked in and he threw himself over me for protection. And you know what? Even though I’ve never been a gal hoping to be “rescued” by a man, I sure cherished the thought that in our moment of crisis, my husband had lunged to defend me. I lay for a moment, smiling and warm, and eventually found sleep.

Sometime later, however, I learned Nathan’s side of the curtain story. As we reminisced about the experience, I praised him for shielding me, but Nathan quickly replied, “I wasn’t protecting you—I held on to you because I was scared!”

And as soon as he said it, I recognized the pattern.

Months before our 4AM curtain call, Nathan had begun suffering anxiety attacks that interfered with class, research, eating, and sleep. We worked together to get him some help, and soon our school’s clinic referred him to an anxiety support group that met weekly on campus. Nathan attended the meetings—usually the only grad student and only male in attendance—and he brought home insights and exercises designed to help him recognize and respond to the cruel assaults on his nerves. For instance, to ground himself when anxiety knocked at night, Nathan discovered that it helped to take deep, measured breaths while holding me close. I urged him to do so whenever he needed to, and he did, and I usually slept right on through.

Then the curtain crashed. Nathan’s fears spiked, and he did what he’d learned how to do—reach for me, feel my closeness, examine his senses, and breathe. That night—like so many others—Nathan held me to calm himself down.

He didn’t realize his action had calmed me down too.

I’ve churned that experience in my mind for a while, and have concluded that it represents a truth about marriage (and maybe much more) that I hadn’t discerned until recently. After all, until this past year, Nathan and I had managed to take turns “being strong.” One would need, the other would provide. One would cry, the other would comfort. One would sulk, the other would hope. Sometimes striking this balance looked like graceful dance steps, but sometimes instead it was a jerky juggle. And honestly, I often hogged the needier side. Still, no matter. We managed. One was always there to pull the other upright—and I thought that’s how marriage was meant to be.

But this past semester was something else, man. And Nathan and I were both in the dumps at the very same time. To paraphrase scripture, we were the bummed leading the bummed—which just doesn’t work well.

Or—

—does it?

After all, when the curtain fell, neither Nathan nor I was in a position of strength. And yet, we somehow took strength in each other. Nathan did not have to feel brave to help me feel protected; I did not have to be calm to quiet Nathan’s nerves. In our moment of panic, we didn’t need a hero—we needed each other, just as we were.

That principle seems to be true of our months of co-struggle too. During the difficult weeks, Nathan sometimes held me to still his anxiety, but he also often held me as I thrashed through big breakdowns (including one that rocked me days before the curtain crashed, and an even stronger attack some days later). In those moments neither one of us could offer a pep talk, or a crutch, or a boost to the other. We just sort of fumbled through it together.

And I should add that we’ve come out on top—at least for the moment. Nathan’s anxiety has (mostly) subsided, and I’ve gone weeks without (much of) a breakdown. Perhaps for a while we can resume our exchanges of weakness and strength.

But as we move forward, we’ll carry in our relationship the truth that if God promised to surprise the world through the small and the weak, then perhaps that means that our souls know the secret of how to share strength without first being strong. In fact, maybe strength comes from the sharing.

(Courtesy Stephanie MacCabe, All in One Photography)