A New Season of Submission

I'm going to be very candid in this blog because my husband (Brett) has asked me (Jenni) to document our journey into a deeper understanding of biblical submission, warts and all. I believe every story should have a conflict at the beginning, a plot-thickening middle, and a glorious resolution at the end, so I'm going to start the story with the conflict, and optimistically aim for a happy ending.

"Submission? What is this 'submission' you speak of? I've heard the word before, but I just can't seem to place it. It sounds so foreign..."

Okay, I wasn't quite that ignorant. Once upon a time, 25 years ago, on our first date, I told Brett, "I believe, according to the Bible, that a woman should submit to her husband. But let me tell you: it would take a VERY special guy for me to be able to lay down MY will."

Some of you may still be asking, "What's submission?" Others may know where I'm coming from. I'll talk more about this concept in later posts. Extensively.

Anyway, Brett was special. Special enough to lay down my will. You know, if we had an impasse or something. Or if I agreed with the idea he was presenting. Submission on my terms. My favorite definition of 'submission' is "ducking so that he gets hit instead of me." Passing the buck, or passing the phone when bill-collectors call.

Brett had a deep appreciation for the Bible; a genuine love of truth. He had such an even keel; he never lost his temper. In fact, he is the only person who has ever been able to diffuse my anger instead of escalating it into an interstellar war. He was patient, tolerant, and gracious. Oh yes, and hot. Let's not forget that. And so, I married him. Actually, I talked him into marrying me. I showed him 1 Corinthians 7:9: "It is better to marry than to burn with passion" (ESV). Apparently I was pretty convincing.

And now, here we are with six kids, three of whom are grown, and after almost 25 years of "submitting" to my husband, I now realize that I really DIDN'T know the meaning of the word.

The plot thickens.

Because I look back at the cute, laid-back, easy-going guy who would do anything for me, and then I look at my husband today, and I ask myself, "Who is this control freak, and why is he calling me his wife?" (And yes, he gave me permission to write that. Warts and all, remember?)

At our wedding, Brett toasted to "many long years together." Loooong years. Is that a good thing?