Integrity: Chapter 5
If much of this seems like the perfectly normal beginnings of a relationship to you, I should point two things out. First, it was not normal for me. As you must have gathered by now, if anybody is reading this at all, I am no Casanova. I have always pursued principles that I feel are more important than socially interacting with everyone who happens by. My feeling has always been that anyone worth knowing would be deep enough to see past my lack of social skills. (This does not mean, however, that everyone deep enough to see past my lack of social skills is worth knowing. I have, on occasion, forgotten this.)
The second thing I should point out is that the relationship was perfectly normal. It was proceeding in a perfectly normal fashion, despite the curves I threw at it. It seemed to be a force more powerful than Cindi and me put together, and it seemed to accommodate my values only as a temporary measure. And, when it saw fit to have me compromise them, it bore down hard, until I relented.
I rationalized every step, of course. At first, as you’ve seen, it was merely a matter of postponing caution, letting things progress. I still can’t convince myself any of that was actually wrong – except inasmuch as it is wrong to place oneself in the way of temptation. Still, I had no reason to believe I would fall.
Each time Cindi and I parted, however, it became more difficult to say goodbye. Sometimes, it was even painful. And, as we kissed, feeling so close, I was torn apart inside. The part of me resolved to refrain from sexual relations until marriage was directly at odds with the part of me that wanted to get closer and closer to Cindi. There are so many ways to get close with someone, and I tried all I could think of. Indeed, they worked. We talked, laughed, learned all about each other.
But somehow I always wanted more. Furthermore, I could see that she did, as well. And, despite the efforts of both of us to be close, we felt a distance growing again. This time, however, we both knew why, and we each knew the other knew why. So, for a long time, we never said anything. We avoided closeness to lessen the pain of parting, but it was a useless effort. Being apart was even more painful. It felt like a trap.
Was it time to be married? Clearly not – she had to finish college. She was in Liberal Arts, and had started the year before I met her. Now, she was just finishing her second year. It was spring, and we had known each other for about nine months. That is when I felt the need to talk with her again. And this is another conversation burned upon my memory, word for word.
“We need to talk,” I said to her. We had actually not seen each other for almost a week, which would have, at one time, been very much unlike us. Even though we both understood the problem, the time had come to do something about it – to decide whether to continue or to break it off. The dynamics of the relationship no longer allowed compromise, it seemed.
She looked pensive, but agreed. We needed to talk. We were past the point where this talk was a risk to our relationship. Not talking was a bigger risk, and we both knew it. The past week of absence from each other was a testament to that fact. I knew that something in my life – my relationship with Cindi, my principles, or some unanticipated combination of the two – was about to change, and that this very talk would set the direction of that change.
So I imagine I looked pensive, too. Where I felt torn before, I felt the weight of the decision before me pressing down with devastating force. It was enough to confuse me deeply – I had no idea how to proceed logically, or even honorably. It was one of the most baffling moments of my life, yet it was a comfort to have her around to help, despite the fact that it was her crisis, too. This is how good a friend she had become to me.
We talked about marrying right away. It might have been the right thing to do, thinking back – but then maybe things would not have turned out any better. At the time, the obstacles seemed too great. Her family had mixed feelings about me. They felt I was very honest and kind, but also were concerned over an apparent lack of ambition on my part. There, I can hardly blame them. In fact, I had already started to give thought to how I could provide a better life for her. But that’s all I’d done: give thought to it. There was no plan of action, and certainly no plan in action.
Overall, it just made sense to wait until she finished college to get married. This would give us time to see what she would want to do with life, and would give me time to think about making a better living. I had never really had a reason to make a better living before. So we talked a while about just not seeing each other at all for a couple of years, and coming back together once she was about to graduate.
But this was as impossible emotionally as it was flimsy logically. Our hearts and intellects both balked at the idea. You should understand, we were in a world where things happened very quickly – in just over nine months, we had developed a relationship that felt this strong. How could we endure two years apart? A lot can happen in two years. Even if we could endure the time apart, it felt like too big a risk – we could lose each other in that time.
We didn’t need to talk about maintaining the status quo. We both knew that couldn’t work much longer, and was already beginning to fail. It was why we were having this talk. At about this time in the conversation, we found ourselves holding each other tightly and desperately, like two small children in mortal danger with nobody else to turn to. I had no idea how this had happened – we had been on a bench outside the Liberal Arts building at her school when the conversation had started, feeling awkward and sitting a good three feet apart. Now, we were clutching each other like terrified babies, and we must have been a sight to see.
Somewhat embarrassed, we let go, sat next to each other, and continued to talk. We had to grow closer, we concluded, or break it off entirely – not without hope of ever getting back together, but certainly without assurance of it. And we knew, once we faced the prospect head on, that separation was more than we could bear. It was true for me, and I believe that it was true for her, or that she felt it was.
So that left only the question of how to grow closer. She wanted to honor my principles, and we both wanted to honor the relationship – calling it a relationship seemed to trivialize the whole thing. Relationships are things that people seem to fall into and out of with amazing regularity. But we had nothing else to call it, as deep and wonderful as it seemed, and as profound and life-changing as it undoubtedly was.
Now, I see the logic we used to come to our conclusion as twisted and tortured, almost beyond belief. Undoubtedly, many of you see that, as well. In my own defense, I can say only two things: first, I did not know then what I do now – hindsight may not be twenty-twenty, but it’s certainly clearer than foresight; and second, we were, quite simply, not operating on logic. We felt there were more powerful forces in action. So we went forward, knowing we needed to keep the relationship alive.
I was faced with the need to justify my principles, not to Cindi, who felt immensely guilty for putting them at risk, but to myself. I, in turn, felt immensely guilty for making her feel so bad. While most of the principles I’ve mentioned were based on simple honor and honesty, on fairness and respect for my fellow man, I could not say the same thing for my beliefs on the sanctity of marriage.
Yet they had served me well over the years, and kept me from many emotional entanglements that would not have been profitable for me. Even with Cindi, they had served me well – they had deepened her respect for me, and had shown even more clearly the solidity and substance of my character. Given all that, they were not to be given up lightly.
We talked in circles for a long time, and seemed to get nowhere. We needed marriage, and could not have it (so we reasoned), and she was unwilling to compromise my principles. She was more adamant about that than I was. Indeed, I was weak. But I said that it was time for another promise. So the futile circle of conversation was broken, and we talked about engagement. No ring for now, we decided. That was a mere symbol, and one that we could add to the formula any time we saw fit – probably when I, or we, could afford a better ring than finances then allowed.
To the outside world, what happened that day looked like less than an engagement. But, in truth, it was much more. It was a marriage. We did not make our promise right there on the bench. It seemed too important to do there. We went back to my place and discussed it more. We decided to write down ideas and compare notes. It wasn’t long before my thought on the matter had condensed itself into a short paragraph, and that short paragraph was done before she had written down five words. She decided not to change a thing.
It was dark before we ventured out to the VFW park, a short walk from my apartment, and stood under the canopy of a weeping willow, with a lamp nearby, shining through the leaves, casting stark shadows on us, the grass, and a nearby picnic table. Other lampposts were visible, but none seemed to be casting substantial light on us. Clouds obscured the stars and moon. All we had to see each other by was that one light, divided by thousands of leaf-shapes in hundreds of long, stringy lines. The image in my mind is as clear as a photograph to this day.
The willow arched over us like a cathedral that night. Although I had been in that park hundreds of times before and have been many times since, it never felt that special or sacred before. My words took the form of a promise. We read it to each other, made that promise to each other, and walked solemnly yet joyously back to my apartment, hand in hand.
We slept together that night, for the first time. There was a closeness, a freedom, we felt which had eluded us for some weeks, and had never, in fact, been as complete as it was right then. And I say this despite the fact that we both remained almost fully clothed, and really just slept together. It was enough for right then.
I still have the paper I wrote our promise on. It’s deeply important to me, to this day, and has everything to do with what happened as time went on. And so here are the words from that paper, copied word for word:
You are the love of my life; a companion I never want to live without. To preserve our friendship, our companionship, and our love, I promise to nurture it throughout life, whatever life may bring. I will honor our love throughout life’s trials, as long as both you and I live in this world.
It’s easy to argue now that it was too early to make promises like that, amounting to a secret marriage. But you know what I think about promises.
