Damaged Goods
The dust mites danced in the ray of sunshine
that provided the only light in the rabbi's
office. He rocked back in his office chair and
sighed as he stroked his beard. Then he took his
wire-rimmed glasses and polished them
absent-mindedly on his flannel shirt.
"So," he said, "you were divorced. Now you
want to marry this good Jewish boy. What's the
problem?"
He nestled his grizzled chin in his hand and
smiled softly at me.
I wanted to shriek. What's the problem?
First of all, I'm Christian. Second, I'm older
than he is. Third - and not least, by any means -
I'm divorced! Instead, I looked back into his
soft brown eyes and tried to form the words.
"Don't you think," I stuttered, "that being
divorced is like being used? Like being damaged
goods?"
He settled back in the office chair and
stretched so that he was looking at the ceiling.
He stroked the scraggly beard that covered his
chin and his neck. Then, he returned to his spot
behind the desk and leaned toward me.
"Say you have to have surgery. Say you have
a choice between two doctors. Who are you going
to choose? The one right out of medical school or
the one with experience?"
"The one with experience," I said.
His face crinkled into a grin. "I would,
too," he locked his eyes with mine. "So in this
marriage, you will be the one with experience.
That's not such a bad thing, you know.
"Often, marriages tend to drift. They get
caught in dangerous currents. They get off course
and head toward hidden sandbars. No one notices
until it is too late. On your face, I see the
pain of a marriage gone bad. You will notice the
drift in this marriage. You'll call out when you
see the rocks. You'll yell to watch out and pay
attention. You'll be the person with experience,"
he sighed. "And believe me, that's not such a bad
thing. Not bad at all."
He walked to the window and peeked between
the slats of the blinds. "You see, no one here
knows about my first wife. I don't hide it, but I
don't make a big deal about it. She died early in
our marriage before I moved here. Now, late at
night I think of all the words I never said. I
think of all the chances I let pass by in that
first marriage, and I believe I'm a better husband
to my wife today because of the woman I lost."
For the first time, the sadness in his eyes
had meaning. Now I understood why I chose to come
talk to this man about marriage instead of taking
an easier route and getting married outside both
our religions. The word "rabbi" means teacher.
Somehow I sensed he could teach me, or even lend
me, the courage I needed in order to try again, to
marry again and to love again.
"I will marry you and your David," said the
rabbi. "If you promise me that you will be the
person who yells out when you see the marriage is
in danger."
I promised him I would, and I rose to leave.
"By the way," he called to me as I hesitated
in his doorway, "did anyone ever tell you that
Joanna is a good Hebrew name?"
Sixteen years have passed since the rabbi
married David and me on a rainy October morning.
And, yes, I have called out several times when I
sensed we were in danger. I would tell the rabbi
how well his analogy has served me, but I cannot.
He died two years after our wedding. But I will
always be grateful for the priceless gift he gave
me: the wisdom to know that all of our experiences
in life make us not less valuable, but more
valuable, not less able to love, but more able to
love.