Nestled in a cozy cabin along the rugged Oregon coast, I pulled a blanket tight across my shoulders. Just a few feet away, behind a bolted bathroom door, my husband of one week was struggling valiantly with a severe case of 24-hour flu.
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I knew that if Les really loved me, he would allow me to offer him comfort and sympathy. After all, I wanted to support him the way I expected him to support me. Instead, I was literally locked out of his suffering and feeling terribly dejected.
The next day, Les was restored to health and my doubts about our love for each other vanished. We now poured our energy into romantic honeymoon fun--riding horses along the beach, picnicking on the sand dunes, candlelight dinners. That is until the tables turned. This time, I was the one who awoke in the middle of the night with a burning fever. I groaned with the agony of an upset stomach--desperate for comfort--only to find that Les had tiptoed into another room, leaving me to suffer alone.
I didn't blame Les for passing the virus on to me, but I wanted to accuse him of not acting like a husband. After all, he wasn't there to hold my hand or hear my cries. My doubts about our marriage resurfaced.
