Doyle Glennon - Love warrior: a memoir

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For Grandma Alice, whose fingers danced across those beads and brought Mary to me

I am not afraid I was born to do this.

J OAN OF A RC

I TS ALMOST TIME. My father and I stand at the edge of a long white carpet, laid just this morning over the freshly cut grass. Craigs childhood backyard is transformed by the start of fall and the promise this day holds. My shoulders are bare and I feel a chill, so I lift my face toward the sun. I squint and the sun, leaves, and sky melt together into a kaleidoscope of blue, green, and orange. The leaves, my soon-to-be husband, our families sitting upright in their dressiest clothes, and Iwe are all turning into something else. We are becoming new. Its a becoming day.

We wait for the music to play so we can begin the short, forever walk toward Craig. I watch him, standing at the end of the carpet looking handsome, young, and nervous. He adjusts his tie, clasps his hands in front of him, then pushes them into his pockets. After a moment he pulls his hands back out, pressing them to his sides like a soldier. He looks untethered, and I wish I could go to him now and hold his restless hands. But my hands are occupied: One is in my fathers hand and the other is on my belly. Im a bridge between my past and future. While I watch Craig, the guests turn to watch me. I feel embarrassed by their attentionfraudulent, like Im pretending to be a bride. My dress is too tight around my waist and Im wearing fake eyelashes, a rhinestone tiara, and heels like stilts. I am more costumed than I am dressed. But this is what a bride is supposed to look like, and since the day I decided to become sober and a mother, Ive been trying to become who Im supposed to be.

Our music begins and my dad squeezes my hand. I look up at his face. He smiles and says, Here we go, sweetheart. He wraps his arm around my arm so that all of him is holding up all of me. As I walk with my father I start to feel dizzy, so I shift my eyes toward my sister. She is standing to the left of the minister in a flaming red dress. Her hair is pinned up, her back is straight, and her certainty is a flood that drowns out my fear. If there is anyone in charge here, its her. She is smiling at me, and her fierce, steady eyes say: If you keep walkingIm here to stand beside you. If you turn around and run, Ill follow and well never look back. Whatever you do right now, Sister, youre fine. Im here. This is what she has been telling me since she was born. You are fine. I am here .

I keep walking. When we reach the end of the carpet, the minister says, Who presents this woman to be married? My dad answers, Her mother and I do. My father passes my hand to Craig, who accepts it because that is what hes supposed to do. Then my dad is gone and Craig and I are facing each other and holding each others shaking hands. Our hands are a trembling pile. I look down and wonder which one of us will steady the other. We need a third person to still our hands. I look at my sister, but she cant help now. There is no third person. This is what marriage is.

When its time to say our vows, I tell Craig that he is my proof that God knows me and loves me. Craig nods and then vows to put me before all others for the rest of his life. I look into his eyes and accept his promise on behalf of me and our baby. The minister says, I now pronounce you: Mr. and Mrs. Melton. Its done. I am a new person. Mrs. Melton. I hope I will be better as her. I hope I become. That is the hope of everyone in the backyard.

I set out to write the story of my marriage. The first time I wrote it, I started with the wedding day, because thats when I thought marriage began. This assumption was my mistake.

Well get back to my wedding day and all the terrible magic that followed, but for now, lets begin at the beginning. Its our only choice, it turns out.

I WAS LOVED. If love could prevent pain, Id never have suffered. My leather baby book with Glennon branded on the front is one long poem written by my father and filled with pictures of my tender-faced mother holding my pink, flaky, braceleted hand. About my birth, my father wrote:

It really wasnt

a cry

That first noise

It was a fanfare

Announcing a marvel

That will never

Be

Repeated

There are no satin sheets

There are no handmaidens

No emissaries with jewels

No trumpets or announcements

Where are they!

Dont they know what

Happened here?!

A princess has arrived.

I was loved. Just like my daughter is loved. And still, one evening, she sat on the edge of my bed, looked up at me with naked brown eyes, and said, Im big, Mama. Im bigger than the other girls. Why am I different? I want to be small again. Her words came out jagged, like she hated to break this to me, like she was ashamed to reveal her hidden truth. I took in her tears, pigtails, lip gloss, and the dirt on her handsleft over from climbing the banyan tree in our front yard. I scanned my mind for a response worthy of her, but there was nothing to find. Everything Id learned about bodies, womanhood, power, and pain scattered upon hearing how my little girl said the word big. Like big was her curse, her irrefutable condition, her secret, her fall from grace. Like big was something inevitably unfolding inside of her that threatened her contract with the world.

My daughter was not asking: How will I deal with my body size? My daughter was asking : How will I survive being this particular type of person in this particular type of world? How will I stay small like the world wants me to? And if I keep growing, how will anyone love me? I looked at my daughter and I did not say But you do not look big, honey . She didnt, but neither do I. Ive never looked big a day in my life. No matter. My daughter and I pay attention. We know what the world wants from us. We know we must decide whether to stay small, quiet, and uncomplicated or allow ourselves to grow as big, loud, and complex as we were made to be. Every girl must decide whether to be true to herself or true to the world. Every girl must decide whether to settle for adoration or fight for love. There on the bed, in her pigtails and pain, my daughter was methe little girl I once was, the woman I am now, still struggling to answer the questions: How can I be expansive and free and still be loved? Am I going to be a lady or am I going to be fully human? Do I trust the unfolding and continue to grow, or do I shut all of this down so I fit?

* * *

I am four years old and my father is a football coach at our neighborhood high school. On game night, my mom bundles me up in a fluffy coat, earmuffs, and mittens. When shes done, she kneels in front of me and admires her work. She is pleased. She moves her hands to my cheeks, pulls my face toward hers, and kisses my nose. Together we wrap my baby sister, Amanda, in a puffy snowsuit. Amanda is our gift, and my mom and I spend all day wrapping and unwrapping her. When shes dressed, we take turns leaning over and kissing her cheeks while she kicks and gigglesher arms jutting straight out from her sides like a starfish.