Wood, Love, and Ivan and Christine

Two sticks of wood lie close together, each of them an individual, but those two sticks unite to make one fire, just as a husband and wife are two people who have become one.

For a time those two sticks keep burning, warming and comforting those around them, and usually, more wood sticks are added to that first fire, and the fire flares up more, burning hotter and brighter still, just as human couples do when they have children.

Still the original sticks burn, giving out warmth from their fire, providing light and a sense of security, just as human parents do for their children, but gradually, sometimes imperceptibly, the first two sticks begin to fade. Though they still glow and emit warmth, that hot, hot fire loses some of its heat, its life, just as people do as they age. Slowly, the wood sticks begin to crumble, but the newer wood, like the children from a marriage, keep that fire burning and giving out warmth.

That new wood burns hot and bright, like the original wood did, but the first two sticks weaken progressively as time passes, much like people in a long-standing marriage of 50 or 60 years. Often, like people, one of the wood sticks will crumble and lose its life at a much faster rate than the other stick.

We’ve all seen couples like those first wood sticks, burning so brilliantly and bravely, but time inevitably takes its toll, and almost always, only one of the sticks remain, like my Uncle Ivan lives on, after having lost his wife, my Aunt Christine.

Ivan and Christine were married 58 years. Though their only child, a baby boy, died shortly after birth, those two thrived like the wood in a hot wood fire. They warmed themselves with each other’s presence and filled this rural community with their generosity and love, until Aunt Christine became so ill from diabetes that she lost all kidney function and had to go on dialysis. For nearly 7 years, Uncle Ivan drove her faithfully, tirelessly, back and forth to dialysis three times a week, a hundred mile round trip each time. Still that marriage, like the fire, thrived, and he became her sole caretaker as she weakened.

I was visiting Christine one day when Uncle Ivan rushed in their house, hurriedly washed his hands, and gently, patiently, tested Christine’s blood sugar. Once when Ivan’s car was kaput, I drove Christine to dialysis while Ivan waited at home for a mechanic’s phone call. When Christine and I returned, I had barely emerged from my car, when Ivan hurried outside and clutched Christine securely, lovingly, so she wouldn’t fall getting in the house. The devotion he showed her knew no depth, and the fire their marriage put forth lasted until her death from a heart attack. She died lying in bed, right beside Uncle Ivan.

So now, Ivan lives on, the remaining stick of wood from that precious marriage, and though Christine has left this world and her fire is over, that marriage still lives in Ivan. Ivan’s memories, and the mere presence of Ivan, remind us all of his love and devotion to Christine…

… and as long as love lives, the fire from those special marriages still burns–indestructibly–though the wood itself perishes.