May 11, 2010: An Artesian Well Of Pleasantness

I did not know what the word "artesian" meant until I was in my 30s. It refers to water that flows up naturally in a spring. You don't have to pump water out of an artesian well - you only have to uncork it, and it will jump out of the ground like Jed Clampett's bubblin' crude. In northern Illinois you can see a flowing artesian well at Silver Springs State Park, where I have stood for long minutes watching a small stream of clear water swirl out of sandy pebbles on a hillside to start a tiny, drinkable creek. (Read the Wikipedia article "Artesian Aquifer" to see how it works.)

I am the most blessed of men, because nine months ago I was wed to an artesian well of pleasantness and grace. It's her birthday today. Last year at this time, when I was courting her so subtly she didn't even know it, I emailed her a happy birthday note and then took off on a trip with my sons to South Dakota and contemplated the moment when I'd tell her how much I liked her.

There are two things I still can't figure out about her. One is how she lasted so long as a single person. It amazes me that no one snatched her up before I found her. Were there no discerning single men in her life? Why couldn't they detect the treasure in their midst? Did God - in a special mercy to me - blind their eyes and leave open mine alone? I am like Boaz, finding Ruth out in the field while my would-be competitors sit around picking their noses or go off chasing unworthy Delilahs. I am Bulls general manager Rod Thorn, not believing my eyes that Michael Jordan remains on the board while Portland selects Sam ("Who?") Bowie.

The other thing I can't figure out about her is the artesian nature of her pleasantness and good will. It's just always there, bubbling out from God knows what source. Yesterday we went for a walk and she smiled and pointed to a big green lawn and talked about how much she would like to do cartwheels on it, like when she was a kid. I liked looking at her face while she talked about cartwheels. When my sons were here over Christmas I made a point of saying to them, "Don't you like the way she smiles whenever she talks?" I think if she ever tried to force a frown she'd break into gales of laughter over the attempt.

My pastor sometimes refers to an illustration that can be worded as the following question and answer: "How can you tell if an opaque cup contains water or wine? Shake it and see what spills out." I know what spills out of some shaken souls: hostility, profanity, meanness, contempt, faithlessness, bitterness and monomaniacal self-regard. But I thank God, oh how I thank God, that I also know what life's stern circumstances have shaken free from the woman who agreed to be my wife. Cartwheels of kindness. A persevering smile. Artesian goodwill.

Happy Birthday, Lisa.