Saturday, October 31, 2015

The philosopher's wife

I'm working through the language of eternity—the giving, the receiving. I am my husband's only wife. A few months ago, when I found out that Mr. PNU's ex was seeking a sealing cancellation I drove to her house and hugged her tightly out of joy and relief. 

I lived through Jacob 2 with my second husband. Any woman who thinks she can make polygamy work for her is clueless to what it's like knowing your beloved is sleeping with other women, loving other women besides you. 

For years in tearful prayer I've told the Lord over and over that I may as well be cut off now if sharing my husband is part of the longterm deal. If God is a jealous god, I am the jealous eternal wife of a man on the divinity track who needs me to attain exaltation. The only instance I can make any allowance for plurality is in the case of death and remarriage. I've put some thought into what might happen at my husband's death. When it's his turn to slough off the conscious capsule, I'm done. He is where I belong in this life. I'd rather be alone, missing him, than entertaining the idea that anyone else could even remotely compare as a subsequent spouse. And I'd hate to think what may happen to him should I die first.

So I've entered into a tenuous commitment with God on which I'm placing my own constraints. For what my husband needs in this life, I cannot hold back. For what I need, for as long as this idea is unresolved (and it is unresolved), I am haunted by the question: Is plural marriage eternal doctrine? If the answer is yes, I can't guarantee God has more for us beyond the grave. If my God turns out to be the scriptural jerk that I fiercely believe God has been misrepresented to be, I can only hope for oblivion. Isn't this faith dance a strange relationship?

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