It was Thanksgiving 1996 and my parents' kitchen sink was plugged. Someone had filled the disposal with too many potato peelings and salad greens in the flurry of cooking activity and now, the sink was stopped up. Even the toilet plunger was no match for the clog. (I know, you're NEVER supposed to use that tool in the kitchen. But they were desperate.) Undaunted, the cooks forged ahead. Besides, it was time to drain the boiling potatoes. I don't remember who grabbed the pot, but it was hot. And whoever was holding it, couldn't. So they dropped it in the same place any thinking person would. The sink.

Trouble is the sink was full of clog-water that had also recently seen the business end of a toilet plunger. Near chaos ensued. Those were the tubers that were to be the mashed potatoes. Can you imagine a Thanksgiving feast without mashed potatoes? Neither could we.

Then, in that overcrowded, overheated kitchen, Steve whispered something in my ear. And I heard it. "I love you," he said. In the midst of all the shouting and bustling, he said it. For the first time. It was so chaotic I wondered if maybe I'd misunderstood. But the look in his eyes confirmed it. He loved me. And apparently, my lots-of-activity-and-very-loud family (have you seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Substitute Syrian for Greek and you get the idea.)

We never did manage to resuscitate the mashed potatoes that year. Our feast proceeded without them. But in their place, I had something eminently more valuable. The assurance that if Steve loved me in that moment, enough to own it for the very first time, I knew he was serious. He knew what loving me would include. And he said it anyway. I'll be forever thankful that he did.

I've always known there is a right way to put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder. The paper should dispense over the top. It was nice to learn, after our wedding, that Steve was of the same conviction. Most of the time. Occasionally he would err and put the roll on backwards, or upside down. But I was full of grace. Instead of getting peeved, I just took it off and re-installed it the right way.

Things went on happily in the TP department until the ninth year of our marriage. It was then that we bought a home that resisted my ideas about what was right. In this home, the hardware that holds the paper has short arms. Consequently, if you put the TP on the right way, it's so tight against the wall it won't roll. It's like this with all rolls: the jumbo, overstuffed and quilted rolls and even the cheap, skimpy ones. I still don't understand the engineering of it all, but for some reason, if you put it on the wrong way, it rolls nearly effortlessly.

Now right is wrong.

Sort of reminds me of something my Dad used to say to me when I was a kid. I'd be in the midst of explaining my side of an argument with one or another of my siblings, fully convinced of the justness of my cause and perspective. And right in the middle of my defense, he'd stop me and say, "Candi, you can be so right, you're wrong." He wouldn't even let me finish. I'd get so frustrated when he'd say that. Looking back I think it's because I didn't really understand what he meant.

All these years later, I'm starting to figure it out; thanks in part to our short-armed toilet paper holders. When I put a new roll on, I think about how convinced I was that my way was right. Best. Obvious. And now I'm caught because the old right way is wrong and wrong is right. Mostly Steve puts the roll on wrong, er, right. But every now and then, he doesn't.

Twelve years into marriage, I'm ashamed to admit the grace isn't automatic. It's not just TP but everything from how we load the dishwasher and bathe the kids to how we make the bed and fold the newspaper. Life with another is full of opportunities to stand up for your rights or follow Christ's example and lay it all down for the sake of your beloved.