How the Sea of Galilee Saved My Marriage
How the Sea of Galilee Saved My Marriage
The miraculous impact of giving and receiving.
There are two seas in Palestine.
The Sea of Galilee is a lush oasis in the heart of northern Israel. Formed from the north by the River Jordan and fed internally by natural springs, it is only thirteen miles long and seven miles wide. Despite its size, it is grand in stature and teems with life. Twenty species of fish thrive on its rich nutrients. Groves of olive trees line the shore, offering coveted shade in addition to their harvest. Sparrows soar overhead while nightingales offer a concert with their unique and varied song. Pink cyclamens fill the air with a sweet fragrance.
It’s no wonder the Sea of Galilee was the center of action and the locus of miracles in biblical times.
At the southern tip, the Sea of Galilee returns to the River Jordan, and the Jordan travels sixty-five miles before terminating into the Dead Sea. Unlike its life-giving neighbor to the north, the Dead Sea is four times bigger but is lifeless. Not one fish. Barely a tree. No vegetation. Only an occasional wayward bird surveys the emptiness.
The same nutrient-rich river feeds both seas. Only sixty-five miles separate them. How could one be so full of life while the other so desolate?
The answer is flow. Inflow and outflow. Giving and receiving. Entering and exiting.
The Sea of Galilee receives from the River Jordan and its natural springs, then gives all of itself back into the River Jordan. In between, it gives by sharing itself – into the gills of fish, into the roots of plants, as nourishment for nearby crops. It even provides a cool respite for beachgoers. The Sea of Galilee starts with nothing and ends with nothing, yet because it gives and receives — because it flows — it has been a life source for over two thousand years.
The Dead Sea does not give. It only receives. It has no way to cleanse itself, and with no outflow, the nutrient-rich water can only evaporate and leave its impurities behind. The result is a mineral-laden body of water – ten times saltier than the ocean — that loses three feet each year. The Dead Sea cannot sustain life and cannot even hold on to itself.
If we wish to be a source of life, a center for action, or maybe even the locus of a miracle, the essential question is: how can we flow like the Sea of Galilee?
Fifteen years ago, I confronted this very question.
***
I was engaged and planning an intimate ceremony on a secluded beach in Hawaii – just my fiancée Karen and me. Leading up to our day on the sand, I felt nervous. On better days, my apprehension felt like butterflies, the kind I would feel on the first tee of a golf tournament. On worse days, my anxiousness was full of dread, like when I stared at a college exam and hardly knew an answer.
On the eve of our departure, my anxiety gave way to panic. I called it off – wounding Karen’s heart while numbing my own.
“I hope you can figure yourself out,” Karen said. “I don’t know how long it will take, and I’m not sure how long I can wait,” she added, looking at me, searching in vain for a sign that wasn’t there.
I was disoriented. Bewildered. Confused. And I loved Karen so much.
In a move only George Costanza might understand, and one I still don’t, I retreated to my childhood home and then inside myself. I holed up. Ashamed, I cut myself off from friends and acquaintances while keeping up my work as best I could. When I wasn’t at therapy, I was digging into self-help books. I beat myself up for being forty-two and sleeping in the same twin bed I did when I was fourteen. And I held myself hostage for not being who I should be and what I wanted to be.
Days turned into weeks, weeks to months. I spent the time excavating myself, looking for answers. It felt like assembling three one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles with the pieces mixed together.
One day, while getting nowhere, the universe brought me the parable of the two seas of Palestine.
I read it.
I reread it.
“Which sea am I?” I wondered, even though I already knew.
I recognized that I was personifying the Dead Sea. By retreating, cutting myself off from the outside world, and telling myself that I needed to figure things out before putting myself back out there, I was diminishing the flow of giving and receiving. Worse still, beating myself up and being overly critical was making me bitter. Salty.
I was evaporating. Slowly. Steadily. Invisibly.
The recognition I was the Dead Sea stung. But the sting saved me. I vowed to reorient myself to the Sea of Galilee. I closed my eyes and asked, “How do I start?”
Galilee answered, “Start by giving, and first, give to yourself.”
I gave myself space to be exactly where I was, telling myself it was OK. I gave myself compassion, telling myself I was worthy, no matter what, no matter the circumstance. I gave myself love, loving myself for all I was and still wasn’t.
Then I received my compassion and self-love, even though they ran counter to the story of unworthiness in my head.
This simple and essential giving and receiving brought me back to life. I felt lighter. An ember of joy sparked within. I felt like I was running downhill. With a tailwind.
From there, I extended myself outward. I reconnected with friends, not to lament my circumstance, but to give by listening and occupying their lives. Adding the water of lives outside of my own made me feel bigger. Less salty.
As I began to consider reconnecting with Karen, I discovered a deeper aspect of giving I hadn’t yet recognized – that giving my life to our marriage was being held back by wanting to “know the future.” (Looking back, I chuckle ❤️)
The source of my anxiety came from the fear and worry of “not knowing.” Not knowing how we would parent together—not knowing how we would resolve differences—not knowing how our past lives would integrate with our future life together.
This deeper dimension of giving asked me for greater trust. For deeper faith. To surrender to not-knowing.
When I reached out to Karen, I discovered that receiving is also an act of giving. How often are we offered something only to reject it? Or deflect someone’s giving because we feel undeserving? What if the Sea of Galilee told the River Jordan, “I feel so bad about taking so much from you. I don’t deserve all that you’re offering.”
These feelings washed over me when I saw Karen for the first time after calling off our wedding.
After three months, she was still there. Waiting. Open. Holding out magnificent gifts of patience and understanding instead of resentment and judgment. Miraculous gifts.
She offered them. I felt I didn’t deserve them.
Karen told me that by receiving her gifts of patience and understanding, I would give to her by accepting them. She went on to say that if I fully received her gifts, they would become part of me and that I, in turn, would give them away to others as if they were my own, just as the Sea of Galilee gives away what it receives from the River Jordan, into the roots of plants, into the gills of fish.
Today, when people compliment me on my patience and understanding, I smile and call up gratitude for the River Karen, who kept giving to me without my knowledge — and for just long enough for me to “figure myself out.”
***
Little does the Sea of Galilee know that halfway around the world, its life-giving nature contributed to a marriage and helped to create a family. That’s how it is with giving and receiving – the flow is infinite, and the downstream effects can span lifetimes.
Five months after starting my journey from the Dead Sea to the Sea of Galilee, Karen and I said, “I do,” with sand between our toes and love flowing between our hearts.
I hope this piece brought a smile to your face or touched your heart. Please feel free to share this with others or leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.
Special thanks to
at The Intronaut, at Pitching a Tent without Poles, and at Pivot to the Podium for the flow of their unique insights into this essay.And to
for your continuous inspiration and remarkable essay on Giving in your book Consolations.
James, this is beautiful. The rivers are rich metaphors for human giving and receiving. It’s a tribute to both you and Karen that you each did what you needed to do: you did your internal work of discovery and preparation and she graced your relationship with patience and understanding. Such a lovely piece.
Im speechless-so will just say THANK YOU! Your story is a special gift!