End of the Road?

Maybe I should have listened to my wife's suggestion after all.

Greg Smalley

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One day my wife, Erin, and I were driving from Springfield, Missouri, to Nashville, Tennessee, to attend a conference. In the days leading up to the trip Erin had asked me to consult AAA about the best way to get to Nashville. As a guy, I resented her request and felt I could get us there as well as AAA could. I spent several hours diligently studying maps. Finally, I found a route that was basically a straight line.

Several hours into the trip I was feeling great because my route was perfect. We were 30 minutes ahead of AAA's schedule. I was king of the road.

Erin and I were laughing and singing, and miles back she'd stopped asking me if I knew where we were. Then all of a sudden Erin said, "Did you see that sign? I swear it read 'dead end.'"

"Nice try," I joked. "You just can't admit that I was right and you were wrong."

"I'm serious," she said. "I think this road dead ends."

"This road does not dead end," I shot back. "Trust me!"

We continued to drive for about an hour while neither of us spoke, waiting for the truth to be revealed. The surrounding area began to be less populated until it became cornfields as far as the eye could see. And then it happened.

I barely stopped the truck in time to avoid crashing into the large "dead end" sign.

"That's impossible," I shouted in disbelief. "This wasn't on the map!"

The worst part was that Erin didn't say anything. She just sat there with a look of disdain, shaking her head from side to side. So I did what any man would do in this situation. I got out of the truck to survey the area.

As I gazed down at the Mississippi River, I could see my road form again on the other side. "It's not my fault the map didn't show a bridge wasn't here!" I shouted back at the truck.

As I reached for the map, Erin jerked it out of my hands. Sadly, I didn't even try to get it back. I was defeated. Sitting there watching my wife attempt to determine our location, I began to notice how scary cornfields look at dusk in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help that buzzards had begun circling overhead, squawking excitedly.

I started to remember a movie about murderous children who lived in cornfields. The worst part was that I couldn't recall whether the movie was based on a true story or not. The bottom line was that we needed to leave. Now!

Driving back, Erin and I didn't speak for quite some time. When she finally started to say something, I was certain she was going to give me a piece of her mind. And I deserved it. But she didn't yell or tease me. Instead she did something that began to unlock her most important relational needs, to help me understand them.

Erin spoke in a calm voice and said, "I believe we can learn a great deal about each other's relational needs by answering this statement: 'I feel loved when you …'"

I gulped and nodded, grateful to have escaped what could have been well-deserved wrath.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2003, Summer

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