Let everyone be swift to hear and slow to speak, James tells us. But my inclination when a difficult conversation arises is not to speak at all. I’ve had to learn to be swifter, not slower, to speak. Too often I’ve left unsaid words I should have said — friendly words, words of welcome, words of advocacy.

Mom gave me my first lesson in communication when I was in sixth grade. She could tell something was bothering me and took me into the bathroom — a private place in our large family. She sat on the toilet; I perched on the tub. “What’s bothering you?” she asked. “It’s good to talk about your feelings. Dad is the one who taught me to talk about my feelings more.” 

Revelation bloomed. Talking — communicating — was not something some people just did, while others did not. It was something one could learn, a job, and the first adult assignment I had been given. 

Haltingly, I shared my feelings. Mom didn’t understand completely what I was trying to say, but she thought she did, and telling her brought her to my side. I felt supported and loved. Suddenly everything was better. It was a lesson I never forgot. 

She gave me another lesson when, as a teenager, I somehow or other brought my problems to her at her busiest moments — like a company Sunday when she was bustling around getting ready. But she stopped to listen when I started talking. 

She taught me then that I mattered more than her work. It is a lesson I fall short in replicating with my own daughter. But I remember often and keep trying. 

When I reached my 30s, I started dating Ivan, and he taught me a lesson that has impacted our entire relationship. I was bothered once by something he said, but it was such a silly thing, I was ashamed to bring it up. “Little things matter,” he said when I finally told him. 

Little things have proven to matter a great deal in our marriage. A little thing erects a barrier to intimacy that stands with a subtle sheen until it is brought to the open, confessed, kissed and forgiven. 

The minister who performed our marriage vows pulled a fast one on us. Without our permission (though he forewarned us) he added a couple of vows. I would be moving away from my home community, he said, and would experience unexplainable tears and emotions. My vow was to tell Ivan how I felt. His vow was to listen. 

I took that vow seriously, and it is perhaps responsible more than any other thing for creating emotional intimacy in the early days of our marriage. Because — like the task Mom assigned me in sixth grade — I had a job again. Unwieldy, negative and hard to express as my emotions might be, I must express them. 

We were tested on the very first day of our marriage, driving away from the wedding, over a misunderstanding about who would sign the marriage license. 

Later, as we honeymooned in Hawaii, we were tested again. I remember walking alone, wondering what to do about the wall that had risen between us, and a fragment of verse came to my mind: speaking the truth in love. 

I did, and the conversation was hard, but without it our relationship could not have moved forward. That verse has remained a mantra for my marriage. 

I always know when I need to talk by the wall that erects itself between my heart and his, my body and his — an enemy to intimacy. Then I must talk, even when it’s hard. And I am blessed beyond measure to have a husband who listens. 

More recently, I have realized I need to talk to Ivan even more — not just when something goes wrong, but all the time, every day, about everything. 

I live far from my mom now, and anyway, so many things are private to my newly fledged family. I cannot ­process through writing as I used to; the children keep me from it. And without a way of processing, anxiety builds. So I am learning to process with him — thoughts flowing in and words flowing out, like bubbling clear water from a bottle. 

There are so many things to sort through in a day, in a week, in a life. I feel responsible for things, worry about things, cannot fix things. When I speak of these things, they become smaller and more manageable, like throwing up the bed cover and shining a flashlight under a bed. 

Only dust bunnies under there, mostly. Dusty but powerless. Without communication, I had thought there were monsters.