My husband has a superpower. He uses it sparingly, but when he does, he uses it to marvelous effect.
It has saved our happiness a handful of times, just when we were beginning to give up hope that we could recover that tender camaraderie that makes married life so sweet. His power is the ability, so to speak, to suddenly and decisively cut the knot.
Alexander the Great did it most famously. Legend has it that in the midst of his campaign against the Persian Empire, while marching through present-day Turkey, he came upon an ancient, intricately tied knot in the city of Gordium. A local prophecy said that whoever untied this knot would become the ruler of the entire world.
Alexander examined the knot and tugged at it. The curious populace held their collective breath. Would he sit and worry at the knot for days while his army ate all their meager food? But no. Alexander quickly realized the knot was heart-breakingly complex: a tangle tied so tight and close that no human effort could loosen it.
In a moment of characteristic boldness he declared, “It makes no difference how it is loosed.” He drew his sword and dramatically, forcefully, gracefully, sliced it apart. The crowd was stunned, and Alexander went on to conquer the world.
I can tell the story of one of our knots, as my husband tells it often to this church group or that.
Many years ago, during the painful falling apart of a family business, we found ourselves locked into immovable and opposing positions. He wanted me to step away from the failing business; my loyalty to my struggling parents made it feel impossible.
He explained the urgency of breaking ties; I held on tighter. He harangued and I cried. He became angry, with a slow-burning underground anger that seeped into everything at home. What seemed a betrayal of my parents became less and less imaginable to me, as my husband’s tenderness disappeared. It was a vicious cycle — and an intricate, sorrowful knot.
We picked at it for months, to no avail. And then the Holy Spirit struck: The dark clouds of resentment in my husband’s mind parted and the face of God shone on him. In that moment, he understood, suddenly and confidently, how he could simply cut the knot. He came to me that afternoon, when my hands were deep in the dirty sink, and said, with perfect simplicity: “I have tried to make you do what I know is right and proper. You, for whatever reason, can’t do it. From this moment, I accept your decision. I love you more than myself, and I will wait patiently for you to come to your senses. I will wait, tenderly, as long as it takes.”
When I looked up at him (suspiciously, I own), his eyes were perfect pools of divine compassion, and his smile pure grace and glory. What could I do but wrap my wet hands around his neck and weep on his chest?
That very night, filled with peace, I called my parents and told them I was stepping away. They were also kind and tender. Everywhere I looked about me, I saw nothing but faces shining with gladness and generosity. One bold and courageous move of self-sacrificing love had cut the knot, and our sorrow, just like that, was at an end.
My husband tells this story often, knowing that inevitably someone listening is picking hopelessly at the Gordian knot in his life. That person may not know that human ingenuity will not untangle it, and that there are no hands strong enough to force the cords apart. The vicious cycle of anger responding to offense, and the echoes of resentful silences mirroring each other across the dining table have but one solution, and it is a supernatural one.
The sword that slices through those cords is the sharp sword of Divine Love. It’s not a love that comes naturally to any of us, but if just one combatant in a struggle can find the humility to grasp its hilt, the awful battlefield will be transformed quite suddenly into a garden.
It is, in fact, a superpower. My husband has mastered it, but there is not a single son or daughter of God who can’t become adept at loving better and slicing through the cords that bind us up in knots.
