I Wish

            A cool breeze wafts across the porch. It carries with it the scent of the purple flowered bush next to the steps, sweet and tangy. It has flowered every spring, but only for about six weeks, when the flowers die and do not reappear until the following year. I wish I knew the name of it. I wish the flowers bloomed longer.

            I wish for a lot of things.

            It is bright today. Hot. But under the shade of my neighbor’s towering birch, it is cool enough on the porch. Cool enough to write, anyway. And think. Though only one thing dominates my mind these days. It follows me everywhere I go, lingers like a foul odor, does not allow much room for anything else. It is all I can do to go to work, and try, at least, for a little while, to forget that my life has changed forever.

            I glance over at the window where my cat has curled up on one of the many boxes that now fill my house. They line the walls and lay scattered across the living room floor. Books and kitchen things. Old files and memorabilia and photographs. Tools and Christmas decorations and things from my childhood. All packed away. The furniture is still there, but the shelves are empty.

The house is empty.

I am empty.

She left three months ago, and I still do not understand. I wonder if I’ll ever understand.

Last year was hard. I have wrestled with depression my entire life, but last year it struck in a way I had never experienced. I lost my job. I broke into hives. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Some days it was all I could to get out of bed.

It was hard on her, too. It is painful to live with someone with mental health issues, and last year must have been a nightmare for her. It is one thing for me to talk about the emptiness and loneliness inherent with depression, but altogether something else for our loved ones who are powerless to help. I had hoped that she would stay, counted on this year being better, but it was all too much, I think.

She deserves to be happy.

I would have fought for this relationship, done whatever it took to make it right, but sometimes we reach the end of our rope and must protect ourselves. We’re no good to the rest of the world if we’re miserable, and everyone deserves the right to be happy, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how much I hurt.

Love is not about me.

I take a deep breath and stare out across the street. Watch the leaves on the trees shift and sway in the wind. Love is not about me. I have said that a thousand times these past three months. I believe it, but it only helps a little. It certainly sounds right. Something you say to convince people around you that you’re being wise and kind and patient, when inside your emotions are a boiling cauldron of frustration and sadness and anger. When your emotions are desperately trying to escape so they can scream and yell and lash out, and all you have is this thin barrier, largely constructed of mantras and clichés and whispered hope, to reign them in.

Sometimes they escape. Sometimes I do not think kind things. Sometimes I am so overwhelmed I can hardly move.

She deserves to be happy.

I have always believed this. That hasn’t changed.

Pain of this magnitude is a great teacher, if we allow it. It gives us a mirror into our lives that we rarely see. And for a while, we can see ourselves from the perspective of someone else. I have stared into this mirror for three months, and it has taught me a great deal. It has also given me more wishes.

I wish I’d known she was so unhappy. I wish I’d been a better husband. I wish I’d been enough.

I sigh and put down my laptop. It is time to pack again.

Back inside, I pack two more boxes. The wedding photos are the hardest, but I see her everywhere. I remember everything, every story behind every book and nicnac and kitchen appliance. And every time I put them in a box, part of me disappears with them.

Tears slide down my cheeks. It feels like I have been crying for a long time. I know that one day the tears will stop, and that spring will come again and I will live without pain. I believe that, I just can’t feel it. Not yet. Perhaps not for a while.

Some days I think about our life together. Think about what I could have done differently. At night, I sometimes dream that we’re together, that I’ve made better choices and she is happy. Those mornings are difficult.

I do not believe everything is my fault, of course. I am not that arrogant. But I cannot control anything but who I am and the choices I made, and to focus on anything else is fool’s gold. The intent of pain’s mirror is not to cast blame or throw stones, but to check my thoughts and heart and actions.

Where did I go wrong? What could I have done better? What kind of person do I want to be going forward? Again, these are the kind of questions that sound like I have things all together, but don’t be fooled. No one “has it all together” when they lose the love of their life.

As a Christian, I believe in God. I also believe in a broken world, which is as much a reflection of my faith as it is my understanding of humanity. We are not perfect. We make choices that hurt people. And we do it every day.

I do it every day.

And somewhere along the way, I made too many of these choices. Perhaps she made too many of these choices. And so we broke.

That doesn’t make me a bad person. And it doesn’t make her a bad person. It makes us both human.

I put down the third box and head back onto the porch. I scrub the tears from my face. I am greeted by the fresh scent of my little shrub. I wish she were here. I wish I could tell her how much I loved her and hoped for her happiness. I wish that my heart did not feel so empty.

I wish for a lot of things.

Why I Married (Her)

My beautiful, kind girl.

We were hanging out on the stoop when I pulled out my phone. It was cool, fall evening, and we'd been dating for six weeks. The street was quiet. My housemates were inside, and she flashed me a curious look when she saw the phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, now that we're dating, I should delete these other numbers."

As a single guy over the past two years, I'd collected more than a few numbers from women, though nearly all of them had gone uncalled. As a "playboy," or serial dater, I was notoriously bad. I seemed to have the ability to coax women to give me their phone number, but absolutely no ability whatsoever to "close the deal." Not that they (or I)would have been interested anyway. My friends had found me, more than once, listening to an available single woman telling me her "story" and providing counsel and encouragement. In other words, I was a dating moron.

Bethany did not know this, however, and she frowned as I not only deleted the numbers, but happily provided details on each of the women. (What I remembered, anyway.) I thought it was funny. She did not. What she didn't know was that while many of the women I'd met were pretty or smart or both, I was looking for more. I was looking for someone like her. Pretty was important. So was intelligence. But she had something else, something more, and when she agreed to marry me seven months later, I was overjoyed. (Yup. Seven months. Doesn't take long when the most amazing girl ever says she loves you!)

A Kind Life

Bethany came home yesterday and told me that she'd met someone at the grocery store. A developmentally disabled woman had randomly approached her.

"Excuse me, do you know where the Feta cheese is?"

"Um, sure. It's right over here," Bethany said.

The woman stared at the different packages, and my wife patiently explained the differences between them.

"Do you know how they make feta cheese?"

"No. I don't."

"Why is it so expensive?" the woman asked.

"Well, what are you trying to make?" Bethany said.

"Pizza!"

"You know, you can use mozzarella cheese. It's not as expensive and tastes just as good on pizza," Bethany said.

"Can you show me where it is?"

"Sure."

She led the woman across the grocery store, and showed her where they kept the mozzarella. She explained the different kinds near it, and when she'd finished, the woman smiled at her.

"Thank you!"

She took the cheese and bounced happily away.

When Bethany told me this story, I couldn't help but shake my head. You could argue that it wasn't that big a deal, what she'd done. But it was. I'd spent most of my life working with special needs kids, and any time I heard grace filled encounters like that, I always felt a particular happiness. It wasn't surprising, though. She, too, had worked with special needs children, and that inherent kindness was part of her makeup. Probably the most important part.

Important

As much as we need our partners and spouses to be physically attractive (and smart), there's nothing quite like kindness. I hear horror stories all the time about men and women who act in a manner that is so unkind, its almost unfathomable. My friends tell me stories about horribly selfish individuals, of both sexes, and their frustrations with dating.

My advice? While you have to be attracted to someone (That HAS to happen. If you don't think your partner is attractive, your relationship will fail. Period.), stop looking for peripherals that don't matter. (money, family, etc....) What are they like? Are they kind, or do they have a capacity for cruelty?

I can tell you this much, if you end up with someone who isn't kind, you'll never have the life you hoped for. Cruelty and selfishness have a way of invading every little happiness. But kindness? Kindness works the other way. Kindness is the ointment that soothes all ills, and over time becomes the underlying song to every moment of joy you will ever experience.

I got lucky. I didn't deserve to meet someone like Bethany, let alone marry her. Every day we're together, I'm reminded of what it means to be with someone who consistently puts others above herself. And the simple truth is this: the only thing better than a Kind Life... is sharing it with someone who see things the same way.

-Steve

One Thing We All Hate… And Need (for better relationships)

"I still don't get it. Why can't you tell him?"

"He'll go crazy. You know what Aaron's like."

I sighed but didn't push it. Aaron was my friend, though I spent more time with Ginny, his wife, since we worked together. I sighed again and glanced around the cafeteria. A few Grade Eight kids were hanging out at one of the tables, but other than that it was quiet. I was working with an autistic student in the school, but he hadn't shown up today, so I'd been doing some paperwork when Ginny sat down across from me. She was small, with curly red hair, and a timid air when she talked about herself.

"Listen, Aaron's a good guy. If you think he's flirting too much, then just tell him. He probably doesn't even realize it." I said.

Aaron was a teacher as well, tall and lean, with voice like a low hammer. We'd hung out a couple of times when the schools got together for an event.

Ginny shook her head.

"I can't. He'll think I'm possessive or jealous, that I don't trust him."

So why are you telling me? Ginny was nice, and she was a friend, but it was hard listening to your friends complain when they were so unwilling to do anything about it. Still, I knew what it was to be afraid to be honest with people. When I was twenty-one, I interned as a young adult pastor. In my review at the end of the year, my Senior Pastor's remarks included a comment that I'd never forgotten. "Until Steve is willing to face his fear of confrontation, he will never be the leader he can be." At the time, I really didn't understand it. I'd always thought avoiding confrontation to be something of a skill. And yet, he'd not only remarked on my tendency to avoid it, but that this was somehow a bad thing. When I asked him about it later, he told me that I was going out of my way to avoid certain issues, and that unless I dealt with them, they would never get resolved. That was what a good leader did, he said. He also mentioned that it was impossible to grow in our faith if we were unwilling to look in the mirror and be honest with ourselves.

It didn't help that so many people grew up in "quietly tense" homes. The older generations seemed to delight in this idea of "sucking it up" and not saying anything when an issue needed to be addressed. Or blaming the inability to properly communicate on gender differences. ("Who can understand a woman, Steve? They're SO different!") Unfortunately, from what I'd seen of these marriages, even the ones that had lasted twenty five years, it wasn't something I really wanted in my own life. It wasn't like you got a gold star for years of service. For me, it was pretty simple. If your relationships sucked, especially the one with your significant other, than your life did too. It was the reason I was in the process of getting divorced. It also meant that I really wasn't one to talk. Most of the 'confrontations' in our house had been punctuated by yelling and hurt feelings. Still Ginny had asked, so I figured I would try to answer her question.

Honestly, Ginny, there's nothing wrong with a bit of jealousy. It means you care. I don't mean the controlling kind, but jeez, if what he's doing bothers you, you have to say something. Otherwise, you're going to have to put up with it for the rest of your life. And let me tell you, if you can't be honest with one another, marriage sucks."

"Well, you would know about that." She said, flicking her hair.

I took a deep breath and didn't respond.

"I'm sorry, Steve." She said, reading my face. "It's just that, well, marriage is difficult. Relationships are not so simple." She smiled at me like I was one of her students. "You can't just tell someone what's bothering you because maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe we just need to talk about it to vent a little, and then it will be okay." She paused. "I know I feel better. Thanks."

The bell rang, and kids started piling into the hallway.

"I gotta go. Bye, Steve."

I waved, and managed to put a crooked grin on my face, though it fell as soon as she'd left. What did I know about relationships, I thought. I'm the biggest failure here. I still felt like I'd made the right decision about my marriage. It'd been mutual, and we'd both seen how destructive it had become. Maybe Ginny was right though. Maybe I just hadn't learned to 'suck it up' like so many people did in their marriages. Hell, and their friendships, for that matter.

I turned back to my work, but the characters might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphs. I wondered if one day I'd get another chance to prove my theory about honesty. It was ridiculous to think that I would be single forever, but when you're going through a divorce, it's how you feel. One day, I thought.

***

I think the first time I heard the word "confrontation" was watching a baseball game as a kid. Face to face, the pitcher trying to either throw the ball past the hitter or induce him to hit it to one of the guys on the pitcher's team. I also heard it mentioned as something that happened between countries, but in terms of relationships, well, it wasn't until I was nearly done high school that I heard it mentioned in that context. And when I did hear it, the implication was that confrontations were something nasty, and always led to a fight or an argument, or God forbid, a breakup. Confrontation was bad because it led to conflict, which was also bad. In fact, the two words were nearly always used as synonyms. And in relationships, romantic or otherwise, the best thing to do was to avoid both. It took me a long time to understand that not only were the two words radically different, but that one of them was necessary for a healthy relationship.

By definition, to confront someone means to "to stand or come in front of; stand or meet facing." Conflict, on the other hand, is a "struggle or clash between opposing forces." Confrontation generally precipitates conflict, but they aren't the same thing, and while both have negative connotations to them, a confrontation does not HAVE to be something negative. In fact, a great deal of our relational woes stem directly from our belief that confrontation is bad and needs to be avoided at all costs. When that happens however, we start down a road from which many relationships never recover.

***

The wind swept hard across the water, rustling the waves against the dock so that it creaked loudly in the morning sunlight. I was sitting on the deck of the cottage with my notebook, nibbling on the end of my pen. The pine trees swayed across the lake, climbing the low rise north above the water. It was a breathtaking view, crystallized in the wind and sun, and one I wanted to take with me when we left later that morning. There'd been ten of us, sharing the cottage for three days of sun and fun. Inevitably, especially with the rainy weather the day before, there had been some brush ups and blow ups. Two nights earlier, I'd suddenly become very upset with my best friend because he'd beaten me at chess, and I had missed the two key moves he'd made to win the game. (If it sounds ridiculous, um, that's because it was… ) I went outside for a few minutes, realized that I was being an idiot, and apologized. After that, things were fine. It made me think about how often we brush against one another, especially in groups and families, and how little we are prepared to handle confrontations. Unless you major in something like social work or psychology or counseling, the skills necessary for learning how to confront people will not be something you learn in school. And yet, if we were all just a little better at it, it would make our lives so much easier, with much less tension, and the reason for that is simple. In every community, be it a marriage, a group of friends, a family, or a church, someone will inevitably act in a selfish and unhealthy matter. If it's allowed to fester, it will not only affect the group dynamics, but it will become one of the defining forces within the group or couple as well.

Ginny never addressed the issue of flirting with her husband, never confronted him with it. If they're still married, it will not only still be an issue, it will be, in fact, one of the predominant characteristics of how she defines her relationship. The same is true within families and groups of friends. If there is an issue that you cannot confront, an issue that you cannot talk about, then you have assigned that issue as one of the cornerstones of the way you will relate to the others in the group.

It's not hard to figure why we avoid confrontation. Why I avoided it for so many years. Frankly, it's difficult, and it requires humility and vulnerability. There's also a tendency to think, as I used to, that confrontation requires anger and yelling and tears. It doesn't. The reason people get angry when confronting others is because anger helps drive away the fears that control so many of us. Our fears of rejection. Of being alone. Of being not liked. Our fear of wrecking other relationships or worrying that people will think we're a jerk. Anger helps us, momentarily, to push past these fears. But anger is a double edged sword, and when we use it to confront people, the end result is conflict.

***

Confrontational Tips

So, what to do? The first thing is to practice confrontation on ourselves. I keep a journal every day, just a couple of paragraphs, and challenge how I responded to things the day before. Did I honour God the way I should yesterday? Am I loving people the way I'm supposed to? How did I handle things at work and with my friends? Am I being too cynical? (A particularly challenging one for me.) You will have different questions, depending on what your self-identified weaknesses are and what your goals are in life. (You don't have to journal but I find it helpful.)

But understand this: you have no right to confront anyone about anything until you are willing to confront yourself.

We've all known people who criticize others and make people feel like crap without checking the mirror. The heart of positive confrontations is the humility inherent in identifying the other person's shared humanity. When you are used to honestly confronting your own behavior, you will be better equipped when someone else challenges you. And if you can listen to someone else's honest critique about your behavior, you have given yourself a terrific tool for your relationships that most people do not possess. Why? Because people who can confront themselves have little difficulty confronting others in a quiet, tactful manner.

The second thing is understanding that tone makes a difference. (No anger allowed. If you're angry, you're not ready.) So do words and expressions. "Perhaps", "maybe", "I'm not sure", "this makes me feel", are all good choices. Remember that the goal of confrontation is to solve an issue, and that it is hard to for people to hear negative things about themselves or their behaviour, especially if they genuinely don't realize what they're doing. Having spent a number of years working with the developmentally disabled, I'm sensitive to people who park in the handicap spots without the proper sticker. I will ALWAYS confront them. However, I keep my tone polite, and usually say something along the lines of "I'm not sure you noticed the sign, sir, but this is a reserved spot." Anyone fit to drive can see the sign, but the point isn't my self-righteous indignation or feeling superior because I wouldn't park there, the point is to get them to move and feel the weight of what they're doing, and always in quiet tones. (And yes, they always move.)

In terms of our relationships, confrontation is the only way to wipe out the power of fear that girds so much of our lives. We let our fears dictate the outcome of our relational choices, and we end up feeling trapped or miserable because we refuse to ask the hard questions of both ourselves and the people around us.

In many ways, it is not unlike standing across a lake and staring at the green grass and quiet fields of peace and contentment on the other side. The bridge however, the one we call Confrontation, looks shaky and small, something only Indiana Jones could cross. The reason it looks so small is that like all skills, confrontation takes practice. In time, it gets easier and the bridge widens. But it's still something we'll probably dislike, if not hate. Who likes looking in the mirror? Who likes telling others things that are hard to hear? Without confrontation however, we are inevitably relegated to below standard relationships, and ultimately, a below standard life.

My prayer this week is that you'll take up the challenge of confrontation. Go for a walk and think about some of the fears both in you, and your relationships, that need to be addressed. I know we like to say that relationships are complicated, and sometimes they are, but too often the complications arise out of our tendency to avoid the issues that matter the most with our loved ones. Stop letting Fear run your life, and have the courage to take the first step towards a life that is not only your own, but yours to give away.

-Steve

Overwhelmed

The night is clear, and from our balcony we can see the changing colours of the CN tower and the vast Toronto cityscape. The day has finally ended. Joyous, stressful, exuberant, hushed; it has been the longest day of my life. And also the greatest. My bride sits next to me, beautiful and quiet as we process what has happened. What it all means.

"Do you want to open the cards?" I ask.

She nods and then laughs, and it reaches a place in me that resonates deeper than any other. One by one, we open the gift cards, taking turns to carefully read each card. Each sentiment. Halfway through however, I can not continue, as the tears slowly began to slip down my face.

"Can we stop for a minute?" I ask her. She looks over at me, and noticing the tears, walks over and hugs my neck. I can smell the lotion on her skin, and I am, as always, struck by how easily she fits into my arms. She slips into my lap and together we look out at the city. The gifts are extraordinary, and I am not sure what to do with them. So many people have sacrificed to make our day special, many of whom have reached well beyond their means to let us know how much we are loved. The effect is both surreal and humbling. A while later we finish opening the cards, and even back inside, I remain close to tears. I cannot shake this idea that something has happened. Something more than marriage. Or that many people might not understand the significance of this day and what their gifts and love have meant.

We all have dreams of the ideal relationship when we're young. Even boys, although it is often less articulated than that of young girls. When I was a kid, I remember thinking about marriage, but it was an abstract idea. As in, of course I am going to get married and be happy. Those were the stories I read about in my books, and it seemed like a simple thing. Just love each other and everything will be okay. Until the time of my break up with my first girlfriend, I always assumed the one I was with would be "the One". A romantic and silly notion for a 23-year-old perhaps, but idealism has always been something of a trap for me. Married at 25, divorced a few short years later, the idea of a "perfect" marriage had long since faded, to the point where I was certain it could never happen. I was too difficult to live with, too picky, too cynical, too finite about my views of God and just a bit too… strange. Who could possibly fill all those requirements? Who would be willing to see past my scars and hurts and accept me for who I was?

The years passed, and while I found friendships that would last forever, in itself an unbelievable turn of events for someone who had once locked themselves away from the world in his late twenties, I never found that special someone. The person that I had dreamed about as a young teenager and later as a young man. Even as I lived and looked however, my ideas about the "One" began to change. I watched my friends with good marriages. Watched how selflessly they interacted. Watched how they asked for forgiveness and worked hard not to pin their own struggles on their partner. In the glaring light of these examples, my ideas about love changed from the Disney twinkle of Cinderella's shoes, to the clasped hands of sweating, smiling teammates after a long, hard fought game. So much as sentiment is as natural to me as breathing, this was a difficult revelation, and it cast a different light upon my past relationships that struggled to make their way past the end of "happily ever after." For as much as I could claim a personality mismatch, it would be unfair to exclude my inability to work as part of a team. Too often I had relied upon the romanticized idea of "boy meets girl, boy loves girl", with a clear delineation between both the boy and girl and the role each one was supposed to play. There were, in fact, buried within this seemingly simplistic ideal, any number of rules and regulations that for the life of me I could no longer understand. No wonder then, when I thought back to my past relationships, to my past struggles, that I remembered the times being paralyzed into inaction due to my inability to navigate the world of boy meets girl. It was all so complicated, so difficult, this road to love.

Three years earlier, I'd mentioned to a colleague of mine that the possibility of meeting someone and marrying would probably never happen. He'd scoffed at me like a patient teacher. "What? How old are you? Thirty three? You're young, Steve. It'll happen." I'd nodded that day, but didn't bother explaining to him the reasons for my hesitancy. The reasons for the occasional sadness that would flutter onto my shoulders like a black winged butterfly. Despite all this, despite what I'd learned, I held onto the slimmer of hope, enough to spend one winter night gazing up at the stars, with the tears rolling down my cheeks, asking God for a second chance at a first chance. Little did I know that just a short eighteen months later my prayer would not only be answered, but with such a resounding boom of grace and love from friends and family it would leave me speechless and my world completely redrawn.

One Week Later

The balcony is quiet this morning. Rain drips onto the edge of the railing, as the sun struggles to break through the clouds. The steady drumming of construction is absent for the weekend, and only the faint hum of music from another apartment pushes past the breeze shushing through the trees. A tiny, yellow tailed bird hops onto the branch about five feet from where I sit, flashing her wings and riding the swaying branches.

I head back inside to refill my coffee and trip slightly on one of the unopened boxes of cookware. The apartment is filled with gifts and boxes, most of which have been pushed to the side. Some have been opened, some not, but either way it is overwhelming to walk past them. I pour out the coffee from our new coffee pot and stir in my condiments. My mug is also new. Also a gift. Everything we have, it seems, is a gift. My mind flashes to the week before. To the arrival of Jackie and Mireille. Of Jackie's cake making and their sure hand at taking over the details so that our day will go smoothly, not the least of which will include the sound system and flowers. I think of Alanna and her 75 hour work week and the unbelievable amount of cooking and errands she does for us. I think of Bethany's brother, selflessly running errand after errand, and her sister, Heather, volunteering for whatever needs to get done. I think of Jeremy, my long time friend, and his wife, Heather, who have sacrificed their weekend to do the ceremony.

And then there was the day itself, with Allison and Brice and so many others pitching in to make it special. With Mark and Naomi driving us from place to place, putting themselves at our disposal. My mind drifts back to the reception, to the kindness in the speeches, to the laughter fomented by my brother, forced to pull double duty as a best man and M.C., and his own speech, which seven days later still brings tears to me eyes. Even when the dance ends, they are there. Mark, Naomi, Jackie, Heather, Allison, Szymon, Brice, Mireille, Alanna, Lindsay, Nathan, Elias, Ernie, Jeremy, Heather. All pitching in to clean up while the music plays. All of it a gift.

I head back out to the balcony, past the table where we have put the cards and the cluster of gifts placed temporarily on a shelf. I can't help but wonder what this means in light of God's love. Is this what it means when Scripture teaches us that all we have is a gift? I have done nothing to deserve my new life or the gifts, both material and otherwise, that have been heaped upon Bethany and I. It is beyond humbling, so much so it casts my very existence in a different light. I'm not sure I'll ever be the same again. I hope not.

The balcony door rattles open as Bethany pokes her head outside.

"If I make you a protein shake, will you drink it?"

"Yeah, that would be great." I pause unable to speak for a moment. "Did you know I love you?"

"Yeah. Know I love you?"

"Yeah."

She smiles, her hair pulled back into an early morning pony tail, and heads back inside. With a shake I realize that with all the generosity of my friends and family this past two weeks, with all they have given us, with all the boxes and items and things and details and work, the biggest gift of all, is her.

Not a wife.

Not a romance.

Not a perfect relationship.

But a laughing, wondrous teammate. Someone to share in the ups and downs of life. Someone to lay my head against. Someone to discuss things and make a difference with in a world that often makes no sense. Of all that we have been given, it is that gift, more than any other, that keeps me both humbled and excited about the future. I put down my coffee and open the door.

"Hey, love. So what are we doing today?"

-Steve

This column is dedicated to the people who worked so hard to make our wedding day special. To our parents and families, and especially our friends, most of whom have been mentioned. There are no words for how to properly thank you for what you have done for us. Know that we love you and will treasure it always.