We Prayed About It

You have both said you want to talk about the real things.

Then you get in the car, or you sit down to eat, and forty minutes later you have covered work, a coworker you both dislike, and whether to get groceries tonight. Again.

It isn't that you have nothing to say. It's that starting is the hard part, and one of you always has to be the one who starts it, and that person is getting tired of being that person.

So this is a book you open at a red light.

One hundred questions. One question is the whole session. You read it out loud, you talk for five minutes or an hour, and underneath it there's a short prayer written out word for word so neither of you has to invent one on the spot. Then you go back to your night.

The questions are sorted by how heavy they are, not by subject, which matters more than it sounds. You can decide light tonight in one second without having to announce the topic you've been avoiding. The Easy Ones are for a Tuesday in the car. The Real Ones need a night when neither of you is already tired. The Ones You Have Been Avoiding come with a warning page, because they should.

These are the questions couples skip for two years and then wish they'd asked in month four. What you each learned about money growing up. What repair actually looks like after a fight, for each of you specifically. What you'd both count as unfaithful. How each of you behaves when you're wrong. What you'd need to see to know this is going somewhere.

None of them can be answered yes or no. None of them can be answered on the other person's behalf. And either of you can skip any question without explaining why, which is printed in the front of the book so it's a rule and not a favor.

No days, no order, nothing to catch up on, and nothing to write in. It is not a devotional and it is not a journal.

It is not a marriage book, and it does not assume you're engaged.

Put it in the car tonight.