Marriage

Marriage Is Not Ownership, Itโ€™s a Partnership
By Pat Solitano

People think they know what marriage is. They say itโ€™s about being together forever, or never giving up, or making it work no matter what. But a lot of those same people treat marriage like itโ€™s a thing you possessโ€”like once you get married, the other person is yours. Like a trophy or a piece of property. But Iโ€™ve been through some stuff, and Iโ€™m here to say: thatโ€™s not it. Thatโ€™s not what love is. Marriage is not ownership. Itโ€™s a partnership.

I used to think like that. I thought Nikki was mine. Like if I just worked hard enough, stayed in shape, and read the right books, sheโ€™d come back to me, because I deserved her. But thatโ€™s not how it works. You donโ€™t earn a person like a medal. You donโ€™t get to keep someone just because you want to. Love doesnโ€™t mean control. Love means respect. It means understanding the other person has their own thoughts, fears, dreams, and needs. It means walking next to someone, not trying to walk them like a dog.

When I met Tiffany, I started to learn that. We were both messed up. I mean, seriously messed up. But instead of trying to fix each other or own each other, we started listening. We danced. We trained. We got to know each otherโ€”not the versions we wished we were, but the people we actually were. I didnโ€™t save her, and she didnโ€™t save me. We helped each other. Thatโ€™s what partners do.

A partnership means both people show up. It means give and take. It means being honest, even when itโ€™s hard. You donโ€™t put the other person on a pedestal, and you donโ€™t put them in a cage. You walk beside them, and when they fall, you help them upโ€”not because theyโ€™re yours, but because you care.

Thatโ€™s what I believe now. Thatโ€™s what Iโ€™ve learned. Marriage, if itโ€™s gonna work, has to be built on equality, not possession. Youโ€™re not someoneโ€™s property. Youโ€™re their partner. Youโ€™re in it together, not alone. And that, in my opinion, is the real silver lining.

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God’s Dwelling

INT. PAPAL APARTMENT โ€“ NIGHT

Rain gently taps on the Vatican windows. The eternal city sleeps. The gold and crimson of Lennyโ€™s private chapel flickers in candlelight. He sits alone, white cassock open, papal ring glinting faintly as he holds his phone โ€” earbuds in. A song plays. Itโ€™s new. It’s raw. It’s called “GOD” by Nelly Furtado.

Her voice rises โ€” cracked with humanity, defiant with longing.

? โ€œGod, are you there? Or just another love affair? / I prayed and cried, danced and died โ€” are you even aware?โ€ ?

Lenny leans back in his chair, eyes closed. For a moment, heโ€™s not the Vicar of Christ, not the Supreme Pontiff. Heโ€™s just Lenny. A boy abandoned by his parents. A man who speaks to God and sometimes hears nothing back.

But thenโ€ฆ he opens the Bible beside him. Worn. Annotated in red and gold. It falls open to Revelation 21. And he reads:

โ€œBehold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God himself will be with them. He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes. There shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain anymore โ€” for the former things have passed away.โ€

He whispers it aloud. Not in Latin. In English. Raw. Vulnerable. Human.

โ€œNo more cryingโ€ฆ no more painโ€ฆโ€

He pauses the song. Silence.

Then he looks up at the crucifix on the wall. The dying Christ. But he doesnโ€™t see death tonight. He sees the after. The promise.

โ€œYou dwell with usโ€ฆ not above us.โ€

He unplugs the earbuds. Walks to the window. Looks out over St. Peterโ€™s Square, empty and slick with rain.

โ€œIf her song is a prayer, Lordโ€ฆ hear it. If sheโ€™s looking for You, let her find not a doctrine, but a person. Let her find You in us.โ€

He turns, and with a trembling voice, speaks a private prayer:

โ€œLet Your tabernacle be with the human race. Not just the holy, not just the clean, but the sinners, the singers, the broken, the strange. Let Nelly Furtado find You not in thunder, but in a whisper. Let her cry be answered with Your silence โ€” the kind that heals.โ€

He presses play again.

? โ€œGod, I still believeโ€ฆ even when Youโ€™re silent / Even when Iโ€™m drowning in the quietโ€ฆโ€ ?

The candle flickers.

And for a moment โ€” just a moment โ€” the Pope smiles.

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