We once tried to cast the devil out of our Land Rover. Not metaphorically. Properly. Hands laid, voices raised, probably a few authoritative finger points. It’s an elderly 1960 Series II long-wheelbase, and somewhere in the highlands of Tanzania, the extremely questionable fuel we’d just bought in Mbeya began vaporising like it had aspirations to become incense. The engine spluttered, coughed dramatically, and died in instalments. Nothing like this had ever happened before, so naturally we concluded: demons. And so, the exorcism commenced. Sadly, the demons of Mbeya proved stubborn. To this day they still tremble at the sight of an old Land Rover, but that’s mostly because of the smoke. Eventually we realised it wasn’t the devil; it was the fuel. Marriage has many parallels with a couple attempting to cross Africa in an old Land Rover. Like this one. Often, we assume our marriage is under spiritual attack, when in fact, we’ve simply let some dodgy influence into the tank and now everything’s running like a lawnmower full of gravel. Keep what comes into your lives clean.
Why an old Land Rover and not a shiny luxury model with cup holders and dignity? Several reasons, really, but mainly because we were young and broke (much like most marriages at the start) and also because you can fix the old ones with the original handbook, a basic toolbox, and optimism bordering on denial. They’re gloriously analogue, and with clear instructions from the manufacturer, plus a heroic quantity of spares, we could fix almost anything ourselves wherever we were, without abandoning the trip or the vehicle in a dramatic cloud of self-pity. Marriage is God’s design from the beginning, and He’s given us a handbook on how to live. If we actually read it often enough, our marriages can run remarkably well. Pay attention to the Word; it’s not optional equipment in marriage.When you buy a Land Rover, you don’t just buy transport, you acquire a hobby, a lifestyle, and a light sheen of oil on everything you own. I’d go further: it’s an art form. They leak as a form of self-expression and require constant, sometimes highly creative maintenance. We carried spares, extra oil, brake fluid, coolant, and the quiet acceptance that every few thousand kilometres we’d need to stop and deliberately inspect every bolt, hose, and emotional seam. Our mission across Africa took us over rutted, potholed roads, tracks that were mostly theoretical, water crossings, and rocky passes. This all took a toll on the vehicle we’d come to love, so we maintained her meticulously. When we broke a leaf spring, we didn’t rage-quit; we camped for a few days and fixed it before continuing. Together. Always together. Why would marriage, in the constantly changing adventure of life, be any different? Our lives take us down brutal stretches that cause real wear and tear on a relationship, or even break it in places, and yet we act surprised when we have to work hard to maintain connection. Sometimes it’s wise to stop and carefully evaluate how things are going. There may be areas needing repair, connections to tighten, headlights to clean so you both know where you’re going. Essential maintenance for a great relationship. What are you filling your life with? What are you carrying that actually builds connection? Stay plugged into the source of life and stay full of the Holy Spirit so you can be a source of life to each other.
Some of the spares we packed were… less helpful. One of our mothers-in-law kindly gave us five litres of cooking oil before we left, convinced it would be useful. We had nowhere to put it, so from South Africa to Lake Turkana in northern Kenya this bottle sat wedged between our seats, awkward and ever-present, until it cracked and leaked, perfuming the vehicle with eau de stale chip shop. Each of us brings into marriage inherited habits from our families that are about as useful as a leaking drum of cooking oil on a cross-continental expedition. Jesus said in Matthew 9 that a man must leave his father and mother and be joined inseparably to his wife, and the two become one flesh. Leaving means dumping the unhelpful baggage from your past family life. Painful but necessary. If you insist on doing things exactly as your family did, or vow, “I’ll never do that because my father…,” you may still be carrying the bottle between the seats. You need to leave so you can truly cleave and grow your own marriage. We eventually traded the oil to a Turkana man for a new knife, which was infinitely more useful.
Driving together at a majestic top speed of 80 km/h, the noise inside was spectacular. No soundproofing, windows open, mechanical symphony in C-for-clatter, so we became very careful with what we said and how we said it. You had to shout to be heard, which made tone and facial expression crucial if you wanted to be understood rather than accidentally declare war. Don’t let the noise of the world deafen you. Be thoughtful with your words so they connect with purpose instead of disconnect with selfishness.
We continue to grow in our marriage: clarifying purpose, guarding what we allow in, stopping often to repair and maintain, staying full of the Word and the Holy Spirit so that the way we treat each other is His way. We don’t always get it right, but God is kind. And the old Land Rover is still there, leaking oil, yes, but running well.