A Threefold Cord in South Auckland

Saturday morning in Māngere. The planes come in low over the houses towards the airport, one every few minutes. Next door, an uncle is firing up the umu for a birthday, and the smell of smoke and taro drifts over the fence. Lani stands at the sink in their small rented unit, washing two mugs with more force than they need.

She and Tavita have been married eleven months. Their wedding was beautiful and enormous, three hundred guests in a church hall, the aiga from Apia and Brisbane and Christchurch, the cake carried in to drums. Their pastor preached on one verse from Ecclesiastes. A threefold cord is not quickly broken. Everybody said amen. It felt simple then.

It does not feel simple now. Tavita works night shifts at a distribution centre. Lani works days at a pharmacy. They pass each other at the door. They are trying to save for a deposit on a house, and the savings account grows slowly. Then last night his mother phoned. A cousin's funeral in Samoa. The family needs everyone to give. Tavita said yes at once. He named an amount. He did not ask Lani first.

So this morning they are arguing in low voices so the neighbours will not hear. She says, “We agreed. We decide together.” He says, “It's my family. It's fa'alavelave. You know how it is.” She does know. Her family is the same. That is not the point. The point is that she felt like a stranger in her own marriage.

Tavita goes out to the car to cool down. Lani sits on the couch and, for want of anything else to do, looks at the framed print on the wall, a wedding present. It is the verse. “And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

She has always looked at the last part. This morning she reads the middle. Two shall withstand him. Two, together, against what comes at them. Not two against each other. And then a third strand, which their pastor said was God himself, woven through. A cord holds when its strands twist together. If they pull apart, it frays.

When Tavita comes back in, she does not start the argument again. She asks him to sit down and pray with her, which they have not done together in weeks, because of the shifts. It is awkward at first. Then he prays for his cousin's family by name, and his voice breaks a little, and she takes his hand.

Afterwards, they talk properly. He tells her he was ashamed to hesitate in front of his mother. She tells him she would have said yes too, if he had asked her. They agree on an amount together, a little less than he promised, and he calls his mother back and explains, gently, that he and his wife decided it as a family. His mother is quiet, then says, “Good boy. That is right.”

The house deposit is still a long way off. The shifts are still hard, and they will argue again. But they have made a rule: no family money promised without the other one. And on Sunday nights, before his shift, they pray together, even if only for two minutes.

The planes still come in low over Māngere. The print still hangs on the wall. Lani reads the middle line now, every time she passes. Two shall withstand. Together, with God in the middle, the cord holds.