Sense-ible Ruminations, Part I

"Sense of Smell" tapestry, Musée de ClunyI've been thinking about some of our senses lately, and how they bring us information. Humor me as I share my mental meanderings with you in a series on the senses, both literal and figurative. I really don't know where they'll go, but then when do I ever know where my blog posts will go?

If I had to give up any of my five senses, I think I would want to give up my sense of smell. It's never been that good, and I think it's getting worse as I age.

Of any time in my life when smells have etched memories into my brain, it would be my childhood. I remember the smell of incense in the Thai and Chinese temples and at people's outdoor shrines. I remember the smell of plumeria (frangipani) flowers on the trees in our back yard. I remember the overpowering smell of roses in the air freshener my grandma had in her bathroom. I remember the smell of sweat on my classmates as we came in from playing hard outdoors. I remember loving the smell of a very expensive perfume called "Joy," by Jean Patou, when I was a teenager. I remember the smell of lychees in syrup as the last course in a Chinese multi-course meal at a celebration. I remember the smell of french fried potatoes with mayonnaise sauce at the fish shop near my auntie's apartment in Holland.

All of those are nice smells, but none are such that they would save my life (which, I think, is the acid test as to how important a sense is). I've never been in a fire where the smell of smoke tipped me off, for example.

As I get older, my sense of smell seems to be less acute. I walked through a local public elementary school with a superintendent the other day and couldn't tell if I was smelling mold, or just the after-effects of forty years of sweaty kids traveling through the halls. We called in the mold-checking guys anyhow, to be safe.

Last night I was eating trail mix, and found a little moth, I think, in it. In horror, I handed it over to my husband, who immediately remarked that he could smell weevils in the trail mix. And he proceeded to find a quarter-inch grub happily squeaming along. Ugh. I'm a seasoned missionary kid, so "Ugh" and "Eeuw" are all you're going to get out of me on that one. I did not, for the record, eat any more of the trail mix. But why could I not be blessed with the ability to "smell weevils" like my husband can?

When it comes to seasonings, I know they make food taste better, but I really couldn't tell you, by sniffing, the difference between sage and oregano, thyme and oriental five-spice mix. And remembering the acid test, who cares anyhow? It isn't something that I need to save my life.

My husband, however, is a different story. He has a nose that not only sticks out a little farther than mine (he consented to this picture), but it also smells things much better than my nose does. I can cook just fine, but then I turn the seasoning task over to him because he can tell the difference between thyme and oriental five-spice mix. And he can smell smoke in the air, and when food is going bad in the fridge. He gets me to stop when we're walking up the hill and compare the scents of the roses in the border garden of the house on the corner of Larch and Twelfth Streets. His nose tells him all kinds of things, and he remarks on those things. That's when I start sniffing, trying my best to discern the smells he's perceiving. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.

What I have discovered is that my husband also has a strong figurative sense of smell. Much earlier than I, he can smell trouble when things are going sour between us. I might be upset about something in the moment and react to it without analyzing what's happening. In the meantime, he's backing up the train and saying, "Whoa, we need to talk. We're in danger. I don't want us to get into a destructive cycle where we become distant and angry at each other." I have always taken him seriously at those moments, because he has a nose trained by experience that I've not had. I trust his sense of smell as to when the situation is becoming life-threatening.

Inexperienced though I may be at these sorts of things, I have found my own antennae perking up and my worry-chemicals firing when I hear or read of frustrations in marriages I know of. Someone may gripe in person or on their blog about what a spouse did, and I just go "hmm," and chalk it up to the ups and downs of life. But then someone else speaks or writes about frustrations with their spouse and suddenly my sense of smell picks up sourness, a sense of danger and something that's starting to go bad. I'm not sure they're smelling what I'm smelling. I wish they'd stop and say, "Whoa. Back up the train. We're in danger and need to drop all else and work on this. I've got to help my spouse smell the danger as well, and find some way back into a good relationship."

I've just watched from a distance as yet another marriage I know has soured and then died. For the three kids caught in the mess, it's the end of security and a change in their worldview. I've seen their happy little faces get more and more sober and sad. Having seen the fallout from times when people didn't use their "sense of smell" in these things, I am absolutely, 100% confident that it's not worth it for a couple to simply get used to the sourness and let things continue to rot.

So, could I get along without my sense of smell? Most likely. But without my figurative sense of smell? Never. It's crucial to survival.

Through us, he brings knowledge of Christ. Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation—an aroma redolent with life. (2 Cor. 2:14, Message)