One of country’s most famous couples tells all

In her autobiography “It's All About Him: Finding the Love of My Life,” Denise Jackson, wife of country superstar Alan Jackson, writes about the rediscovery of her faith, the struggles of her marriage, and how she and her husband managed to keep it together. Here's an excerpt:

Chapter Twenty: A Work in Progress

I even asked the Lord to try to help me: He looked down from Heaven, said to tell you please; Just be patient, I’m a work in progress. — Alan Jackson, “Work in Progress”

He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. —Philippians 1:6, the Apostle Paul

I would love to say that after Alan and I renewed our vows, we were instantly changed into perfect Christians and the perfect couple. It would be great if life was like those extreme-makeover shows on TV, where people are rejuvenated into ideal versions of themselves, what they’ve always wanted to be.

But lasting transformation takes a lot longer than an hour-long TV show, or the amount of time it takes for plastic surgery to heal. Reality can be disturbing: I’ve come to realize that life’s journey isn’t a quick transformational spin, but a long, hard trek of slow growth in an upward direction. Spiritually speaking, sanctification, or becoming more like Jesus, is a lifelong process.

Growth in human relationships is the same way. In our committed-but-not-perfect marriage, Alan and I get up every morning and take each day as it comes, with a renewed pledge to each other and to Christ. We know our progress will be slow ... but we’re moving in the right direction.

Big Hair, Big Fun
One of the unexpected benefits of this may sound superficial, but it’s not. I’ve found that as Alan and I are at ease in our relationship with each other because of God’s peace in our lives, we laugh a lot more. Our relationship is a lot more fun. We’re free!

One weekend recently, we were staying at a friend of a friend’s lake home. The owners were not there, but they had pulled out all the stops to make us comfortable in their absence.

There were fresh flower arrangements in every room. There were gift baskets full of fruit, chocolates and fine wines. The kitchen was fully stocked with just about anything we could have wanted. It was incredible. No hotel in the world could have given more care to make us feel comfortable.

The first evening we were there, we’d made reservations at a nice restaurant that our friends had recommended. I went into the luxurious master bath and took a long, hot shower, enjoying the designer soaps, shampoos and gels our hosts had left for us. I wrapped myself in an enormous, fluffy towel, put on my makeup, and then got ready to do my hair. In order for it to look full and smooth, I’d have to blow it dry with a round brush and a strong hair dryer. The bathroom was stocked with curling irons, ceramic straighteners, everything. Humming, I opened drawers, searching for what I needed. I knew it was right there somewhere.

No hair dryer.

There were about six other fully stocked bathrooms in this lovely home. Still wearing my towel, I called to Alan. He was already dressed and ready to go.

“Honey,” I said sweetly, “can you check the other bathrooms and find me a hair dryer?”

“Sure,” he said. He went down the hall, and I could hear him opening drawers and cabinets.

He came back. “There’s no hair dryer anywhere,” he said.

I was already envisioning my hair, wet and plastered to my head, drying in pathetic clumps. I clenched my teeth and smiled.

“This house has absolutely everything,” I said. “There has to be a hair dryer somewhere. And you have to find it!”

Alan knew not to mess with me when I was having hair issues. He skedaddled away to search some more.

A few minutes later I heard a triumphant shout from the direction of the garage.

“Nisey!” Alan called. “I found one!”

Thank goodness, I thought.

A moment later, the bathroom door burst open and Alan strode in, an enormous leaf blower in his arms. He flipped it on, and a tornado of air blasted through the bathroom. Tissues flew everywhere. Alan looked like someone from “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

But I wasn’t going to question God’s provision.

“Okay!” I shouted over the din as my hair whipped in the hurricane-force wind. “You hold it steady, and just move it up and down when I tell you!”

Needless to say, when we finally arrived at the restaurant, I had very big hair. But it was dry.

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