It’s Going to be OK

I’m OK.

Things are rough, but I’m OK.

Today was Palm Sunday. We were in our usual spots at the beginning of the service. Well, actually I was a little late, but so was the worship team. We were all in the pastor’s office doing our usual prayer when the pastor came in to tell us it was show time.

There was a procession of little kids waving palm fronds (did you know the palm tree’s name comes from the Greek “palma” meaning "hand" because the fronds look like hands?) and singing songs. The green leaves waved as they wound their way through the aisles, like raised hands of praise.

It is a reflective moment... thinking about that first Palm Sunday when Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem before Passover (did you know the name of that city stems from the words for Jew's peace?). I think, perhaps, some in that crowd would also be on hand early the coming Friday morning demanding He be put to death.

The little kids sang a song. And then another. I could feel Brenda's tension growing. A third song began, and she stiffened even more. I leaned over, whispered.

“Do you want out of here?”

Her eyes suddenly reddened. She nodded.

I took her by the hand and led her to the Prayer Room. She sat on the couch, oblivious of the image of the carpenter on the wall above her, the one made of prayers and scribbled copies of the Gospel of John (see recent posts).

“I hate sitting there and seeing other people’s perfect children,” she cried.

“I know.”

“I don’t know why God hates me.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Then why did He give us a baby that died and retards for the next two?!”

My words jerked out firmly, sharply.

“First, I don’t see those three children as bad things. I am constantly sad that Willy died, but I see his being a part of my life as a blessing, no matter how short it was. Secondly, I love those two boys and I count them as blessings also. Thirdly, you have called yourself a ‘slut” lately, and I don’t see you that way either. It upsets me when you talk about yourself that way. You can feel anyway you choose, but I will not remain silent when I disagree about such important things because that implies agreement. From now on, when you say something I disagree with, I will either state how I feel about it, and you can accept that I have another view, or I will walk away.”

The conversation went down hill from there.

I tried being gentle, giving her space to breathe, but she couldn’t bear it, and she left. I went back to my seat. I listened to the message, I worshiped at the end.

She came back at the end of the service. Collected her mom.

I went down to the Sunday School class where we are discussing the novel The Shack. I’m supposed to be helping the discussion in that class somehow, but I don’t know if I’m doing any good.

I went home. She was fixing lunch for the boys. I took a walk. She was gone when I returned. I noticed she had packed stuff, suitcases were missing.

She came back. She had a bottle of red wine and a bottle of some sort of Bailey’s knock off wine. She poured herself a tall glass. If she drank it she would be breaking her sobriety.

“Are you sure you want to do that? I won’t tell you what to do, but you may regret doing this.”

“I want to get drunk.”

“I would like to talk about our future, as we said we would, but I don’t want to be able to say we had the conversation when you were half crocked.”

“I won’t be.”

I took a funnel out of the drawer. Put it in the wine bottle.

“It is your choice. You can still drink it later, but I would prefer you wait until after we have this conversation.”

She didn’t take a drink. But she didn’t pour it back into the bottle either.

We went outside to talk.

We talked about where we are at. We didn’t raise our voices. We didn’t interrupt each other. We spoke about how we had hurt each other. We spoke about the possibility of divorce. How this Thursday's counseling session will probably be the time we make that decision.

She drank that glass.

And another.

And another.

On Sunday nights she usually goes to an AA meeting, and I go to the Al Anon meeting downstairs. She, of course, wasn’t going to the meeting tonight.

“I’m going to the meeting anyway,” I said. “Whether or not we stay together, I need the tools they have there to know how to live and deal with an alcoholic."

She was surprised.

When I went in I saw her sponsor through the door. I nodded at her. She came over. I thanked her for telling Brenda that she could stay with her, that it is good she has options. I said I want what is best for her, even if it means difficult times for me.

I just got back from that meeting. She is passed out in bed.

During our conversation this afternoon she said that when she got home from church she thought seriously about taking every prescription medicine we have. All her antidepressants, all of mine. All of Jeremiah’s anti-seizure medicine, and all my sleeping pills. Isaac's Ritalin. All of her mother’s meds for schizophrenia and anything else she could find.

She didn’t.

I just paused to rushed in and check her... Is she breathing? Yes. She is just asleep...

Right after church today a woman came up to me. She said Isaac had asked her to come visit Brenda this week. To pray for and with her.

Isaac is worried.

I just tucked him and Jeremiah into bed, said prayers over them. I tucked Brenda in as well. I went out to the car and got the antidepressants out of her packed luggage and brought them in. Sat her up, Made her take the pill. Tucked her in.

She asked if I had dumped out her wine. I told her I had. I said she had already gotten out of it what she wanted. I hid the bottle of cream stuff she bought me. It’s full. Hard to toss full bottles of anything.

In putting Isaac to bed I told him I knew what he had said to the woman in our church. I did my very best to reassure him that I love him. That Mommy loves him. That it is my job to worry about him, and Mommy, and Jeremiah, and Rocky and paying the bills and all that. I told him to do his best not to worry, just know he is loved, and concentrate on being a kid. I could tell he felt better.

Last week I wrote a post about “John”. I wrote about the Gospel of John and the three other books of the Bible attributed to him. I talked about other uses of the word, and how they all mixed together in my heart. But there was something really important in that post as well (if you haven’t read it, check it out... it is the most difficult thing I can remember writing).

One part of that post was a prayer. At the end.

I want to just say that since I prayed that prayer, I have felt a certain relief. My heart still aches, but some of the poison I have been carrying was countered by that antidote of prayer.

During the Sunday school class this morning there was a brief conversation about helping each other by sharing each other’s grief. One woman, a very sweet woman I love a great deal, said something like: "All pain is the same." I know she meant that we all get hurt, and in being hurt we can empathize with others enough to help each other.

I made a stupid statement correcting her on the point of pains being the same, though I knew I was parsing the words too carefully for the discussion.

What they didn’t know was that while I had my head down, listening to the conversation which had sprung from a portion of the novel The Shack, describing a terrible pain the central character was experiencing, I was reliving my greatest pain.

I was thinking about that boy of mine who died fifteen years ago, and how much I loved him, and how much I still miss him (similar to the hurt of the character in the story, but still, very different). I was thinking about my wife, fleeing our church at the sight of healthy happy children. I was thinking about my son who sought help for his mother today when he saw her leave the service with tears in her eyes.

No one saw me wipe the tear from my eye. Everyone heard me critique the statement that all pain is alike.

This world hurts. This world is a constant groan from the aches and pains born of free will and self centeredness.

I’m really OK.

I know that there are difficult times ahead. It may be that within the week I will remove my wedding ring, in learning our marriage cannot be saved. It may be that within the week I will be given fresh hope that it can be saved.

I know that tears sometimes come when wounds are opened, whether new or old.

Whatever path my life takes, I know there are difficult times ahead.

But I know I’m going to be OK.