weeds

I read some untruths about myself the other day. A disgruntled leaver (part of a duo) had sent a back-handed last word to my husband and me via my mailman. When the letter came, many months back, Dave kept it from me. "It will just make you mad," he said.

For a long time, though I thought of the letter on occasion, I resisted even asking. I didn't want to be mad. I wanted this chapter of my life to end. I've come to believe that some good byes turn a page with decisive finality, and sometimes, though you might wish it to be different, the ones who leave just aren't part of your story anymore. So for a long time, I didn't ask.

But then I did. I had a sense that all the loose ends had finally been tied, and that all that was left--before I could really put this hurtful scene away for good--was to know the contents of that letter.

When I asked, Dave repeated his warning. "If you feel you need to, go ahead and read it. But I still think it will make you mad."

It made me mad. It made me furious, actually, because the accusations were both harsh and untrue. Things I did say were ignored; things I didn't say were invented. I was made out to be more than what I am; my husband was made out to be less. Motives were twisted. Words were rearranged and taken out of context. Silly comparisons were made between our actions and theirs. Within about five minutes, all the joy I usually carry around with me had drained right out my toes and been replaced with bile.

I fumed all that day, and all the next. And though I stopped thinking about the lies during church (which was wonderful, by the way ... from worship, to Dave's message, to the fellowship afterwards), as soon as I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot, the whispers started in again. "Who else did they tell this to? Who is out there believing I'd say such a stupid thing? Who has been turned against me because of these lies?"

I came home and meditated on those thoughts while I made lunch for Dave and the kids, and again while I changed into my gardening clothes, and again while I yanked weeds from the spot where green beans are supposed to be growing. I thought about them as I tackled a nettle patch, and dug the earth to brown again, and tossed bucket upon bucket of weeds into the chicken yard.

I pushed myself hard. Bitterness, it turns out, can be invigorating. All that pounding, stabbing, ripping and throwing made me feel a whole lot better on the outside, but inside, a battle raged.

About two hours into my therapy, a gray curtain settled over my garden and fat drops of rain began to kick up the dirt. I ignored the wetness for about five minutes, but when it became clear that it wasn't going to let up any time soon, I took my trough and my cushion into the greenhouse and took to ripping out the weeds among my tomatoes and artichokes.

God drove me to the greenhouse, and then His voice found a way past the pounding rain and my thrashing thoughts. I know the truth, my heart heard.

I know about the audience of One, and I allowed myself the tiniest measure of comfort from remembering that God does know the truth, and that my conscience is clean before Him. But to be slandered ... to have words put in my mouth that I'd never say ... to be completely misrepresented ... I just couldn't let it go.

Within seconds of hearing that quiet reminder, a hankering arrived from out of nowhere and convinced me stop digging and just enjoy the sound of rain. Dropping my trough, I moved to the center of the greenhouse, where one strip of dirt has yet to receive any seeds, and stretched out on my back. With my cushion serving as a pillow, I spent several minutes watching droplets of rain splat against the plastic ceiling above and form themselves into rushing rivulets that tracked off both sides of the roof. There's no other sound that calms me the way pounding rain does. It worked ... but only for a short while. Soon, my tortuous thoughts began to sneak back in.

But God intervened again. Just as the nastiness began to form anew, just as my heart began to quicken and a frown began to settle, He spoke again.

You have such a short time on earth. Is this really what you want to spend your time thinking about?

It wasn't. It isn't. So I asked Him to clear those thoughts from my mind, and He did. In their place, I spent twenty minutes thinking lovely thoughts about the One who tends my life, and surveys all my corners, and knows the gentlest ways to pull the weeds that need to go.

Fix your thoughts on what is true and good and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely, and dwell on the fine, good things in others. Think about all you can praise God for and be glad about. --Phil 4:8-9 (TLB)

forgiven

Over the years, I used to dream about them.

When they first left our church, I dreamt frequently that she and I were together in their home, finishing a Bible study or finishing lunch, laughing--and always, that sound mingled with the noise of her two girls, who played at our feet.

Sometimes, I dreamt that I saw him on the street, and he wasn't angry anymore. I found just the right words, in those dreams, to tell him how much we loved them both ... and how much we missed them. I woke crying after more than one such dream.

Once I actually saw her driving behind me in their family van. I caught her eye in the mirror and waved. She waved back. Her husband--in writing--had forbidden me to talk with her, even threatening to sue me if I ever made contact, but I couldn't help but turn and mouth through the back window, "I miss you." She mouthed it back, and the tears came before I could stop them.

When my husband learned, through the freely given admission of our friend, that he was contemplating and taking steps toward a disastrous decision--one that would jeopardize if not outright destroy his marriage and the security of his children--Dave acted. He responded to the pleas of this man's wife and stood in the gap between our friend and his desired choice. My husband's firm action infuriated our friend. The last time he stood in our church, it was in the doorway of my husband's office, where he raised his voice and yelled, "I could line up a hundred pastors, and not one of them would have done what you did." But my husband had simply obeyed God ... and helped save a family.

The choice had been halted. The family stayed together, and stayed in our town. They changed churches, obviously, but maintained a few mutual friendships. Sometimes I'd hear news about them, such as when their third child was born. The news was always bittersweet. I'd be happy for them, and grieved for us--grieved that our church family was missing out on joys that should have been ours.

I must have stopped and prayed a hundred times over the years, "Please, Father, help him to know that Dave acted because he loved him."

Sometimes, God says yes.

Not long ago, on a Tuesday night, Dave came home from the church office and gave me a look that promised he'd brought news. "I want you to read something," he said.

He opened his laptop, navigated to his mailbox, and brought up an email. I began reading--first the name of the sender, and then the words, "Dear Pastor Dave." The tears came so fast and so hard that I couldn't keep reading. I had to stop first and let six years of sadness run their course before I could take in those healing words.

He'd written four pages. What it all settled down to, was this: I've known for many years that I needed to say this to you. I was wrong to pull my family away from people who loved them, and who they loved. We've missed so much because I did that. I created a gap that shouldn't have been there. Pastor Dave, will you forgive me?

I don't remember ever feeling so light. We closed the laptop, put our shoes on, and drove off. Within five minutes, we turned down a road I'd missed, pulled up to a house I'd missed, and knocked on a door I thought I'd never approach again. He answered, and swung that door open. There wasn't time enough for surprise to register in his eyes, because my husband didn't hesitate. He reached first to take our friend's hand, and then pulled him into an embrace. I stood behind, and watched six years of regret melt away. The intensity on our friend's face, as he accepted and returned my husband's embrace, is a look I will see forever.

"We never stopped loving or missing you," I said, as I accepted my own hug. And then his wife was there, and I got the tearful reunion I'd prayed for and dreamt about.

Our God heals silent wounds and secret longings and dreams that seem long past mending. He whispers words to those who no longer hear us. He nudges hearts, and opens doors we're powerless to open.

And sometimes, He surprises.

on highs and lows ... and lists

Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love. --Eph 4:2b (NLT)

The young woman looked nervous, but determined. As I took a chair in front of the girl and her husband, I wondered why they'd called an emergency meeting. It didn't take long for me to find out.

“I’ve made a list,” she began, “and these are all the ways you’ve failed me as a pastor’s wife.”

I couldn’t believe what I heard. One by one, she read my faults out loud. Most things were petty and insignificant. A few would have been disturbing, if they were true. But they weren’t.

"You tried to get me to disobey my husband," the girl said. "When he sent me to buy a van for our family, you tried to tell me not to go."

I remembered the situation. But it hadn't gone that way at all. Initially, I'd urged her to not to step foot on a car lot without her husband, because I knew the salesmen would eat her alive. But when she told me her husband had actually asked her to go, I simply warned her to be extremely careful and to make sure she read the fine print.

"You tried to keep my husband from going on the street and sharing the gospel," she added.

That also wasn't true. I distinctly remembered the day this young girl had called me near tears. "I'm a sinner," she said.

I had laughed at that. "You and me both." But I could tell she wasn't talking in general terms. She had something specific in mind. "What's troubling you?" I asked.

She explained that her husband had been out witnessing several nights that week and planned to go again that night, but she wished he'd stay home. She missed him and felt the kids weren't seeing him enough.

"That doesn't make you a sinner," I said. "That makes you a woman." I went on to tell her that women are like barometers -- we have a sensitivity to the needs of our family and can tell when relational storms begin to brew. "You're just recognizing that the family needs more of his time. That's not a sin." I encouraged her to ask her husband if they could plan a night that week for just the family, and promised her that God's will would not be thwarted. If her husband wasn't out on the streets sharing the gospel that night, God would make sure someone else went in his place.

But this girl remembered the conversation differently, and now, months later, she chastised me. " 'How beautiful are the feet of those who bring Good News,' she quoted to me. "You shouldn't have tried to get my husband to stay home. He was out doing God's work, and you tried to stop him."

At that, I couldn't keep silent. I wanted to defend myself. It's a weakness I have, if you must know. I just wanted to sort through the misconceptions and straighten out the confusion. "I can see how you might interpret our conversation that way, but don't you remember that I ..."

"Let her talk!" the girl's husband barked. He'd positioned himself on a cabinet next to me, so the barking came at me from above. I looked up at eyes exuding anger and righteous indignation. His expression didn't change, not during our entire meeting, and every time I attempted to speak, he shut me down in the same commanding way. "Quit interrupting my wife!"

I took it as long as I could. I managed to sit through the whole list of faults, but as the last was read, I lost my composure. Now, when I had the chance to speak for the first time, I couldn't say a word. I left in a blur of tears.

I cried all the way to a friend's house, where my sister and my children were waiting. Once there, I ran smack into a dilemma. I needed to let Tarri know I was there so she could send the kids out, but I didn't want either Tarri or Paula knowing what had happened. But I couldn't stop crying long enough to compose myself. Sitting in the driveway, I looked across the lawn and saw Tarri waving at me out the living room window. I gestured to her to come out.

The smile she wore as she headed in my direction faded as soon as she saw my face. “What’s wrong?” I heared alarm in her voice. She knew where I'd been and knew who had called the meeting. "What happened? What did they say to you?"

I didn't want to tell her. I really didn't. And if it had been anyone else in the church, I probably could have kept my secret. But this was my sister, someone who knew all my deepest pains and had been with me through the toughest moments of my life. I slipped. "She ... she had a list," I said. "A list of all the ways I'd failed her as a pastor's wife."

"Oh, Shanny," Tarri said, and then she, too, began crying.

That worried me. "You can't tell anyone," I said. "Not even Paula." Even as I said it, I could see our friend standing in the window, watching the emotional scene and no doubt wondering what calamity had occurred.

I suppose it was as hard for Tarri to explain away her tears to Paula as it had been for me to explain my tears to her. She slipped, too, and told her best friend. Paula, in turn, told her husband. I learned that the next morning, when Tony showed up on my doorstep. He didn't say anything -- he simply handed me an envelope, patted me on the arm, and walked back to his car.

I’ve been keeping a list, also, his letter began. And here are all the ways you’ve blessed my family … As I stood on my porch reading, his words soothed my hurt places and brought a fresh wave of tears. Since the first day we entered this church, you've treated us with nothing but love and kindness. You’ve welcomed us into your home … you’ve been warm and loving to new people … you’ve made me laugh … you've raised children that have touched our lives ... you’ve brought my wife much closer to Jesus.

Ministry, I've learned, brings the highest highs and the lowest lows. You share in God's joy when someone understands grace for the first time. You share the fellowship of His suffering when others misunderstand, betray or reject you. There's no other calling quite like it.

Eight years ago, just one week before we arranged a circle of chairs on our front lawn and started our church, a pastor friend shook his head solemnly and warned, "You two are about to be hurt like you've never been hurt before."

Mike was right about that. He'd been there himself, so he looked down at the path below our feet and saw, with eyes of experience, that much pain awaited us on that road. But what Mike didn't see were the young people who would walk through our doors, grab hold of Jesus, and begin new lives. He didn't see the broken man who would sit down and open a Bible for the first time as Dave taught through a chapter, and later say, "Pastor, I understood every word you said ... and I'll be back for more." Mike didn't see the near-death marriages that would be revived and strengthened, or the hearts that would be healed, or the eyes that would be opened for the first time.

And he didn't see Tony walking up my porch steps with that beautiful letter in his hand.

I'll take it all, Lord. Whatever You permit, whatever You send, if it will make me more like Jesus in the end -- I'll take it all.