The Hurricane - Part II
Dear Readers,
I am doing this the old-fashioned way - with pen and paper. It's been a long time since I've written anything by hand besides notes jotted on Post-its. In truth it feels strange, awkward. However, I've chosen this form of communication because I want to slow down and not fly through my story. I've chosen to use longhand because there's something intimate about it. It reminds me of a time, not so very long ago, when people actually corresponded via letter. Yes, in a way this blog entry is a letter - a love letter.
I went to church this morning. The early service seemed appropriate. It is always very quiet, no music, no show. It is just a simple, reflective, prayerful moment in God's house. I went to the early service alone to talk to God, to ask him to help me tell this story, my story, and more importantly his story. I wanted to have the courage and skill to tell it in a way that would not only help people understand how we all have to move through pain, sorrow, and tragedy, but in a way that would bring glory and honor to the one that makes it possible. You see it is God who dwells at the heart of this tale.
Come with me, back to the day I discovered that God was real. Not only was he real, but he was on my side even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness.
LightAndShadow
The Hurricane
Part II
I didn't sleep for days after my visit to the dark-haired councilor. I simply couldn't close my eyes. I had to watch. Watch him - my husband, and watch after my world. I had to try to see all the things I hadn't seen. Over and over I asked myself how this happened. How did I not see?
Early on in this process of knowingly living with a drug addict I learned that the first thing to go was the ability to tell fact from fiction - the ability to separate lies from truth. It is something that I would struggle with for a very long time, but grapple with it I did, and I began with the finances. I had to know where the lies were buried - where the truth was hidden.
Once my husband confessed to his "problem", for a time anyway, he became extremely cooperative. He was looking for a way out and he turned to me to find it. He turned to me to start clearing the rubble away so he could once again stand tall.
For ten years my husband had been solely responsible for the family finances. He managed everything except my part-time earnings. My money went to extras. Vacations. Hobbies. My love of art and music. Culture. He provided the bread and butter of life and I provided the joy. From the day we were married we separated our money in this way. In fact, we maintained totally separate accounts. His and her credit cards, savings, and checking. The mortgage was the only thing that held both of our names. It was unusual, perhaps. But in the end it was the thing that saved me from financial ruin.
In light of the situation I found myself in, I asked to see the bills. I need to examine all the accounts. He was more than accommodating. My dear husband charged out to his car and removed several brown paper grocery bags from the locked trunk. He carried the bags full of old bills and notices he'd hidden away into the dinning room. Bags of bad news. He poured the evidence of his mismanagement, and yes, his thievery onto the table and quickly excused himself. He had to go to work, of course. So dedicated to that job he was. With one eye I watched the threatening bits of unopened mail flutter from the bags and land in a pile on the table, and with the other I watched him walk out the front door.
Alone in the house with a cup of tea to keep the chill away, I faced months of bills, notices, and bank statements. With a trembling hand I spread the unopened envelopes out on the table's slick glass surface and forced back tears. I would not cry, not yet. First I had to face the truth.
I decided to approach the mess like a professional - like an accountant. I grabbed a pad of paper and a calculator and sorted through the envelopes like they belonged to someone else. I treated the envelopes like they contained some careless woman's devastation, and not my own.
After several hours of sorting, adding, subtracting, and fighting off more horrified tears, I found that in a matter of a few short months my husband had accumulated $40,000.00 in credit card debt. He'd removed $20,000.00 from our child's college fund. He'd borrowed $30,000.00 from his retirement account. His personal savings account was depleted, and his checking account had a negative balance. There was a little over $1000.00 in NSF fees alone. The total indebtedness was just over $90,000.00 dollars. At that time, about six years ago, his income was $86,000.00. My part-time job paid about $30,000.00. My husband had single-handedly spent just about everything we would bring in that year. As far as I could tell almost all that money had gone, over the course of a four to five month period, to crack cocaine. I was devastated - terrified that anything could be that powerful. That a bit of rock could drive a good man to endanger his family in this way. Yes, the dark-haired councilor had warned me, but the state of our finances proved it to me. It was worse, much worse, than I ever could have imagined. And it wasn't over.
If I subtracted the money he used to float the mortgage, utilities, car payments and other we-gonna-come-turn-off-or-take-your-stuff essentials, I saw my husband's habit to be on the order of $500.00 per day. That's $15,000 per month. At that point, he'd spent $75,000.00 on crack. Imagine $75,000.00 in less than five months, and all the while it happened I'd been baking bread. Bread! If I ever cook for a man again, I swear he'll know just how much I love him, because all that bread baking I did left a bitter taste in my mouth. That...it most certainly did.
Naturally, the tears came. Days on my feet spent looking out of the front window waiting for him to come home, knowing that he was out there somewhere killing himself left me emotionally and physically unable to go on. I desperately needed a plan. That was obvious, but I'd used up the last of my reserve to sort through the mail. There was simply nothing left. I felt more alone than I'd ever felt in my entire life. I can't begin to describe the sense of panic and isolation that gripped me. I can't find the words to tell you the degree of anxiety I experienced.
Too tired to fight, I gathered up the most recent statements and put them in a shoebox. I considered calling my parents, but that would have to wait. I had no voice. No way to explain what had happened, what was happening, what would happen.
I took my shoebox of trouble and slowly climbed the stairs. My child was safely in bed, and sleep was calling me, too. I'd had enough. I crawled into bed hoping to sleep the sleep of the dead. Hoping, if the truth were told, to never have to wake up and face that box...that man.
There was a book on my nightstand. A book my mother had given me. It was a collection of key scriptures, beautifully bound in leather with gold edged pages. I'd set in on the nightstand as a decorative little something. It was just another beautiful item set out to look good. It was just like all the other beautiful things I owned.
Like sleep, that little book called to me. I'd never been a Bible reader - I knew God, knew of him, but my relationship with him was built on Catholic School training, Sunday Mass, and the live a good life Christian belief system instilled in me as a child. See, I knew God, but I didn't know his word. I didn't know that he could, and would speak directly to me through the word. Admittedly, I had a weak faith - nothing solid enough to grab onto, nothing to keep me from drowning when the hurricane came to wash me away.
But God...God can use even a weak faith, and use it he did. He called to me through that little book my mother had the foresight to give me. A voice in my head said, "Pick it up and I will show you the way!" It was clear as a bell, that voice was. The Holy Spirit had come in the role of comforter to bring me peace.
I opened that little book to a random page and there I read:
Do Not Be Anxious!
Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
My soul grabbed hold of that lifeline - those words. I reached out, took hold, and cried like a baby in God's arms. I knew that something, someone more powerful than crack, and debt, and fear, and anxiety was promising me protection. In a world where all trust had been broken I was being asked to trust one more time. I honestly didn't know if I could do it. I didn't know if I had the strength - the character. Everything in me wanted scream, "I can only rely on myself, and maybe not even that!"
I reopened the book to another random page and this is what I read:
Trust in the LORD with All Your Heart!
Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones.
And so began the next phase of my life. Trusting in God alone I stretched out on my bed and slept. It was not the deep-drugged sleep of a woman without the strength to face her life. No, it was the peaceful protected sleep of a child in her father’s arms.
To be continued
I am doing this the old-fashioned way - with pen and paper. It's been a long time since I've written anything by hand besides notes jotted on Post-its. In truth it feels strange, awkward. However, I've chosen this form of communication because I want to slow down and not fly through my story. I've chosen to use longhand because there's something intimate about it. It reminds me of a time, not so very long ago, when people actually corresponded via letter. Yes, in a way this blog entry is a letter - a love letter.
I went to church this morning. The early service seemed appropriate. It is always very quiet, no music, no show. It is just a simple, reflective, prayerful moment in God's house. I went to the early service alone to talk to God, to ask him to help me tell this story, my story, and more importantly his story. I wanted to have the courage and skill to tell it in a way that would not only help people understand how we all have to move through pain, sorrow, and tragedy, but in a way that would bring glory and honor to the one that makes it possible. You see it is God who dwells at the heart of this tale.
Come with me, back to the day I discovered that God was real. Not only was he real, but he was on my side even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness.
LightAndShadow
The HurricanePart II
I didn't sleep for days after my visit to the dark-haired councilor. I simply couldn't close my eyes. I had to watch. Watch him - my husband, and watch after my world. I had to try to see all the things I hadn't seen. Over and over I asked myself how this happened. How did I not see?
Early on in this process of knowingly living with a drug addict I learned that the first thing to go was the ability to tell fact from fiction - the ability to separate lies from truth. It is something that I would struggle with for a very long time, but grapple with it I did, and I began with the finances. I had to know where the lies were buried - where the truth was hidden.
Once my husband confessed to his "problem", for a time anyway, he became extremely cooperative. He was looking for a way out and he turned to me to find it. He turned to me to start clearing the rubble away so he could once again stand tall.
For ten years my husband had been solely responsible for the family finances. He managed everything except my part-time earnings. My money went to extras. Vacations. Hobbies. My love of art and music. Culture. He provided the bread and butter of life and I provided the joy. From the day we were married we separated our money in this way. In fact, we maintained totally separate accounts. His and her credit cards, savings, and checking. The mortgage was the only thing that held both of our names. It was unusual, perhaps. But in the end it was the thing that saved me from financial ruin.
In light of the situation I found myself in, I asked to see the bills. I need to examine all the accounts. He was more than accommodating. My dear husband charged out to his car and removed several brown paper grocery bags from the locked trunk. He carried the bags full of old bills and notices he'd hidden away into the dinning room. Bags of bad news. He poured the evidence of his mismanagement, and yes, his thievery onto the table and quickly excused himself. He had to go to work, of course. So dedicated to that job he was. With one eye I watched the threatening bits of unopened mail flutter from the bags and land in a pile on the table, and with the other I watched him walk out the front door.
Alone in the house with a cup of tea to keep the chill away, I faced months of bills, notices, and bank statements. With a trembling hand I spread the unopened envelopes out on the table's slick glass surface and forced back tears. I would not cry, not yet. First I had to face the truth.
I decided to approach the mess like a professional - like an accountant. I grabbed a pad of paper and a calculator and sorted through the envelopes like they belonged to someone else. I treated the envelopes like they contained some careless woman's devastation, and not my own.
After several hours of sorting, adding, subtracting, and fighting off more horrified tears, I found that in a matter of a few short months my husband had accumulated $40,000.00 in credit card debt. He'd removed $20,000.00 from our child's college fund. He'd borrowed $30,000.00 from his retirement account. His personal savings account was depleted, and his checking account had a negative balance. There was a little over $1000.00 in NSF fees alone. The total indebtedness was just over $90,000.00 dollars. At that time, about six years ago, his income was $86,000.00. My part-time job paid about $30,000.00. My husband had single-handedly spent just about everything we would bring in that year. As far as I could tell almost all that money had gone, over the course of a four to five month period, to crack cocaine. I was devastated - terrified that anything could be that powerful. That a bit of rock could drive a good man to endanger his family in this way. Yes, the dark-haired councilor had warned me, but the state of our finances proved it to me. It was worse, much worse, than I ever could have imagined. And it wasn't over.
If I subtracted the money he used to float the mortgage, utilities, car payments and other we-gonna-come-turn-off-or-take-your-stuff essentials, I saw my husband's habit to be on the order of $500.00 per day. That's $15,000 per month. At that point, he'd spent $75,000.00 on crack. Imagine $75,000.00 in less than five months, and all the while it happened I'd been baking bread. Bread! If I ever cook for a man again, I swear he'll know just how much I love him, because all that bread baking I did left a bitter taste in my mouth. That...it most certainly did.
Naturally, the tears came. Days on my feet spent looking out of the front window waiting for him to come home, knowing that he was out there somewhere killing himself left me emotionally and physically unable to go on. I desperately needed a plan. That was obvious, but I'd used up the last of my reserve to sort through the mail. There was simply nothing left. I felt more alone than I'd ever felt in my entire life. I can't begin to describe the sense of panic and isolation that gripped me. I can't find the words to tell you the degree of anxiety I experienced.
Too tired to fight, I gathered up the most recent statements and put them in a shoebox. I considered calling my parents, but that would have to wait. I had no voice. No way to explain what had happened, what was happening, what would happen.
I took my shoebox of trouble and slowly climbed the stairs. My child was safely in bed, and sleep was calling me, too. I'd had enough. I crawled into bed hoping to sleep the sleep of the dead. Hoping, if the truth were told, to never have to wake up and face that box...that man.
There was a book on my nightstand. A book my mother had given me. It was a collection of key scriptures, beautifully bound in leather with gold edged pages. I'd set in on the nightstand as a decorative little something. It was just another beautiful item set out to look good. It was just like all the other beautiful things I owned.
Like sleep, that little book called to me. I'd never been a Bible reader - I knew God, knew of him, but my relationship with him was built on Catholic School training, Sunday Mass, and the live a good life Christian belief system instilled in me as a child. See, I knew God, but I didn't know his word. I didn't know that he could, and would speak directly to me through the word. Admittedly, I had a weak faith - nothing solid enough to grab onto, nothing to keep me from drowning when the hurricane came to wash me away.
But God...God can use even a weak faith, and use it he did. He called to me through that little book my mother had the foresight to give me. A voice in my head said, "Pick it up and I will show you the way!" It was clear as a bell, that voice was. The Holy Spirit had come in the role of comforter to bring me peace.
I opened that little book to a random page and there I read:
Do Not Be Anxious!
Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
My soul grabbed hold of that lifeline - those words. I reached out, took hold, and cried like a baby in God's arms. I knew that something, someone more powerful than crack, and debt, and fear, and anxiety was promising me protection. In a world where all trust had been broken I was being asked to trust one more time. I honestly didn't know if I could do it. I didn't know if I had the strength - the character. Everything in me wanted scream, "I can only rely on myself, and maybe not even that!"
I reopened the book to another random page and this is what I read:
Trust in the LORD with All Your Heart!
Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones.
And so began the next phase of my life. Trusting in God alone I stretched out on my bed and slept. It was not the deep-drugged sleep of a woman without the strength to face her life. No, it was the peaceful protected sleep of a child in her father’s arms.
To be continued
posted by LightAndShadow at
12:01:00 PM
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