The Other Side of Darkness (14 page)

My mother, clearly uncomfortable, never sat down and never touched anything, not even her own mother. After some very brief small talk, she excused herself, saying she needed to get home in time to fix dinner, then left. As I recall, she didn’t even mention when she’d be back to pick me up. Maybe she hoped my grandmother would keep me indefinitely. But I wasn’t too worried. Oh, I sensed that this old woman was a bit strange; I also sensed something kindred in her. And during the following week, I discovered we had much in common.

The first thing Grandma Clark did after my mother left was to teach me the proper way to wash my hands. She had only one small
bathroom in her sausage house, but she’d already put out a special towel and a bar of lavender soap just for me to use.

“You’ll have to sleep on the sofa,” she told me apologetically. “I’ve cleared out this cupboard for you.” She opened a built-in door. “See, there are the bed linens and blankets and a shelf where you can put your things.”

“Shall I put them away now?” I asked, eager to restore some order to my life.

She smiled. “Yes, please do.”

I quickly discovered that Grandma Clark had a strict routine for everything—most of it in regard to hygiene and cleanliness—and it had to be done right. I did my best to comply with her wishes, but I could tell that she wasn’t completely comfortable having me there. So I discovered that I could walk to the beach in less than ten minutes. And weather permitting, I spent as much time there as possible. This seemed to make us both happy. But when I got back, I knew to remove my tennis shoes or flip-flops and leave them outside, shake all traces of sand from my clothing, and then come in and properly wash up. Rinse, soap, scrub, rinse, soap, scrub, rinse, soap, scrub—three times or it was no good.

Sadly, I wore out my welcome within a week’s time. Not that I did anything particularly wrong but simply because Grandma Clark could only take so much. Still, in some ways it was one of the best weeks of my life. Yet in another way it was rather disturbing. For although I now understood I wasn’t the only misfit in this world, I didn’t want to grow up to be like this strange woman either. It was plain to see that she was lonely and troubled. Her only link to the outside world was an elderly friend named Gladys, who brought her groceries once a week, along with mail. And as far as I can remember,
her old-fashioned black telephone never rang once. The only time we used it was to call my mother, asking her to come get me.

As it turned out, my dad picked me up. It was on a Sunday, and he actually seemed glad to see me. But he wouldn’t set foot into Grandma Clark’s house. He merely called out a stiff greeting, asked if I was ready, and then I hopped into his car, and we drove away.

Grandma Clark died the following winter. I cried for her and begged to go to her funeral, but my mother said that there wouldn’t be a funeral, that Grandma Clark had been cremated, and that a friend, I assumed Gladys, would drop her ashes into the ocean. A very tidy way to end things, I supposed.

I feel surprised now at the clarity of this memory as the water in the shower suddenly grows tepid, and I realize that I’ve drained the hot-water tank again. Not that anyone should notice or care since it’s nearly two in the morning. But after all that’s gone on tonight and after sitting in that foul-smelling movie theater followed by the greasy pizza parlor, well, I just couldn’t bear to go to bed feeling unclean. Now if I could only wash the images of that vile movie from my mind.

Rick doesn’t even move when my alarm goes off this morning. Not that this is so unusual since I almost always have to prod him out of bed for church anyway. But today I won’t try nearly so hard. In fact, a part of me (my flesh, I’m sure) would like to remain in bed too. Why not? It’s not as if any of us got a good night’s sleep. I try not to remember the details of how Matthew came home slightly inebriated again last night. Not to the point of throwing up, thankfully. And although he tried to cover it up with breath mints, he’d definitely been imbibing.

Even so, I was too spiritually drained (still struggling with the
aftereffects of the day) to deal with it. I left it for Rick to sort out. The two of them talked and argued rather loudly late into the night, and I managed to stay out of it. Although I did pray; over and over I begged the Lord to knock some sense into my foolish prodigal son. After the house finally got quiet, I took that long shower, then crept into bed, where I finally fell asleep, thoroughly exhausted.

Of course, it wasn’t long after that, at about three in the morning, when Sarah woke up, screaming in terror from a nightmare. Why should I have been surprised? As usual, I prayed with her, fighting off the demons that were playing havoc with her sensitive spirit. I felt certain this too was the result of that movie. I almost woke Rick just so he could see the consequences of exposing our children to that kind of darkness. But I didn’t. Maybe I felt a smidgen of sympathy for him since he’d already done his time with Matthew. Maybe I was just too tired.

I’m sure he thinks that gives him a good excuse to skip church this morning, which subsequently will excuse me from having to explain why I’m going to this morning’s meeting with Pastor Glenn and the others—something I’ve been dreading telling him about since yesterday. Perhaps Matthew’s drunkenness was simply the Lord’s intervention. Although I hate to think that. I couldn’t bear the idea of the Lord using my son in that way. I’m sure it’s the work of the Enemy.

“Are you getting up for church?” I quietly ask my still-snoozing husband.

He just groans and rolls over so I can’t see his face.

“Well, you did have a pretty late night with Matthew. Maybe you need a day of rest.”

“Uh-huh.” I can hear the relief in his deep sigh.

I pat him on the back and quietly gather some clothes from my closet, then get dressed in the bathroom. As I tiptoe out of our bedroom, I secretly hope the girls will still be asleep too, alleviating the need for me to explain why we’re not going to VBF this morning. Then I can just leave a note saying that I went to a meeting. But no such luck. Mary is already up and dressed and even mixing some pancake batter. My early riser.

She smiles at me. “Want pancakes?”

“Sure.” I look over her shoulder to make sure the electric griddle is at the right temperature, but she appears to have it under control. “Is Sarah up?”

Mary nods as she carefully pours her first pancake, watching as it sizzles on the hot surface. “Yep. She’s in the bathroom.”

My good girls. Up and dressed and ready to go to church, or rather the kids’ worship service. How am I going to break the news to them? But maybe I don’t have to. Why not just drop them at church like usual and then scoot over to the meeting, which is less than five minutes from the church? Really, who would be the wiser?

So after our breakfast of pancakes and applesauce, I get us out the door a few minutes earlier than usual.

“Does Matthew work today?” Sarah asks as I drive toward church.

“I think he’s supposed to go in at ten.” I turn on the windshield wipers to clear the drizzly rain from my fogged-up window.

“Wonder if he’ll even make it,” Mary says in a cynical tone as if she knows something about last night and her brother’s wayward behavior.

I focus my attention on the wet road, trying to decide if I should tell my girls that I won’t actually be in church this morning. Not that
they would care or even notice my absence since they rarely venture out of the kids’ worship area afterward.

“Why don’t I drop you girls by the door,” I suggest as I enter the church parking lot. “That way everyone doesn’t have to get wet.”

They seem to like this idea.

“See ya later,” calls Mary as the two of them pop out of the minivan and head for cover.

I wave, then slowly drive away as if in search of a parking spot, which actually could be a challenge since the parking lot is fuller than usual. Not a good sign. But when I’m sure my girls are well inside the building, I take a side exit, hoping that no one else is watching me. I feel like a kid playing hooky as I drive away from the church. Some might think this is irresponsible behavior, dropping my girls at church and then leaving, but how is this any different than the way I drop them off here for school each morning?

F
ighting off unreasonable guilt, I drive over to the address Cynthia gave me. The street name is familiar, but it’s not in a residential neighborhood. As it turns out, it’s an old drugstore at the end of a strip mall about a mile from Valley Bridge Fellowship. At first I think I may have gotten it wrong, but then I see Cynthia’s old white Subaru parked out front with a couple of other cars, including Pastor Glenn’s. Feeling a tiny bit relieved but still nervous, I park alongside her car and then dash toward the building, dodging raindrops as I go.

“Good morning, Ruth!” Cynthia holds the door open for me. “Isn’t your family with you?”

I remove my damp coat, give it a shake, then explain that Rick is tired from a late night and that Matthew is working.

“And the girls?”

A small wave of guilt washes over me as I drape my coat over my arm. “I let the girls go to the kids’ worship service at the church,” I say quietly, glancing over to where Pastor Glenn and Kellie and several others are chatting by a table with coffee and things. “It just seemed easier.” I almost mention how full the church parking lot was but think better of it.

She nods. “Yes, I can understand that. At least for the time being.”

Soon there are a couple dozen people in the room, most of them from VBF but a few new faces too. Pastor Glenn invites us to
be seated in the metal folding chairs arranged in a half circle with a small wooden podium facing them.

“Welcome,” he says, then chuckles. “Although I’m not totally sure exactly what I’m welcoming you to. Maybe it’s just a great spiritual adventure.” Then he briefly retells what happened to him yesterday, how the council and elders blindsided him, and how discouraged he was afterward.

“I felt like Job,” he says sadly. “Or maybe Jesus during those last trying days. It seemed that the whole world had turned against me. I even began to question myself, to doubt the Lord’s hand and call upon my life.” He shakes his head and looks out over us with tear-glistened eyes. “Even the night of the concert, that unforgettable storm, the rain, the lightning, the loss of power—well, it really got me to thinking that perhaps I was more than just physically all wet.”

He pauses, and I’m not sure if he means this as a joke, but then he continues. “And finally to suffer the judgment and condemnation of men I considered my brothers, my peers, my friends … well, as much as I tried to muster up my faith, as much as I wanted to believe and to trust in the Lord’s goodness and mercy, I found myself standing on the edge of despair, looking down into the black abyss of failure and doubt and gloom.” He holds out his hands in a hopeless gesture. “I was ready to give up.”

He pauses again, and the room is so quiet you can hear traffic driving by on the wet street outside. I’m sure I’m not the only one moved by his honesty, transparency, humility. I’m so relieved that he’s not holding back. We desperately need to hear his story and to feel his pain almost as if it’s our own. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what being the body of Christ is all about. When one hurts, all suffer.

“And that’s when I decided to get myself a cup of coffee,” he says
with an unexpected lightness in his voice. Several people chuckle at this, and soon we are all laughing, corporately relieved that the heaviness seems to be lifting.

“Yes, I know it must sound very shallow on my part, especially considering my dire straits and sagging spirits, but at the time I just really wanted a hot cup of joe. I suppose I thought it might help clear my head. And suddenly there appeared to me an angel of light.” He chuckles as if this too is a joke. “But it was actually my old classmate Bronte Wellington from Bible-college days. You can imagine my surprise when she made herself known to me.” He glances at Kellie and smiles. “Let me be perfectly clear. Although Bronte and I dated for a while in college, that is all behind me now. Mostly I’d like to tell you folks that she is one of the most spiritual women I have ever been privileged to know.”

He pauses again, and I can tell that everyone is curious as to where he’s going with this story. “Anyway, I want you to meet her,” he says loudly as if to cue someone. “Come on up here, Bronte.” He waves to a woman whom I now notice standing on the sidelines. I’d seen her in the parking lot but had assumed she was on her way to someplace else. Not that I like to judge people by appearances, but she doesn’t seem like a church sort of person.

I feel slightly stunned as this tall, beautiful woman steps up to join Pastor Glenn at the podium. With her shoulder-length blond hair cut to perfection, high cheekbones, and even features, she is drop-dead gorgeous. When Cynthia told me this woman had attended college with Pastor Glenn, I naturally assumed she was about his age, which I believe is fifty-something. But this stylish woman appears to be younger than I am. Not that I look so young, but she could be in her thirties. They make a striking pair. Pastor
Glenn’s dark, handsome looks contrast with her fair-haired beauty. But then I remember they’re not actually a couple.

“Bronte,”—Pastor Glenn places an arm around her shoulders and smiles—“why don’t you share with my friends your vision for us.”

She smiles back at him and then turns to us with an even bigger smile, complete with the straightest, whitest teeth I have ever seen. Really, she could model for toothpaste. “I’d love to.”

“Thanks.” Pastor Glenn pats her on the back, then returns to his seat next to his wife, loudly scraping his chair on the hard floor.

“Good morning, my friends.” Her voice is low pitched but feminine and maybe even what some would call sexy. “It’s so wonderful to be here with you, to be in your town, and to see that the Lord is already at work in your midst. My story begins many years ago, but I will skip ahead to about two months ago when I came to … well, I came to visit some friends in a nearby town. During that time I received a vision from the Lord. He showed me your town and how it was slowly being draped in darkness, falling under the Enemy’s influence, and how evil spiritual forces were at work here. In my vision I saw that Christians have been and will continue to be under fierce attack and that the suffering will be great.”