The Other Side of Darkness (29 page)

I drive around town for a while, trying to decide what to do next. In my note I said I would be at Lynette’s, helping with the Thanksgiving dinner, but it’s not even eight yet, and I seriously doubt she’d even be out of bed on a nonworking day. So I redeem the time by engaging in spiritual warfare over this town’s darkest corners. Others may be sleeping in, thinking they are safe and sound, but I know that’s not the case. Satan never slumbers; he is always on the prowl, ever ready to deceive and devour and destroy. So I drive my nice new car over to the seedy side of town, cruising past the sleazy buildings and the grubby streets that are becoming more and more familiar to me. As I slowly pass each of these regular sin spots, I pray and pray
and pray. And the more I pray, the better I feel. I know that I’m being a faithful prayer warrior and that the Lord will bless me for my diligent work. Considering this is a national holiday, I feel especially validated by my sacrifice—as if I am working overtime.

Finally I see it’s nearly ten o’clock, and I realize I can probably make an appearance at Lynette’s house without raising too much concern. But she is still surprised when she sees me at the door.

“What on earth are you doing here now?” she asks with raised brows. “The dinner isn’t until two.” Even though she’s wearing a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms and her hair is mussed, she still looks beautiful and glamorous, and I feel an old familiar twitch of envy.

I hand a grocery bag to her. “I thought I could help you. And I brought the stuff for the casserole; I’ll make it here.”

She frowns, and I can tell she’s not too thrilled with my unexpected appearance.

“Or I can just leave and go home,” I snap at her. “You made such a big deal about this Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. You were so worried, and I thought you might need help, and I just—”

“Yeah yeah.” She grabs my arm and pulls me into her house. “You caught me by surprise, Ruth. But, really, it’ll be good to have some help.” We’re in the foyer now, and I can see she’s done some decorating with autumn leaves and pumpkins and things. “You could’ve called first, given some warning, you know.” She gives me a funny smile. “Oh yeah, but I forgot, you don’t know how to use a phone, do you?”

“Look, if you don’t want me—”

“No no … you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m just so frustrated trying to figure out how to make stuffing and get the turkey in on time
and …” She suddenly looks hopeful. “Hey, you want to take care of that for me?”

I shrug. “If you want.”

“Great, let me take that bag for you and your coat.”

And the next thing I know she’s tying a chef’s apron around me and showing me her mess of ingredients, which are splayed all over her large center island like an explosion. My sister has never been too organized.

She’s looking into my grocery bag now. “The only thing in here is sweet potatoes, Ruth. Didn’t you bring anything else to go with this?”

“It’s in the car.” I begin to rearrange her ingredients, trying to create some order out of her chaos.

“I’ll get it.” She makes a quick exit. I can’t really blame her for wanting to escape this mess, but I’m not completely sure I can figure it out myself. I take a deep breath, tell myself to focus, and then notice she does have a recipe out. So, for starters, I study it, then I go back to organizing her ingredients. I glance at the clock and wonder if it is even possible for this turkey to be ready by two.

“How many casseroles did you plan to make?” she asks as she sets a couple of bags on the counter.

“Some of that’s for later,” I tell her as I begin peeling an onion. I know it’s a lie, but I feel a need to cover my own stupidity.

“For later?”

“Yeah, I’m going to make a casserole for church too. We’re having a potluck on Sunday.” Okay, that’s an even bigger lie. But on the other hand, a potluck at church might be rather nice. Maybe I’ll call Cynthia later today and suggest something like this. A real Thanksgiving dinner with people who actually respect and understand the
holiness of holidays like this, people who know how to pray and how to give thanks from their hearts. If only I could be with them instead of my relatives today. Cynthia mentioned that she’d be sharing the holiday with the Pratts and Bronte and that my family would probably be welcome in their home too, but I knew Rick would never agree to that. And I suppose, to be honest, it would be uncomfortable to have him there with me. I’d worry that he would attempt to interrogate my friends or to put down our church. It just wouldn’t be worth it.

I’m relieved that Lynette is giving me space in her kitchen. In fact, after a while I think she’s abandoned me altogether. Sammy, who is wearing a fairly authentic-looking Native American headdress and running around the house like he’s had too much sugar, pauses just long enough in the kitchen to stick his fingers into things or to nab small fistfuls of candy corn that Lynette thinks she placed out of his reach.

“Where’s your mom?” I put the candy corn on a higher shelf.

He pauses and stares at me as if he’s seeing me in his house for the first time. “She’s in her room getting
all pretty.”
He smirks at me. “How come you’re not?”

I feel like reprimanding the child but stop myself. He just needs prayer. Perhaps that’s why I am here, to be a prayer warrior for my family. Maybe I will have an opportunity to share something meaningful and spiritual today.
O Lord, help me to be a light in this darkness
.

T
he girls showed me the new keyboard,” Rick tells me shortly after the three of them get to Lynette’s house. It’s a little before two, and so far no one else has arrived.

My heart begins to pound now; this is not a subject I wanted to discuss just yet. But I pretend to be absorbed in putting the potatoes on the stove and getting the gas flame to just the right height.

“Mary said you sold some things so you could afford it, Ruth.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done that, sweetheart. I know how much you loved that hall tree.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I really wanted the girls to have a keyboard. Mary is coming along so well.”

“I know.” He smiles at me. “She asked to bring it. I hope that’s okay. She thought she and Sarah could do a song later on.”

I smile back at him. “That will be nice.”

“Well, I know you’re busy in here”—he bends down and gives me a kiss on the forehead—“so I won’t disturb you.”

“Aren’t you two sweet,” Lynette says from where she’s attempting to whip cream on the other side of the kitchen.

Rick laughs. “Yeah, Lynette, we still got it after all these years. Are you impressed?”

Lynette makes a face at him. “Well, I’ll never be able to catch up with you guys in years of marriage.” She laughs. “Not even if I
combined both of my marriages. But don’t worry, Rick. We’ve still got it too. Just ask Jeff if you don’t believe me.”

Jeff is getting something out of the refrigerator now. “Take her word for it,” he says to Rick. “And if I were you, I’d get out of the kitchen. Wanna beer”—he holds out a bottle toward Rick—“while we watch the game and wait for the turkey to get done?”

Rick tosses me an uneasy glance and then, to my utter shock, says, “Sure, why not?”

I give him a look that is meant to convey my great disappointment, but he just ignores me. “Is Matthew coming?” I ask, hoping he will catch this little hint.

“He told me he’d probably stop by.” Rick takes the opened bottle from Jeff. “But it might not be until later.”

“He’s not working on Thanksgiving, is he?” says Lynette.

“No, but he is going to go to his roommate’s parents’ house first.”

“Oh, that sounds serious,” teases Lynette. “Meeting the parents. What’s next? A ring?”

Rick laughs, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. “It’s not like
that
. His roommate is a guy.”

Then the men disappear, and just as I’m about to question my sister’s judgment in serving beer on Thanksgiving, my mother comes in the back door.

“I could use some help,” she says as she sets a covered bowl on the countertop. “I’ve got some more things in the car.”

“I’ll get them,” offers Lynette. “You just take your coat off and make yourself at home. Be right back.”

“It’s in the trunk.” Without looking my way, Mom removes a long gray coat trimmed in fur. She sighs loudly as if exhausted from this small effort.

“Hi, Mom.” I try to insert some cheer into my voice.

“Oh, hello, Ruth.” She lays her coat on a kitchen stool and comes over to where I’m wiping off a countertop. “I didn’t see you there.” I want to ask what else is new but manage to simply nod as I scrub the granite even harder.

“It’s nice you could make it,” she says. “Lynette wasn’t sure whether your family was coming or not.”

“Well, I didn’t actually hear about it until yesterday.”

“We called and left messages, Ruth.” I can hear the irritation in her voice. Suddenly I feel like I’m about nine years old again.

“Is this everything?” Lynette deposits a couple of bags and a covered cake pan onto the counter.

“Looks like it.” Mom bustles over and immediately starts unpacking the bags, chattering happily with Lynette as she explains what she’s brought and why.

It feels as if I’m not even here. Or perhaps they think I’m just the hired help. But I decide not to let them get to me. Instead, I pray silently, binding the spirits of deceit and destruction as I rinse used kitchen utensils, then load them into the dishwasher. But even as I travail in prayer, I am remembering the prophetic word Cynthia gave me about my mother being my oppressor, and I cannot help but believe that, despite their deliverance prayers for me, it is still just as true today as it was more than thirty years ago.

“I think you got that clean enough,” Lynette says to me as I rinse and rinse the spatula in my hand. I bend over and place it in the dishwasher, then I slowly stand up and stare at her.

“You okay?” she says in a quiet voice.

“I’m fine!”

“You don’t sound fine.” Lynette frowns. “You sound angry.”

“I’m just irritated at some people’s ideas of what Thanksgiving is all about.”

“What
is
Thanksgiving all about?” demands Lynette.

“It’s supposed to be about giving thanks to God, not beer and football.”

“You’re mad because Rick’s drinking one little brewski?” Lynette laughs. “It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe not to you! But have you thought about how—”

“Girls, girls, girls.” My mother may be speaking in plural, but she directs her reprimand at only one of us. Me. “Don’t forget, Ruth,
we’re family.”

Now to my surprise, this actually makes me laugh. “We’re family?
Family?”

“Hey, we might not all be perfect,” says Lynette in defense, “not like you, anyway. But Mom’s right, we
are
family. And today is a day to enjoy being together and to celebrate our family—”

“Maybe it is for you,” I say to her, “but I do not find this enjoyable.”

“Then maybe you should take a look at yourself.”

“You mean because I don’t think things like football and beer and some stupid cartoon that the kids are parked in front of have anything to do with Thanksgiving?”

“It’s a cartoon about Thanksgiving.”

“Not the
real
Thanksgiving, Lynette. This is nothing but a worldly interpretation of Thanksgiving. The kind of celebrating that Satan wishes we’d all succumb to. Full of demonic lies and hidden sins and deep-rooted animosities.”

“Why would you say that?” My mother uses her wounded tone now. “Why would you talk to your sister like that, Ruth? Look how
hard she’s worked to put this day together. And you, the one who never even returned our calls, would act like this? What is wrong with you?”

I glance at Lynette and see she looks hurt. But why can’t they see I’m hurting even more? Why can’t they see that their alignment with the Enemy pains me so deeply I can feel it in my bones? Oh, I wish I’d never come here today. Why did I come?

“I just don’t understand you,” Lynette finally says. “I’m actually starting to believe you have a real mental-health problem.”

“That’s great,” I say. “It figures you would.”

“No, I’m serious. I’ve been doing some reading, and I—”

“That’s enough. I do not need to hear what you’ve been reading, Lynette. I have enough battles without going to war with you too.”

“But Lynette might have a point,” my mother continues, as if she and Lynette have been talking about me at length. “We’re concerned about your emotional health, and I think you should—”

“If you want to be concerned about anything, it should be my spiritual health. And you should be praying for me, not talking behind my back. But more than that, you should be deeply concerned about your own spiritual health. And if it makes you feel any better,
I’ve
been praying for you. I’ve been doing spiritual warfare on a daily basis for this whole family, for this whole town. And I am getting weary.”

“That’s just it,” says Lynette. “All this talk about the Enemy attacking everyone all the time, all this living in fear, Ruth. It’s not what God intended—”

“How would you know what the Lord wants? Do you even go to church? Or read your Bible? Do you get on your knees and really pray against the Enemy? How can you even pretend to know what I’m talking about?”

“But what good does all that do you?” asks my mother. “You always seem overly stressed and worried. I think your religion is harmful.”

“For your information it’s
not
religion. It’s the Lord, and it’s my life. And without the Lord and his deliverance, I might as well be dead and buried.”

My eyes fall on the turkey platter now. It’s sitting by the stove, ready for the turkey. But it occurs to me how ridiculous this is. It’s like serving your dinner in a toilet bowl. But why should this surprise me? Our family has always been messed up. But staring at the platter and knowing that it’s still defiled, I also know that I cannot eat a single bite of the turkey that is served from it. In fact, no one should. “See that?” I point to the platter. “That is just one of the many things that is plaguing this family.”