The Other Side of Darkness (3 page)

“You’re a really weird girl, Ruth Reynolds.” She rearranged my brush-and-comb set, probably just to bug me.

“Gee thanks.” I tried to sound sarcastic, not wanting her to know that her words cut deeply.

“I mean, you’re pretty smart and kinda fun to hang around with at school … sometimes. But you’re not like the other kids. No offense, Ruth, but you’re kinda uptight, you know? You sort of remind me of my grandma.”

Well, I didn’t know how to respond, and I can’t remember exactly what we did after that or how long she stayed while making these unpleasant observations, but I do remember being hugely relieved when she finally told me it was time for her to go home. And I went around my room and systematically put everything she’d moved, whether intentionally or not, back in its proper place.

The next day Marilyn told some of the other girls in sixth grade about my unusually neat room and my “circle of shoes,” and naturally I became the focus of their ridicule. Oh, I’m sure there were worse things than being called “Neat Freak” or hearing “Let the Circle (of Shoes) Be Unbroken” sung mercilessly for several days. And I learned to wear my “flat face.” I imagined myself as an Etch A Sketch that had just been shaken to void it of all images. Likewise I would void my face of all emotion. It wasn’t long before my classmates added “Miss Perfect” and “Weirdo” to my ever-growing list of labels, but I just continued wearing my flat face, determined not to let them know I cared. And I told myself that I didn’t really need friends.

Throughout junior high I maintained a low profile, high grades, and probably the beginnings of an ulcer, because my stomachaches seemed to be almost constant by the time I was fourteen. By then I had accepted that I really was a freak. There seemed to be no disputing this fact. My only goal was to survive school and peers and even my family, who were also treating me as if I was some weirdo that had
been dropped off from another planet. I used my imagination to get me through these hard times, convincing myself that someday I would actually have a life worth living. Looking back, I’m not even sure how I managed to do this, but I think television helped.

My mom didn’t like for us kids to watch too much television, but Lynette was a master at getting her own way. As a result, I often got lost in shows like
Mary Tyler Moore
, where I imagined myself to be as cool as Mary Richards, living on my own in a big city and having
real
friends who were fun and interesting. Or else I was part of the
Happy Days
crowd, where everyone but Fonzie wore nerdy clothes and Joanie Cunningham and I were best friends, except that she would be upset if she knew I nurtured a secret crush on her boyfriend, Chachi.

It wasn’t until the end of my sophomore year in high school that I finally got fed up with my lackluster little life. Tired of the Miss Perfect label and good-girl image, I made an effort to befriend Colleen Frazer. Two things about this totally out-of-character action still amaze me today—first, that I actually mustered the nerve to speak to this new girl who smoked and cussed and dressed like a Madonna wannabe and, second, that someone like her was willing to speak to someone as mousy and insignificant as me.

But it wasn’t long before Colleen was teaching me all her tricks, including smoking cigarettes, swearing like a logger, and wearing underwear as outerwear while holding your head up. Naturally, I kept my new tough-chick image top secret from my mom. By then Lynette had gotten our parents to lighten up on some of Mom’s restrictive dress-code rules, but she still had to sneak some of her makeup and certain clothing items to school. I simply followed her example … and then some.

Of course, it was the eighties, and everything about fashion was big and overblown. Big hair, bulky shoulder pads, fluffy layered skirts, and more layers of makeup—and for me it was like donning a costume as I put myself together at Colleen’s house each morning before school. My exterior was something I could hide behind, allowing me to act however I liked. The only problem was, I did feel a little phony, and I was actually pretty scared a lot of the time. The idea of getting caught by my mother constantly nagged at me, keeping me from completely cutting loose and having the crazy kind of fun Colleen was capable of. Still, my new defiant image was far better than being Neat Freak or Miss Perfect.

Oh, my rebel years … I’m sure my feeble attempt at insurrection would make most people laugh. I never really learned to smoke right, not the way Colleen did, inhaling it deep into her lungs and holding it there before she slowly exhaled, but I was a pretty good faker and knew how to hold the cigarette just right. And I never really drank like she did, although I would take a few sips and pretend to be tipsy, just to fit in. And when we were at drinking parties, I always kept a tight rein on myself, constantly glancing out windows or down the road to make sure the party wasn’t about to get busted. I was paralyzed by the fear of being dragged home by a cop.

But I did get pretty good at spewing out foul language that made even me cringe at times. I’d never admit it to anyone now, but I even used God’s name in vain at times. It shames me to think of this. In fact, it’s rather hard to believe that I, Ruth Anne Jackson, strong believer and faithful church member, ever managed to look and behave like such a tough girl during those high-school years. Although I suspect that some kids, like Marilyn Van Horn, knew it was all just an act. But the truth is, I was relieved when it was over
and done with, and I would be completely humiliated if anyone at church besides Colleen, whom I’ve sworn to secrecy, knew anything about that old Ruth Reynolds. And I hope and pray that my children never find out.

Suddenly I notice there’s a slit of pale morning light beneath the window shade, and the clock says it’s almost seven. Not wanting to be caught sleeping on the floor of the girls’ room when their alarm goes off, I roll over and quietly get onto my hands and knees and, feeling the stiffness in my bones, stand upright, then tiptoe out of their room and down the hall.

I take a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom, but I’m sure anyone who looked closely would suspect that I slept on the floor last night. Dark shadows rest beneath my slightly bloodshot eyes, and my skin is pale and sallow. My brown hair is flat and dull, showing the tinges of gray that started appearing last year, and my usual stubborn curls look worn out.

I’ve heard people say that forty is the new thirty, but I’m thinking my forty looks more like fifty or maybe even sixty today. But the Lord doesn’t want me to glory in my appearance, and the Bible says that “charm is deceitful and beauty is vain” and that the “silver-haired head is a crown of glory.” So I rebuke myself for my vanity and head to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Today, like so many other days, it will be oatmeal. Not because we particularly like oatmeal but because I’ve been attempting to cut back on the food budget. Paying the girls’ tuition last summer completely depleted our savings, and I’ve promised Rick that I’ll do everything I can to make up for it. Of course, this reminds me of yesterday’s “mistake,” filling me with a deep sense of dread and shame.
Dear Lord, please help me fix this
.

As I stir the rolled oats into the boiling water, I wonder if I could place a stop payment on the three-hundred-dollar check this morning. Oh sure, it would be embarrassing, but at least it would pacify Rick and restore peace in our house for the time being. Perhaps I could create some believable excuse, maybe even tell Pastor Glenn that the check bounced because we were overdrawn since I hadn’t deposited a check on time, which is actually the truth, sort of.

Unfortunately, I suspect that Pastor Glenn would see right through me. He’s gifted that way. He has this uncanny ability to discern things that are hidden deep inside of people. Especially when it comes to sinful things. I was somewhat shocked the first time I witnessed our savvy pastor giving what he calls a “word of knowledge” right in front of the entire congregation at a Wednesday night service. With just a few words, he reduced Tom Finley, a respected real-estate broker, to a blubbering child when his sin of “material lust” was exposed for all to see. But Tom thanked him and begged forgiveness, and it was really quite amazing—and moving. Although, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen any of the Finleys at church recently.

A few weeks ago at a Sunday morning service, Pastor Glenn did it again. This time he rebuked Paul Hendricks for having “adultery of the heart.” When Paul stood up to Pastor Glenn, telling him that he was wrong, Pastor Glenn told Paul that he also had a “spirit of deception” and that he wouldn’t be welcome in our fellowship until he publicly confessed these sins and repented. Naturally, this made Rick really mad since he and Paul have been friends for years.

“Pastor Glenn is going too far!” Rick said as we drove home after church.

“What happened?” Mary asked with typical preadolescent curiosity.

“Never mind.” I tossed Rick a warning glance. “Not in front of the girls.”

“Mom?”

I’m brought back to the present as I turn to see little Sarah coming into the kitchen. Her long honey-colored hair is still messy from sleep, but she’s dressed in her navy and white uniform, although the little red tie is not properly tied, and she has on only one white kneesock. I help her with the tie and ask about the missing sock.

“I can’t find any clean ones,” she whispers, mindful of her daddy’s recent change in schedule.

“Go look in the dryer.” I turn off the burner beneath the oatmeal. I retrieve bowls from the cupboard and milk from the fridge, then look again to ensure that I really turned off the stove. I don’t want to scorch our oatmeal.

Soon the girls are dressed and fed, snarls brushed out of hair, teeth brushed, and we are heading out to the car. But once again I go back to make sure I turned off the stove.

“It’s off, Mom,” Mary hisses at me in a loud whisper. “Why do you always do that?”

“I don’t want to burn the house down while your brother and dad are sleeping in it,” I tell her as we go out to the garage.

“Do you want to burn it down when no one’s there?” She climbs into the minivan.

This makes me laugh, and then my girls are laughing, and we’re all making jokes about burning down the house. And it feels good to make light of such things. But then I feel guilty. Are our jokes offensive to the Lord? Silently I repent as I pull in front of the church. And I remember the three-hundred-dollar check and wonder how I’m going to make that right.

My girls are just getting out of the van, telling me good-bye, when someone calls my name. I spot Cynthia Leman waving at me from the parking lot.

I halfheartedly wave back, and she hurries over to the car with a look of importance. Cynthia heads up the women’s ministries in our church, and as much as I try to respect her, I also cringe when I see her coming my way since it usually means one of two things. Either she wants me to help with something, or I’ve done something wrong. Cynthia has a gift similar to Pastor Glenn’s, and she often uses it in the women’s ministries. So far I’ve managed to avoid it personally, but the idea of being pointed out for all to see, being the subject of a public rebuke … well, it’s rather frightening.

“I’m so glad I caught you,” she says through my now-open window.

“Hi, Cynthia.” I force a smile.

“Are you feeling okay?” She leans down and peers at me with concern.

I shrug. “I guess I didn’t sleep too well. Does it show?”

She nods with a grave expression. “I want to ask you something, Ruth.”

Now I feel a mixture of relief and anxiety. On one hand, I’m thankful I’m not in trouble, but at the same time I know I won’t be able to say no to this woman of influence. And while some women in our church tell Cynthia no with regularity, those same women wear an invisible black check mark by their names. They are considered the less spiritual in our church. “Immature, selfish, carnal Christians … not nearly as devoted to serving as some of us.” Oh, no one actually says this in so many words, but it’s a well-known fact within the inner circle. I sit up straighter in my seat, adjusting my smile accordingly. After
all, it does feel good to be part of the inner circle. It’s a level of spirituality I have longed for.

“What can I do for you?”

Cynthia explains Pastor Glenn’s new vision for outreach, his plan for expanding our church borders, increasing membership, reaching out to the community. “We’re having a meeting this morning,” she says in a quieter voice as if she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “By invitation only. And Pastor Glenn asked me to be sure to invite you.”

My smile is feeling more genuine. “I’d love to come.”

“Good. It’s at ten o’clock. And if you don’t mind, could you run by the bakery and pick up some goodies? I’d do it myself, but I promised Pastor Glenn that I’d make some copies for the—”

“No problem. But I better get going. I think I’m causing a traffic jam.”

She nods. “See you at ten.”

As I drive away, I go back and forth, trying to decide whether to stop by the bakery now and then go home and take a shower and clean up or the reverse order. I don’t know why it takes me so long to make this decision. I just can’t afford not to do this right, not to do it perfectly. Finally I pray, asking the Lord to guide me.

When the traffic light toward downtown is green, I take it as a sign and head for the bakery first. But as I stand before the glass case, eying the various pastries, I feel confused again. Which ones should I get? How many? I should’ve asked Cynthia how many people will be at this special meeting. It’s probably small. Maybe a dozen people? But what if there are more? I don’t want to get too few pastries. Oh, why is this so hard? I see others come in, place an order, and leave. Why can’t I be like that?

“Are you ready yet?” the girl with a pierced nose asks me for the third time.

The number three comes to me. So I order three dozen. Surely there won’t be more people than that. And if so, maybe not everyone will want a whole pastry. I’m surprised at the total, and I realize I’ll have to write a check. Another check! My face heats up as I write it out, knowing that Rick will probably question this too. But perhaps the church will reimburse me. I will be sure to ask Cynthia.