were you there

There’s a song that gets pulled out at church around Good Friday every year that used to give me chills. It’s lyrics lead the congregation through Jesus’ Passion in an uncomplicated but profound way, personally asking each of us if we’ve walked the journey with our Christ: Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree? Laid Him in the tomb?

I heard it again last Sunday and it’s lyrics felt more personal than years before. I found myself in the same sort of sadness, but also somewhere new. It felt almost indignant. Don’t ask me where I was, Lord. Where were You? Were You there? Were you there on the nights I cried alone? Were You there for the panic attacks? For the abandonment? For the anger? For the confusion?

Were You there when I was coerced? When no didn’t mean no? When I was ignored? When I was the target of undeserved hatred? Were You there when I was made to feel less than wanted, less than beautiful, less than a woman? When the desires of my heart, the ones I begged You for, went unanswered, year after year?

Were You there when I had to hide my marriage from others, from myself? When I didn’t know how to explain the strange undercurrent of dread, dissatisfaction, loneliness? When I begged You to bring my husband back to me? Bring Your peace into our home?

When I trusted deeply and implicitly that everything would be okay-  were You listening or laughing? When I felt You tell me everything would turn out alright- is this heartbreak what You had in mind? When I prayed for him to know You and see me, did You know that would never come to be?

I think back to that pivotal morning I met with the priest. That day when we walked through the tortured turns of my marriage I was looking for advice, looking for someone to tell me again it would all be okay. Instead of something encouraging I could tuck into my pocket and casually take back home, he reassured me that, yes, it would all be alright, but no, things could not go on as they had. He said You wanted better for me, and I would need to be brave enough to step out into the world and away from my husband. It was the first time I was faced with someone confirming out loud a truth I had been hiding in my heart. I needed to leave.

Something settled over me when I finally faced that truth- a bittersweet mix of acceptance, relief, and dread. I knew what I needed, but, my gosh, the road ahead was going to be long. It was going to be brutal. Excruciating.

In the chapel afterwards all I felt was the Garden. The Garden Jesus wrestled His Heart in, begging God for the cup to pass. He saw what was ahead of Him and knew it would be Good, but oh, how terrible. The pain of a broken body and broken heart, rejection and suffering. It all lay ahead of Him, yet He still saw that the only way to the Glory of Resurrection was through Hell.

I was in my own small corner of that Garden that day. I was already exhausted and couldn’t fathom how I would be able to pull my heart into even more pieces than it had already been broken. A sense of real grief and no, I’m really not looking forward to this, let’s fast forward, let’s just not. It was easier to suffer in the silence and predictability of my life then rip it all apart completely.

When I walked out of the chapel, eyes swollen from tears, I found myself in the lush sweetness of a rose garden. A little slice of paradise. A little bit of beauty bordering my Gethsemane.

So maybe You were there. Maybe You meant it when You said it would all be okay. Maybe You were present and waiting to set me free the whole time. From abuse, from death, from sin, from fear.

It took me an awfully long time to get there, though, and I’m not sure why I found myself leaving a life I had prayed so hard to start. Why did we go this way? Why did we take this road? I wish I knew.

I’m trying to trust Your presence and grace. You’re writing a story for glory, a crown of roses from a crown of thorns. I’m trying to trust again with that same unwavering faith that You are real and You will heal. You will make paths straight and there will be life renewed. Life abundant.

I’d like to think that You are holding vigil while I hide in the darkness, in this small tomb of unknowing, and while I am waiting here You are sowing a garden. When these stones roll away there will be morning, and I will be met with new life.

Alleluia, Alleluia.

anger management

Dear Soon-To-Be Ex, 

I’m angry today. We’re going back and forth between lawyers about the house and other things you’ve decided are non-negotiable. Who the hell gave you the power to decide what we negotiate on? Look, when we bought that damn house I was under the impression we were starting a family together. Also that you wouldn’t continue to be a completely shitty husband.

If anything was a non-negotiable it should have been: Thou shalt not be an eternal man-boy who only cares about himself. FYI, when you tell a woman you’re going to have a family with her and let her make a permanent commitment to you that also includes real-estate, you don’t turn around and say “I married you because I felt bad.” Fuck that. You didn’t accidentally date me for four years then randomly wind up with a ring then stumble upon a church for a wedding. You were an adult male with a brain. You should have done the negotiating back then. 

If only we all had the balls you have. I think you really believe you’re in the right and need to get everything you deserve. Certainly the last thing you deserve is to keep that damn house. Honestly, I don’t think you can be trusted to own your own property. You’ve left a little snail trail of rage everywhere we’ve lived and I think it’s time we looked at it.

House One. A lovely little place across the street from the ocean. The first week we lived there we were working on getting internet installed and you lost your damn mind on the phone with the help-line people. Obviously, I know, they can be extremely frustrating. I can’t say I’ve ever screamed at any of them though, let alone ripped the TV mount out of the wall. That shit was nailed in pretty good, too- a jerry-rigged mess from the tenants before. I think that was the first time I was so close to such explosive rage. I quietly snuck out to the other room to wait for things to simmer down. It’s normal to be stressed during your first move, right?

House Two. Look, I know this house was falling apart and had a weird smell and I’m sorry I picked it out. Actually, I’m not sure if I should be sorry, since we both looked at it together and signed the lease. Sure, I was stressed about the short time-line we had to move and there weren’t a lot of options, so I guess I was in a rush, but you were there too. If you didn’t like it you could have slowed down and talked to me about it instead of being pissy the whole time we lived there, blaming me every time you stubbed your toe or had trouble getting a pan out of the kitchen cabinet. Such a treat, being there for two years. 

I can’t really remember what triggered this particular blow up, but I know you came home from work one afternoon and walked right into the kitchen to punch the freezer. The freezer! That thing is metal! And you dented it! Honestly, the most jarring part was how unprecedented it felt… There I was, minding my business folding laundry or something, then BAM! RAGE! Such an intrusion into my space. An unwelcome visitor in my day and my home. 

I think this was the first time I mentioned you could be a little frightening. This made no sense to you, which, in turn, made no sense to me. If I’m married to someone who could dent the freezer door in the middle of a nothing day, how am I to know what turns that anger on and off? How am I to know when it’s going to be turned on me? We didn’t talk much about it again, and I covered the dents with some magnets and pictures and wedding invitations. Bury that, no one will know, probably shouldn’t tell anyone though. Here’s a clue, past-Becca: if you have to hide shit like that, it’s probably not great.

House Three. I was in the kitchen having a glass of wine with my sister who was in from out of town. We were chatting and laughing, doing the sister thing. Out of the bathroom walks my husband, tripping on something and hitting his shin or toe or whatever. Naturally, very uncomfortable, I’m sure. Did you really need to punch another fridge, though? Multiple times? This time took a lot more magnets to cover up. My sister was there for this one too, which was interesting. Because now it seems you have a weird little habit, and now someone else is watching. And this time when we moved out the landlord noticed. You really weren’t interested in paying her back for the damage. Please. If you’re going to throw tantrums like that over bruised shins, just man up and deal with the consequences. You were man enough to punch the shit in the first place.

House Four. Last house, I promise. This time was special, because we were actually arguing about something important. It was towards the end, and you were pissed because I wouldn’t say I loved you more than God. You were mad and let me know “I can’t even be at home because it reminds me I’m always in second place.” Simultaneously you managed to blame me for your constant absence (not my fault), make me feel guilty for loving God (not a bad thing), and tried to make yourself more important than God (narcissism, much?). 

So, there we were, me refusing to deny my religion, and you refusing to accept it. And then you punched a hole through the drywall. Probably not hard to do, but it was a bummer because the house had just been purchased. Also a bummer because this time I was right next to you and your rage was directed at me. Not that it hadn’t been pointed in my direction before, but this was the first expression beyond purple-faced screaming I had earned. I made a joke, told you to get a less expensive habit. We both laughed. It seems while you developed a habit, I developed a coping mechanism. Humor diffuses all. 

Thanks for developing a pattern I could pick up on. Thanks for teaching me that I shouldn’t have to wonder when my husband will stop punching walls and start punching me. 

Maybe instead of worrying about what is non-negotiable in our divorce, you crazy asshole, you can start working on that. Anger management: non-negotiable.