There were times when I lashed out in anger. As we cleaned our house in preparation for a move whose deadline was only two days away, David said, "Why didn't you start cleaning sooner?" He was referring to the fact that no cleaning was done in the first two weeks after we were given the ultimatum. We'd been packing and doing other things, but left the cleaning for last. He'd left the timeline in my hands, simply following orders. Demoralized by his actions, he'd abdicated his leadership role.
"Well, excuse me," I retorted. "If you had chosen to reveal your affair earlier then I could have gotten an earlier start."
I didn't know his eyes could get any bleaker. The look he shot me gave the impression of a whiteout blizzard blowing inside him. He didn't say a word. He just walked off. He didn't come back for hours.
His departure led me straight from anger into bargaining. "Just bring him back, God," I prayed. "I need his help. Heck, I need his love and support. I'll do better."
I had studied Kubler-Ross's stages of grief. I knew that there was never a straight progression from denial to anger to bargaining to depression and finally to acceptance. Still the reality left me rattled. Every time I thought I was approaching the light at the end of the tunnel, I would regress to an earlier stage. My path through grief was more like meandering through a canyon following the route cut by an ancient river rather than following a straight road planned by the department of transportation.
Dealing with the fallout of our forced move heightened my sorrow. We concluded at that first family-night planning session that Josh and Zach would be left behind in Billings to complete their respective school years. Two of my babies were going to leave the nest prematurely. I was bereft. When Faith was told, she was livid. She insisted that she too would stay in Billings with her brothers.
"I like my school, too," she said, her arms crossed and her mouth in a straight line.
"I know you do, Babe," I said. "But you're not ready to take care of yourself yet. You still need your Mama."
"I'm not a baby," she said. "So you can quit calling me babe. I can get dressed by myself. I know how to make cereal and macaroni and cheese. I can make a peanut butter sandwich, too. If I have a stool I can do the dishes and put clothes in the washing machine. I can make my bed."
She turned and ran from the room. I wearily followed. She met me in the hall coming back from her bedroom. She was carrying her piggy bank. She held it out to me.
"I have some money in here. I can help pay for things."
I took her piggy bank and sat it on the floor. I squatted in front of her and tried another tack.
"I know you're a big girl," I said. "You know how to do a lot of things, but I'll be lonely if you stay here. I need you to keep me from being sad and having eyes like Eyore's."
Her brow wrinkled, and she squinted at me.
"Well," she said. "Daddy already has Eyore's eyes."
"I know. Do you want us both to be sad?"
"You already are." She stated the obvious truth.
"But I'll be even sadder without you to cheer me up," I said. "You can tell me jokes. Zach won't be there to do that."
"Knock, knock," she said.
"Who's there?" I asked
"Sarah."
"Sarah who?"
"Sarah a reason you're not laughing."
I laughed.
"See," I said.
"Sarah taught me that one at her house," she said. "She'll be sad if I leave."
"I know, but we'll let you call Sarah and tell her your new jokes." I knocked on the wall. "Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Juana."
"Juana who?"
"Juana get a purple phone in your room to call Sarah and your brothers?"
Purple was her favorite color at the moment.
"Wow, that would be cool, Mom. Could I really?"
"Yeah. There would be rules about when you could use it, but I think I could convince Eyore that you deserve a phone."
She giggled.
"Don't tell Daddy that we call him Eyore," she said.
"It'll be our secret," I agreed.
Laughter was a scarce commodity at our house. I knew that I needed more of it. When a friend asked what she could do to help, I suggested she call and leave jokes on the answering machine. She and a few others began mailing me jokes, as well as leaving them on the machine.
One Sunday afternoon when there was only a week left before our move, I lay down to take a nap. David had taken Faith to see a matinee. As I lay in bed, I prayed, "God, I just need a break. I need to laugh."
I woke to the peeling of the doorbell. One of the female students stood on the doorstep. She said, "I think you need to relax. I know you like to play games. What night can I come over and play games with you and the boys?"
"How about tomorrow?" I said.
"You bet," she answered.
As she walked away, I grinned. "Thanks, God," I said. The words were barely out of my mouth when the phone rang. It was Stephanie.
"I imagine you need a night of fun," she said. "Mrs. Doubtfire is playing at the theater. It's supposed to be hilarious. Can you go with me Tuesday night?"
God obviously was prepared to back his words, "A merry heart does good like a medicine."
God even enlisted the students. They planned a going away bash for David.
The night after the college president refused to let him speak at chapel, David got on the phone. He called every one of his students and told them what had happened and warned them to keep their spiritual armor in place. One by one they offered their forgiveness and prayed with him. By the time the night was over, he was overwhelmed with emotion. He felt unworthy of the outpouring of love. The students liberally gave the mercy and grace that had been lacking in the leadership's response.
On the eve of our departure, they came out in force to bid us farewell. The night was spent recounting stories of things that David had said and done to make their time at Rimrock memorable. Laughter brought us to tears more than once.
The professors also helped with our healing. One told David that he knew he needed a friend and that he wanted to be his Jonathan, referring to King David's close friend who stood by him in times of trouble. Another offered his basement for the boys to stay in for the duration of the school year. Stephanie planned a farewell party for us. All but the president attended. Again, we were regaled with funny stories of our years in Billings.
Slowly, the scarlet 'A' that David felt was branded on his forehead began to fade. Gradually he began to realize that he hadn't committed the unpardonable sin, a grave sin, yes, but one that merited forgiveness following repentance. Still he doubted that God could use him again in ministry.
"King David didn't get to build the temple," he told me. "I know that my service, too, will be limited."
"Leave that in God's hands," I advised. "Right now we need to concentrate on our marriage."
We left Billings on a blustery March morning. Faith waved at her brothers out the back window of our loaded minivan until they were nothing but dots on the horizon.
A friend with a vacation cabin in the mountains of Tennessee offered it to us as a retreat. We drove there to lick our wounds and continue our healing. Because the school year was almost over, Faith's school allowed us to take her books and lessons with us. I became a home school Mom. Each day she would do her work, and I would fax it to her teacher in Billings. They faxed us her tests. In that way, she got her final report card from the school, and when we enrolled her the next year, there was no record of the three months that she was in Tennessee. Because the school was still paying David's salary, we had time to focus on our relationship. Neither of us had to rush out and get a job. So, even though we were devastated by the ultimatum that we leave Montana, God used that decision to give us a time without job responsibilities.
During those three months, we talked, and we laughed. We became a couple again in every sense of the word.
One day Faith came in and asked, "Mama, what's an aardvark?"
"It's an animal with a long nose that eats ants. Why?"
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Aardvark."
"Aardvark who?"
"Aardvark a million miles for one of your smiles."
I laughed.
"Who told you that?"
"Daddy."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought maybe we should change his name from Eyore. His eyes aren't sad when he smiles anymore. Maybe we can call him Ardy."
"Why Ardy?"
"Short of Aardvark. We came 'most a million miles, and we got his smile back."
"We did," I said. "We certainly did."
#
Faith smiled as she switched the light off. She had forgotten all about Ardy and Eyore. "I wonder how Mama could take the time to joke with me when her heart was breaking," she thought. "Zach said I'm strong like Mama. I hope he's right."