10

Pierced

MARCH

“You look tired, Mom.”

Kit laughed. Her daughter had never had any trouble being direct. “Nice to see you too!”

Sarah stamped the snow from her boots on the front porch, then leaned in to kiss Kit on the cheek. “I’m just saying, I see it in your eyes.”

“In that case, then, looks aren’t deceiving. I am tired.” She peered over Sarah’s shoulder at her white Subaru in the driveway. “The girls aren’t with you?”

“No, Morgan said to say hi, but she’s working on a term paper and didn’t feel like she could take a break. And Jess says she’s sorry, but she’s studying for AP exams.”

Ah, well. Maybe next time. “Understood,” she said. “‘Hi’ back to them.”

Sarah hung her coat and scarf in the closet. “Is Wren here?”

“No, she’s having coffee with a friend.”

“Oh, that’s good. So she’s . . . ?”

“Yes. Doing okay.”

Sarah nodded. She knew better than to ask any more probing questions than that. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to come see you, Mom. January and February passed in a total blur.”

“No, it’s fine. I haven’t had much margin for visits.”

“Yeah. About that.” Sarah followed her to the kitchen. “I’m worried about the toll this is taking on you, having her here.” It wasn’t the first time Sarah had voiced her concern.

“I like having the company.”

“I know. You’ve said that. But this is more than ‘company.’ It’s not just having someone in your house, it’s the responsibility and burden that comes with keeping watch over her. And that’s exhausting.”

Kit wasn’t going to argue that point. “She’s doing better, though. I think she’s turned a corner again.”

Sarah leaned against the sink. “Morgan still talks about you not being able to spend Christmas with us.”

“I know. I’m sorry. There was no way to leave her then, and she wasn’t up to coming with me.” Kit retrieved the teakettle and motioned for Sarah to step aside from the sink.

Sarah shifted out of the way. “You know how these things go, Mom, how it can improve for a while and then . . .”

“I know.”

“So, what’s the end game here? I mean, how long have you committed to letting her stay?”

Kit turned on the faucet and let cold water splash onto her hand before filling the kettle. “No end date,” she said, “just a prayerful holding of it all.”

Sarah sighed slowly.

“Oh, don’t sigh at me. Being prayerful isn’t an excuse.”

“I know. That’s not what the sigh was for.”

“What, then?” She set the kettle on its base and flipped on the switch.

“I heard about the retreat.”

Kit stiffened, her back still turned toward her daughter. “What do you mean?”

“The one you did last week? Someone who was there was telling a friend about it, and that friend emailed me.”

The West Michigan fishbowl. Again. She glanced over her shoulder. “And?”

“She told me you talked about Micah and being at the psychiatric hospital. Did you tell the group you were suicidal?”

“Suicidal? Heavens no. Where on earth would someone have gotten that idea?”

“What exactly did you say, then?”

She wasn’t going to have this conversation standing in the middle of her kitchen floor. She gestured toward the table. “Here, have a seat.” When she removed two mugs from the cupboard, she noticed her hand was shaking.

What had she said? She scanned her memory as she sat down across from Sarah. “We were talking about lament, about the need to offer our pain to God in prayer. And I decided—at what I sensed was a prompt from the Spirit—to share a bit of my own journey with grief and how the lament psalms helped save my life. Or rather, how God used them to rescue me from despair and move me toward hope.”

“So, you did say you were suicidal.”

“I didn’t say I was suicidal now. But back then, yes. That’s why I went to the hospital in the first place, because I didn’t trust what I might do.”

Sarah shook her head slowly. “That’s not what some people heard.”

Kit sat up straighter in her chair. “I don’t have control over what people hear.”

“But you have control over what you say, Mom. And how you say it. And I don’t understand why—after all these years—why you’ve decided to share the story publicly now.”

“Because it’s my story.”

“It’s not just yours, Mom.”

“I’m his mother. I can tell that story.”

“And I was his sister. And the daughter whose mom had a nervous breakdown and whose parents split up because her dad had an affair. Did you tell that story too?”

“Of course not. I didn’t mention you.”

“No, I mean about Dad. Did you talk about him too?”

Kit bristled. She hadn’t. But didn’t she have the freedom to tell that part of her story? If she wanted? Couldn’t she be trusted to tell that story in a way that didn’t cast blame but spoke the truth and pointed to Jesus? “I didn’t mention your father. Only Micah. And my own journey with grief.” She wouldn’t mention the letters or conversations with Wren. Sarah didn’t need to know she’d named her grief over Robert in a different context.

“I just wish we could have talked about it first, Mom. I wish you had told me you were thinking about sharing your story in that kind of context.”

“And what if I had? What would you have said?”

Sarah rubbed her forehead slowly.

“If I had thought to ask your permission first, what would you have said?”

“You didn’t need my permission. That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what it sounded like.” Kit leaned her elbows on the table.

“I’m just saying, Mom, I would have appreciated the conversation. You know how small a community this is. Sharing those details doesn’t just impact you, it impacts me too.”

Okay. That was fair. “I’m sorry,” Kit said. “You’re right. Please forgive me.”

Sarah reached across the table to grasp her hand. “I’m worried, that’s all. It seems like Wren is tapping all kinds of triggers for you because of what happened with Micah.”

“I’m being mindful of that.”

“I hope so.”

“I am. And regardless of what someone thought they heard me say on Saturday, I stand by my decision to say it. If it helped one person in the room . . . if my story about grief and despair and shame helps one single person, it’s worth it to me.”

The front door creaked open. “Kit?”

She squeezed Sarah’s hand, then let go. “In here, Wren.”

“I saw the car in the driveway and . . .” She came around the corner, still wearing her coat and boots. “Oh, hey, Sarah.”

Sarah gave a slight wave. “Hey, Wren.”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Kit rose to make their tea. “It’s okay. Would you like to have tea with us?”

“No, thanks. Mara’s waiting for me in the car. I wanted to show her the paintings I’m working on but don’t have a key to the building. Is it okay if we go?”

“Of course.” Kit reached for her keys hanging beside the cupboard and removed one from the ring.

Wren thanked her and said goodbye to both of them. When the front door closed behind her, Sarah said, “I’m not saying there hasn’t also been good that’s come out of all this. I know there are people that can be helped by hearing your story. But talking about mental illness is hard. You know that. And I just want to make sure you’re aware of the potential of being judged and misunderstood, that you’re willing to risk that.”

Kit put an Earl Grey tea bag into each mug, then stared at the water boiling, waiting for the click of the switch. She was willing and ready. Wasn’t she?

MARCH 3

My dear Wren,

It’s often been the case that whatever I’m intending to present at a retreat has direct application to my own life. That was true this morning as I taught about temptation. There I was, having only just written to you a few days ago about being stripped of reputation or the need to defend myself, and all I was thinking about was how I might need to clarify or explain some of the details I shared last week from my own story. What if someone had misunderstood what I said? What if someone thought less of me because of the weaknesses and struggles I shared? What if, what if, what if.

I told you, I’ll never be free this side of heaven of my desire for control. But—by the grace of God—I was able to resist the temptation and let the words I spoke last week stand on their own. No doubt the temptation will rise again. That’s the thing about temptation. It always seeks “an opportune time.”

As I thought today about all the many ways Jesus was tempted, not just in the desert but during his ministry and at the cross, I remembered the detail of the passersby and the authorities deriding him, demanding he demonstrate he was the Son of God by coming down from the cross. Not only had Jesus refused to defend himself against false accusations, but here he also refused to prove his identity by using his power. What a temptation that must have been! Especially when the religious leaders claimed they would believe in him if he just came down.

But he remained. Thank God.

Their words pursue me tonight: “He trusts God. Let God deliver him.”

I’ve heard a similar voice in my own life and in the lives of others. It’s easy to believe the lie that the only testimony that can lead someone to faith is the testimony of deliverance. We sometimes think the only testimony that will bring God glory is the testimony of victory. We can even use deliverance and victory as a litmus test of God’s trustworthiness. Or—and I have been guilty of this plenty of times—we can use our trust in God as a bargaining chip to obligate him to deliver us. As if my faith could somehow obligate him to serve me on my own terms. Lord, have mercy.

Jesus trusted in God. God did not deliver him from the cross. What a profound and comforting mystery this is, that our suffering, too, can be a testimony that reveals the truth of who Christ is. Our deaths can be revelations of his life and power. Even if it’s harder for others—and us—to see.

I think of his mother, standing there at the foot of the cross, watching her son suffer, and listening to every vile insult hurled at him. I know how I felt whenever anyone criticized or condemned my boy. I know how I felt, watching him suffer and feeling powerless to do anything to help him. And this is only an inkling of Mary’s pain.

If I had been Mary, I would have joined in with the authorities and begged him to come down and show everyone who he was. I would have been remembering Gabriel’s word of promise, declaring who my son would be. I would have been remembering the shepherds testifying to the angels singing at his birth. I would have been remembering the magi kneeling to worship him. And I would have been wondering, “Is this how it’s meant to be?”

As Mary watched his anguish and felt her own, maybe she also remembered how Simeon had prophesied in the temple over her baby, telling her a sword would pierce her heart too.

And then came that moment when, with labored breath, he spoke to her from the cross: “Woman, behold your son.” Maybe she thought, “Yes! Yes! I’m beholding you, and my heart is breaking!” But when he next spoke to John, it became clear he was entrusting her to someone else’s care. Such a beautiful act of love. But with such a ring of finality. As if, even if he rose from the dead as he’d promised—even if this evil was not the end of the story—he would no longer be her son in the way he had been before. And maybe her heart broke again.

There’s a scene I wish had been recorded in the Gospels: the moment when Mary saw her resurrected son. What was that reunion like? I can only imagine the joy of embracing him again, of hearing his voice speak tenderly to her.

That’s the scene I want to see because that’s the scene I look forward to myself. Not only the moment of seeing Jesus face to face, but the moment of being reunited with my son, even as he will not be my son in the same way he was before. But he will be well. He will be whole. And I look forward to that day.

The sword of sorrow has pierced your heart too. You have already endured such profound grief and suffering. But your story also has the power to bring comfort and healing to others. Your life rings with the testimony of God’s faithfulness. Even if it is not the testimony you would choose, it is beautiful. And it is yours to share.

With you,

Kit