Jill is starting a new book group for women from our church. Would you be up for it?
I read Kathy’s email and winced. Not what I needed, another thing to add to my schedule. Another program in my life.
Who else is going to be there? I typed back. Kathy and I had maintained our friendship since our MOPS days. I knew it wasn’t the question I was supposed to ask—it wasn’t supposed to matter who else was part of it—but any nonwork time away from my kids was precious, and I had to spend it carefully. I was easing back into work from maternity leave. Baby girl number three was one more person who needed me. We’d named her Gracelynn. I’d always wanted a Grace, a reminder of God’s continued gift of over-the-top love. And we’d planned to give our son my father-in-law’s name, Lynn, as a middle name. But at the news of another daughter, we figured it was now or never, so we combined the two for a perfect Gracelynn.
I’d known Jill for years as Kathy’s friend, but as our family was settling into our new church where Jill was on staff as an associate pastor, I thought it would be good to get to know her and other women better. Once I saw Cindy was on the list of potential group members, I agreed. It would be good to have a regular place to see both of my longtime friends.
Then the coordination of schedules began. When? How often? I held on to my time like the precious commodity it was. If anything new was going to happen in my life, it had to be when the children were sleeping. Early mornings were easier for me than late nights. We landed on Thursday mornings at six. I would pull out of my driveway at 5:40, in the dark, to get there.
Then the book was announced: Codependents’ Guide to the Twelve Steps.[5] Codependent? I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but I was sure it wasn’t me. Maybe it had been at some point in my life, when I was a young, silent woman afraid my boyfriend would break up with me, but I’d changed. I didn’t need to spend my precious few hours of social time a week with a bunch of pathetic whiners. And twelve steps indicated this was for people who really had a problem. I considered pulling out, emailing that my schedule had changed and I wouldn’t be able to make it. But Cindy said she’d do it too, and I figured most book groups don’t really talk about the book anyway.
The weeks that followed reminded me it is possible to make new friends. And I was pleasantly surprised that the book had some actual application to my life. Each week I learned that this wasn’t a group of pathetic whiners; in fact, they were the opposite—all capable, mature women. But being capable didn’t have to exclude us from hurts from our past. As Jennifer shared about her memories as a substitute teacher at Columbine the day of the shooting, her eyes filled with tears. She had lived with it and “dealt with it” for a decade, but the pain was still there.
Even though Jill didn’t want to be the official leader of the group, we all looked to her. She was our pastor, after all. She latched onto my daddy story, or lack of one. I brushed it off. That was my life twenty years ago. It had little bearing on my days now.
“I don’t ever think about him,” I said. “Besides, I don’t even know if he’s still alive. It’s been at least five years since I’ve heard from him.”
I had birthday parties to plan, preschool snacks to make, and a car to vacuum. I rarely thought about my dad. And why would I? I’d moved on.
Or had I?
That was the question that hung over every angry outburst at my kids, every insecure comment to Derek. Did I have “issues” I wasn’t dealing with? Had I shut my heart so tight from fear that concealed hurts were in turn hurting my family? I didn’t think so, but I was afraid to dig too far to find out.
We came to Step Four in the book, which was a required exercise, an active examination of multiple hurts or a single thread of hurt in our lives. I felt a tug at my heart—God’s nudging, in a sense—that said I needed to revisit the issues around my father. To not let fear keep me from looking at my heart to assess the damage. I resisted. Why would I bring all of that junk back to the surface? It felt as though my wound had been hardened over with scar tissue. Didn’t that work? Scar tissue, thick and rough and protecting the open gash.
“I think we should schedule a separate night to review this exercise.” Jill moved her eyes around the coffee shop, pointing out the lack of privacy, and then looked around the table to see if we were in agreement. She knew the moms had a harder time sneaking away for a few hours, but we nodded. Yes, we needed more time and privacy than our hour at the coffee shop allowed. We got out our calendars and started the circus of finding a time that worked for everyone.
“What are you going to focus on?” she asked me in front of the group. I didn’t appreciate the directness, but she was right to ask, to get us to commit.
“Well . . .” I could feel the emotion rising in my throat. I didn’t want to cry or have any feelings about this issue. I was over it. Wasn’t I? But emotion was turning on me, a traitor of my held-together self. It didn’t go unnoticed. Jill’s gaze became more intent. More intense. And she sat looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“I guess my dad . . .” The tears were now taking over, preventing me from speaking clearly. Me in this codependent support group. “But I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what might be down there. Stuffed for so long.” I was quite aware we had an audience in the other members of the group, but they were kind spectators. Trusted friends.
Jill leaned toward me, her eyes piercing past my face into my soul. “I think it’s time,” she said. Her words hung in the air, waiting for a response.
I nodded. She was right. I needed to face it head-on. It was time.
I procrastinated completing the exercise until the day before we were scheduled to meet. I prayed for God to give me the courage to feel what had been pushed down for so many years. Though I had lots of friends who were counselors, the only counselor I’d ever seen professionally was the one who did our pre-engagement sessions. And she ended our sessions recommending I do some work. I figured I was in for some serious pain once the floodgates were opened.
I waited until naptime. I made a cup of tea and sat in my living room with a pad of paper and a pen. I started to write free-form. Let the words come out in the order I wanted. And in longhand. That seemed more personal, more primal, than typing on an electronic device. And I waited. I waited to have more to say. To feel more. But there wasn’t much.
There was some anger that surprised me. But not a lot. Where is it, God? I’m ready, ready for the dam to be broken and the floodwaters to come rushing out. Whether they be tears or pain, I can handle it because I know you’re here with me. You’ve always been with me. I’m ready to be honest. Bring it on.
Silence.
Nothing.
I heard the swish of the water in the dishwasher. Moving. Swirling. And waited for the same in my spirit. It was still.
It turns out that my fear of the pain was mountains worse than the pain that was actually there. I had, in fact, done lots of hard work all of these years and had let go of more than I realized. The pain had certainly shaped me, but it didn’t own me. I could be free of the fear it left behind. Now the scar tissue remained as a reminder, almost as a memento of God’s redemption of my hurt places.
I heard the baby’s cries from the other room. Naptime, quiet time, was over. I closed my notebook and stood up to face the rest of my day.