“Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8, NLT).
I knew what it was like to be foolish, seek danger, and take risks. I’d looked death in the face, seen my life flash before my eyes, and experienced the loss, regret, and harmful consequences of my own poor choices. By sixteen, I certainly knew better, but there I was… alone in Billings, Montana after the state basketball championship. It was 11:00 at night. I thought I had a place to stay, but I didn’t. When my plan fell through, I had gone to a friend’s penthouse. My friend, who was also in high school, had let me come up to his brother’s room (wolf number two—before “the date rape incident”). The brothers nanny arrived and informed me that I had to go. I hadn’t really intended on staying anyway, but I didn’t know where else to go. So I was alone. I had no money, no cell phone, and no friends to take me in in this strange big city. I borrowed money from the brother and left to walk the streets downtown, looking for the bus station.
On my way, a small, older gentlemen dressed in many layers of worn clothing approached me and asked me where I was headed. For some reason, I wasn’t afraid of him, so I told him. He told me I shouldn’t be alone down there. I remember thinking sarcastically, Really? A sixteen-year-old girl on the streets of the biggest city in Montana in the middle of the night? I was scared—but not of this man. He led me to the red, white, and blue Greyhound sign; walked in behind me; and stayed in the waiting room until my bus arrived hours later. I was grateful for his presence, as the waiting area was filled with people from all walks of life—people of the likes I hadn’t encountered before. I was very relieved to be headed home when I got on that bus. I didn’t really think much of the old man other than that he was a nice person who helped me out.
Also during my sophomore year, I flew to Seattle with a good friend. We had convinced our parents that we had made all the necessary arrangements. We hadn’t. We had a quasi-plan for what we mature young women would do upon our arrival in the metropolis of Seattle. We had the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. We had visions of Richard Gere and big-city living in our heads. We had a room to stay in on the U of W campus—a boys’ dorm that was vacant during their spring break session. We arrived to a quiet campus—not totally vacant, but vacant enough for us to spend the night without anyone really noticing us. We had to carefully negotiate the bathroom situation, as there were only supposed to be college-age men using the one on our floor.
We navigated our way through the local eateries and shopping centers. One day, we realized that a man was following us. He stood outside each shop we entered, and we noticed him travelling behind us as we explored. He was not shy in his perusal. He was actually quite bold. Despite the fact we considered ourselves quite worldly, confident, and mature, we were scared. We darted into a local restaurant at one point, not realizing it was filled with only African-Americans. We stuck out like sore thumbs. Everyone stared. No one seemed to want to tell us to leave, so despite our discomfort, we stayed. When the coast was clear, we made our escape back to the safety of our dorm room—another close call.
This was this same year that I found myself at a college party in the valley outside of Missoula. It was late at night, and it had taken a very long time to find the house. I was with a group of three other high school girls who had heard about this party. We were energized about being invited to a college party. It was in full swing when we arrived, complete with kegs and lots of college football players. We didn’t know anybody, but we had no problem joining in on the fun. We somehow wound up in a back room of the house that gradually began to fill up with very large, very intoxicated linemen. They were having fun, but our fun turned sour as they began making innuendos about our presence there. The door was closed behind them, and we quickly realized that our adventure could be going very wrong. I looked up into the faces of these men and suddenly recognized one of them. He was a family friend of one of my close childhood girlfriends. When I asked if he was the guy I had remembered, he looked very surprised and said he was. His entire demeanor changed when I began talking about our mutual friend. He softened and immediately settled everyone in the room down. We were let out and left the house immediately, thanking our lucky stars that nothing had happened.
The truth is that I had been surrounded by scary episodes throughout high school. I had grown tired of the lack of boundaries and the so-called excitement of always trying some dangerous new thing, especially as I realized how much danger could hurt. I think I sought out the danger as much to be rescued as for the adventure—maybe more. I thought being married would finally make me feel safe—give me the security and protection I’d been searching for—but I felt surrounded once again by circumstances that I had for the most part brought on myself.
I was living dangerously close to the edge, as I was knee-deep in schoolwork from my job, my master’s degree program, and the National Board Certification; a rigorous running routine; and all the duties and responsibilities that come with being a mother, wife, and friend. I was spread so thin, I wasn’t really good at anything at that time, but I was sure trying.
I was also—deep down—trying to be a good Christian. I thought I knew what that meant. It was like I had all this cargo tied to my hips and heart. I carried it around with me wherever I went. Sometimes it seemed more than I could carry alone. I longed for companionship—family—a wiser, older woman to speak to my heart and help me carry the load. I had once again started looking for someone to rescue me—to make me feel safe.
I was also trying to fill my life with accomplishments. Getting my marathon-finisher medal didn’t complete me. It was nice, but I still felt the emptiness—the internal ache. I was accepted as a fellow in the master’s degree program I had desperately wanted, but I didn’t feel like a fellow. I felt more like an outcast, not having much more energy to expend. It was an honor, but it didn’t complete the me I was looking to find.
I experienced disappointment, too. I had missed passing my National Board Certification by two points, which meant another year of work on the grueling end-product. I applied yet again for a job at a closer elementary school, but I didn’t get it. I wanted so desperately to be closer to my third and neediest child, Philip, for the after-school hours. It seemed so unfair. I cried and really pouted over not getting what I thought I needed and deserved.
I became bitter and whiny. When I spoke with my girlfriends, I was often proud and thoughtless. I was really all about me—not a lot of fun to be around. I could tell my tone and manner were off. I could even tell I was putting people off. My communications at my job went sour, so I quit trying to talk to people. I began to really isolate, leaving work as soon as possible so I could run off the stress of the day. I’d jump immediately into my routine of preparing dinner, showering, and grabbing a little sleep before rising at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. to write and work on my school work. I had truly set myself up for a crisis.
If it sounds like I am making excuses for myself, I suppose I am. Weighing out the circumstances with my ability to manage demonstrates a clear miscalculation on my part. I thought I had everything under control—managed. I was sure I had everything under my thumb. In my mind, it was just everyone else who had the problem.
* * *
I got called for jury duty. Jury duty was an interesting process and a welcome reprieve from such a difficult year of teaching. In a room full of more than sixty people, there were many excuses for needing or wanting to be let out of jury duty. From planned ski vacations to having to attend a separate court date, one after another, folks raised their hands. I was a teacher with a classroom full of children hoping to see my face each day instead of the substitute, but I didn’t raise my hand to share that one. I mentioned that I knew one of the police officers who could be called in as a witness, but I only knew him socially. I didn’t raise my hand to share that I had personal experience with a date-rape drug when that was mentioned in the court proceedings. To share that in front of all those people would have been extremely humiliating, and I didn’t feel that it would affect my ability to be a fair juror. And it didn’t—but it sure did a number on me emotionally.
I listened to the details and testimony, and I observed evidence for several days. All of it served as clear reminders to my own painful history. I was in over my head. In retrospect, I should have requested a meeting with the judge just to share how taxing this was, but I don’t think he would have let me out of the proceedings. I was a fair juror, seeing clearly what had happened. On the inside, though, I was about to crumble. There was no backbone for the tub of goo I was feeling rise to the surface. It was becoming harder and harder to hold things together.
About that time, Russ and I began to socialize outside our regular circle. I think we had intended to reach out to the people around us, wanting to be the church, not just go to church. We invited people over for campfires in our backyard. We had parties. We shared card games. We did a lot of entertaining, thinking we were reaching out. We were unprepared and unprotected from the wolves visiting our home, however. We were unaware that they’d been hunting us, waiting for the perfect opportunity, and we simply—perhaps naively—opened the gate and let them in. Like when I was alone in Billings, like when my girlfriends and I went to that college party, like so many times before, I should have known better, but I was oblivious to the danger that lurked, stalked, and eventually walked right in my front door. One wolf in particular went for the throat.
Personal attention can be exciting—exhilarating. It can be like a physical drug, and if taken often enough, it is difficult to disengage from or give up. I was given lots of attention during this time by a wolf. He wasn’t the offensive, slobbering, snarling type of wolf that one might expect. No, Rick observed what was going on in our home and our lives. He was sly and cunning. He had intimate knowledge of what was transpiring between my husband and me, because I let him in. I put my trust in him. I confided. I shared my heart with a man outside of my marriage. He waited for opportune times to come and speak with me; I sought his attention. It was like a drug for a heart so broken and empty. I couldn’t get enough of it, and he saw clearly how vulnerable I was. The Internet provided a very convenient means to seek out this attention and receive it. I vented, dreamed, despaired, and engaged with this man. Meanwhile, my husband and I grew more and more apart.
I tried to tell my husband. I told him exactly how forward Rick had been. He had even made comments about my physical attributes in front of my husband, and there had been no repercussions from Russ. I told him that he had placed his hand on my leg suggestively at one of our fires. Russ’s response to me was, painfully, “Then maybe you should try it… just have an affair with him.” I swallowed these events with difficulty, digesting what I must mean to my husband: nothing. I would not be protected or even persuaded to be careful—nothing.
* * *
I began running more and eating less. I couldn’t eat… I couldn’t feed myself. Internally, I felt that I could no longer support or help myself. Food or anything good to do for myself felt wrong, as I knew just how bad I was. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I hated it. I hated me. I told my three dearest friends about the initial conversations with the wolf-Rick. I told them about his flirtatious behavior. I told them about my mixed feelings for my husband. I tried to convey that I was about to sink, not swim.
I looked at my children and wanted to vomit from the guilt. I looked at my parents and wanted to hide. I looked at myself in the mirror and became fixated on my appearance. I looked at my husband, and I trembled with restlessness and fear. I knew I could not function much longer in this state.
Rick sought out a deeper relationship. He told me he had fallen in love. I looked at him and didn’t know who he was. I even hated things about him—especially his treatment of small children around us. He was clearly not a man seeking God’s heart. He was clearly involved with me for one reason—the hope of future intimacy. He was clearly someone who would take me further away from God, Russ, and my children. He didn’t care if he destroyed everything I loved. He spoke of inconsequential things—things I don’t even recall—and at the time, I wondered what in the hell I was doing.
While showering after a long run one day, I looked down to discover my necklace on the shower floor, wrapped around my toes. I always wore the same silver cross necklace. I never took it off. It was always there; even when I dressed up to go out, I would keep it on. It was a bit like my relationship with Christ. I always had it on, but I wasn’t always aware of it. I knew it was there when I thought about it, but I wasn’t walking out into each day remembering it around my neck. It had lost its significance. And so my relationship with Christ was ornamental. I didn’t go out into the world armed with my faith. I wasn’t even aware anymore that I had it. I stared at the necklace. I hadn’t taken it off; I hadn’t even touched the clasp. I picked it up and looked at it. Everything, including the clasp, was still intact—still working. I slowly opened it back up and closed it. It dawned on me that this little sign was so fitting. My faith—whatever that was—had fallen, too.
I saw myself for what I was—flat, empty. I saw myself as broken, but obviously, like the necklace, Jesus was still working. I didn’t see that part. I just looked at myself, and I wondered yet again what I was doing.
I shared the necklace story with Rick and told him I felt he was leading me away from everything I had once valued and cherished. I told him I didn’t understand my own behavior. There was no way for him to counsel me, as his mind was on things that were not about my protection or well-being. His response was limited, to say the least. I couldn’t see a way out of the deep mess I was in. Again, I asked myself just what I was doing with a man so dishonorable—a man who had been involved in affairs before, admittedly. He was a thief—a wolf. And yet what was I?
He continued to pursue; I responded. I tried to quit e-mailing, but another fight—or just about anything—would trigger a response. He would show up at my house when he knew Russ was out. I craved and fought the attention exactly like a drug addict. I couldn’t get enough, but then I hated myself afterwards. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I felt tainted, and I was. I felt red, raw, stained—desperate—disgusting. The sin in me was taking over.
I wanted to tell Russ. I tried. I couldn’t find the words. I argued with him intentionally, hoping to find a way—even in anger—to tell him. I had never been dishonest with him in the entire course of our marriage except for the deep unhappiness I felt… and now this. I just couldn’t find a way, but I was trying. I guess I really wanted him, a man I had loved—or so I thought—to just notice I was dying.
Father God,
You make intercession for us with groaning that cannot be expressed in words; make intercession for her. Wrap your loving arms around this family and this woman. Heal them in the only way that can be done—your way.
Comfort
“O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me. You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my thoughts even when I’m far away” (Psalm 139:1-2, NLT).
Discussion Questions
1. What does it mean to place another person’s needs ahead of your own? Are you very good at it?
2. Have you ever placed another person on a pedestal?
3. What are biblical grounds for divorce? Read Matthew 5:32.
4. How has the main character become like the wolves in her own life? Have you ever been a wolf in someone else’s life?
5. Do you believe the main character can recover? How? Read James 1:13-16.
6. What is one form of release that you participate in? How do you cope? Is this healthy? How would God have us handle our pain?
7. Do you have words you can use to describe yourself/your feelings about yourself during different stages of your journey? Were those words true of you?