Strength

At a hard time in my life I found him again. Like fate.

I knew Bob from high school, and we had gone out on a few dates. Now it was 25 years later, and we had reconnected on social media.  If this was Reader’s Digest the story would go on to say old lovers reunite. One would almost be able to hear the “aww’s” coming from the countless readers around America, probably the globe.

 But it doesn’t tell you the rest of the story.

 I was two years post-divorce and lonely. I’m sure he was too. At that time my boys were nine and six. Andrew, the oldest, wasn’t happy that he was stuck with his cranky mother and her list about what games would be allowed in the house, what time he would go to bed, and other rules his father didn’t have. My youngest was, as far as I could tell, indifferent about where he lived. I think him just getting through school was enough to occupy his mind.  He might have just been happy it wasn’t him I argued with. I’ll never know since he doesn’t remember much about that time in his life.  I met Bob at my parent’s house. He was much taller than I remembered at six foot five and nearly 400 pounds.  He was over a foot taller than me and nearly double my weight. I’m not a small woman. He was balding. I didn't care. We went out to dinner. It must have gone well because he came down to my town to see me. Then I went up to see him after Christmas. I was becoming smitten. So much so I overlooked the part when he told me he spoke in tongues. He said this as if it was completely normal for a high school biology teacher to admit.

               “What is involved with that?” I asked him as if I would ask about anything he did, like collecting comic books. Which he didn’t do, or I would have run like a rat from a starving cat.  What my ex used to spend on that hobby still makes me ill. Ill that I allowed it, didn’t protest. I didn’t, as my mother would advise, hit him upside the head with a baseball bat to knock sense in. All this still makes me ill.

               The years from 2003 to about 2007 make me ill. If they ever find a way to erase memories, I’ll sign up to have those years taken out of my life. I’ll keep memories of the children. That’s it.  Because nothing else I did makes any sense to me. Not how I spent my money, not the horrible messy house I lived in with James, nothing.  I didn’t protest anything my ex did and now I did the same thing with Bob. I felt I had healed well.  I must have been lying to myself like a cheap carpet. Otherwise why ignore things that normally would have made me quickly lose his number? I don’t have any other excuse.

               “It’s a way to communicate directly with the Holy Spirit,” Bob told me. “You’re communicating in His language.”

               I looked up at his face. He wasn’t smiling. And so, I opened my big mouth.  “Are you sure about this and it’s not just your mind messing with you?” I’ve been to a church where I heard the members “speaking in tongues.” Gibberish isn’t speaking in tongues. I thought if it were true one would speak something that at least sounded like a foreign language.  Also, I had a vague idea of it from the bible. I had thought it was about prophesying, not praying. Isn’t the language I know good enough for God? But mostly I associated it with the Pentecostal religion. I’m Catholic. We don’t hold with any of that. If someone in our church started speaking in tongues, we would probably think they needed an exorcism, or if the priest was younger, a therapist.

               He wasn't offended. “Yes, I'm sure. But I can’t do it anymore.”

               “What do you mean you can’t?” We were sitting at his kitchen table. He had a triple wide mobile home on five acres in a Florida town so small I’m not sure it has a horse. He owned a pit bull if that counts.  It does have a school, a gas station with a convenience store, a school, and the church that Bob went to. The usual bar every town has to have, without exception.  I pushed my coffee away. The well water he got was awful. It’s sulfuric, which smells like eggs left out for a week. I have no memory of this, but my father says once the whole family got sick drinking sulfuric water. Bob will drink this water but not alcohol. He doesn’t like the taste. At the time I was glad he didn’t. Now I wonder if all this doesn't say something about him.         

               He shrugged. “I can’t pray in tongues anymore. I’ve tried.”

               I didn’t know what to say to this. I thought once a person believed in speaking in tongues, he could always do it. Or she. I have never heard of anyone stopping even though they wished to have the ability. “Maybe you don’t need this anymore. Maybe you can communicate without this method.” I was secretly relieved he didn’t practice speaking in tongues anymore. He wasn’t crazy, I thought.

               No, he was certainly conflicted. So was I. I was searching for answers. A divorce will do that. It’s cliche to say James and I were supposed to grow old together but that was the plan. Secretly I looked down on most people that were divorced with children of their own. How can they do that to them unless it’s for a very good reason? Tear apart the home, their very world? Well, James and I just did. So, I knew I was a hypocrite and a rotten guide of my own life. Plus, Alex had speech and toilet training problems. The school and I were working on that, but I didn’t know how to help him. James denied these things were happening. Andrew was often angry with both of us. One day I bought him a punching bag, told him to draw my face on it if need be, and hit it if it would help.  All I saw was forest with no way out. So, yes, I looked to religion for help. For God.

               Also, when Bob kissed me that first time, I didn’t care what he believed. Our tongues were intertwined, his hands pulled me tight against him, and he could have believed in anything for all it mattered to me. The first night in his living room when he put his hands on me, I forgot what he did believe in. He was good, so good and my God for both of us it had been too long.  James had moved into the other bedroom the last two years of our marriage. So, Bob and I were so hungry for it, for each other. I still remember the nights so much that part of me wanted him for years afterwards.

               But there was the aftermath. And that is why now I would tell him no if he came over.

               “We can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly. “Going all the way.”

               “Why?” But I knew why.

               “We’re not married.”

               I had dated a man in college like this, so I knew this song and dance. The problem with Bob was that unlike Don he was very conflicted. He wanted it bad. So did I.  Don was a virgin then so to me it made more sense. I was in no position to get pregnant then which was no longer a factor.  Don came to grips with his conscience and his religion. So, while I didn’t understand his struggle, we could discuss it. We could work through it and continue dating. Bob couldn’t do that. He wanted me but couldn't reconcile it.  He couldn’t say no to sleeping with me and he couldn’t say no to his church that forbid it. I added my voice to whatever ones were in his head. It wasn’t helpful, I knew.

               “God’s sake, I’m no virgin. I’m forty-three with two children. And divorced. You’re divorced too, with children. Honestly, don’t you think there are greater sins to commit than us having intercourse? After all, if it IS a sin, it’s one born in love. Besides I don’t think you can commit adultery when you’re not married. If anyone around here is doing it, it’s me. In the eyes of the Catholic church they still consider me married to James.” He shook his head. “Look.” I sat up, annoyed with him. “You and me aren’t fooling anyone here, especially God. He knows what I am. A sinner. I’m not going to be anything else.”  Neither did I want to be anything else, if truth be told. If this is a sin, so be it. I was seeking answers. I wanted a guide. But deep down I had a few bones to pick with the Almighty. The biggest one was when I literally cried while praying. I wanted answers for Alex. I cried in the shower. God never replied and I couldn’t make myself believe He did. All I heard was it's up to you. Be strong. Thanks God, really.  So, without realizing it I was angry. At God, James, Bob. Alex's teachers and most of all, probably myself.

               “But we’re supposed to be better.”

               “I'll go to confession then. And you can say the Sinner’s prayer. Then all is forgiven, right?”

               He sat up too and reached for his clothes. “It doesn’t work that way. Non-believers think it does, just pray for forgiveness! But it doesn’t.”

               “Then don’t put me in this position. We don’t have to sleep together. But you’re asking too much of me. I’m not your conscience and I can't tell you no. And that’s because I don’t see this as a sin. If you do, then act like you do. Also, don’t be a hypocrite.”

               We never really settled it. Bob didn’t say he felt guilty anymore, but it was the elephant as they say. I was in love and he said he was.  He was kind and sweet. He had a sense of humor. He didn’t judge me for my weight or for eating anything I wanted. And my God when he kissed me, he knew what he was doing.  So, I prayed. I prayed this would last. I used to walk before work and pray it would last. I was very much afraid it wouldn’t. Andrew was different. He never liked Bob and probably hoped it would end. Maybe I should have listened, but I thought he was jealous. Likely I was right.  Maybe he knew something I didn’t. I didn’t ask him.  And why was I so afraid? Because my broken heart had healed closed but in the way the edges of an infected wound might. It needed deeper healing. If not that then it didn’t need to be torn open again. Alex was indifferent to him. Still, Bob and I saw each other when the boys were with James.  I went to churches within his religion. I also started going to a bible study. I ignored a deep voice inside of me that said, do you truly believe this?

               Some of it I couldn’t ignore. And it came out. I can and did swallow a lot but some of it came up. It came up like too much alcohol might after a night of partying.

               “It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. A good person won’t go to heaven because he or she isn’t a Christian.” I don’t remember how we got on the subject, but we did.

               “It’s what the bible says. ‘I am the way, the truth and the life.’ You know the rest.”

               I wanted to shake him to his core. At least make him understand one thing.  What kind of person was he to say this? Who was I to listen? “What makes ME better than them? My Jewish friends?” John is disabled with cerebral palsy and bipolar disorder. I have another Jewish friend who also is disabled. It takes so much effort for them to do the smallest thing, to do what I take for granted. Yes, they’re flawed people, with the selfishness we all have, no better or worse than anyone. Still, just for the strength they have I figure they already deserve a better reward than I ever will. “Or an atheist? Not a damned thing!” I turned in my seat. “They could be much better people than us, Bob. You know that.”

               Plus, Andrew will never believe. Even at his young age I knew it. He was already what we were speaking about this minute.

               “Being a good person doesn’t matter.” We were driving to St. Augustine, I believe. On both sides of the road are deep forests. North Florida isn’t like what people think. No palm trees. “You can’t be a good person to God. To him we’re like trash.  Only His Grace can save you. Only by Jesus do you get to heaven.”

               “Catholics believe that. But they also believe your deeds matter. It’s why we have Purgatory. We have to atone if we sin.” I looked out the window. “He’s a God of love, right? So, one would think they could still be saved. Otherwise it makes no sense at all. I wouldn’t say this to my son.”

               “I’m sorry I upset you.”

               “You didn’t. I just want to know how you’re so sure.” God bless his certainty. I wasn’t certain of a damned thing except Bob had to be wrong. And it bothered me. “While we’re on the subject, why are you tithing so much?” It was fifteen percent of his salary. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have afforded to do it. My parents had to help me buy a house. I was paying back that loan.  I was in the same boat half of America was those days. I was recovering from a horrible housing market crash, plus the divorce.  Also, I didn’t understand how tithing helped anyone other than the pastor. Why not give to St. Jude’s? Or Doctors without Borders? Why not the guy down the street that just lost his house to foreclosure? Why not give your time or belongings you no longer needed? These were questions I’m sure he would rather I didn’t ask.

               “God will bless me several times more,” he said.

               More like the tax man will when you turn in your charitable deductions. “Bob. You’re not paying off your student loans. And you told me you can barely make your child support-“

               “She could go get a better paying job.”

               I hated talking about our exes. “Be that as it may, is this a good idea?”

               “We’re not married so why are you even arguing this with me?”

               Because I care. You need a new car and your house needs work done on it.  We loved each other and enjoyed being together.  But we had enough elephants to make the Ringling Brother’s jealous. I had small children.  His daughter was 16 and his son 13 years old. He lived 200 miles away from me and really didn’t want to move. I couldn’t. The biggest reason was I didn’t want to take the kids away from their father. I wasn’t happy with James for many reasons. However, I thought it would be wrong to take them further from him than I already had. Also, I hate mobile homes. I also hate living in places where they get excited when a dollar store comes to town.  He liked where he was. Something had to give in this menagerie. Bob had two adult stepchildren from his marriage and not the best relationship with them. So, he finally dragged out an elephant.

It happened on the phone. He said he couldn’t be a stepfather again. He had prayed too. I wasn’t surprised. I had seen it coming. I had seen it the way he acted the last time he was at my house. He was distant. Then before he left, he had put my hands on his face and said, “What are we going to do?” So, I was prepared.

“You knew I had children.” I told him. But I said nothing more. What I most feared was happening. My heart was breaking but by God I wouldn’t cry if it killed me.  I was furious. Once he had said “I’ll help you with the children.” It was a lie. But there was something beneath this. The tiniest voice whispered, “you’ve just been saved. And you know it.”

Yes, I thought.

Bob continued, “It’s also the distance. I can’t move for five years and you can’t move at all.”

“You’re right.”

“We’ll be friends.” The usual thing people say. For a while I tried that. The problem was I wasn’t just mourning him. I realized we never would have made it. We’re too different. I couldn’t have followed his religion, his politics or his way of life. I knew that back in high school but hoped things had changed. I was mourning the death of intimacy. Loss of a friend. James also. One day I blocked his social media. I had to, it hurt too much.

But I was also free. I dated another man briefly. Then I stopped. I realized this pain would be like the doctor’s scalpel before anesthesia existed.  But I needed the treatment to heal and until then I couldn’t trust the decisions I made in men.  I went back to the Catholic church. Eventually I went less. I found a path and made friends that walk it with me.  The way still isn’t clear but I’m free. I let go and found strength.