My dear Meg,
I’ve second-guessed myself a thousand times after our phone conversation. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing now or not. I just know I haven’t had any peace since I spoke to you. Please forgive me if my writing this to you now causes you more pain. What I’m revealing to you, I reveal in love, hoping God will use it in whatever way He sees fit to bring you help and healing.
I remember the day your father died as if it were yesterday. The images are seared into my mind. I wish they were not, but perhaps it has been for such a time as this. Maybe God always planned for me to tell you the truth about what happened, though I cannot tell you how much it pains me. Maybe my desire to protect both the living and the dead has been an obstacle to the truth God wants you to know.
As I told you on the phone, I have such fond memories of watching your father play with you. You were a bright spot in his life, and he loved you. He often told us how proud he was of his girls. I am quite sure he would be extremely proud of the woman you have become. Your gentleness and compassion for others are gifts your father would have admired. Your father was gentle and compassionate, too. That was the real William we knew and loved.
In his later years he fought a losing battle against alcoholism. I don’t pretend to know the reasons why your father began to drink so heavily. I just know that Robert and I both watched in sadness as he lost more and more control over his life. Your mother, as you well know, had a certain degree of pride in maintaining appearances, and his drinking became a source of shame and embarrassment for her. Especially when it was visible to others.
About six months before he died, he crashed his car into a tree in our front yard. We were relieved he wasn’t hurt, but it could have been very serious. You were playing in the yard, and he barely missed hitting you. He didn’t remember a thing about it afterwards, but of course, he was frightened and heartbroken when he realized what he’d done. He was scared when he thought about what could have happened. He told Robert one night that he couldn’t forgive himself. He said he was worried he’d lost control to alcohol and that he couldn’t stop drinking. He was terrified he’d do something to harm you or Rachel. He was extremely worried about that. He became more and more depressed, and I think he lost hope that he’d ever win the battle against his demons. He truly was a tormented soul.
The day he died I was gardening along the side of our house. I could hear arguing upstairs through an open window. I tried not to listen, but I heard enough to know that your mother was upset about his drinking. I don’t know what set off the fight, but your mother ended up leaving the house with you. A few hours later, Robert and I heard the gunshot.
Thankfully, your house was unlocked, and Robert and I both ran in, frantically calling for your father. When we found him upstairs, he was lying lifeless on the bed with a photo of you and Rachel beside him.
I’m so sorry if this causes you more pain. You have already endured so much heartache in your life. Though many questions remain unanswered, I wanted you to know that your father’s last thoughts must have been of you. For whatever reason, William must have believed that he did what he did because he loved you. Because I know how much he loved you, Meg.
Your mother never disclosed her thoughts or feelings to me about what happened. I don’t know who your mother’s confidantes were, or even if she had any. She was a very private person, and we did what we could to protect her privacy as much as possible. Robert and I agreed we would never speak about what we saw, except for what was necessary to disclose to the proper authorities. People who knew William knew he liked to drink, and it was widely assumed that he was intoxicated when the gun went off. In any case, we never corrected anyone who referred to your father’s death as an accident. I suppose that was out of love for him and a desire to protect his reputation. We also were determined never to contradict what we knew your mother had told you and Rachel.
This is what I know—what I have known. Please forgive me for whatever pain either my secrets or my disclosures have caused to you. As I’ve written this letter, I have prayed for you. I have continued to pray for you in anticipation of your receiving it. May you know the steadfast love of your Heavenly Father as you grieve what remains to be grieved. You are in His heart—and mine always, dear one.
With deep love and affection,
Loretta
Her hands trembling with emotion, Meg inserted the letter into the envelope and carried it upstairs to her parents’ room. She placed it on her mother’s pillow and shut the door tightly behind her when she exited. Then she staggered into her own room—her childhood room—and collapsed onto the bed, sobbing.
Sunday
Hannah awoke at 4 a.m. on Sunday morning with the same dream that had provoked her every night for a week.
She was trying to talk. She was trying to say something really, really important, but she couldn’t form the words in her mouth. Then she’d become more and more frustrated until she finally realized she was wearing a retainer. Why was she wearing a retainer? She didn’t need a retainer. She had gotten rid of her retainer years ago.
If she could figure out what the dream meant, maybe her subconscious would stop screaming at her.
Rolling over, she tried in vain to go back to sleep.
Mara sat in worship on Sunday morning, trying to let go of her resentment toward Tom. As Pastor Jeff preached, Mara mentally replayed their dinner table conversation from the night before.
Over and over again.
She had finally broached the subject of Thanksgiving, expressing her desire for the family to serve together at Crossroads House. “I just think it would be a wonderful thing for us to do together,” Mara had said. “We have so much to be grateful for when there are so many people who have nothing.”
“What? You mean give up our dinner here?” Brian asked incredulously, loading his plate with a second helping of spaghetti and meatballs. “No way!”
“Yeah, Mom,” Kevin agreed. “We’ve always had Thanksgiving here. And besides—we always watch football with Dad. I’m not givin’ that up just to go somewhere we’ve never been and hang out with a bunch of homeless people.”
Mara chewed on a fingernail and counted to ten before she replied. “We could still have our dinner here, just later in the day. We could do both.”
Tom tousled Kevin’s red hair. “I’m with the boys,” he said, reaching for more garlic bread. “Not interested.”
Mara had stewed in silence the rest of the meal, waiting until the boys went down to the basement to play video games before she spoke to Tom again. “You know how much that place means to me,” she said quietly. “Crossroads saved my life.”
He did not reply.
“Why can’t you do this for me? It would be good for the boys to serve other people.”
Tom leaned back in his chair. “Your life back then was your life,” he said. “It has nothing to do with me.” His lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “I know—why don’t you call Jeremy and see if he’ll go with you? You obviously had such happy memories there, just the two of you.”
Mara’s eyes burned. “This isn’t about me and Jeremy.”
Tom rose from the table. “Do whatever the hell you want. We’re not going with you. Just make sure your plans don’t affect ours.”
Mara was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of the worship band playing the first bars of the final song, and she stood with the rest of the congregation to sing.
Meg sat cross-legged on her bed Sunday afternoon, staring at the white roses on her nightstand. It was almost time to throw them away. She pulled off one of the wrinkled petals and rubbed it slowly between her fingers.
“I mailed a note to Loretta this morning,” she said to Hannah, wedging the phone more firmly against her shoulder. “I just wanted to thank her for telling me the truth, as hard as it was to hear it.” She paused. “You know, I had closed the door to my parents’ bedroom after I first talked to her on the phone. And now that I know even
more details about my father’s death, I just don’t know if I can open it again. I can’t bear the sight of the bed.”
“I think that’s perfectly okay,” Hannah replied. “What happened in that room was horrific.”
Meg was still gazing at the roses. “I know. But I’m also feeling like there’s something I need to do to get it all out of myself. I’ve been thinking about the letters Mara has been writing to the girls who hurt her. And then I wrote that letter to Jim last week. As hard as it was for me to sit there in the restaurant by myself and name the pain and the deep sense of loss I’ve been feeling, there was something so healing in it. I don’t know . . . ” Her voice trailed off, and there was silence on the other end of the phone.
“I often tell people that we can only let go of the things we first hold on to,” Hannah finally said quietly. “Maybe someday you’ll find yourself writing a letter to your dad, as a way of turning it all over to God in prayer.”
After she hung up the phone, Meg lay a long time on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe a letter was the right next step to take. Maybe there were many difficult things she needed to be able to say to her father.
Maybe.
John lay on the bed Sunday evening, holding Charissa’s hand while he listened to one side of her phone conversation. They had finally decided to call and tell her parents the news about the baby, and from the pained expression on Charissa’s face and the tension in her voice, he could tell it wasn’t going well. Though John had assured her she had nothing to worry about, Charissa had evidently predicted their reaction accurately.
“I don’t know, Daddy. I’m not sure yet,” she said, stiffening her posture. John let go of her hand, sat up, and began gently massaging her shoulders. She did not relax. “No, I haven’t wasted everything. There are lots of women who manage to juggle lots of things, and Dr. Allen says we don’t have to decide anything about the Ph.D. right now.” Pause. “No, I know . . . I know how hard I’ve worked . . . ” Her voice was beginning to break, and her lips were quivering. It was time to end this conversation.
“Hey, Riss,” John said, loudly enough for her parents to hear his voice, “we’ve gotta go.”
She turned a grateful face toward him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Hey, Mom? Daddy? I’ve got to go. John’s calling me. I’ll call you later, okay? Love you . . . ”
Shutting her cell phone, she buried her head against John’s chest and started to cry. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said quietly, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair. “So sorry.”
Meg
For the next three days, Meg prayed fervently, asking for the courage to set foot into another swirling eddy of grief. Though she continued to hear her mother’s voice belittling her for being too sensitive and commanding her to be a grown-up, Meg also began to hear the persistent voice of the Spirit inviting her to take the next steps into freedom.
Sitting down at her desk on Wednesday night, Meg asked the Good Shepherd to walk with her into the darkness of her family’s past. For a long time she sat staring at a blank piece of paper, praying from Isaiah 43: Don’t be afraid, Meg, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, Meg. You are mine.
Finally, with an icy hand, she began to write.
Dear Daddy,
Tonight the little girl who grew up without a father needs to write this letter. I don’t even know where it’s going to go. I’m asking God to help me find the words. I guess this is just my first attempt to walk toward a new kind of healing. I don’t know where this road will take me. But I’m walking it.
I wish you had chosen a different path, Daddy. Loretta said that your last thoughts must have been of me and Rachel—that whatever reasons you had for taking your life, you must have believed you were doing what was best for us. I don’t know if that’s the truth or not. You didn’t give us the gift of revealing your heart. I’ll never know the reasons why you chose to leave us. You didn’t tell us why. I could drive myself crazy the rest of my life asking the unanswerable question. A friend told me I need to find a way to ask a different question. I’ll never get answers to “why?” so I need to start asking, “what now?”
But before I can even ask, “what now?” I need to look at how sad I feel. All these years I thought your death was a horrible accident. Now I discover you chose to abandon us. You of all people knew how hard life was with Mother. You knew that. And you left us without your help. You betrayed us, Daddy. Your presence and love could have eased our lives. Maybe you thought you were protecting us by killing yourself. I don’t know. Loretta said you were terrified you’d do something to harm us. But the moment you shot yourself was when you harmed me in the worst possible way.
So tonight I say out loud that my life would have been different if you had made a different choice. Tonight I confess that I’m angry and sad. So sad, Daddy.
But I’m not bitter.
I’m so sorry that you were so overwhelmed by your despair, sorrow, and hopelessness that you saw no other way forward. I’m so sorry that you didn’t have eyes to see a future and hope for you. For us. I’m so sorry. It must have been pure hell for you. I don’t even pretend to know what that kind of despair is like. I’ve never felt it. Not even in my darkest of days. And I’ve had some dark days. So I’m not judging you, Daddy. I forgive you.
The Lord gave me a precious memory of you to treasure, and I hold on to your words as God’s very words to me: “I’ve got you, Meggie, keep coming.” Even though you let go, Daddy, I know the Lord grips my hand and helps me to keep going, no matter what comes. I can’t describe the deep sense of peace I have as I remember that. I know with all my heart that God’s love never fails, and His faithfulness is my strength. The Lord is my Shepherd, my Friend, my Love, and my Father.
Loretta gave me the gift of describing moments I shared with you that I do not remember. I wish I could remember playing with you. I wish I could remember you singing. Tonight as I write this, one more shadowy image emerges. I don’t even know if it’s real. I guess it doesn’t matter. I have an image of myself standing in the driveway, looking up at the house, watching for your face. Even though I can’t make out your face, I do see a shadow in the upstairs window, waving to me.
Good-bye, Daddy.
Again.
Hannah
“So . . . last group tomorrow, huh?” Nathan said as he and Hannah ate lunch together at the Corner Nook on Friday afternoon.
Hannah nodded and poured a bit more honey-lime dressing onto her grilled chicken salad. “Now I need to figure out what to do with the rest of my sabbatical.”
“Have you thought any more about the Holy Land trip?”
“Not much,” she lied. She had spent hours thinking about it.
He dunked a corner of his French dip sandwich into a cup of au jus. “What would keep you from going?”
“I don’t know. I need to pray about it. I’m not sure if it’s something the Lord wants me to do.” There. A pious sounding excuse for being evasive.
“What do you want, Shep?”
He had seen right through her. Sometimes she hated his gift.
“I don’t know what I want,” she lied again. She knew what she wanted and didn’t want to want it. She moved quickly to change the subject. “Tell me about your classes, Nate. When do you finish for the semester?”
“A couple more weeks.” He pulled at a carmelized onion that was dangling from his sandwich. “I can’t believe Thanksgiving is next week. Where did the fall go?”
They chatted awhile about incidental things. Normally, Hannah hated small talk. She found it exhausting. But today small talk served the useful purpose of keeping Nathan from plumbing the depths of her spirit. She wondered how long he’d let her continue. After all, she knew he didn’t like small talk either. He considered it a waste of time.
Once the waitress had cleared away their empty plates, Hannah heard him take a preparatory breath. She braced herself. She recognized that breath. He was leaving the surface to div
e deep.
“So, Hannah, while I’m not your spiritual director or your pastor, I am your friend. And I’m actually interested in knowing how you’re doing. So far today I’ve seen nothing but the mask. Where are you?”
Even with a moment to prepare herself, the question still startled her. “Do you keep track of the texts Katherine uses with the sacred journey groups?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Nate took a slow sip of coffee. “You can always opt out of the question,” he said. “I just don’t like playing games.”
“Okay. I’ll opt out. I’m just processing a lot right now, and I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“Fair enough.”
He stopped talking. Evidently, he was no longer going to give her the gift of small talk. If there was going to be conversation, Hannah would have to lead it. She knew him too well to think he was punishing or manipulating her through silence. He was simply waiting.
Hannah wished she still had a plate of food in front of her—something to distract her and keep her hands occupied. She reached for her glass of water and drank more than she wanted.
Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? The question was hovering between them in a dense, stifling, swirling cloud. She was suffocating.
“I lied to you about Thanksgiving,” she confessed quietly.
His expression was even, just like his voice. “Why?”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the invitation, Nate. I . . . It’s just . . . ”
He set down his coffee mug. “I didn’t have any ulterior motives in inviting you. I just didn’t want you to be by yourself. That’s all.”
So that’s where his heart was. Her disappointment revealed where she was too. She mustered a smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Forgive me.”
A Story about the Spiritual Journey Page 34