"Just read it, will you?" Diedre's tone came out cross and demanding, and she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be irritable with you. It's simply that—well, I don't know where to go from here."
Susan gazed down at the journal. "Waiting in the darkness, huh?" She tilted her head. "Ah, yes. Holy Saturday. I remember it well."
"Saturday?" Diedre tried unsuccessfully to restrain the sarcasm in her tone. "Last time I looked, it was Tuesday."
"Chronologically, it is Tuesday," Susan chuckled. "But spiritually, it's Saturday."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, next week is Passion Week—for the Christian church, the most important celebration of the year. But too often, when we remember Christ's passion, we tend to make this quantum leap from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. Straight from the crucifixion to the resurrection. It's human nature, I guess. We have to acknowledge the bad stuff, but we want to rush ahead to the good stuff as quickly as possible. So we skip over Holy Saturday altogether."
"And Holy Saturday implies—" Diedre prompted.
"The waiting place, the tomb of in-between. The place of darkness, of death. We may have faith that resurrection is coming, but we still have to wait. Wait for the night to pass. Wait for the stone to be rolled away, and for the morning light to come in. Wait for the redemption that is to be."
Deep in Diedre's inner being, something quivered—the twang of a bowstring, the vibration of a tuning fork. In these months of counseling with Susan, she had learned to listen to her spirit, had begun to discern when some idea struck a nerve. This one reverberated in her soul like an entire handbell choir, and she leaned forward.
"All right," she said. "Let's talk about this idea of redemption. During the graveside service at Daddy's funeral, you said something about finding new ways to redeem the moment. Do you remember?"
"I remember." Susan nodded, raising both eyebrows. "I'm just shocked that you remember. Most people forget what my sermon was about between the final benediction and the time they get out the door—never mind anything I say in the prayers." She grinned and leaned back in her chair.
"Well, this prayer must have been important, because I do remember it," Diedre said. "And I think we need to talk about it. I assume you weren't talking about eternal redemption—like, being saved."
"No. I was referring to discovering the blessing in the midst of the curse."
"Amber talked to me about that once. She said I was the blessing that had come out of the curse of her abuse."
"And do you believe that?"
"I don't know. I still have questions about it."
"She means it. You've been an essential factor in her healing—you've helped her redeem that experience and find a way to wholeness." She paused and gazed into Diedre's eyes. "It seems to me that the challenge before you now is to find your own catalyst, your own path to justice and healing."
"But I wasn't abused—not directly, anyway," Diedre objected. "Daddy never did to me what he did to Amber."
"Still, you're affected by it—very deeply affected. And the results are the same. Your father may not have molested you, but he did abuse you. He betrayed your trust. He violated you. He withheld his love from you. He took something very important away from you—your mother. And your identity."
Diedre sighed. She knew all this. They had been through it a hundred times. "I've accepted that. I've confronted the truth, faced the pain. So what's missing? How come I'm not making more progress?"
Susan shook her head. "Diedre, I know you're eager to have this over and done with, to get on with your life. I want that for you, too. But you have to realize that healing takes time. Sometimes years—even decades."
"You're saying I just have to sit on my hands and wait for some kind of miraculous intervention?" Diedre snapped. "That's not very encouraging."
"Maybe not, but it's reality." Susan paused. "In counseling women who have been abused, therapists have identified a number of factors that make healing possible. Do you remember our discussion of them?"
"Yes, I did some journaling about them." Diedre retrieved her journal from Susan's desk, flipped pages, and read through the list: "Truth-telling, Acknowledgment of the Story, Compassion, Protection for Others, Accountability for the Perpetrator, Restitution, Vindication."
"Anything there you want to talk about?"
Diedre shrugged. "The first three are pretty much covered, I think. I've addressed the truth about what Daddy did, and everyone in my life has given me affirmation and understanding about what I'm going through. As to protection, Daddy's dead now, so he can't hurt anyone else. And his inheritance provided a kind of restitution for me and Amber, although he didn't do it voluntarily." She paused. "But the accountability one still bothers me a lot."
"Because your father never admitted his culpability?"
"Yes. Amber and I have talked about it. We both wish he had said something—anything—to indicate that he took some kind of responsibility for the abuse, for all the pain and suffering he caused. But we're never going to have that."
"No, you won't," Susan agreed. "This list is a paradigm, an accounting of what survivors of abuse ideally need to come to healing. Most of us live with less than the ideal."
Diedre looked up, startled. "Sometimes I forget you are a survivor of domestic abuse."
"That's a compliment, I think. But you need to know, Diedre—I never forget. And neither will you."
"But aren't you required to forget? As a Christian, I mean. Doesn't the Bible say we're supposed to 'forgive and forget'?"
"That's not from the Bible. It's from King Lear, if I recall correctly," Susan chuckled. "A lot of what people attribute to the Bible is actually Shakespeare—or Poor Richard's Almanac. Not the kind of sources I'd choose to formulate my theology—or my psychology either, for that matter."
"Still," Diedre persisted, "the Bible does talk about forgiving our enemies. But where Daddy is concerned, I just can't stomach the thought. The idea of having to forgive him makes me physically sick. I can't go there."
"Then don't."
Diedre opened her mouth to respond, but for a minute no sound came. Then she blurted out, "You're an Episcopal priest, Susan! Won't they excommunicate you, or something, for saying such a thing?"
Susan shrugged. "Let 'em try. Diedre, when people talk about forgiveness—especially in a situation of sexual abuse—what they're really asking you to do is short-circuit the process of healing. They're really saying, 'Hurry up and forgive him so we won't have to think about these uncomfortable issues.' But we're not dealing with a four-year-old who takes away his little sister's toy, or even an adult who inadvertently hurts someone else's feelings. This isn't something we can gloss over by saying, 'It's OK.' What your father did is not OK, and I'd be doing you a grave disservice if I even suggested that forgiveness is some kind of spiritual cure-all."
She paused and looked into Diedre's eyes. "One of these days—one of these years—you'll look back and think about what your father did, and it will truly be past. You won't forget it, but when you remember, you'll see it from a different perspective. It will still be part of your history that once caused you great pain, but it will also spur you on to justice, to help others like yourself find peace and safety and healing. I believe that's what forgiveness means—that you ultimately find yourself set free, no longer controlled by the abuse or the abuser."
She pointed toward the list Diedre held in her hands. "That brings us to the final item on that list. Vindication. To be set free, to be whole, to be justified. To be declared worthy."
"Do you think that will ever happen for me?" Diedre asked.
"Yes, I do. But you need to give it time."
"It seems to me," Diedre mused, "that what I'm really looking for is a way to unearth some justice in what Amber and I have gone through—in your words, to find a catalyst that might turn the curse into a blessing. You say that Amber's relationship with me has done that for her. But I'm still trying to find my w
ay to the blessing." She looked up. "Let's get back to your prayer at the funeral, when you spoke of 'new ways to redeem this moment.' What, exactly, did you mean by that?"
Susan gazed at the ceiling, obviously considering the question. "Literally, the word redeem means to buy back, to recover ownership. And that's exactly what you're seeking to do—to get the ownership of your life back. I suppose in that prayer I was asking for the Spirit's guidance that all of us—especially you and Amber—might be able to find some creative ways to rediscover God's presence in the midst of this darkness." She put a hand to her forehead and furrowed her brow. "That's not very specific, I know, and maybe not very helpful. I just have to believe that there's a way to bring something constructive out of so much destruction."
"Maybe at least part of the answer for me lies in the money I inherited when Daddy died."
"As restitution?" Susan asked.
"Partly restitution, but more than that. When the lawyer told Amber and me about Daddy's will, he joked that such an enormous inheritance could buy anything our hearts desired. It made me angry. I told him all the money in the world couldn't buy back the past."
"And you were right," Susan affirmed. "It can't. We don't have the power to change what has happened."
"But we do have the power to change what will happen," Diedre mused. "Maybe that's what redeeming the moment means for me. Maybe that's where the justice lies, if I can do something to make tomorrow different—and better."
She got up from her chair, pulled open the door to Susan's office, and stood there for a moment in the doorway. "I may have to wait awhile longer for this tomb to open. But I think I see a crack of light, feel just a bit of fresh air. It gives me hope that Holy Saturday won't last forever, that Easter will eventually arrive. And maybe a little bit of hope is all I need."
44
Sacred Promises
APRIL 20 , 1996
Saturday dawned clear and cool, with a topaz-blue sky and just enough of a breeze to stir up the waters of Hood Canal. Twojoe sat on the back porch sipping from a mug of coffee and watched as the sun tipped the high peaks of the Olympic Mountains. It was a perfect day, a day bright with promise and graced by the sweet breath of benediction.
Of course, it wouldn't have mattered one bit to him if it had been a typical drizzly spring morning with dark clouds lowering overhead. It wasn't the weather that made this April day perfect. It was the fact that this afternoon, before God, their friends, and a mighty cloud of invisible witnesses, he and Amber Chaney would take vows that would unite them as one—heart, soul, mind, and strength.
"For better or for worse," he murmured under his breath. And he meant it. But he couldn't help believing that they had already weathered the worse, and that from here on out their life together would be mostlybetter. Except, of course, for the fact that he was going to feel like an overstuffed penguin in that tuxedo.
Twojoe heard a noise in the kitchen behind him and looked through the screen door to see Amber pouring herself a cup of coffee. Still in her flannel pajamas and a blue chenille bathrobe, she looked sleepy and rumpled and absolutely adorable. Since both of them were still living in the farmhouse, they had decided to forgo the wedding day tradition of the groom not seeing the bride until she walked down the aisle. He still hadn't gotten a single glimpse of her wedding dress, but he was pretty sure the sight of her in it would knock all the breath out of him. If she was this delightful in flannels, with her hair stuck up in all directions—
She came out to the porch with her coffee, kissed him, and dropped into the chair beside him. "G'morning."
"Not quite awake, I see."
"It'll get better," she mumbled. "Just give me a chance to get some caffeine into my system."
Twojoe looked at her and began to laugh. "I love you so much!"
She glared at him over her coffee cup. "Are you making fun of me?"
"No. I mean it. I do love you. You're so—so cute."
"Well, honey, if you think I'm cute now, give me a few hours."
"I can't wait." He slid his chair closer to hers and nuzzled her neck. "Why don't we get married now—I mean right now, with you in your flannel jams and me in my jeans?"
"And waste the five hundred dollars I spent on that wedding dress? I don't think so."
Twojoe sat back and chuckled. Like most of the men he knew, he didn't care much about the pomp and circumstance of a wedding. But if that's what Amber wanted, that's what she'd get. And it wasn't really a big wedding, as weddings go. They had planned a simple ceremony, with Meg and Diedre as dual maids of honor, Vernon Houston as best man, and little Sam, who had flown in from Texas two days ago, as the ring-bearer. Afterward, in place of a formal reception, they would hosta dinner and dance in the barn. The figures Amber had picked out for the top of the wedding cake were a Native American chief in buckskins and a bride in homespun. Not quite a conventional wedding, but then, they weren't exactly a conventional couple.
"I assume everything's ready, that we haven't forgotten anything?"
She slanted a glance at him. "Whatever we've forgotten just won't get done. I'm trying not to obsess. We're getting married at four, and I intend to enjoy this day to the fullest."
Twojoe reached over and squeezed her hand. The new skin was still a little puckered, but it was soft and smooth, and he relished the feel of it. The modest diamond solitaire caught the morning sunlight and flickered little dots of color around the porch. "We could afford a bigger ring," he mused.
"We could afford a lot of things," she countered. "But I don't see any reason to change our whole lifestyle just because we've got the money to do it." She shifted in her chair and looked at him. "What do we want that we don't already have?"
He grinned at her. "Not a thing. I've got you, and all this—" He waved a hand toward the mountain vista. "A new barn, and a brand-new bright red pickup truck. What else could any man desire?"
"And you're OK with staying here? Meg's got all her stuff moved down to your apartment, and I've shifted my things to the master bedroom. You don't want a new house, do you?"
"Good grief, no." Twojoe blurted out. "I love this house. Although when we get back from our honeymoon, I would like to do some renovations on the upstairs bathroom, and—" he waggled his eyebrows at her and poked her in the ribs— "buy a new king-size bed."
She slapped his hand away playfully. "Ah. Don't want to have to be too close to me, huh?"
"Make that a single bed." He captured her hand and kissed it. "I want to be as close to you as possible."
Meg and Amber were clearing the breakfast dishes from the table when Twojoe heard footsteps on the back porch and looked up to see Sam Houston peering in through the screen. "Come on in, Sam. We've just finished breakfast, but there's some French toast left." He slammed through the door, gave hugs all around, and flopped into a chair at the table.
Amber tousled his blonde head and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Aw, Amber." He grimaced and swiped at his face, but the flush of pink that went up his neck told Twojoe that he was pleased with the attention.
"How's Texas? You doing all right down there?"
"Yeah. Mom and Dad are glad to have me back, I think. But I miss Grandpa and Grandma—" He ducked his head. "And all of you."
"Well, we've missed you, too." Meg set a plate of French toast and bacon in front of him. "You're growing."
"I turned seven last month," he said with his mouth full. "And I did a report for school on llamas. Grandpa says he'll buy two of them for me when I'm ten."
"You got your tuxedo for the wedding?" Amber asked.
"Yeah. Do I really have to wear it?"
"Yes, you really have to wear it. You'll look so handsome in it—just wait, you'll see. And there's a little girl from church who's just about your age. I bet she'll think you're the best-looking fellow she's ever seen." Amber winked in Twojoe's direction.
"Girls? Yuck!" Sam wolfed down the last of the French toast and stood up, grabbing Twojoe's ha
nd. "Thanks for the breakfast, Meg. You gotta come with me, Twojoe. I got something to show you!"
"You're welcome." Meg took Sam's plate to the kitchen. "What's the rush, Sam? What do you have to show Twojoe?"
He gave her a condescending look. "Guy stuff. It's a secret. You'll know soon enough."
"So, what is this all about?" Twojoe said when Sam had led him by the hand down the path past the barn.
"Keep your eyes closed."
"They are closed. If I break my leg and have to miss my own wedding, Sam Houston—"
"We're almost there."
Twojoe could feel the sun on his face, smell the scents of grass and hay and llama feed. They must be nearing the pasture gate. "Almost where?" He suppressed a chuckle. He had, indeed, missed Sam's presence in his life the past few months. The boy had a way of turning the most mundane event into an adventure, and—
"Okay, stop. Now, open your eyes."
Twojoe obeyed, blinking in the bright sunlight. Just on the other side of the gate, Lloser stood tethered to the fence. Around his long wooly neck, held in place by elastic bands, he wore a black bow tie and a starched white pin-tucked shirt front with gray pearl studs. A tuxedo. A llama in a tuxedo!
Twojoe laughed until tears streamed down his face and he couldn't breathe. "It's wonderful!" He swept Sam up in an exuberant hug and set him on the top rail of the fence. "Where did you come up with such an idea?"
"Grandpa helped." Sam grinned so broadly that Twojoe thought his face would crack.
"Well, we've got to show Meg and Amber. They'll love it."
"No, we can't," Sam objected. "It's supposed to be a surprise."
"A surprise?"
"Yeah. I'm going to bring him with me this afternoon."
Twojoe stared at the boy. "To the wedding?'
"Well, yeah, to the wedding." Sam twisted his mouth in an expression that said he thought Twojoe was incredibly dense. "I mean, Lloser did save Amber from the fire, didn't he? He's practically family—"
"Sam, he's a llama. He can't come to the wedding."
The Amber Photograph Page 30