With Peter, however, I found myself wanting a say. I placed high expectations on him and on us. And when my expectations were not met, our discussions often escalated into arguments.
Like Dad, Peter had a strong work ethic. But unlike Dad, who would clock in and out of work at the same time every day, Peter would either work late or bring his work home. I found myself preparing homemade meals only to have them turn cold when Peter arrived home late. When Peter was home, I wanted his full attention, and when he didn’t give it, I became upset.
As much as I believed Peter wouldn’t do such a thing, there were a few times early in our marriage when I had wondered about Peter coming home late again. If he was capable of cheating on his wife, could Peter?
And speaking of infidelity, I was horrified when I thought of him while Peter and I made love. Not that I wanted him. I just couldn’t seem to escape my past. It continued to haunt me. After several weeks – perhaps, it had been months – the thoughts eventually went away. The first couple of years were a confusing time for me. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t responding to Peter’s touches as I did with him. Neither of us had recognized the impact my affair had on me. Peter and I terminated our therapy without resolving our issues surrounding sex. Although we had talked about it a little from time to time, bringing up the issue in therapy had been awkward and uncomfortable. I was not as affectionate as Peter would have liked. It was not my nature, and I understood I had to work harder at expressing myself. Our one year of work together was beneficial, yet sex was still the elephant in the room.
How I had wished that sex was not such a big deal; that we could have lived without it. It was giving us so much trouble. At the time, I lacked an understanding of how God created and designed men. I had always thought that for men, sex was simply for pleasure. No one had told me that sex was more than just a way of meeting his physical needs. As I later learned, sex is actually tied to men’s emotional needs, and when their sexual needs are met, they feel loved and secure. Sex is also tied to a man’s self-confidence. Withholding sex from a man would be the equivalent of his refusal to listen to a woman when she needed to talk.
The ride continued – the ups, exhilarating; the downs, terrifying.
One day, I gave Peter a card with this message printed on the inside: We used to have so much fun together. I don’t know what went wrong, but I really miss the way we used to be. Below I had scribbled: “Peter, we need to decide whether or not to work on our marriage. I can’t just go on like we are living now. I need to know if there’s hope.”
Was there hope?
Chapter 55
Early 1990s
I looked at the clock and let out a sigh. It was only 10:23 p.m. and I was tired. I really wanted to sleep, but it was still too early.
I walked into the kitchen and thought about putting away the dishes. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. That’d make too much noise. The last thing I wanted was to wake Peter; he had gone to bed around 10:10 p.m. I suppose I could read, but I wasn’t in the mood. I went downstairs to the laundry room to sort our dirty clothes into three piles: white, color, and delicate. I would wash them tomorrow.
I wanted to sleep!
I went back upstairs and remembered that I hadn’t paid the phone bill. Might as well, I thought. So, I sat down and wrote a check.
After thirty minutes Peter should have been asleep, or so I’d hoped. I went to bathroom for the last time, reminding myself not to flush. Then I tiptoed across the room and carefully slid into the left side of the bed without the slightest movement.
But as soon as I pulled the blanket to my chin, I felt Peter stirring. Oh, no! He rolled over on his side, his hand reaching over and landing on my stomach. I held my breath, praying silently: Please, don’t. He then inched forward, pressing his body slightly against my back. That was it.
I immediately rolled over and got out of the bed. The lamp on his nightstand flicked on. I squinted, a bit exaggeratedly, adjusting to the sudden brightness.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, acting naively. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Peter sat upright on the bed and responded angrily: “You know very well what the matter is. I’m tired of being rejected!”
“What are you talking about?” I maintained my innocence.
By now, Peter had gotten out of the bed. “I’m your husband. Yet, I can’t even touch you.” Peter looked at me. “Every time I try, you push me away. What did I do to deserve this?”
“Not true,” I defended myself. “When you came home from work today, we hugged. Doesn’t that count?”
“You know what I mean.”
Now, it was my turn to get angry. “Sex-sex-sex! That’s all you think about. You want sex? Fine. Go find someone! I don’t care. I’m sure there are women who would love to have sex with you. Just go and leave me alone.”
Peter looked at me, stunned. Then, he collapsed to his knees. And with his head in his hands, he sobbed. I’d never seen him like that before.
I felt a twinge of guilt but suppressed it. After all, he had deserved it. I was just tired of it all – avoiding him, walking on eggshells, the anxiety every night. Men seemed to have a one-track mind. And Peter was no better.
It was the same with him. Our hour together always started physically. Actually, we spent the majority of our time doing that rather than talking. And when we talked, it was he who did most of it. I had resented him for it.
Men are all alike. Even Mom thought the same way. She would tell me how tired she was in the morning, and when I asked her why, she would say: “Allen (she never referred him as ‘Dad’ when talking to me) wanted … you know men. He has passions and I can’t say no. So, I gave in.”
After several minutes, Peter looked up, sorrow clearly painted across his face. “Tell me you didn’t mean that.”
I thought about comforting him by telling him I didn’t. But since I had spoken, I was determined not to take back my words. Instead, I said: “I can’t satisfy you. So, what am I supposed to do? You are obviously not happy. Just go find someone who can.”
“How could you?” Peter looked at me in disbelief. “You are my wife. You mean the world to me. If I have to choose, I would rather live without sex than not having you by my side.”
“If sex isn’t that important, then why are we having this discussion?” I challenged him.
“It’s complicated,” Peter stammered. “It’s not so much the sex itself, though I do love that with you. Making love to you makes me feel connected to you,” he explained.
Men and sex. That was something I didn’t understand. But, I wasn’t the only one. Peter didn’t understand my needs either.
Chapter 56
Fall 1998
How I dreaded Sunday school class.
We had begun attending church when I was pregnant with our oldest daughter. Both of us agreed that it was important to raise our children in the church, yet despite our regular attendance for four years, I still didn’t understand much. Who were those people the pastor kept referring to: Solomon, Paul, Isaiah, John? I had no idea.
Our church wasn’t large; we met in the cafeteria of a middle school. Our worship service was interpreted. During the adult Sunday school hour, I managed to keep myself busy most of the time by tending to my children – breastfeeding, burping, and changing diapers. When they started walking, I would walk with them back and forth in the back of the room. When they became toddlers, I would sit on the floor and keep them occupied with books and toys.
But when our children were five, three, and one, we changed churches – to a much larger one. It had Sunday school classes for all ages – infants through adults. My youngest’s feeding schedule did not coincide with the Sunday school hour, so with nothing to keep my hands full, I had no more excuses to avoid participating.
The teacher would ask the class a question, presumably something
basic we all should know, and I would quickly look down at my Bible, pretending to read. In the meantime, out of the corner of my eye, I would watch for someone to answer. If the teacher asked a question I could answer, I was quick to raise my hand. I wasn’t quite like a kindergartener who would boldly say: “Me! Me! I know the answer!” Rather, I would answer the question then breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I could relax for the next few rounds of questions.
The pattern was exhausting. I was embarrassed that I wasn’t familiar with the stories, stressed over not knowing the answers, anxious over the possibility of being asked a question, worried over what others would think if I gave an incorrect answer, and constantly reminded that I knew nothing. It all made me feel stupid.
So, when a Sunday school teacher for the Deaf elementary class needed a break for several months, I was quick to volunteer. “I’ll be happy to teach.” Not because I had a heart for teaching. Not because I had the desire to see the children grow in their knowledge of the Bible. Not because I wanted to reach out to them. I was thinking only of myself – an easy way out of my Sunday school class. I figured that the children wouldn’t know more than I did.
God knew just what I needed. For the time being, I was comfortable. I was learning along with the little children in a nonthreatening setting. What I learned, I would share with my own children at home. And when I had questions during my preparation time, I had Peter to help me.
But like the Bible says, an infant cannot remain on milk forever (c.f., 1 Cor. 3:2). God knew I had to learn the basics before I could move on to the deeper material. I didn’t know at the time that I would have to begin eating solid food eventually.
Chapter 57
1993 – 1998
My children adored my mom and dad. They would wait anxiously by the window in our living room for their arrival. The minute Mom and Dad’s car pulled into our driveway, they’d rush down the stairs, open the front door, and run into their arms.
Yes, they hugged.
Connie and I had started hugging them too. It had felt unnatural and awkward in the beginning, but as time progressed, it got easier. In fact, Mom and Dad had grown accustomed to being hugged and even expected it when we saw each other. Then, when the kids came along, hugging became natural for everyone.
Our kids would actually kiss Mom and Dad on the mouth. Not me, though. The only time Dad kissed me was on my wedding day, and that was something I was fine with. As a young girl, I may have envied my friends when their daddies kissed them, but as I grew, I couldn’t imagine it otherwise.
Mom and Dad played a significant role in our children’s lives. Mom was our children’s caregiver when I worked. Mom was a fun grandmother; on the floor, interacting with our children all day long.
After working as a mental health therapist for several years, I returned to MSD, working part-time as a family educator. I traveled all over the state of Maryland visiting families with identified deaf children, birth through age five. Week after week, we taught parents ASL, modeled how to interact with their deaf child, and answered any questions they may have had about deafness and Deaf culture. We were delighted to see progress made by families who were eager to learn. Unfortunately, some parents had downplayed the significance of communicating with their child in ASL. As a result, their deaf children would begin school significantly behind their peers – both academically and socially.
Unlike me, Mom and Dad spent the first five years of their lives without any real communication. Such services provided by MSD didn’t exist back then. Did Mom and Dad know the alphabet before entering school? Were they able to rote count to ten? Were they able to express their basic needs?
Mom’s deafness wasn’t discovered until she was two. Being the baby in a large family, I could only imagine her being passed between siblings to be fed, bathed, and clothed. Mom and Grandmother communicated with each other using homemade gestures or paper and pencil. Whenever we’d visit, we would sit in silence.
Grandma, however, knew basic survival signs – enough to get simple messages across. When Dad became Deaf at age three due to whooping cough, he was taken to different doctors in hopes his deafness could be cured. After unsuccessful attempts, Dad was enrolled in a residential school.
It’s difficult to imagine growing up in a home without full access to communication, although I had a glimpse of what it was like when visiting relatives. Sadly, Mom and Dad’s window to learning during the crucial years had been closed. So much was missed. How much did their limited communication at home contribute to how they raised me? There are no definite answers; I can only speculate.
Mom and Dad never witnessed loving or encouraging words exchanged between their parents. When Mom cried, she never received comforting words. When grandparents argued (if they did) or faced crises, Dad was not able to learn how they resolved conflicts. When rules and expectations were articulated, Mom probably learned them through trial and error. And what happened when Mom and Dad misbehaved? Who did they turn to when they needed someone to listen after a bad day?
Yet despite their difficult beginnings, they had learned through life and grown as parents and grandparents. Our children experienced the best of both worlds – they understood where their grandparents had come from, accepted their shortcomings, respected them as individuals, and loved them wholeheartedly.
Chapter 58
November 1998
We entered the room to discover a huge wooden cross laid in the center of the floor. Folding chairs encircled the cross; underneath each seat was a piece of paper and pencil. Forty-four ladies and I took our seats.
I had reluctantly left home two days earlier for the women’s retreat. I didn’t want to leave behind my children, but since this was the third time someone had offered to sponsor me, Peter encouraged me to accept the invitation. He reassured me that the kids would be fine, so I packed my belongings for the three-night retreat – ambivalent and nervous.
We received our instructions regarding what to do with the paper and pencil. The room turned silent as we pondered the things we wanted to nail to the cross – a metaphor for letting go of the burdens that interfered with and even worked against the life God had in store for us.
I knew immediately what I needed to let go of: him.
It had been eleven years since I found the strength to leave him.
I had long since forgiven him for the pain he caused me. The anger that I had experienced when I returned to Gallaudet for my junior year was short-lived. Later, when I learned that he was still having a hard time getting over me, my anger became pity, then guilt.
Guilt for causing him so much grief.
Guilt over our affair. I felt responsible for the whole thing.
I’d been carrying guilt for the past eleven years. It had haunted me every time I was reminded of him.
I sat and pondered all of this. I hadn’t yet mustered the courage to write down his name. One by one, ladies rose from their seats and took their turns swinging the hammer. It was emotional for many, evidenced by the tears and sorrow on their faces. Some would complete the activity without expressing much at all. Others would break down, sobbing. Some would share what they had written; others couldn’t.
Was it possible that God could forgive me for what I had done? For reasons I did not understand, it was easier for me to forgive him than to forgive myself. I wanted to believe I could be forgiven. I knew I needed to be forgiven.
At last, I wrote his name, praying silently, begging God for His forgiveness. I folded the paper in half and then into quarters before standing. I picked up a thick nail, walked toward the cross, knelt beside it, placed the folded paper onto the wood, and pounded the nail through the center.
I did not say a single word. There was no need. This was between the Lord and me. Though my hand was shaking, I managed to hit the nail harder the second time. I pounded repeatedly until the nail drove deeply into the woo
d. All of it – the affair, the guilt – was now Christ’s.
I had made a terrible mistake. Whether it was my fault or not, it couldn’t be undone. Yet it could be forgiven.
It was forgiven.
I was forgiven.
Chapter 59
December 1998
My heart raced as I prayed silently that Peter would do a good job. I knew practically everyone in the congregation, and I was worried about what they would think.
In front of me, in the pulpit, Peter stood. A few weeks earlier, he had talked to someone about the church’s vacant pastoral position. The church we were attending had been without a permanent pastor for ten years and was seeking one for its Deaf congregation. That’s why Peter was standing in the pulpit – he was invited as a guest speaker to preach the sermon.
Just before my attending the women’s retreat, Peter had dropped the bomb. He informed me that he had been thinking about changing his career – going into the ministry and possibly becoming a pastor. “It is something that has been nudging me for some time,” he said.
“You? A pastor? Are you kidding?” I responded, without thinking.
“I’m serious.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “But I just can’t imagine you being a pastor.” It was the truth. Peter as a pastor? No way. Not that he wasn’t a good person. He was. Not that he wasn’t compassionate. He was. Not that he couldn’t relate to people easily. He could. Not that that he didn’t know ASL well enough. He signed fluently. I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. All I knew was that I just could not imagine him being a pastor.
At the women’s retreat, I had listened to Julie, one of the presenters, share her testimony. Since she was a little girl, all she’d ever wanted to be was a pastor’s wife. Unbelievable. Why would anyone long to be a pastor’s wife?
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