by Dawn Mattox
I sat there, sifting through memories. “Because that's what I learned from my neighbor in Feather Falls and her church. Besides, Mac, I have to confess; I sin all of the time. I try. Really, I do. I can't seem to get through a day without sinning. Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking—”
“Say no more.” Mac reached out and put a comforting hand on my arm. “Tell me... and I am serious,” Mac said earnestly, “how do you visualize God? What does He actually look like to you?”
I had to think about that one. “I don't know.” I paused, hesitant. “I guess the usual way; kind of like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings. You know… an old man with a long white beard. Or maybe wearing a gold crown and sitting on a big throne.” I swallowed my pride. “Lightning in one hand, rod in the other.”
“What else?” he probed.
I exhaled, releasing pressure so I could dig deeper. “Well—don't laugh—sometimes I imagine God is like an uptight Santa Claus, keeping a list of who’s naughty and nice. Nice gets your wishes granted and you go to heaven. Naughty gets you a lump of coal and you get hellfire.” Mac didn't laugh or interrupt, so I wiped my eye with my sleeve, sniffled, and continued. “Sometimes I imagine this meter. I call it a sin-ometer.” I winced, embarrassed by my admission. “It's like this giant pressure tank in heaven, with a gauge and a black needle, and a red danger zone on it.” I blushed. “Do you think I'm weird? Do you think God will punish me more for thinking the way I do?”
Mac's face lit with joy. “Sunny. I think God loves you, and you must make him very happy! I'll bet you are one of the more interesting and honest people he's met, but let me help you.” And it was my turn to be surprised.
“Try to think of yourself as God's friend, not his subject. There is no list. There is no sin-ometer.” He chuckled.” There’s just love. He's already forgiven you for every thought, word, and deed on the very day you asked him into your heart and into your life. Everybody sins, every day. We are just human, and that is the whole point of Grace—that God knew about our sins when he died for us. He knew that through his sacrifice we would be forgiven, not just for our past sins, but for the present, and all of our future sins too. You are already forgiven, Sunny. Clean slate! He loves you just the way you are. Right here, right now.”
“But I was taught...”
“No buts,” he admonished. Mac was the image of patience, and there was wisdom in his eyes. “Sunny, my very dear sister, let me tell you about my dog.”
“Your dog?”
“Yes,” he said. “It's a true story. I guess you could even say it's a love story. All my life I have loved dogs,” he began. “I've had them all, big and small, but my heart has always had a soft spot for Dobermans; they are a special breed for me. And my heart broke when my female died, and my male Dobie disappeared. So I had been praying and asking God to bring a new dog into my life.”
“Did He?”
Mac nodded. “He did indeed. But God has some pretty unexpected ways of answering prayer. We have it planned one way, and God has it another. I was working outside on my property one day when a call came from a little old lady who lived just down the road from me. She was terrified and asked me to bring a gun to her house. She said she was trapped indoors by a vicious stray dog she suspected was rabid. So I got my gun, and then, almost as an afterthought, I grabbed my old Doberman's pinch collar; one of those heavy kind that are used control unmanageable dogs.”
“Did the dog have rabies?”
“No,” said Mac, “but it was very sick. And it was a Doberman.” He smiled, warmed by the memory. “It was starving and had several large scars on his body. It was lying in a patch of star thistle outside of her house, dying and snarling at me. He wanted no part of me and wouldn't let me get near him.”
“Did you have to shoot it?”
“I'm not sure what made me do it, but I put the gun away and kneeled down in front of that dog and held out the pinch collar. To my amazement, he got up, walked over to me and put his head right in that collar.
You see, the chain was familiar. And that's how it is with a lot of Christians, Sunny. They readily trade in one burden for another. They trade the freedom that Christ offers us for the weight of a set of laws and rituals. That dog knew he was dying, yet he readily submitted to a familiar chain.
So, I got him in the truck, and I drove him home. When we entered the gate to my property, I took the collar off and we had a heart-to-heart discussion right there.”
“Really?”
“I said to him, ‘Look around you, buddy. You know where you've been, and this is what I am giving you. These nine acres and everything inside this fence is yours to rule over and protect.’”
“So it worked out,” I said, thinking it was a beautiful rescue story.
Mac chuckled. “Well, over a thousand dollars and a daily dose of medicine later, he was a new dog. Almost. For all the years I had him, I could pet that dog any place on his body except for his head. And I still have scars to prove it,” he added, showing me a scar on the back of his hand where the dog had bitten him.
“Then the day came when I woke up to find him lying in a pool of blood from his sickness, and I knew once again that he was dying.” Mac paused, tears forming in his eyes and mine.
“I lifted him up and carried him to the car to take him to the vet. And you know what? That dog crawled over and curled up on my lap like a puppy. He finally let me pet his head and comfort him as he died in my arms.
You see, Sunny, that's how it is with our relationship with God. First, we are dying in sin. Then God comes along and we are given a second chance—a new life—when we live within the boundaries that he sets for us. But most people hold something back. They say, 'Yes Lord, I give you my life, except for this one little part I am holding back, when we could have had an intimate relationship all along. This is what it comes down to. You can have a business relationship with God with rules and regulations and duties, or you can have an intimate relationship with forgiveness and mercy and love.”
I choked up. I had never thought of God like that.
“There is no scorecard,” Mac reiterated. “There is no sin-ometer. No list of naughty and nice. Forgiven means just that. The Bible says your sins are forgotten. Erased. Our past, present, and future sins too. God cares about your heart. He loves you, my sister, right where you are. Don't ever doubt that. Not ever.”
“Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my problem,” I chanted over and over, idly twirling the three-month commemorative token CODA had presented me. Who am I kidding? This is definitely my problem, I thought as I sat at my desk on Monday morning.
“Step one,” I paraphrased aloud from the Codependents Twelve-Steps as I waited for my computer to boot up and I could begin my workday. “I can only control myself.” And this time, I thought, I won't be asking my co-workers, my husband, girlfriend or former lover for advice. I didn't need to ask everyone until I found someone who would tell me what I wanted to hear.
I had spent most of the night thinking about Paige, both her present condition and her past. I knew what it was like to be gang raped, yet allowed anger to smother my empathy for her. It wasn't hard to imagine the horror of being ripped from your family and forced into the sex trade. One minute, she had been an innocent child, and the next, a victim of violence. I understood the kind of damage such trauma leaves behind; like a sudden flood that strips you from your foundation and washes away all sense of security and stability, or an accidental fire lays waste the land, and leaves permanent scars where there once was life. Paige had been a child when her kidnapping happened, and I had to agree with Amanda, it wasn't all that long ago. She is still very young.
I passed the night talking with God about what he would have me do. The voice that spoke to my spirit was not subject to my feelings.
The fact remains that Paige is pregnant and only God knows whose child it is. At this point, only God knows whether she will keep it or abort it.
When looking back at recent even
ts, I like to think I have matured over the summer. Pastor Mac says “We are like tea bags, never knowing how strong we are until we are plunged into hot water.” I know now that we are not defined by our problems, but how we respond to them.
With that thought in mind, I picked up the phone and dialed Paige's extension. She arrived at my door with a pink slip in her hand and a look of aggrieved indignation on her face.
“They're letting me go. They're cutting my job. You did this, didn't you?”
“I'm sorry, Paige.”
“I'll just bet you are!” she retorted she crossed her arms and hugged herself.
I looked at her for the first time, seeing her as a child trying to be brave, instead of the woman I had grown to hate.
“I called you here to ask you how I might help. Is there is anything I can do?”
“A job would help. I'm going to need money for this kid.”
I was genuinely surprised. “Does that mean that you're not going to... that you're going to keep it?”
“I told you. This is my baby.”
Bewildered, I lowered my voice, and asked softly, “But Paige, don't you want to know who the father is?”
“No. I don't. I don't care.”
“But,” I stuttered, “but don't you think the father has a right to know?”
“No! No one is taking my baby from me. It's mine! And you promised you wouldn't tell anyone.”
“I know, and I won't go back on my word. You've been through enough.”
My heart clenched. Caught off guard, I was unprepared for the emotions that rose as I looked over the police report and photographs of the latest victim's injuries. I knew this woman, Alawa Rose. Gayle called to inform me that Alawa was in the lobby to “drop the charges” against her live-in boyfriend, Johnny Meeks.
I grabbed the keys to the county car on my way to meet her. Alawa greeted me with a thoughtful, silent look of recognition. She was a beautiful, mature Maidu Indian woman with copper skin, silver hair, and chestnut brown eyes. She was both a neighbor and a close friend to Joyce and Kenny in Feather Falls. Savagely beaten about the face, her swollen eyes were ringed with redish purple circles. I had seen the attached photos where Meeks’s steel-toed logging boots had pounded her back, arms, and legs, leaving lumpy blue-black masses of inflamed tissue that were now hidden beneath a long, brown, soft cotton skirt.
“Ms. Rose? Please, follow me.” Veering away from the office, I headed for the stairs and the parking lot. “What do you think, Alawa?” I asked. “Let's get out of here and take a drive. Are you okay with that?”
Relief softened the deep lines that etched her aging face. “Thank you, Sunny,” she whispered as we took the stairs. I nodded, and in true Indian tradition, we maintained a stoic silence until we were on the road driving toward the solitary quiet of the Forebay. I respectfully asked permission to talk with her once we got to the bay, and she replied with a slight nod.
I have found that people are generally more inclined to be open and honest when they are away from the county complex. This seemed particularly true of Native Americans and rural mountain dwellers who have little trust or love of government.
The Forebay is an off-stream reservoir west of Oroville with about ten miles of shoreline. In season, the park is alive with children, picnickers, barbecues, and birthday parties. This morning it is quiet except for a few geese skimming the water and an old man with his hat pulled low against the cool breeze trying to rein in his dog, lunging and barking at the indignant geese. Alawa and I walked to a bench, brushed away the colorful autumn leaves and sat next to each other, gazing at the hills across the bay.
“Alawa, it hurts me to see you in pain.”
Alawa nodded and turned her gaze to the geese. “I fell,” she said. “We were drinking with friends at the Gold Flake. On the way back up the mountain, I asked Johnny to pull over so I could pee. I was really drunk. I got out and tripped on a rock... fell off the edge.” She paused. “I hit a lot of rocks.”
“Johnny has a long history of beating his women,” I said, my heart brimming with love and concern. “Please don't let him get away with it again.”
Alawa gazed at me and then back at the wild geese and the old man, contemplating. “Should I fly north?” she asked.
“You should tell the truth.”
“If the dog gets loose, it will kill the geese.”
I considered this. “But it doesn’t have to kill the geese. Right now, it’s just barking. Loudly, but it can be controlled.”
She shrugged with a sad, tired look. “A dog is a dog.”
I thought about Logan. She could be right.
“But you are not an animal, Alawa. You are a person. You are the only one like you in the world, and that makes you both rare and precious.”
This is a lot easier to preach than it is to receive, I told myself.
The dog broke loose, ignoring its master, yapping and splashing in joyful abandon along the edge of the water as the geese took flight.
“Do you know where they will go?” Alawa asked, not waiting for a reply. “Look!” she pointed. “They cross to other side of the lake because this is their home. They have nowhere else to go.” With grave dignity, she looked at me sympathetically. “You are young, Sunny. My mother is buried here, and her mother, and her mother's mother, back to the first woman made by the Creator, right there,” she said, pointing this time to Table Mountain, the place where the Maidu believe God created the first man and woman. “I have nowhere to go but the other side of the lake,” she said. “Drop the charges.”
Work has taught me that there are many different kinds of bondage. Mia, Kia, and Alawa are bound to their cultures, others are tied to drugs, poverty and the false confidence that they can change others, but no confidence that they can change themselves. Some are held by physical restraint, some by constraints of religion, and those who are bound with emotional ties. Then too, there are people like Paige and me, who are slaves to our past.
I went to Jack in the afternoon with an amended Needs Assessment, stating that our unit needed Paige in the program, and that she was an invaluable contribution to SVU. Okay, so I stretched the truth a bit. Or maybe I stretched it a lot. Paige and I have had a disastrous past, but now I was trying to focus on her potential instead of her flaws. With patience and some sensitivity, she might become a decent advocate one day.
Paige already had the primary requirement as far as I was concerned. She had been a victim. Having endured great physical and emotional trauma, she can become a survivor. It is a God-thing, making good come out of bad. Making gossamer butterflies from ugly worm-like creatures. With time and help, Paige could learn to use her pain to reach out and help others. It is hard to say what she will do. The sad truth is, not everyone survives. Even if they survive physically, many victims stop “living” and remain trapped by emotional injuries that never heal.
Jack has promised to submit the amendment to the county administrators. Whatever Jack wants, Jack usually gets. He has a way of being persuasive. Perhaps that is why he is such an excellent prosecutor. I am pretty sure that Paige will be keeping her job.
Dressing in a soft skirt and sexy, low-cut clingy sweater, I took Kissme with me to Chance's house. Needless to say, my relationship with Chance has been strained since my trip down to the jail. But he invited me for dinner, and I am newly committed to doing the “right thing.” Not out of guilt this time, but out of love. I am free! Just knowing that God has forgiven me, I am ready to extend genuine forgiveness to others, and I really wanted to reconcile with my husband.
With a strong sense of anticipation, I knocked on his door. “One day at a time,” I told myself. The feeling was positively liberating.
Chance answered the door wearing Wranglers and a light blue denim work shirt that perfectly matched the sky blue color of his eyes when he looked at me. “You're just in time. Dinner’s about done.” He said, ushering me in.
The smell of beef stew and warm bread filled the house
and whet the appetite. A rustic vase, overflowing with autumn flowers, sat on the table next to a sleek bottle of champagne, designed to stir appetites of a different sort.
It felt a little awkward. So much has happened between us. Passions had soared during our last two encounters—both making love and fighting. I had been surprised when Chance called and asked me to join him for dinner.
New beginnings? I hoped so.
The food was great, the talk was light, and somewhere around mid-bottle, Chance announced, “Sunny, I've decided to take a leave of absence. I have given a three-week notice.”
I rolled my eyes. There he goes again, thinking I can't take care of myself.
“That's really sweet of you,” I said, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. “But Logan's already been indicted, and I'm sure his attorney will be filing continuances to extend his right to a speedy trial.”
“What did Travis say about that?”
“I haven't talked to him. He's back with ATF in Oakland.” I didn't add that I sometimes miss him, now that he is gone. “You don't need to worry or take time off because of me,” I hurried to assure him.
Chance tipped his head, looking at me curiously. “It's not about you, I’m doing this for me. This is something I want and need to do. I am moving to San Diego, at least until June.” His steady gaze was calm and determined. “I have come to accept that you are more than able to take care of yourself. You don't need me for that.”
Be careful what you wish for, danced through my mind.
“But some people do need me,” Chance continued.
“What are you talking about?” Anxiety rose, burning the back of my throat.
“I've been accepted into Bethel University. I'll be studying for the ministry.”
Did I have that freshly stun-gunned look on my face? This might be a good time for Chance to practice his CPR because I am pretty sure I stopped breathing.