by Becky Wade
Relationships were painful and messy and beautiful and important. The mess came with the beauty. The pain came with the importance.
That was life. And God was calling him to live it.
Whoever had said that the center of God’s will was the safest place to be had either been a fool or hadn’t known God very well.
On the drive back from Atlanta yesterday afternoon, then last night as she’d read Scripture, and this morning as she’d prayed, God’s will for Genevieve had become louder and more distinct.
At last, she could hear Him. And what she heard Him saying was that no matter the cost, she needed to confess her issues with painkillers. To everyone.
Grace and truth.
At present, she was sitting with her family in her mom and dad’s living room. She and Natasha occupied the sofa, her parents the side-by-side armchairs across the coffee table. They’d started off drinking peppermint tea, marveling over yesterday’s events, and complimenting the mantel covered in a Thanksgiving garland, tiny white pumpkins, and two miniature bundles of wheat. After everything that had gone down the day before, their gathering felt very much like a gathering of people who’d survived a catastrophe that should have killed them. They were shell-shocked and sobered and stunned and grateful.
Genevieve would have liked to continue to float in that feel-good pool for the remainder of her visit. Instead, the Holy Spirit had pressed against her from the inside, compelling her to speak. She’d forced herself to tell her mom and dad about the Oxy.
Her parents’ secrets had ripped down their façade of false goodness. Now she was ripping down her own façade. It was as if the four of them were looking at one another straight in the face at long last, instead of through distorting glass.
Inside Alice’s home yesterday, her dad’s worst mistake had been exposed. He hadn’t been able to bring his perfection to Alice’s table. Afterward, it had hit her. Like her dad, she had no perfection to bring to God’s table.
She’d been rescued miraculously in El Salvador and lived the rest of her life striving to execute the big plans she’d believed God had saved her to accomplish. She’d written Bible study after Bible study. She’d taken terrifying flights all over the world to preach and proclaim His glory. She’d worked and worked and tried and tried, pushing herself to her limits. Somewhere along the line, she’d become known as someone who was righteous and honorable.
But even after all that, all those years of service, the only thing she had to bring to God’s table was the sin that made His grace so necessary.
The verse in Isaiah that equated righteous acts to filthy rags had never been more appropriate.
It was like the unfastening of a dungeon’s lock to let go of the idea that God had saved her because He had big plans for her. The people who’d told her that had been well-meaning, but mistaken.
In all honesty, she didn’t know why God had chosen to save the five of them.
Because of their prayers? Because He loved them?
Maybe. But He sometimes said no to prayers. He sometimes took the people He loved to heaven rather than preserving their lives on earth.
What she did know was that He had not saved her so she could work herself into an early grave attempting to pay Him back. He hadn’t saved her so she could perpetuate the illusion of perfection. He hadn’t saved her so she could build a life so demanding that she’d have to swallow Oxy to cope.
She could not pay God back for saving her. Goodness knows, she’d tried.
I cannot pay Him back.
And praise God for that. Praise God! Because that meant she could quit trying so very hard.
She’d rather be known as a woman who’d wrecked her life and was nonetheless loved by Him than as a woman who was good.
After today, she’d lose the respect of many. But she would still have Him.
And He was everything.
Before she started taking Oxy, she’d thought she understood grace. But now that she’d failed in such a flagrant way and been so thoroughly humbled, she grasped grace—and just how much it was worth—far, far better than she had before.
“As of tomorrow,” she told her parents, after answering all their concerned questions, “I’ll have been clean for ninety days. That’s a pretty big milestone. But it’s not a milestone that means I’m cured. There’s no cure. I mean, I almost took Oxy a few nights ago after finding out what happened to Russell. So I’m always going to have to be vigilant and careful. As time goes on, though, I’ll continue to feel more and more like myself. Stronger. Healthier.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom gave her a look of melodramatic tenderness. “Thank the Lord that you’re all right.”
“I intend to stay clean,” Genevieve told them. “I also intend to be more transparent. I’ve decided to admit my struggle publicly. I wanted to tell you first, before I make the announcement, so that you can brace yourselves.”
“Way to go, Gen,” Natasha said.
“I understand why you feel the need to be transparent,” Dad said. “We support you.”
“Yes,” Mom added. “We do support you, of course. I’m glad that you finally told us this. We’re family.” She hesitated. “Do you . . .” Her nose wrinkled slightly. “Do you really think, though, that it’s necessary to tell everyone that you used opioids? Think of the damage that will do.” No one was more enamored with Genevieve’s career than Mom.
“I do think it’s necessary to tell everyone,” Genevieve answered, “because that’s what the Lord’s leading me to do. To be honest, I’m scared of the damage it will do. But I’m more scared of the damage that silence will do.”
“Gen—” Mom began.
“Mom,” Genevieve said firmly. “I know that your protectiveness of me stems from a good heart—”
“Of course! I want nothing but your very best.”
Genevieve dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “I believe that’s true. However, your protectiveness overwhelms me at times. A lot of the time, actually.”
Mom drew back as if she’d just been stung by a bee. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I know.”
“I . . .” Mom looked wounded. At a loss.
Genevieve had always known where her mother’s overprotectiveness had been born: in the wreckage of the earthquake. She, Natasha, Ben, Sebastian, Luke—they’d all experienced trauma. But they weren’t the only ones. The earthquake had inflicted trauma on their parents, too.
“Mom,” she said quietly, empathy welling inside her. As awful as it had been to be trapped underground, she’d choose what she’d gone through over what her mother had gone through. Her mom’s much-loved children—her only two children, the ones in which she’d invested her adult life—had been missing for days. The experts had told Mom she and Natasha would most likely die.
“We lived.” Genevieve held eye contact with her mom, willing her to let the words, the reality, soak into her soul. “Natasha and I survived the earthquake. It’s not an event any of us would have chosen. But it’s what happened, and we all came out of it alive. I’m thirty years old. Natasha’s thirty-two. We’re adult women. Independent. Able to support ourselves. Able to protect ourselves. We might make mistakes from time to time—”
Natasha cleared her throat.
“Well,” Genevieve amended, “Natasha never makes mistakes, but I sometimes do. Even so, overall, I think we’re doing really well.”
“You can afford to relax a little.” Natasha smiled at Mom to cushion her words. “Sit back. Enjoy the hard work you put in when you were raising us. There’s no need, anymore, to hold on quite so tight.”
Dad interlaced his fingers with Mom’s on the armrest of her chair. He wore the familiar I’m-the-luckiest-man-in-the-world expression. From behind his glasses, he shot her a reassuring wink.
Mom’s pretty mouth tightened.
“Mom?” Genevieve asked.
“Ready to cut the apron strings?” Natasha added.
Mom sniffed. “I’ll never cu
t the apron strings.”
“Are you ready to trim the apron strings?” Natasha said coaxingly.
“It may be . . .” Mom finally replied grudgingly, “that I could benefit from letting go . . . a little bit more than I have.”
Genevieve decided to chalk that response up as a win and broke into spontaneous applause.
“Felicitations!” Natasha crowed in true Jane Austen style, joining in the applause.
Genevieve pushed from her chair and motioned the rest of the family to their feet for a group hug.
“I love you,” Dad said once they formed a Woodward family huddle.
“I love you, too,” the rest of them echoed.
“We’ll help you in any way we can,” Mom told Genevieve.
“And I’ll help you,” Genevieve replied staunchly, to abstain from smothering me.
“This is a moment to treasure,” Mom cooed.
Before all was said and done, Natasha promised to knit Genevieve a sweater. Dad mentioned a player on the Mercer football team who’d kicked his prescription drug habit. Mom suggested taking Genevieve to the hair salon next week.
If Natasha was motivated to knit and Dad was thinking about football and Mom was wanting to change her hair, then everything really was going to be okay.
That afternoon, Genevieve sat at her desk in the cottage watching light rain christen the undulating land of Sugar Maple Farm. It nicked the pond with hundreds of increasing circles and pattered against the leaves of the morning glory vine framing her window.
She hadn’t seen Sam’s truck return from work yet today.
Sam. The thought of him prodded a tender, painful corner of her heart. She loved him, but she couldn’t let herself think of him or how things had been left between them at this particular point in time. Thinking on those things had the power to liquefy her bravery. And in order to do what she had to do before she’d be able to look Sam in the face again, she needed to be brave.
She’d decided to give herself a few days to catch her breath and think before approaching him. Tomorrow, day ninety post-Oxy, she’d spend alone at Misty River’s spa, relaxing and reflecting. No doubt Sam also needed time to catch his breath and think. Also, to figure out whether or not she was worth the effort. The tender corner of her heart throbbed again—
She drew in several courage-building inhales. She’d survived admitting her addiction to her parents. She could survive this.
She shook out her hands, then rested her fingertips on her computer’s keyboard and composed an email to her agent. Sent it. Composed an email to her publisher. Sent it. Composed an email to the coordinators of the conferences she had on her calendar. Sent it.
In each case, she explained her issue candidly and informed them how she planned to alter her schedule. She told them she’d be letting her followers know immediately and finished by asking them for their forgiveness.
Sniffling as tears snaked over her lashes, she began to compose an open letter.
To those of you who’ve done my studies, heard me speak, supported me . . .
I hope you know how much I love you.
I love you dearly.
One of the most fervent desires of my heart has been to serve you. I’m incredibly honored to have been a part of the writing and speaking ministry the Lord entrusted to me for the past ten years. I’ve been very, very passionate about leading you forward as we chase hard after Christ.
Lately, though, I no longer feel capable of leadership.
I started taking an opioid painkiller more than a year ago. At first, I took it for a medical reason. But I continued taking it for mental and emotional reasons. My dependence on painkillers became so powerful that I needed them every day simply to get by. I made bad decisions that endangered myself and others. I lied repeatedly to cover up my secret. Twice, I tried to quit and failed.
A few months ago, I was finally able to stop taking the pills. Since then, I’ve been attempting to maintain my full workload. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted to continue speaking. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted my next study to release when I told you it would. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted to be healthy.
However, I’ve realized that I can’t have everything I want. I need to choose, and God’s let me know that, in this season, He would have me lay down my writing and speaking.
I was obedient to Him when He first called me to those things. I’m going to be obedient to Him now and step away from those things. I feel called to make my life smaller. Less loud. Less filled with stress.
I’ve canceled my upcoming speaking engagements, and I will not be completing my next Bible study on schedule, if at all. I know that many of you were counting on me, and I’m profoundly sorry to disappoint you.
As I write this, I’m aware of how many things can be taken away from us in this life. Career. Reputation. Wellness. Truthfulness.
For the next several months, I plan to embrace the one thing that can’t be taken away: my identity as a child of God. It’s that identity that has freed me to be honest with you.
While in the dark cave of addiction and recovery, it has comforted me to remember that Jesus’s body spent time in a dark cave, too. He did not remain there, however. At the appointed time, God called Jesus out of the cave, back to life and light. God hasn’t forgotten those of us who are languishing in dark caves. He’s calling us back to life and light, too.
Instead of leading you forward as we chase hard after Christ, I’m simply hoping for the chance to walk beside you.
I’m very, very grateful for you.
Love, Genevieve
She posted the letter on the front page of her website. Methodically, she visited each of her social media platforms. On Instagram and Facebook, she posted the entire letter. On Twitter, she linked to the letter.
After that frenzy of emotion and typing, she shut her computer and set her phone to Do Not Disturb.
The calm surrounding her took her by surprise. She’d just incited her own personal calamity, and it seemed that should come with shrieking sirens and the roar of a train and the smashing of glass and a whirlwind of air.
Instead, she was sitting safe and warm inside her cottage. Smoke slipped into the sky from a distant chimney. A bird soared against the backdrop of charcoal-edged clouds.
She could sense the furor she’d created. It was large and would grow larger in the coming days. There would be reactions and judgment and controversy and differing opinions.
And yet . . . she didn’t feel the need to wade into any of it. At least not yet. Maybe never.
For now, she just wanted to rest, bathed in God’s approval and in the certainty that, for better or for worse, she’d done the irrevocable thing He’d called her to do.
When she stood, it felt as though shackles of guilt were cracking open and dropping away from wrists and ankles. Jesus Himself had bought and paid for her freedom.
Ben
Our rescuers are close.
Their machines have been lifting away layers of this building for most of the day. I’ve been drumming my fingers on the concrete for what seems like hours, because I’m so desperate to be free.
Suddenly a grinding, scraping noise fills the air, so loud that we all jump and cover our ears. Our floor jolts, the way it did during the earthquake. Fear slams me.
No! We can’t die now. They’re so close. So close!
The wall across from us releases from its position. The girls scream as it crashes down. I duck and protect my head. The heavy slab lands just a few feet away from my legs. The wall at my back and the floor below shudder.
No!
Noise like thunder. A cloud of dust all around.
I wait, without breathing, for the wall behind us to flatten us.
Instead . . .
It holds, protecting us from the falling debris above.
It holds.
It holds.
Chapter Twenty-five
The world was a much, much quieter place when one only used one’s phone to accomplis
h the bare minimum. Genevieve had noted this fact approximately a million times over the past two days since announcing her flaws to the world.
She’d donned layers beneath her jacket in preparation for the brisk temperature she could expect on today’s morning walk. After lacing up her blue tennis shoes, she let herself out of the cottage and looked up—
She came to an immediate stop on her small porch.
Sam’s truck was parked out front. He was waiting for her, leaning against the side door, ankles and arms crossed. The clear, cold November day formed a crystalline backdrop.
Her breath snagged in her chest.
Sam.
He regarded her in his usual serious way. Not happy but not unhappy, either. He had on jeans and a quilted navy jacket open over an unbuttoned flannel shirt and, below that, a snowy white T-shirt. Love for him coalesced inside her. She’d been a world-class idiot to risk her relationship with him. How could she ever, ever, have done that? If given the chance, she’d never risk their relationship again.
She raised a finger. “Can you wait there one second?” she called, then scrambled back inside to retrieve the gift she’d purchased in town for him yesterday. She ran to the restroom to spritz on one pump of perfume and check her hair, which was, surprisingly, in the mood to behave.
As she walked toward him across the grass, he pushed away from the truck’s side.
Don’t mess this up rattled across her brain. That and, He’s true and trustworthy and gorgeous, and it’s impossible that he likes me. But he does. And he might even love me. So don’t mess this up.
He hadn’t been parked here earlier, when she’d been eating her breakfast. Clearly, he knew her weekday schedule well enough to know when she left on her walks. It was a good sign, surely, that he’d sought her out. Surely?
Don’t mess this up.
She halted a few feet from him. That olive skin. That thick hair. That solemn chin. She could feel the attention he leveled on her through every inch of her body.
“I come bearing gifts.” She lifted the one-pound plastic tub she held. “There are enough organic, non-GMO chive seeds in this container to satisfy baked potatoes all across the country.” What was she saying? Those were not the words she’d prepared. “To make amends for the chives I murdered, I bought you more than a quarter million new seeds.” Alert! This wasn’t going well. “Will these keep you stocked for a while?” She tested a smile.