The Journal

by Ronnica Z Rothe

  Maria was in her 50s, dressed in a slightly dowdy dress in a becoming shade of red. If she wasn’t so nice, she could pass for a school minder. I wish she was my minder as she was much more pleasant than Ms. Oscar.

  As I stepped inside the apartment, I saw Ethel sitting in a chair by a window. When she saw us, she lumbered out of the chair and over to us, giving us each a big hug, as if she had known us forever.

  Maria then introduced us to the other people there, five altogether. Besides Maria and Ethel, there was an elderly man and another man who appeared to be his son, and also an elderly lady of Asian descent.

  Maria invited us to sit on the couch, but I politely declined, opting for a seat on the floor instead. There clearly weren’t enough seats for all 7 of us, and I figured that I could handle the floor, being one of the few who could easily get back up after getting that low. Maria smiled graciously at me when she realized she could have a seat on the couch herself, though perhaps she was a bit uncomfortable that her guest was sitting on the floor. No matter—these apartments clearly weren’t built for entertaining, and I was just glad to be there at all.

  After Ming and I were politely questioned about everything from school to our families, the younger man said we would get started. He introduced himself as Eli. Eli was probably in his late 30s, with handsome features and dark skin.

  “It’s so great to have you girls here as our guests. It’s been too long since we’ve been able to bring anyone else into our little family. I do hope you’ll feel at home and will come back again.”

  After Ethel led us in a few songs, Eli talked about one of them further. He talked about how Jesus Christ—the person the Bible is about—is the source of confidence for those who choose him. I never thought about finding confidence anywhere outside myself. Everyone seemed to let me down.

  Eli also talked about how a follower of Christ didn’t have to worry about condemnation. But how? I know I’ve done some awful things. I don’t even want to think about that night in Jamari’s apartment.

  And finally, Eli shared that we could live without fear. But how can I leave my fears behind me? I know I’m a failure, and the thoughts of what I’ve done—and what if I did it again?—consume me. How did I ever think I was perfect?

  When I was eight, I did think I was perfect. My mom clearly knew I wasn’t, but every time Chester didn’t do what he was supposed to, Mom told him to follow my good example. She would brag about me in front of her friends. When she would scold me in private, I thought she was just doing that to make sure that Chester wasn’t jealous and to fulfill her obligation as a parent.

  Every time I went to Dad’s, he would tell me that I was his good little girl. Grandma would kiss me, smile, and tell me that I could be whatever I wanted to be.

  My minder that year, Ms. Moore, always used me as an example of good behavior in front of the class. One day I even got sent to the principal’s office—I was so nervous—because he wanted to personally award me my perfect behavior award.

  But one spring day, I was a bit bored with my subtraction lesson—I already knew it all, of course—and started making faces at Nettie, who was sitting a couple seats down from me. I got away with it for a while as Ms. Moore’s attention was directed elsewhere, but then Nettie was unable to hold the giggles in, and snorted loudly.

  Ms. Moore immediately turned from where she was helping another student, glared at Nettie, and turned her attention to the object of Nettie’s stare: me. Ms. Moore caught me in the classic hung-by-the-noose pose: tongue askew, head cocked, and eyes crossed. She immediately sent me to back to the principal’s where I had been only two days prior in better circumstances.

  The worst part of the experience was waiting in the hall while the principal called my Mom. I hated knowing judgment stood behind that door and not knowing what form that judgment would take—I seriously thought that they might throw me out of the school.

  In the end, all it took was a lecture from the principal to get me back on the straight and narrow. But what I took away from the experience was not “responsibility” or “focus” or any other such lesson he was likely trying to teach me, but the mere fact that I wasn’t perfect.

  I would lay in bed at night for weeks after that, replaying what I had done wrong. There were many times later in school when that memory would pop into my head, and the same stomach-dropping feeling would come back.

  After that day, I desperately tried to redeem myself. As I grew older, other things besides perfection became my goal—like popularity. Perfectionism, though, has always been a struggle.

  Struggling

  After they sang, Maria started reading the Bible to us, translating as she went. She was easily able to translate the Spanish words on the page to English spoken words, which I felt was a good indication that she knew the passage well. The others were following along in their Bibles, punctuating the reading with nods and “amens.”

  Maria was reading from a book called Romans, and after a few minutes, one sentence really stood out to me:

  “For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.”

  During the discussion, I brought this verse up. “This is exactly what I struggle with: doing what I do not want to do.”

  To my surprise, all five members of the church nodded in agreement. What did they do that they didn’t want to?

  While we were talking over lunch, I asked Ethel that very question.

  “Well, dear, you certainly can’t think I’m perfect. Just because I do the ‘right’ thing most of the time when people are watching doesn’t mean that I always do it. And you can’t see my thoughts and motives—sadly, I’m too often ruled by my desire to please others or to perfectly obey God in order to gain favor from Him.”

  “Is that not how you believe we can gain favor from God? By doing what He says?”

  “Actually, no. While God demands perfect obedience, doing good things doesn’t grant us God’s favor. Because no matter how many good things you or I do, we won’t be perfect. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Have you ever tried to live a perfect day? I don’t just mean doing the right things, but thinking the right things, and doing the right things for the right reasons. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “I’ve tried, sure. I used to think that I could. But if you’re talking about having perfect thoughts and motives, too, you’re right—I can’t live perfectly. It’s hard enough to keep from saying something mean—to not even think it to begin with is impossible!”

  “Yes, impossible on your own. Not with God’s help, though. And that’s what true obedience takes: God’s help. But even with His help, I fall many times a day because I forget that help is there or simply ignore it. But back to your question about gaining favor with God…it’s not about what we do at all. That’s where so many people get it wrong. It’s about what God did Himself. What do you know about Jesus?”

  “Not a lot. What I’ve heard here, a little from the journal, and what I’ve read online. I know that Christians say he died on a cross and that he came back to life.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Jesus is God’s Son, yet he took on human flesh, being born as a baby.”

  “So he was wearing human flesh like a costume?” I said with disgust, picturing the alien in the Edgar suit in the classic Men in Black.

  “No, not at all. He actually is man and God. I know that’s hard to understand—I don’t understand it fully—but it’s one of the mysteries of our faith. God is so much greater than us, so it’s not possible for us to understand Him with our finite minds. We don’t have all the answers, but we’re still seeking them. There’s so much more to tell you...why don’t you come to dinner at my house some day this week?”

  I went home that day with more questions than answers. Christianity in action was nothing like what I expected. While the books they were using were clearly old, it didn’t seem outdated somehow. They didn’t dress in old-fashion
ed garb or talk particularly funny. Though I didn’t always understand what they were talking about, I loved listening and trying to absorb it all. They were sincere in their belief and honest in admitting they didn’t have God figured out. That was both comforting and overwhelming.

  I could now see how you could believe in a God that was indeed active in your life. The faith they had in asking God things in prayer was one that sought to depend on Him for everything. While I’ve always thought the goal in life was to live independent of others, I could see the joy and love they had for one another, and more than that, for God. I could see what would be welcoming and inviting in that.

  After sitting in the pod for a few minutes thinking, I asked Ming, “I’m going to go to Ethel’s for dinner on Tuesday, if you want to come.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. I mean, I like her, but I’ve heard enough about all this. I don’t want people to think that I’m going to be a Christian! You know how much they’d tease us if they knew we went to a church?”

  “Oh, they’d never believe we went to a church, anyway. Until I saw it with my own eyes, I wasn’t really sure that you could go to a church here in the USNA Besides, I’ve been teased for worse!”

  “Well, that’s true. You’re welcome to go to Ethel’s yourself, but I’ve seen enough for my liking.” That was exactly what I would do.

  Going to church had made me start to think about what Grandma had said about her parents. Would they have kicked her out if she hadn’t have ran away? How long would they have required her to live without connection to the outside world? What exactly were they afraid of?

  Though I had wished to have had a Bible in hand Sunday afternoon to read, I was happy to at least have Beth’s journal to return to. It had felt like so long since I read it last, and I remembered that it ended on a bit of a cliffhanger when Mom knocked on my door.

  When I turned back to Beth’s Thanksgiving entry, I backed up a paragraph so I could remember what she was saying.

  When we got to Dad’s, we were surprised. We expected we’d be eating frozen pizza or cereal or something else bachelor-esque but instead, we found on his small table the complete Thanksgiving spread (that wasn’t appealing after Thanksgiving lunch) before our eyes. The apartment was even decorated nicely for the fall holiday, and there was nothing out of order, like the last time I was there.

  Then we turned the corner and walked into the small apartment kitchen and found a bigger surprise: Suzanne.

  I don’t even know where to begin to write about Suzanne. She’s probably a few years younger than Dad (Mom’s two years older than him), with bleached blonde hair that is rather pretty. Her tan face is coated with too much makeup like she’s trying too hard. As soon as she saw us, she came up to Meg and me and gave us a big hug, one of us on each side. Neither of us reciprocated but kept our arms limp. I think Meg was as stunned as I. The stranger pleasantly told us, “I’m Suzanne, but of course you were expecting me. I’ve heard so much about both of you girls from Richard.”

  We hadn’t seen Dad yet, so Meg quickly asked Suzanne to excuse us, and she dragged me by my shirt sleeve back out into the cold, dark evening.

  “Did you know anything about this?” she loudly hissed at me.

  Of course I explained to her that Suzanne was news to me, too. In the weeks since the separation, Dad never once hinted at there being anyone else. When I would call him some evenings, he would merely talk about work or how his New England Patriots were going to redeem themselves. Those conversations were always awkward, but I had assumed that was because we were used to having them in person, not because there may have been someone else there in his apartment that he didn’t want to give away.

  “I’m NOT okay with this,” Meg said, and stormed down the front stairs to her car, quickly getting in, and pulling out of the parking lot. Since she had driven me here—we both planned on staying the night, so I left my car at Mom’s—I was stuck. I had to go back in if I didn’t want to freeze to death.

  This time as I walked up to Dad’s door, I didn’t unlock it with the key he gave me. It probably was still unlocked anyway, but I didn’t try it. Instead, I knocked.

  This time, Dad answered the door. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply walked inside as Dad closed the door behind me. He motioned me to sit down on the loveseat, and he took a seat on the couch.

  He asked me where Meg was, and I said she had to leave. He didn’t question me further. He introduced me to Suzanne, who had been hiding in the kitchen this time, and explained that she was his girlfriend and that they worked together at Stoftson’s Pharmaceuticals and had known each other for years.

  Dad went on to talk about the good things he sees in Suzanne, but I was zoning out. How could this be happening?

  We sat down for dinner, and I remained quiet. Dad and Suzanne talked pleasantly and appeared fine with me answering every question with a shrug or a nod. When Suzanne brought out the pumpkin pie, I said I wasn’t hungry and went into the living room where a football game was playing. I’ve never been so interested in a football game before. I was trying to stop thinking.

  When Dad came and sat beside me, I asked him to drive me back to Mom’s. He didn’t ask why, but quietly got his keys, kissed Suzanne goodbye, and led me out the door. Our car ride was as awkward as dinner, but he did let me know that Mom knew about Suzanne, so I didn’t have to try to hide anything.

  That was the last straw for me. MOM KNEW! Mom could have saved Meg and I the embarrassment of showing up to be greeted by a complete stranger posing as our stepmom.

  When I came in the door I didn’t say anything to Mom, but just climbed the stairs to my room and slammed the door. I reached for this journal, and started writing. Mom’s wise enough to have left me alone, so thankfully I’ve not had to hear her talk to me about giving Suzanne a chance or her asking me about my feelings.

  I hate that this happened on Thanksgiving...a day I should be thanking God. Instead, I feel like cursing him.

  This journal really did cover a tumultuous year in Beth’s life: from September 11th, to the metal detectors, to her parents’ divorce. I continued to read.

 

  November 23, 2001

  I called Faith first thing this morning. I didn’t want to bother her yesterday since Thanksgiving’s a family holiday, but I knew that she didn’t have any plans today.

  Faith was incredibly supportive. She came over and picked me up, and we went to breakfast at Panera. It was crowded—the Black Friday crowd was breaking for second breakfast, I suppose—but we were able to find a relatively quiet corner to talk.

  I told her all I knew about Suzanne, which wasn’t much. I shared with her why I was particularly hurt: my Mom’s silence on the matter. My parents have done a lot to try to prepare me for life in the “real world,” but they couldn’t give me a heads up about this?

  I was able to talk to Mom a few minutes last night before totally losing it. She did know about Suzanne, and as I was beginning to suspect, Suzanne was the reason for my parents’ split. Why didn’t they tell me?

  It’s so good to have Faith. I need her. She’s the only one right now who is really loving me through all this. I wish Meg was here and wasn’t always disappearing. I guess I could do that too if I was a college student and had a dorm room somewhere else. I can’t wait until August…9 months!

  Faith reminded me of a couple of verses that the pastor shared with us after September 11th. They offer some comfort (well, sort of…you’ll see!):

  “God is our refuge and strength,

  A very present help in trouble.

  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change

  And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea,

  Though its waters roar and foam

  Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.”

  - Psalm 46:1-3

  See what I mean? It’s encouraging to think that God is my “refuge and strength,” a place to find rest and shelter
in the storm that is my life. It’s just not encouraging to realize that there are bigger problems than what’s going on...the mountains could fall into the ocean! Actually, this kind of reminds me of September 11th. Watching those towers fall was like watching the mountains fall.

  November 27, 2001

  With Faith’s help, I’m coming to realize that God is a big god, one that can finish all evil. But why doesn’t He?

  Even though I don’t know all the answers—Faith has told me I may never until I can ask God face-to-face—I’m finding Jesus more and more attractive. The idea that all I have to do is trust in what He’s done for me instead of trying to make my own way is relieving, but hard. I can see the peace that Faith and the others have, and I want that.

  At the same time, it’s scary to place that kind of trust in someone else, even someone who claimed to be the God of the universe. I trusted my parents to know what was right for me, yet my Dad cheated on my Mom, broke our family apart, and Mom kept it a secret from me. What if Jesus too proves untrustworthy? Faith says that He won’t, as He’s sinless, unlike my parents. But what if He was just lying about that?

  Sharing

  Monday morning came earlier than I would have liked. I had spent a restless night considering everything I had heard from Grandma a few days ago and at church earlier that day. The voices of Grandma, Mom, Ethel, and even Beth were echoing through my head, and they were all saying different things. I knew that they couldn’t be all right, and that was frustrating.

  If God was worth believing in, then He had to be big enough to have been able to stop things like September 11th and Beth’s parents’ divorce. Yet Beth seems to be coming to recognize that God was able to stop these things. And somehow, I could see that as a possibility. Ethel and the others did seem to have that kind of faith.

  But even if I could admit that what happened to Beth was somehow still under God’s control, what about what happened to me?