hear Rick gently consoling Matthew, actually using a soothing voice as if everything’s going to be just fine. He even helps Matthew to bed and takes off his shoes like he’s a toddler!
I’ve just finished cleaning up the nasty mess as best I can for tonight—although I’m certain the carpet will need to be steam-cleaned tomorrow—when Rick comes out of Matthew’s room and actually chuckles.
“You think this is funny?” I stand with the bucket in one hand and a soggy rag in the other.
“It’s just life, Ruth. It happens.”
“Your eighteen-year-old son comes home plastered, and you act like it’s
no big deal?”
“Hey, we’ve all done it at some point in life. The good thing is that he—”
“I cannot believe you!”
“You’re going to wake the girls, Ruth.”
I am seething. How can my husband act like it’s perfectly normal for our son to do something like this? As if underage drinking, or drinking at all, is perfectly acceptable—humorous even? What is happening to this family? Surely God’s judgment will be rained down upon all of us before long. And perhaps it’s what we deserve. I’ve heard Pastor Glenn preach enough about God’s judgment and wrath that I don’t want to be on the receiving end.
Still fuming, I take the bucket and rags to the laundry room. I refill the bucket with more hot water, then attack the carpet, scrubbing and rinsing again and again, trying to eradicate the smell as much as I want to eradicate the sin from my son’s life. And from this family. It seems that we’re all steeped in sin.
As I take the last bucketful back to the laundry room, I can hear Rick watching television in the family room. The Lord only knows what kind of garbage he’s watching at this hour. I’m not even sure that I care. I tiptoe off to the master bathroom and take a long, hot shower, imagining that it’s fire burning away the sin. I scrub until my skin is red and raw and there isn’t a drop of hot water left. If Rick wants a shower, he’ll have to wait or take a cold one. Perhaps an icy shower will wake him up—wake him up to the reality of our messed-up lives. When will that man become the spiritual leader that this family needs? Will he ever? In some ways my husband isjust like my dad. Married to his job and checked out of his family. Maybe this is my punishment. My never-ending punishment.
As I go to bed, I realize that I didn’t get a chance to tell Rick that I replaced the money I gave to the family in need. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s too late to fix this thing after all. Maybe I really am hopeless. And maybe my family is hopeless too. I feel tears coming now, the aching kind of tears that come from deep, dark places inside.
God, help me. God, help me. God, help me …
I pray this again and again, hoping the soothing rhythm, similar to the sound of a train rumbling down the tracks, will lull my wounded spirit to sleep. But I fear I am heading toward a great big boulder, a train wreck just waiting to happen.
5
I usually feel better in the morning. I think it has to do with the sunlight. But today is cloudy and gray, and my spirits seem to match. Still, I go through the paces, fixing the girls’ breakfast, driving them to school. But after they’re safely delivered, I don’t feel ready to go home. I don’t want to see Matthew, probably still green around the gills and sporting an attitude. And I really don’t want to face Rick just yet, although I doubt that he’s even up.
So I park the minivan on the back side of the church parking lot, take out my leather-bound Bible, and begin to read in Isaiah. It’s the prophetic section of the book, and I read some parts I’ve heard Pastor Glenn teach on. But the words just seem to float over my head, and I fear their meaning is far beyond me—something only people like Pastor Glenn or Cynthia can understand. And yet there is something soothing about this spiritual exercise, and so I read on. It’s as if
I’ve just finished cleaning up the nasty mess as best I can for tonight—although I’m certain the carpet will need to be steam-cleaned tomorrow—when Rick comes out of Matthew’s room and actually chuckles.
“You think this is funny?” I stand with the bucket in one hand and a soggy rag in the other.
“It’s just life, Ruth. It happens.”
“Your eighteen-year-old son comes home plastered, and you act like it’s
no big deal?”
“Hey, we’ve all done it at some point in life. The good thing is that he—”
“I cannot believe you!”
“You’re going to wake the girls, Ruth.”
I am seething. How can my husband act like it’s perfectly normal for our son to do something like this? As if underage drinking, or drinking at all, is perfectly acceptable—humorous even? What is happening to this family? Surely God’s judgment will be rained down upon all of us before long. And perhaps it’s what we deserve. I’ve heard Pastor Glenn preach enough about God’s judgment and wrath that I don’t want to be on the receiving end.
Still fuming, I take the bucket and rags to the laundry room. I refill the bucket with more hot water, then attack the carpet, scrubbing and rinsing again and again, trying to eradicate the smell as much as I want to eradicate the sin from my son’s life. And from this family. It seems that we’re all steeped in sin.
As I take the last bucketful back to the laundry room, I can hear Rick watching television in the family room. The Lord only knows what kind of garbage he’s watching at this hour. I’m not even sure that I care. I tiptoe off to the master bathroom and take a long, hot shower, imagining that it’s fire burning away the sin. I scrub until my skin is red and raw and there isn’t a drop of hot water left. If Rick wants a shower, he’ll have to wait or take a cold one. Perhaps an icy shower will wake him up—wake him up to the reality of our messed-up lives. When will that man become the spiritual leader that this family needs? Will he ever? In some ways my husband isjust like my dad. Married to his job and checked out of his family. Maybe this is my punishment. My never-ending punishment.
As I go to bed, I realize that I didn’t get a chance to tell Rick that I replaced the money I gave to the family in need. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s too late to fix this thing after all. Maybe I really am hopeless. And maybe my family is hopeless too. I feel tears coming now, the aching kind of tears that come from deep, dark places inside.
God, help me. God, help me. God, help me …
I pray this again and again, hoping the soothing rhythm, similar to the sound of a train rumbling down the tracks, will lull my wounded spirit to sleep. But I fear I am heading toward a great big boulder, a train wreck just waiting to happen.
5
I usually feel better in the morning. I think it has to do with the sunlight. But today is cloudy and gray, and my spirits seem to match. Still, I go through the paces, fixing the girls’ breakfast, driving them to school. But after they’re safely delivered, I don’t feel ready to go home. I don’t want to see Matthew, probably still green around the gills and sporting an attitude. And I really don’t want to face Rick just yet, although I doubt that he’s even up.
So I park the minivan on the back side of the church parking lot, take out my leather-bound Bible, and begin to read in Isaiah. It’s the prophetic section of the book, and I read some parts I’ve heard Pastor Glenn teach on. But the words just seem to float over my head, and I fear their meaning is far beyond me—something only people like Pastor Glenn or Cynthia can understand. And yet there is something soothing about this spiritual exercise, and so I read on. It’s as if
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