Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Grace Triumphant 012
March 11, 2005
We dawdled through Pennsylvania. We passed a sign that boasted a real Amish restaurant with "shoo fly pie" and both Benjamin and Rachel, my little gourmands, wanted to try it. So we found the place, a good 45 minutes out of our route, and stood in line for nearly an hour.
But everything was served family style, and it amazed me to see all the men in the place with the square-cut beards of Amish culture. Waitresses brought loaded plates to our table. They ask groups of fewer than four to share tables, so we ate with a middle-aged farm couple.
I am so proud of my children sometimes. They were on best manners, and they asked that dear couple all kinds of questions about horses and cows and tractors (Ben's current favorite topic). I think the man and his wife were just as pleased to talk to well-mannered children who were so interested in them. At the end, the children were too full for pie, and the man told me he would be pleased to give us a pie from the restaurant's little shop, to take on our way, and he did. Rachel kissed him and his wife goodbye.
There are still some places, I thought, where adultery has not set foot. There are places where the chief thought of the day is to get the work done, where team work in marriage is not just a beautiful idea but a necessity, a way of life, so valuable that people understand they need it like they need air and water.
We reached Amy Carmichael and Jim's steep driveway just before five. The entire family came piling out of the house, not wearing their Sunday best, but dressed in clean clothes, everybody groomed and tidy. Even Jim was there, home from work early to greet us, his face welcoming but his eyes slightly anxious. I had told them why I was coming.
Before I had even unlocked my car door, James Jr and Mark, their second born at 13, were at my side, ready to help with the luggage.
The boys toted all our things into the guest room while Rose Sharon, or "Rosie" as they called her, took my Rachel to her room to show her the toys and games. Rosie is a year younger than my nine-year old Rachel and is two inches taller. She has her father's tall, slim build and his coloring as well.
Amy Carmichael took me by the hand after we hugged and kissed, and she kept hold of my hand while she cheerfully directed the mob of seven children.
They got everybody settled, and Jim stood in the middle of their small front room, his fists on his hips, and said, "Now children, the grown ups are going to get dinner ready. And we have things we have to talk about. Who's got homework?"
The three older boys did, and the other two had finished theirs. So Jim told the older boys to do their homework, and he had the younger ones settle down to watch The Incredibles, which has just come out in the last few weeks on DVD and which he had purchased that day as a special treat for everybody. Even though Ben and Rachel watched the first half the night before, they were just as keen to see it again and reach the end this time.
Amy Carmichael, Jim, and I went into the kitchen, and then Jim had me sit at the table while he got plates and silverware and everything else. And Amy Carmichael stirred the great crockpot on the counter and put frozen slabs of garlic bread under the broiler to toast.
"All right Gracie," Jim said. "We can talk about any details you want to talk about after the children are in bed. But I want to know if you'd like to stay here with us. We have a little house I built with my brothers when I was first learning. It's just down the hill. You could live rent free, and be safe with us nearby."
The invitation made my eyes wet. No, I thought, Jim had never forgotten his promise. He still wore denim jeans and a clean, untattered black t-shirt. His high cheek bones and slightly squared-off eyes looked older from years of wind and sun in outdoor work. But he was still tall, with shoulders that were deceptively broad because his height lessened the image of that raw strength. His one concession to age and the luxuries of Amy Carmichael's cooking and his easy chair was a small pot belly. It made him hitch up his pants if he stood still for too long.
"Jim, to be honest with you, I don't know what to do."
"Are you afraid of him, Gracie? If you are, you have to stay here."
The question startled me. "Oh Jim, Greg's never hurt me that way. He would never hit me."
He stopped his journeys between cabinets and table to put his fists on his hips and stare at me, his square eyes suddenly helpless. And Amy Carmichael turned from the oven. "Grace," she said. "Your face is bruised."
"What?"
She crossed to me and touched my forehead about halfway between my eyes and hairline. The place was sore. I put my hand to my head, stunned. How had I not seen it? But maybe the bruise had needed time to develop. Adultery, I thought, is full of the impossible at every turn. All the things you never thought of start flying at you like meteors, coming faster and faster. All the things you stare at and never see are pointed out to you by others. I'd been walking around with a bruise on my face. With a smarting sense of realization, I instantly wondered at the kindness of the man and his wife back at the restaurant.
"Greg didn't hit me," I said quickly. "He was trying to get into the house, and I was holding the door closed. He jerked it so hard towards himself that I flew through it and hit him with my head in the chest. It knocked me all the way down to the kitchen floor."
"Did he help you up?" Jim asked.
"I started throwing things at him. I threw plates and dishes at him, Jim." I said it guiltily, still ashamed of my insane rage, and what I had put my own children through.
"Well, did you get him?" Jim asked. And I saw in those sparkling dark eyes the resentment he felt for Greg.
"James," Amy Carmichael said gently.
He checked himself.
"I terrified the children," I said. "They were there. I don't know for how long. They were so afraid."
He came over to me and took my hand. "Your children can deal with this, Gracie. We'll help them."
I felt those obstinate tears start again. "But I want them to have a real childhood. I don't want to force them to grow up. My parents got me into the middle of their problems---"
"You can keep your children out of it," Jim said quickly. "You won't make the mistakes your mother made." He started to set out the plates.
I stood up to help him, even though they had told me not to do any work. "We all make the mistakes our parents make," I said. And my voice, again, sounded like somebody else's voice.
"Yes we do," Amy Carmichael said quietly.
Jim glanced at her. "And then we see what we're doing and catch ourselves," he said emphatically.
"Well yes." She nodded. But I had the sense I had referenced an ongoing matter between them. I changed the subject slightly.
"Jim, I think they're both---traumatized. They seem all right now, but-" I shook my head.
"We'll help them." He gave me a nod, and we pulled out the table so he could set up the leaf.
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Ms Jovian, I have read your other journals, Secret Radio and Standard Christian. Your experiences helped me put my own past in an abusive church in perspective. (If you can believe it, my preacher back then preached against sugar. How's that for Biblical?) Then the police arrested him for stalking young men. He did some time in jail and has disappeared. He was a GIBC grad. Did you know him? Tommy Brush. Some people say he has changed his name and is preaching again.
I am sorry to read of your troubles. I am praying for you. We have a share group that meets on Sundays through my church, and we are praying for you. I feel like I know you after reading so much of your experiences. May God bless you with wisdom and be your constant consolation and companion in a time of sorrow.
Best wishes,
J.J.
Anchorage, Alaska
++++
You are a sad, sick person Grace "Jovian". Your world is one of delusion where you are both the victim and the avenger. You offer nothing here but scorn and heresy. Your theology is a mixture of biblical truth with feminist propaganda. I had you pegged two years ago when your first disgusting Secret Radio story came out, and nothing has changed.
Your obsession with Preacher Mack and GIBC, which has brought more people to the Lord than you can even count is a sign of your insanity. You are either titilated by recounting these same accounts over and over and over OR you have never overcome the abuse within your own life. Those miserable suck-ups who write to you about their miserable lives as second-class Christians can flatter you and support you while vilifying godly men like me and that's fine. If anybody truly cared for you they would pray for you to get the help you so desperately need. But nobody does care, not even your own husband.
Pastor Gary Flowmont
Whirlwind Harvest Independent Baptist Church
Whirlwind Harvest, Pennsylvania
We dawdled through Pennsylvania. We passed a sign that boasted a real Amish restaurant with "shoo fly pie" and both Benjamin and Rachel, my little gourmands, wanted to try it. So we found the place, a good 45 minutes out of our route, and stood in line for nearly an hour.
But everything was served family style, and it amazed me to see all the men in the place with the square-cut beards of Amish culture. Waitresses brought loaded plates to our table. They ask groups of fewer than four to share tables, so we ate with a middle-aged farm couple.
I am so proud of my children sometimes. They were on best manners, and they asked that dear couple all kinds of questions about horses and cows and tractors (Ben's current favorite topic). I think the man and his wife were just as pleased to talk to well-mannered children who were so interested in them. At the end, the children were too full for pie, and the man told me he would be pleased to give us a pie from the restaurant's little shop, to take on our way, and he did. Rachel kissed him and his wife goodbye.
There are still some places, I thought, where adultery has not set foot. There are places where the chief thought of the day is to get the work done, where team work in marriage is not just a beautiful idea but a necessity, a way of life, so valuable that people understand they need it like they need air and water.
We reached Amy Carmichael and Jim's steep driveway just before five. The entire family came piling out of the house, not wearing their Sunday best, but dressed in clean clothes, everybody groomed and tidy. Even Jim was there, home from work early to greet us, his face welcoming but his eyes slightly anxious. I had told them why I was coming.
Before I had even unlocked my car door, James Jr and Mark, their second born at 13, were at my side, ready to help with the luggage.
The boys toted all our things into the guest room while Rose Sharon, or "Rosie" as they called her, took my Rachel to her room to show her the toys and games. Rosie is a year younger than my nine-year old Rachel and is two inches taller. She has her father's tall, slim build and his coloring as well.
Amy Carmichael took me by the hand after we hugged and kissed, and she kept hold of my hand while she cheerfully directed the mob of seven children.
They got everybody settled, and Jim stood in the middle of their small front room, his fists on his hips, and said, "Now children, the grown ups are going to get dinner ready. And we have things we have to talk about. Who's got homework?"
The three older boys did, and the other two had finished theirs. So Jim told the older boys to do their homework, and he had the younger ones settle down to watch The Incredibles, which has just come out in the last few weeks on DVD and which he had purchased that day as a special treat for everybody. Even though Ben and Rachel watched the first half the night before, they were just as keen to see it again and reach the end this time.
Amy Carmichael, Jim, and I went into the kitchen, and then Jim had me sit at the table while he got plates and silverware and everything else. And Amy Carmichael stirred the great crockpot on the counter and put frozen slabs of garlic bread under the broiler to toast.
"All right Gracie," Jim said. "We can talk about any details you want to talk about after the children are in bed. But I want to know if you'd like to stay here with us. We have a little house I built with my brothers when I was first learning. It's just down the hill. You could live rent free, and be safe with us nearby."
The invitation made my eyes wet. No, I thought, Jim had never forgotten his promise. He still wore denim jeans and a clean, untattered black t-shirt. His high cheek bones and slightly squared-off eyes looked older from years of wind and sun in outdoor work. But he was still tall, with shoulders that were deceptively broad because his height lessened the image of that raw strength. His one concession to age and the luxuries of Amy Carmichael's cooking and his easy chair was a small pot belly. It made him hitch up his pants if he stood still for too long.
"Jim, to be honest with you, I don't know what to do."
"Are you afraid of him, Gracie? If you are, you have to stay here."
The question startled me. "Oh Jim, Greg's never hurt me that way. He would never hit me."
He stopped his journeys between cabinets and table to put his fists on his hips and stare at me, his square eyes suddenly helpless. And Amy Carmichael turned from the oven. "Grace," she said. "Your face is bruised."
"What?"
She crossed to me and touched my forehead about halfway between my eyes and hairline. The place was sore. I put my hand to my head, stunned. How had I not seen it? But maybe the bruise had needed time to develop. Adultery, I thought, is full of the impossible at every turn. All the things you never thought of start flying at you like meteors, coming faster and faster. All the things you stare at and never see are pointed out to you by others. I'd been walking around with a bruise on my face. With a smarting sense of realization, I instantly wondered at the kindness of the man and his wife back at the restaurant.
"Greg didn't hit me," I said quickly. "He was trying to get into the house, and I was holding the door closed. He jerked it so hard towards himself that I flew through it and hit him with my head in the chest. It knocked me all the way down to the kitchen floor."
"Did he help you up?" Jim asked.
"I started throwing things at him. I threw plates and dishes at him, Jim." I said it guiltily, still ashamed of my insane rage, and what I had put my own children through.
"Well, did you get him?" Jim asked. And I saw in those sparkling dark eyes the resentment he felt for Greg.
"James," Amy Carmichael said gently.
He checked himself.
"I terrified the children," I said. "They were there. I don't know for how long. They were so afraid."
He came over to me and took my hand. "Your children can deal with this, Gracie. We'll help them."
I felt those obstinate tears start again. "But I want them to have a real childhood. I don't want to force them to grow up. My parents got me into the middle of their problems---"
"You can keep your children out of it," Jim said quickly. "You won't make the mistakes your mother made." He started to set out the plates.
I stood up to help him, even though they had told me not to do any work. "We all make the mistakes our parents make," I said. And my voice, again, sounded like somebody else's voice.
"Yes we do," Amy Carmichael said quietly.
Jim glanced at her. "And then we see what we're doing and catch ourselves," he said emphatically.
"Well yes." She nodded. But I had the sense I had referenced an ongoing matter between them. I changed the subject slightly.
"Jim, I think they're both---traumatized. They seem all right now, but-" I shook my head.
"We'll help them." He gave me a nod, and we pulled out the table so he could set up the leaf.
