Angry Conversations with God (23 page)

Dad opened his mouth, but he didn’t have much volume, so I moved closer.

“How do you get back on track?” he whispered.

“You mean, get back on track with God?” I replied. He nodded yes. “Oh, Dad, we can never get back on track. No human can ever
get
himself
on track, no matter how good he is. That’s why we need Jesus. Jesus gets us back on track. Have you asked Jesus to forgive
you? Have you asked him to come into your life?”

He nodded yes. I took his hand. “Then, Dad, you
are
on track. You are forgiven. And you don’t have to worry about where you’re going.”

His mouth turned up. I didn’t know if this would be the last time I’d find him awake so I said, “Dad, you know, you’ve done
a lot of things that hurt me. But I forgive you. I’ve done a lot of things that hurt you too. I am sorry. Will you forgive
me?” He lay there watching me until he realized I was waiting for an answer. He nodded again.

“But Dad, you did a lot of good things too. Remember all those nights I waited for the Sears sign to come on? My life lit
up when you got home. Remember all those family vacations you took us on? And taking us to play miniature golf? And taking
the dogs on walks. And watching movies together?” He kept watching me, waiting for the next words out of my mouth.

“Do you remember the time you rescued Fuzzy? You were my hero that day. Remember the time I almost got that TV show? You stood
out on the driveway, waiting for me to get home. You just stood there and hugged me and let me cry. That meant as much to
me as all the times you were happy for my successes.”

My father turned his palm upward. I put my hand in his and squeezed.

“You’re a great girl,” he whispered.

Those were the words I’d waited a lifetime to hear.

The next day a storm blew through and washed away the haze and smog. Clouds skated east along a piercing blue sky. I remembered
that Sunday school song about Stephen the martyr who looked up in the clouds and saw Jesus waiting for him.

The hospice nurse said my father hadn’t been conscious for several hours. His body was shutting down. I called Mom and told
her to come. When I went into Dad’s room, his breathing was labored, the gasps shallow. But he was still there.

“Dad?” I sat on a chair and leaned over his ear. “Daddy, it’s okay. You can go now. I’m going to miss you so much. But you
are forgiven, Dad. You’re on track now. Jesus is your track. He’s waiting for you. Don’t be afraid. Go where there is no more
sickness in your body, where there’s no more fear and no more regret. It’s okay, Dad. I love you.” And then I softly sang
the song in his ear:

I see Jesus standing at the Father’s right hand,

I see Jesus over in the promised land;

Work is over, now I’m coming to thee,

I see Jesus standing waiting for me.

Less than an hour later, my father died.

A week after I returned to New York, I was out jogging in the neighborhood. I passed a convenience store where a stock clerk
was unloading a delivery. There on the sidewalk sat a pallet of Ensure. I broke down and wept.

Rudy: There was a lot of grace for your father.

Susan: I understand that parable better. There was this landowner who paid some laborers to work for the day. Then a worker
showed up for the last hour and got the same pay as those who’d worked all day. The all-day workers were mad. But the point
wasn’t the time labored; the point was the gift. If I can just get it into my head that God has that same patience and generosity
for me.…

Rudy: What would your father say?

Susan: He doesn’t need to speak. I’m happy just to sit and be thankful.

Rudy: I mean your
earthly
father. If he could be here, what would he say?

Susan: Maybe, “Don’t waste time fighting God. Don’t get to the end and have little to remember but regret and what might have
been.”

God: I do have something to say, Susan: “He who has been forgiven much loves much.” Your dad has so much love now. You’ll
get to see that someday.

THE WEEKEND BEFORE SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, JACK AND I WENT ON
vacation to Miami. We’d been dating for a year, so we decided to celebrate. We’d go somewhere new, lounge on a beach, watch
Cuban men play dominoes…and we would stop arguing. Why were we arguing anyway when there was so much to love? Jack was talented
and disciplined, he worked hard on his spiritual life, and he adored me. He was sure I was “The One.” Why wasn’t I sure he
was? Well, there were just a few teensy issues. Like sex, friends, and the Lord.

Issue #1: Sex.
Even though Jack was totally committed to me, a year into our relationship, sex outside marriage still left me feeling exposed,
like I was walking through a blizzard in a bikini. Jack had promised he’d be patient if I freaked out and needed to take a
step back. But when I actually did ask to step back, he reacted as if I’d suggested we have a picnic at the morgue.

“That’s weird, Susan. I can’t do that.”

“Jack, when you leave, I feel like my insides have been cut out.”

“But if you love someone, shouldn’t you feel bad when they leave?”

“Not like someone stole a kidney. Can’t we try it for a few weeks?”

“No. I’d just be waiting for those few weeks to be over, and I’d get resentful.”

I could have broken up with him. But here’s something else they don’t tell you about in Sex Ed: oxytocin. It’s a chemical
the brain releases during sex that bonds mammals together for life (well, prairie dogs stick it out for life anyway). It also
makes the female protect her nest
at all costs.
After a forest fire, they’ll find a dead, charred mother bird sitting on a nest with live chicks underneath her. Now Jack
and I were bonded. I put Jack’s love over my own needs. Or as Genesis 3:16 reads, “Your desire will be for your husband, and
he will rule over you.” Or, as they say in therapy, “You’re codependent.”

Issue #2: Friends.
Jack and I had so much in common. We preferred indie films to blockbusters, Chinese takeout to expensive restaurants, and
Dunkin’ Donuts coffee to Starbucks. It was great to have someone to do life with. But you can’t do life alone. You need friends.
I included Jack’s friends in my life, but Jack didn’t reciprocate. Once Marty and Paula asked us out on a double date. Jack
demurred, so we got Chinese takeout and watched
Unforgiven
on DVD. Then Bill was having a birthday party. “I’m not ready for a big group,” Jack replied. So we went to see
Memento.
I figured Jack needed time. But time passed. I realized Jack
was
comfortable in a group: his own.

“That’s because I
know
my friends,” Jack defended himself.

“If you hung out with my friends, you’d know them too.”

“Susan, I only like groups of people I know. That’s what it means to be an introvert.”

“No, that’s what it means to be controlling.”

Issue #3: God.
Jack was the most spiritually disciplined person I knew. He prayed and sought God’s will every day. When he was a jerk, he
promptly admitted it. How many Christians did I know who were that thorough? Occasionally Jack joined me at church. But he
wanted to sit in the back and leave immediately afterward. For me, what happened afterward was as important as the service.

Sometimes it worked; he’d share something from his meditation books or I’d share something from the Bible. We’d nod, agree,
and change the subject. Other times, it exploded. Once, I mentioned that I wanted to tithe and Jack flipped out.

“Pastors shouldn’t get paid; they just rip people off! My mom’s pastor drives a BMW.”

“Everyone in your mom’s town drives a BMW. My pastor doesn’t even own a car.”

“Nobody owns a car in New York,” he replied. “It doesn’t count.”

“I’m not tithing your money.”

“Someday it’ll be ours.”

Would it? Could I live with this kind of conflict? I learned to avoid conflict by keeping God general—no mention of “Jesus”
or “worship” or “tithe.” I loved Jack and Jack loved me. But I couldn’t talk about the most important Person in my life without
risking an argument or lonely silence. And so the language of God—the words I used to describe my experience and the landscape
of my heart—got lost. I went mute around Jack. Sometimes it felt like I had volunteered for a stroke.

So also the blessings I’d been so grateful to find in New York—a healthy church and healthy Christian friends—started to drift
away. I could feel it.

I went to church alone on Sundays. I found myself reaching my hands up like I used to—to the puzzlement of the nonemotional
classical-music-loving pastorate. I reached up because I missed God! I felt homesick for people who spoke my language. Even
if they never used the words, they knew them. This church was safe from emotional excess, I could not stop the flood of my
own longing.

I still prayed, alone in my room. The prayers were always the same. “Dear God, please be patient! Please help me. Please help
Jack see you. Please show me what to do!” Was there a conflict between God and me as well? Did God feel the tension of me
putting Jack before him? I loved God more than I loved Jack. Even if my behavior looked otherwise.

My church friends were worried. Martha scolded me about being unequally yoked. Jeannie said I didn’t seem as bubbly as I had
been. Bill saw it too. He thought Jack was holding me back.

I talked to one of my pastors about it. Would God be upset if I married Jack?

“Susan, you can marry whomever you want,” my pastor replied. “But do you want to be with a man who doesn’t understand your
deepest heart? Jesus is written into every part of your life. Do you want to live your spiritual life by yourself?”

I had sworn to myself I’d never end up like my mother, living her spiritual life alone. But what was worse? Being spiritually
alone or being totally alone?

In February Mark was having his fortieth-birthday-party bash. Jack didn’t want to go. “Do you like him?” Jack eyed me.

“Mark is gay, Jack.”

“But do
you
like
him
?”

“Mark is one of my oldest friends!”

“Why do you have to go outside our relationship for friendship with guys? What does Mark give you that I don’t?”

“Parties.”

Jack went; he even had a good time. The evening was closing on a positive note until we got onto the subway. There in our
empty car sat Really Nice Guy. You know, the only guy in New York who ever asked me out, but whom I could not like because
he was just so nice?
That
Really Nice Guy.

I introduced them. Jack nodded and said nothing. So I talked to Really Nice Guy. We both tried to act like it wasn’t awkward
that here he was, Really Nice
Jilted
Guy in a virtually empty subway car, and who walks in but Jilter Girl with Hot Boyfriend? (Of course Really Nice Guy had
no idea that On-the-Surface Hot Boyfriend was in fact Argumentative-Captain-Bringdown Boyfriend; and I, Codependent Girlfriend,
was wondering what
was
relationship so wrong with being treated really nicely. Especially now that my life was spent watching downer DVDs in a crappy
apartment with Captain Bringdown Boyfriend.)

Finally, Really Nice Guy got off at his stop. Jack glared at me. “Who was that?”

“A friend from church.”

“You talked to him the entire time. You didn’t talk to me.”

“No, Jack, you refused to participate in the conversation. Am I not allowed to talk to someone I knew before I met you?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a history with him?”

Ugh! I might as well tell Jack the whole story. Maybe he’d get an ego boost out of the fact that he won out over Really Nice
Guy. Only he didn’t get that kind of boost.

“You mean he
liked
you?” Jack simmered. “Did you like
him
?”

I refused to speak with him the rest of the ride. When we reached his stop, I did not get up to go with him.

“Now you’re making me feel bad.”

“No, Jack, your crappy behavior is making you feel bad.”

“I’m sorry, Susan. I just feel like you’re not completely here, with me, in this relationship.”

“Do you think I want to date someone else? I don’t want to date Mark or that guy or anyone else.”

“Then why do I feel like your heart is somewhere else?”

“Because it
is,
Jack. Not with another guy, but my heart needs to go to God first. And you don’t want to go there with me.”

Jack looked crushed. “You act as if I don’t know God. I just don’t know him your way.”

Maybe that’s why Jack was so possessive. He knew my heart was pulling toward Someone else. And I was stuck in limbo between
the two of them.

A month later, at his apartment, I was bending over to untie my shoe. When I stood up, Jack was frowning at my butt. “You
gain weight when you’re on your period, right?”

“That’s it, Jack. We’re done.” I grabbed my coat to leave.

“I’m sorry! You’re breaking up with me over one comment?”