Church leadership advises or asks us to not attend services at the campus we led; they do offer, in a conciliatory way, to attend services at another campus. This proposition is not readily accepted by Kevin or I, as he can barely hold his head above water when around others. Friends ask if we want Harper and Elijah to attend the kid’s program, the same program they had both been attending since birth. The same children’s ministry I had covered when we were down on volunteers, even though, I for the most part, had really never enjoyed being around children. I decline, as my realization of how to move forward in this impossible situation is murky, and I have to plug the hemmorrhage of suffering and confusion for the kids. A voice of reason is in me, but the roof is only over the kids and Kevin. All I do is cry. Then sob. I try to ask questions, to myself, and then to Kevin, but we are both caged animals, trapped under a magnifying lens, beaming a consistent concentration of immeasurable grief, directly on us. Hearing Kevin explain or recount everything leading up to the affair is absolutely unbearable. Absolutely devastating. I am lost inside of a deep well and when I look up there is no sky.
Kevin had already been connecting with a counselor because of the affair, and the counselor agrees to see us together, as well as, one on one sessions. At every point of this valley those placed around us mattered. As I enter the small office my words barely leave my body, I nod and wait to be called in. This sense of waiting seems so heavy, so encompassing, because I have no control over myself or my circumstance. I do not know what will happen next. I transfer myself into another small room, as I sit in the chair across from our counselor, I whisper. I whisper because inside of those words I am that small. I am that fragile. I am not ashamed, I do not try to be strong, I actually have very little energy to hold up even general answers. Outside the air is cold, unpromising, a steadfast understanding of myself wains, I am not sure if I will be able to pull our family out of all this. Even though I do sincerely want to.
Officially ordained as a Pastor, years ago, Kevin’s layered cake of accountability causes an uptick in our corporate dread. He is summoned by the ordination board in Lansing, as they will weigh whether or not his credentials will be revoked or temporarily suspended. The two hour drive is sober, we are both dressed in all black, like we are attending Johnny Cash’s funeral, and park outside of the seventies façade of a building with insides just as dated. Kevin is skittish, jazzed. The Church of God denomination holds state offices within the country, we had been connected to the Michigan office for years. As we enter the lobby the elder secretary talks to us, casually, as if we are not edging closer and closer to the firing squad. Kevin has been the recipient of outstanding ministry awards, sat on boards, spoke and lead at conferences for the denomination, but as we sit inside of this hard air, Kevin is lost inside of his own understanding of himself.
As the meeting begins, stately and official, I am told by one of the members that if at any point I am overwhelmed or uncomfortable, I can leave. My response is immediate, and indignant. I have always been very adverse to anyone granting permission to me. As if I needed my hand held, and whether or not this was done as a professional courtesy or whether or not someone before me, in the same position, in the same chair, would need to hear this, all in all, the gesture holds zero meaning to me. I glare at every stranger across the table. We were warned that the group would not be friendly, the group would clearly regard Kevin differently after he has taken steps away from the mountain of missteps that had exploded us into this office.
Everyone seems mad. As if they are deeply unaware that hurt people, hurt others. As if they are very blind to any understanding that Kevin has been so broken, he would go down a rabbit hole with no way out and no turning back. There is little sense of Jesus in the room. I am not talking about accountability. I am not talking about responsibility. Or some holier than thou Pastoral ministry cap and gown. I am talking about a simple understanding of how to reach into another person’s heart and choose to walk alongside them to a path of redemption. A simple understanding that as a person stands in the middle of a burning house, whether or not they themselves lit the fire, you go in and rescue them.
Kevin explains how he was molested as a child, how he is connected with a counselor, how he will do everything he needs to in order to keep his family. And that is his only goal. At some point, towards the end of the meeting, the group collectively points attention to me, asking if I want to say anything. I have, in no way, been trying to hold it together, or remain composed, and as I turn to them, my openness to speak about how I will stand beside Kevin, alongside of my river of tears, seems to break their hard exteriors. These cracks only infuriate me more, and foreshadow how many people would only see Kevin as a villain, even though he, at every point, in his life was just like the rest of us.
Only a sinner.
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