Chapter 11 #3
“She and my dad were living in the church parsonage—you know, a house on church grounds that the church pays for. My childhood home, really. After my dad fled, the congregation kicked my mother out of the parsonage and out of the church. She was no longer allowed to be their music minister or associated with the church in any way. Since leading this church with my dad was her whole livelihood, she had to move in with my grandparents—who also live in a church parsonage, mind you.”
I’ve seen this callous lack of compassion from religious institutions who are supposed to be leaders in compassion many times, but I’ve never experienced this level of misery to hear it.
Christina’s family believed church was the beginning and end of everything, yet the church threw her family to the curb just like Christina’s family did to her.
“Please tell me that’s all of it.”
She smiles graciously but shakes her head.
“Are we at the blackmail stage of things?”
She laughs. “No, it’s—my boyfriend at the time.”
Mayday, mayday. Learning that Christina was on the track to become a submissive pastor’s wife has eaten me alive. And that guy was on the receiving end of her devotion for a year. He got to plan a future with her. He had permission to touch her—everywhere.
Fuck, is this corrosive sludge in my veins … jealousy?
I’m not sure I can stay cool if I’m about to hear about some faceless asshole hurting this radiant woman.
She takes a long draft of wine. “So when news of my dad’s scandal started circulating in our church networks …” She sighs but then meets my eyes steadily. “Mark broke up with me.”
My grip on my glass grows dangerously tight. I set it down.
“He said I no longer fit God’s will for his life. The truth is he was with me for how far my family’s clout would get him toward pastoring his own church. Once that clout was gone, so was he.”
“Fuck.” That slipped out, but I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize for only letting that slip. I suddenly want to trash this whole fucking restaurant. This guy was not only using her—using the wittiest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met—but then threw her away like she was nothing.
“Danny?” Christina cautiously asks.
I must look like I’m about to murder someone. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s okay.” She picks up my hand from off the table and holds it in hers. “I know it’s a lot.”
I rub my thumb over her knuckles, the warmth of her hand steadying me like she knew it would. I scrutinize her in mock suspicion. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
She laughs. “A lot. But I’ll only give you one more little morsel for tonight.”
I dramatically inhale, exhale, and brace my arms on the table. She laughs again, squeezing my hand.
“I was paying for birth control out of my own pocket instead of through insurance so my parents wouldn’t find out, but there was some snafu where the birth control company still sent information to my family’s email.
” Her eyes go hard. “My dad called to tell me—after all his affairs had already come out and after Mark had already dumped me, mind you—that I had ‘ruined the marriage bed’ by giving up my virginity to him.”
And now my jaw drops.
“Aha!” Christina calls triumphantly. “I knew you hadn’t seen it all.”
I close my mouth with difficulty.
“This all happened within a two-week period. I had a complete breakdown—that’s about the time my friends found me—and then I obviously started going to therapy.”
She says this as casually as if she’s telling me about her classes. My heart might actually be breaking.
“On hearing some of what I just told you, my therapist recommended a more intense therapist—one who expressly deals with trauma, an approach called eye movement desensitization reprocessing. EMDR for short. EMDR is why items like Love yourself and Believe you don’t need saving aren’t on TJL.
That kind of deep work happened in therapy. ”
My heart splinters further with every word. I fully lace my fingers with hers on the table.
She looks at our intertwined hands. “EMDR ended a year later. AKA, about two months ago. For the first time in my life, thanks to therapy, and my books, and my friends, and”—her beautiful eyes lift to mine—“your documentaries, I believed I was worthy and whole just as I am.”
My hand trembles around hers.
“And I wanted to celebrate that. I wanted to live. I compiled TJL the minute I left the EMDR office for the last time.”
I take a huge breath in, exhale it out.
I’m in awe of this woman. I knew in my gut that she was something special, that her story needed to be told.
But even hearing this abbreviated version of how she got here, I’m certain I was underestimating her.
Can she even be properly estimated? She says she “obviously” went to therapy, but I know that it’s not obvious.
Most Southern religious traditions do not value, and even dissuade, mental health services.
She made every hard choice—with a broken heart, faith, and family—to arrive at the pure joy of sharing a bottle of wine in a fancy restaurant.
“What’s that look, Maestro?” she asks.
I’m no doubt staring again. “I think it’s … gratitude.”
Her hazel eyes are pure softness. “Gratitude?”