Chapter Twelve of Making Lemonade A Spiritual Journey Through Pain and Divorce

Spiritual Frost

While Steve was counting down the days until his lover would join him, I was waiting for the day I would begin healing. The week I moved in, I found a church within three miles of my home. It was a small congregation, smaller than the one I came from in Lake Havasu, but felt it should be intimate and easier to get to know the staff and meet people.

The first night I attended, I noticed everyone, minus the two people I was sitting with and another couple on the prayer team, was in their eighties and above. I knew finding friends was going to be impossible. As I looked upon all the couples, my heart was reminded how much I longed to be married and grow old with someone.

The pastor gave fiery sermons, but didn’t interact with his parishioners after service. My spiritual growth hit a hard frost. Lack of friends, family and a supportive church destroyed everything I accomplished before leaving Lake Havasu. The loneliness became a deeper pain than the divorce.

Every day driving to and from work, I screamed and cried out to God, “I want to go home! I don’t want to be here. I don’t like this place.” At night, I curled into a ball on the floor and cried until all my energy left, and my stomach cramped.

Through my pleas of telling God I wanted to go home, I would hear Him answer, We will find someone better for you. I didn’t wish to start over again. I would rather have the comfortable misery than an unknown future.

During these times when I cried, my neighbor would come over to see if I was okay and talk to me. “I’m afraid that one day I’m going to knock on your door and you won’t answer. I’m afraid you’ll be dead.” He grabbed me and cried. Ivan always provided positive comments such as, “You’re so pretty. You need to eat. Someone is going to be so blessed to have you. Look at you.” I felt God told him to check on me.

I cried all day at work in my cubicle. I cried in my car. I cried at home. I couldn’t stop. One night the pain became so desperate I couldn’t breathe. I had to cut the pain out. I stabbed the safety pen into my forearm. Tears of pain mingled with ones of heartache. Blood beaded upon my skin. Literally feeling Jesus beside me, his hand upon my back, he begged, Please, don’t do that. Please stop.

“No!” My scream echoed throughout the lonely duplex. “How dare you leave me here! How dare you take everything from me! How dare you!” Physical pain briefly masked the pain of my heart.

I couldn’t face another day. Turning off the alarm, I called in sick to work. Mulling over my options, I decided maybe I needed to go home to my mom. Maybe Montana was my new start.

When I called my mom, she seemed to bring reality to my irrational thoughts. She would be supportive and help me emotionally, but I would have to pay for the move. She reminded me there was no work to be found. And if I moved to Missoula, that would be another moving expense. I would be spending money and have no money coming in to replace it. Missoula had no guarantees either. It was also expensive, and good paying jobs were limited.

I decided to stay. I had to make the best of another mistake.

Carrying my laundry to the back, my foot rolled on an orange, nearly tripping me. The orange picked the wrong day to get in my way.

Stomp!

Orange juice splattered onto the sidewalk and my shoe. It felt good. After starting my laundry, I picked up several oranges and threw them against my block wall and stomped some more, venting my anger.

My energy spent, I sat and cried, then, with sticky shoes, I sauntered into the kitchen and threw them in the sink.

I did this on several occasions when I thought of his lover or remembered something hurtful.

I was early for the Wednesday night service. Slouching like a straw doll with most of its stuffing missing, I allowed myself to be swallowed by the peace of the sanctuary.

Pastor’s wife entered the room from the back. Walking from behind me to the stage, she said, “Have a bad day?” She did not stop or even wait for an answer.

Look at my arm! Look at me! My eyes shouted. Did you see that, God? Did you see how she walked past her wounded parishioner and didn’t care?

To top off my week, I had to deal with Valentine’s Day. I put on no makeup, turned off the radio so I didn’t have to hear the sappy love songs or even the love totally sucks songs, and went to bed as soon as I got home. I just wanted the day to end. I wanted the single season in my life to end. I wanted to shoot St. Valentine, but would settle for Cupid.

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