Destruction and Restoration
I guess the part that hurt the most was that they told me I wasn’t “good enough” for their son. They were so arrogant—all of them. They trained him in arrogance, and in getting what he wanted. He was such a spoiled child. “His mother loved you,” my mom says. No she didn’t, I think silently. She always told me how busy he was, and to not distract him. As if I was some bug on the windshield.
Every time I walked the “sacred ground” of their church, I was looked at as an intruder. Except when I was needed and useful. They liked having me around then.
Except that one time, those many times, when he enjoyed having me “on his arm,” as it were.
The day we met was an evil day. But I remember it vividly. It was in February. I was eighteen. How could I know how awfully he would use and treat my heart? How awfully his words would abuse me?
Oh how lovely was that stupid love poetry he sent, after he told me he didn’t like me back (with a smile of pleasure on his face), and that he had been told by God Himself not to date me. What a jerk.
He always told everything to that other gal friend of his. She used to come to me, weeping, telling me how much I had hurt him and her. Of how much it hurt, me cutting them out of my life. I finally blocked her on Facebook.
I asked her, once, to stop talking about him to me so I could heal. She said she just couldn’t do that—he was too important to her. That’s when I cut her out of my life.
I left for WWU then, and avoided my home church because she had started coming there and being friends with all of my friends. She used to send me such lengthy emails of woe and tragedy and hurtful words, begging me to reconsider.
I was more than a bit of someone to just use and abuse—one friend mirroring another, I suppose. Dear God, she was so much like him. I wonder if she ever realized he wouldn’t allow her to be “besties” with him after he got married.
I told her that he was treating both of us like girlfriends, and that it wasn’t okay. “Oh no,” she said, “he’s not doing that.”
Story of my life: Everyone denying the truth.
I fled that one summer he returned—when he spent time at my home church, with my friends, and having my church praise him for his “godly ministries.” I hated my church then, and fled. I had insomnia for weeks, until he left.
I didn’t return to my home church until after all that was gone and forgotten.
Finally, God has restored my home church back to me. After all these years, He has restored. I can have a fresh start, and that is such a blessing.