Sparks

What am I doing here?

The music blared in the background, a deafening bass beat thumping against the walls. I squeezed the last drop out of my beer bottle and set it down with a clank. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I pushed through the crowd to look for my friend.

“Hey there,” a tall guy flirted, tapping my shoulder.

I gave him a coy look, or as coy as one can be when drunk, and kept walking.

The room began to spin in slow motion, a blur of drunken faces and waving arms and legs. The smell of cheap beer, body odor and cigarette smoke hit my nostrils all at once, making me nauseous. I had to get out of there, get some fresh air, before I passed out.

“Eddi! Over here!” My friend looked up from the couch where she was draped over a guy I’d never seen before. Her hair was mussed, her eyes bloodshot, her shirt un-tucked. My legs suddenly felt like lead as I made my way to her side.

“Having fun?” she drawled, giggling. A pile of beer bottles littered the ground beneath her feet; she had just put another one to her lips.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, shrugging. And I was, right? Wasn’t this what I’d wanted? Wasn’t this what I’d left Charlie for?

You’re too young to be tied down, I reminded myself. Just live it up; your future can wait.

I popped open another beer just as Colton’s little face came to my mind. Shuddering, I thought for another fleeting second, What am I doing here?

 

 

 

Growing up on a farm in the little town of Pe Ell, Washington, my childhood should have been idyllic. My mother stayed at home with me and my brother, four years my elder, while my father worked full time in town. From the outside, we looked like the average, all-American family. We took annual summer vacations, played games and ate dinner together around the kitchen table when the sun went down. But behind closed doors, things were less than perfect.

From the time I was young, I sensed that my father favored my brother to me. Nearly every weekend, the boys took off to go hunting or exploring while my mother and I stayed behind. My brother came back from their outings with mud on his knees and a smile on his face. “We had the best time!” he announced, setting down his rifle. And I tried to smile back.

I threw myself into sports as early as fourth grade. Perhaps if I could excel on the basketball court, my father would finally be proud of me. But it was my mother who showed up for the games, her bright smile standing out in the crowd as I waved to her from below. And right then and there, our teams were formed: me and Mom, Dad and my brother.

I made the varsity basketball team as a freshman in high school, quite an accomplishment for someone so young. I dabbled with volleyball and softball, as well, MVP three years in a row for the softball team. My father attended most of my home games, but it was my mother who sat by my side on the bus as our team traveled around.

“I am sooo proud of you, Eddi!” My mother gushed after a winning basketball game. “You were really a star out there.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I replied, yanking my jersey over my head. My mom and I had become best friends over the years, which made my father jealous. I longed for him to get to know the real me, to utter the words, “I’m so proud of you,” like my mother always did. What would it take to get his attention?

During high school, I met a guy who paid me lots of attention. I began hanging out at his house after school, hoping to escape the tension in my own home. For a while, it seemed things were headed in the right direction. I was in love, or so I thought. And then one day, the abuse began.

“Stupid girl,” my boyfriend slurred one night, shoving me against the wall with a beer in one hand. “You’re nothin’ but trouble, you know that?”

Angry tears sprang to my eyes. Where was this coming from? I’d done nothing wrong. Infuriated, I pushed him back and stormed off.

The physical and verbal abuse continued for the next three years. My boyfriend and I fell into a predictable pattern. He drank, we fought, he shoved me around and I fought back. The next day, he came to me, full of remorse.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I won’t do it again, I promise,” he said sweetly, leaning in for a kiss.

I wanted to believe him; I wanted to be loved. And so the charade went on; I ignored the bruises on my face and on my heart.  “I love you, too,” I whispered back, looking into his eyes. “I know we’re gonna be okay.”

Meanwhile, my father and I continued to fight at home. Sports became my safety net, the one place I knew I could shine. My mother remained by my side, an ever faithful spectator at my games. She was the best thing in my life. But someone else was about to appear on the scene and turn my world upside down.

My senior year, my brother began bringing a guy named Charlie around the house. Charlie was sweet, funny and respectful, everything my current boyfriend was not. We began talking, and I grew to like him more and more. Charlie had a way of looking me straight in the eye and making me feel interesting and important. I felt myself blush when he came knocking on the door.

I finally worked up the guts to break up with my abusive boyfriend. The minute I took that step, I was able to see the relationship for what it had been. Charlie and I began slowly dating. Though he was four years my senior, the age difference hardly seemed to matter. He had a good job and a great reputation around town. Even my father approved. Finally, it seemed I had found my knight in shining armor.

When Charlie dropped to one knee one night and pulled out a ring, I didn’t need to think twice. “Yes!” I cried. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

Charlie and I were married on May 23, 1998. I was happy as a new bride, and even more thrilled when we found out we were expecting a baby two years later.

“You think it will be a boy or a girl?” Charlie asked, smiling.

“Definitely a girl. We need some pink around here.”

“Tomboys can wear pink.” He laughed.

I was still reveling in the news when we got some other news a month later, this time of a very different nature. My mother called, her usual perky tone replaced by an almost unrecognizable one. “Honey, I need to tell you something. I went back to the doctor today and … he confirmed my fear. I have breast cancer.”

Breast cancer. I tried to breathe, but it seemed all the air had been sucked out of my lungs in a heartbeat. My mother, my best friend … cancer?

“Nooo,” I cried, tears spilling down my face. “Are you sure? Maybe they got it wrong. Sometimes doctors make mistakes, you know?” This wasn’t happening. This must be a bad joke.

“I wish that was so,” my mother said softly. “I’m going to start treatment right away, but they say it’s already, um … progressed.”

Progressed. This was a good thing in sports. When I learned a new trick on the court or challenged myself to a new level on the field, I progressed and my coach applauded. But this was not a good thing for my mother. Progressed meant … no, I refused to believe my mother was going to die. Lots of people recovered from cancer. My mother was a fighter, a strong spirit.

“You will fight this, Mom,” I declared, feeling myself grow angry at the cancer invading her body.

“I will,” she assured me, sniffing. “I will fight with all I have.”

Time marched on. As new life thrived inside of me, my mother fought for hers. The following year, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy little boy we named Colton. Charlie and I were thrilled to be parents, and I was happy for the distraction from the pain in my life.

Things with my father remained strained. I called my mother several times a day to check in with her. If my father happened to be home and answered the phone, he grew very angry. “Why does she keep calling?” I heard him yell in the background as he tossed the phone at my mother. “You two can’t stay away from each other for five minutes!”

As our son grew into a happy toddler, my relationship with Charlie grew rocky. We began fighting constantly, the tension growing so thick at home that I felt like I was suffocating. Charlie started going to bars after work and not showing up until late in the evening. At home with our son, I grew neglected and resentful.

“Where were you?” I demanded one evening as Charlie came stumbling in the door. It was nearly 8 p.m., our son’s bedtime.

“Out,” Charlie said vaguely, throwing his keys on the table. “Didn’t leave me any dinner?”

“What do you think I am? A maid? I’m supposed to cook for you when you don’t even show up till bedtime?” I snarled, storming out of the room. I threw myself on our bed and pulled the covers over my head. Images of my parents’ constant fighting ran through my head. I’d never witnessed a healthy marriage, as Charlie’s parents fought just as much. Was it possible that all married couples became miserable over time? Was it possible I’d made a terrible mistake in marrying too young?

Charlie and I continued to fight and spend less and less time together. My resentment escalated, and any ounce of respect I’d shown him in the past flew out the window. As I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, I began to consider all I’d missed out on in life. Perhaps I should have stuck with sports; I could have had a thriving athletic college career if I’d just kept it up. Perhaps I should have dated around more. I’d gone straight from the arms of an abuser to the arms of a rescuer. Maybe I should have spent more time playing the field.

The more I thought about my life, the more it all seemed like a giant mistake. Suddenly, the grass began to look a whole lot greener on the other side of the fence. In August, 2005, I told Charlie I was moving out.

“I don’t want this anymore,” I told him. “I need to get out there and find out who I am, see what I’ve missed.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find out there,” Charlie snapped.

I moved in with my parents, taking our son with me. Charlie, who had been distant in our relationship, stepped up as a father after I left. He came over every day after work to spend time with Colton and saw him every other weekend. I was grateful for his help, but as I watched him drive away, I sometimes wondered what on earth I’d been thinking when we married so young. I didn’t need a husband; I needed a life of my own. Or so I thought.

I decided to try out life as a single woman. I began partying hard, drinking on the weekends and even in between. Suddenly, a whole new world opened up. “I can’t believe what I’ve been missing,” I told myself. “This is the good life. I’m too young to be tied down to one person.”

I relished the male attention I began receiving. I’d craved healthy attention from my father, but I always seemed to miss the mark in his eyes. Now, men were paying me compliments, whispering nice things in my ear, flattering me. The more I partied, the more attention I got.  Being single was heaven.

A friend called me up one day to see how I was doing. “Do you want to come to church with me on Sunday?” she asked.

I laughed. “Um, no thanks. I’m just fine.” I shook my head as I hung up the phone. Church? I hadn’t given church a thought since those few times I’d gone in junior high. Sundays were for sleeping in and nursing the hangover I might or might not have. I didn’t need church, God, marriage, Charlie or any of that nonsense.

The cancer began to take a toll on my mother’s body. Several ladies from a local church began stopping by to spend time with her. Often, when I came home from work, I found a new lady sitting beside my mother, head bowed in prayer. I was a bit taken aback at first. These ladies didn’t even know us. Why on earth would they be so kind to my mother when she hadn’t done anything for them?

“They seem nice,” I said casually to my mother one evening after the church ladies had gone home.

“Oh, they are so sweet,” my mother agreed, pulling the blanket over her pale legs. “The other day, one of them sat with me all afternoon. I kept asking her if she had to be someplace, but she was just happy to sit and pray with me. I feel like they really care.”

“Where do they go to church?” I asked.

“New Harvest. Not too far from here,” my mother replied.

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll check it out sometime.” I could hardly believe the words had come from my own mouth. Just months ago, I had scoffed at my friend when she invited me to church. Maybe I’m coming down with something, I chuckled to myself.

One warm July Sunday morning, I woke up and decided to go to church on a whim. I was a bit nervous as I walked into New Harvest Assembly, but the kind people quickly put me at ease. The service was very different from the ones I’d grown up attending. Here, the pastor spoke to us on our level, sharing about God’s love and our need for him in our life. Something struck a chord with me that morning. As the worship team began to play, I sat riveted in my seat, soaking it all in. These people, including the ladies who visited my mother, seemed to have a joy about them that I hadn’t seen much in my life. I wanted a piece of that, too.

On July 24, just a couple weeks after I began attending New Harvest, I gave my life to over to God. As the pastor called for those who wanted to accept Christ into their hearts, I bowed my head and repeated his words. “Lord, I want you to come into my life. Please forgive me of my sins. I want a fresh start with you, to follow you from this moment on. Thank you.”

I could hardly contain my excitement. I was not just an outsider peering into this new world of believers – I was part of it. Finally, I could let God heal the pain I’d stuffed inside for so long; the hurt, rejection and bad choices that had weighed me down. I was a new person with a new lease on life.

The following month, Pastor Dave made an announcement from the pulpit. “We are doing our annual baptisms next week,” he said. “If you have never been baptized, I highly encourage you to participate as a way to proclaim your faith to the world.”

I nearly jumped out of my seat. I had been reading my Bible, praying and learning more about God every day. I could feel him working in my life, softening my heart, and I wanted to take this next step. I signed up that day.

“Mom, I’m getting baptized next week. I really want you to come!” I begged my mother.

“I don’t know if I can. Aren’t they doing it down at the river?” she asked weakly.

I sighed. “Yeah.” The pastor performed the baptisms at the nearby Chehalis River.  A long dirt trail ran down to the river; my mother feared she wouldn’t be able to make the steep trek. She had grown weaker over the last few months and could hardly take but a few steps without having to rest.

“We will get you a wheel chair,” I insisted. “Come on, please, Mom? It would mean so much to me to have you there.”

“I will be there with you in spirit,” my mother assured me. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”

On August 28, Pastor Dave baptized me in the chilly Chehalis River. As he lifted my head from the water, a loud clap of thunder roared, followed by a streak of lighting. I smiled; it was if God was reminding me he was present, even when my mother could not be.

Someone else was present that day, too. As I stepped out of the water and looked up the hill, I saw Charlie standing in the distance, observing me from behind the crowd. Beside him stood our son, Colton. My heart twisted inside. The fact that he’d come showed that he cared but chose to respect me as well. I felt sad that we could not share this moment together, but I was not ready to reconcile just yet.

A few weeks later, I began drinking again.

“Why are you doing this?” my friend who had invited me to church asked.

“It’s no big deal,” I replied casually. “Just because I go to church now doesn’t mean I can’t have a drink here and there.”

A drink here and there turned into partying again. I was new in my faith and felt myself constantly torn between the things I knew I should do and the things my flesh wanted to do. I still wasn’t ready to be married; there were more green pastures to explore.

In October, I gathered the final divorce papers and prepared to go to court. My pastor’s wife, Janet, called me to see how I was doing. “Mama Janet” had taken me under her wing, inviting me over for the holidays and treating me like a daughter of her own. She knew Charlie and I had been separated and had been praying for us. I told her I had made my final decision and was going to officially divorce my husband.

“Could I come along with you?” she asked, much to my surprise.

“Uh, sure,” I replied.

The mood in the car on the way to court was melancholy. At last, Janet spoke. “Go ahead and sign the papers, but one day you two will get back together and you can get married as Christians,” she said, smiling. “God can restore this relationship.”

I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. In my mind, I was done with Charlie. I had my whole life ahead of me to figure things out. I didn’t need him tying me down.

 

I signed the divorce papers, my hands shaking a bit as I dotted the final line. I was now a free woman. So why didn’t it feel more amazing?

. “I wish you and Charlie could have worked things out,” Janet said. “I will be praying for you.” I knew her heart for reconciliation and was grateful for her thoughtfulness, but I was sure I had made the right decision. Charlie and I would not get remarried.

Three days after that court house visit, my mother passed away in the quiet of our home. I cried until I was sure there were no more tears left inside. My mother, my best friend, was gone. She had put up such a good fight I had almost forgotten the cancer was eating away at her body. I had hoped and prayed for a miracle every day since the diagnosis, but God had chosen to take her. My life would now have a huge, gaping hole.

My mother had written me a heartfelt letter in her last days; I read it over and over:

 

I so wish you and Charlie could have worked things out. Stay close to your church family, Eddi. They care very much for you. I am very proud of you for the changes you have already made in your life.

 

I love you,

Mom.

Charlie and I split custody of Colton. We continued to fight even as a divorced couple. “He can’t stay up so late when he’s at your house!” I yelled at Charlie one night when he dropped our son off. “And you can’t be feeding him all that junk food all the time!”

“What about you, Miss-I-want-to-go-out-and-have-fun-all-the-time?” Charlie retorted.

We squabbled back and forth about each other’s parenting skills, but other times, we got along as friends. After an especially grueling day, Charlie came to me with a hug. “It’s gonna be okay,” he assured me. “I’m there for you.”

“You should come to church sometime,” I told him.

“You really like that place, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah, I really do. The people are so real, and the pastor and his wife are great, too. Maybe you’ll check out it sometime?”

“Maybe,” Charlie replied with a shrug.

I went to Pastor Dave and confided in him and his wife. “I just can’t stand Charlie sometimes,” I complained. “He can be nice, but most of the time, he’s picking me apart, telling me what I did wrong, what I could have done better. It’s really making me mad.”

“I know this seems tough to do, but I want you to start praying for him,” Pastor Dave encouraged. “The Bible says to pray for your enemy. God will begin to change your heart for Charlie as you do this.”

I snorted. “Pray for him? I can’t do that. I hate him!”

I tried praying for Charlie, but it was difficult. Why should I pray for my enemy? It wasn’t like he was praying for me.

I continued drinking occasionally, still trying to enjoy the single life. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t keep up this lifestyle forever, but I wasn’t quite ready to let it all go.

One day, I looked back during church and was surprised to see Charlie standing in the doorway. He slipped into the service and sat in the back of the room. Soon after he visited, he announced he had accepted Christ into his heart. I was surprised and happy for Charlie and the new journey he had embarked on. I had never dreamed that when I began praying for Charlie that his heart would be softened like this. I had no interest in reconciling with him, but at the least, I hoped our fighting would stop.

Charlie’s heart indeed softened. He spoke to me with kindness and I had a peace about him that I’d never seen before. When he announced he was going to join the pyrotechnics team at church, I was supportive.

“The men at the church are so great,” Charlie said enthusiastically. “They actually want to pray for me and spend time with me. I’m really excited about this place.”

“That’s awesome,” I told him. “I’m really happy for you.” And I was. But why was I still so miserable in my own life? I had a new boyfriend, a new life, the freedom I’d always wanted. So why did this emptiness still linger?

Charlie handed me a letter he’d written. As I read it, my heart began to stir.

 

I am truly sorry you think you can’t be happy in our family or that you always have to look elsewhere for more happiness. Sometimes God puts us through hardships to make us stronger. Sometimes he tests the family, other times he tests the individual. I wish that I could do all the things that need to be done to make everything perfect, but only God can do that. I have tried to do everything I can to change my lifestyle and my habits; I have swallowed my pride on more than one occasion. I guess I will always love you. God bless.

 

Love Always,

Charlie

 

P.S. God loves you, too. Try to listen to what he is telling you.

I began praying harder than ever. As I cried out to God, asking him to please pull me out of this pit, he spoke to me very clearly. God asked me, “If there was some kind of impending disaster and you had to prepare for the end, who would you want to spend that time with?” The minute he asked the question, I knew my answer without even blinking. I pictured Charlie standing there, holding our son’s hand. In the end, there was only Charlie.

“Oh, God, I need your help. I need to get my life back on track, but I can’t do it alone,” I prayed. “Please give me the strength to make the right changes in my life.”

During the next few weeks, I felt the desires of the world fade away. While the idea of partying had once seemed so fun and appealing, I now had no interest. With God’s help, I was able to finally lay the alcohol down and not look back. I was taking the steps to become a healthier person inside and out; the next step was making an effort to regain the trust and love of my ex-husband.

Hoping to spend more time with Charlie, I joined the pyrotechnics team at church. One weekend, we prepared to shoot off fireworks at the Tacoma Rainers baseball game. “So how are you doing?” I asked Charlie casually as we drove together. I knew Charlie had been dating a girl a while back; there was a chance he was happy with his new single life and would not want me back.

“I’m doing good. God is really doing some cool things in my life,” Charlie told me. “It’s just crazy, because even when things aren’t going my way, I feel this peace, like he’s going to make everything okay. I didn’t always feel that way.”

“That’s cool. I feel that way, too,” I agreed. I hoped we could keep up these conversations.

As the fireworks shot into the sky and exploded in a radiant, colorful display, I glanced over at Charlie and smiled. Someday, maybe we’d find our own spark again.

Slowly, Charlie and I began spending more time together. I realized how much I had missed his company. Charlie had always been a good person, but since he had become a Christian, he had a new manner about him, a new fire inside his soul. Suddenly, I couldn’t imagine being apart from him.

“I’ve always loved you, Eddi,” Charlie told me one night as we sat in his car. “Even when you pushed me away, I still loved you.”

I grinned in the dim moonlight. “I realize now that all I want is you. You and Colton,” I replied softly, squeezing his hand.

The more time we spent together, the more I could hardly wait to be with him again. We started praying together, asking God to be the center of our new relationship. We began taking marriage classes, hoping to do things right the second time around. We’d been young and ignorant the first time, two kids without a clue as to how to navigate marriage. But now we had all the tools we needed, found right there in our Bible. We had God on our side.

Many of our friends and family members were skeptical. “What makes you think this thing is going to work out the second time around?” they asked.

“God is the center of our lives this time,” I replied confidently.

I learned I was pregnant soon after we began seriously dating.

“You’re going to get married now, right?” my pastor’s wife said.

“Yes, we will,” I promised.

In March, 2009, our beautiful daughter, Jayden, was born. Charlie and I were thrilled to be parents again. With a boy and a girl, our family was now almost complete. We hadn’t necessarily done things in order, but we fully intended to make it all right.

On Sunday, October 24, 2010, I stood before our church and shared my testimony. “I want you all to know that with Christ, all things are possible. It is because of him that Charlie and I will be getting remarried tomorrow,” I announced. “I thank you all so much for your support. God is so good.”

The next day, Pastor Dave walked me down the aisle of the church. I fought back tears as Charlie’s smiling face came into view. He was now not only a man, but a man of God. And I was happy to be his forever.

“You may kiss the bride,” Pastor Dave pronounced.

As Charlie leaned over to kiss me, I looked down and saw our son crying.

“Happy tears, Mom,” he whispered. “These are happy tears.” Every Sunday, Colton had asked his Kids Club pastor to pray for his family to be reunited; God had faithfully answered his sweet prayers.

“Mine, too,” I whispered back.

The moment our lips touched, I felt sure fireworks must be going off somewhere. The spark in my heart was back.

As we walked through the crowd hand in hand, I took the time to glance over all the supportive faces who had shown up for our special day. I imagined my mother there, smiling from heaven, cheering me on. New Harvest Assembly had been such a blessing in my life. Pastor Dave and his wife never stopped believing in us.

But most importantly, God had never given up on us. He’s the one who started the spark in both of our lives. And with his help, we would keep it alive.