The Counselors

by
Yvonne J. Medley


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously — and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, organizations or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this literary offering may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Special excerpts or customized printings can be created to fit specific needs. For details email info@yvonnejmedley.com.


Copyright © 2011 Yvonne J. Medley All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 Yvonne J. Medley All rights reserved.



Table of Contents


Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8


The Counselors
The first thing one can do in the face of another’s sorrow is not to judge or reason, or even seek solutions; one’s first offering of grace is to grieve alongside them.
Job 2:11-13 (CEV)
***


1


Wailing inconsolably for the third go-round, Rena Benson, twenty-seven, usually a confident charismatic beauty, burrowed deeper into a soft leather La-Z-Boy. It was center stage in the church’s office. Every time she attempted to express to the pastors the devastation her husband’s indiscretion was causing her, she fell apart. The huge plush teal blue recliner was the only thing to hold her body firm that day. Austin Benson, twenty-eight, sat fidgety and awkward in his silence. He was sunken into a matching La-Z-Boy next to his wife. Rena’s convulsive sobs had demoted this corporate-ladder-climber status to little-boy status. So there he sat, forced to suffer the public humiliation of being caught with his thing in the neighbor lady’s cookie jar.
Austin crossed and pressed his ankles together so tightly they throbbed. In his lap, he wrung tiny beads of moisture out of his hands. But this was Rena’s party; he’d had his, he knew. So he decided to endure. He also knew that the Rev. Elizabeth Glass, or as everyone called her, Rev. El, was there to gather the pieces of their shattered lives, and perhaps glue them back together—if that was possible.
“Rena has a right to own, aloud, her feelings,” Rev. El said delicately, but with authority against a backdrop of Rena’s constant sniffles. The Rev. Darnell Glass, yet to speak beyond his initial formal greeting, nodded lofty approval of everything his wife and colleague alleged. He sat behind his cherry wood executive desk, and observed.
Rev. El continued, “It’s a wife’s first step toward validating her fractured spirit.” The counselor would have elaborated, but Rena’s wretched sobbing and snot-blowing absorbed all the focus in the room. Let it run its course, was the professional thought of the counselors.    
Austin’s thoughts were: we’re only fifteen minutes into this crap, and I’m regretting it. Damn it. In the six months of Austin’s born-again fidelity/dry spell, he had gone from having sex in all the wrong places to having no sex, anywhere. But to his credit, Austin had managed to transition from the only-being-sorry-for-getting-caught stage to the what-in-the-hell-do-I-do-now stage. However, this public-humiliation stage, he was sure, was traveling too far. How do I get the hell outta here, he mused heavily, while trying his best to look sympathetically at his wife?
Sitting there, trapped, Austin felt deeply regretful for Rena’s pain, but equally befuddled as to what to do about it. Guilt had him on the menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and that was the only reason he succumbed to counseling in the first place. If he wanted to be truthful about it, this was a dumb idea. Rena had first suggested it, during another violent fight, jabbed with rendezvous confessions.
“Counseling!?! That’s a ridiculous waste of time,” Austin shouted, pacing himself into a corner of their bedroom—where he used to sleep.
“Why?” Rena shouted back, swiping at fresh tears on her cheeks.
Trying hard to ignore Rena’s tears, Austin answered, “And we don’t need to vomit up all our personal business in front of a couple of airhead, inflated …,” his arms sliced and diced the air above his head, now, “…know-it-all preachers—that’s why.” Austin’s position on the matter got flushed down the toilet just like vomit.
Rena felt like a chump, bawling like she did in front of everyone. It had been her plan to maintain a dignified stiff-upper lip. She had already been hurt and humiliated beyond belief by her punk-of-a-husband—her latest pet name for Austin—screwing the mother of a little girl in her daycare center. She wasn’t about to lose it in public, too. But she did. However, if there was a silver lining to be had—after walking around these long arduous months cloaked in invisible sackcloth and ash—it arrived in the awkward, silly silence of her husband while she wailed. She glanced over at Austin through her tearful waterslide and spied him; shut-up, stupefied and embarrassed. When she saw that, she cried a second round that camouflaged her satisfaction. Admittedly, though, it was a cheap, teaspoon of glory, she conceded. But chumps couldn’t be choosy.
Rena dipped into a small mound of pink tissues, creating a pyramid in her lap. And she longed for the warmth of Austin’s arms to comfort her. Damn it! she thought, feeling more chumpified than ever.
His arms, his face, his lips, his tongue, his penis; his entire body was contaminated. Poisoned. How could she be so weak as to want that garbage to touch her skin? She just couldn’t figure it out. Late at night, while she watched him sleeping soundly, she suffered vile intruding visions of him thrusting himself inside another woman’s flesh. Rena would lose herself in the hypnotic pulsation of Austin’s jugular vein and think, how fragile.
Poisoned darts like that struck without warning. They aimed for her head then dripped venom down, intravenously, into her heart.
In the office, while sitting in her easy chair, Rena tortured in silence, how could he just piss our life away like that? Momentarily void of public, professional scrutiny, she allowed her almond-shaped eyes to narrow and seethe with hate. She fixed them, hard on her husband, drilling imaginary holes into his forehead. She harbored no sympathy for Austin’s return stare of frightened innocence like a fawn startled by high-beam headlights. Rena pressed her lips together, lest her thoughts volcanoed into words. I wish you were dead. I’m gonna get you back. I swear it, she thought.
The crying erupted for a fourth time and just about carried the forty-five-minute session through to its end. Austin stood and cradled his wife up and onto her wobbly feet. Her flesh melted into his flesh. She cursed herself because it felt good. Saying nothing, he wiped away her tears with his naked contaminated hand and even cleared away the sticky substance webbing under her nose. She hated him. She loved him; she love-hated him. She submitted to his provision. Walking away, she craved his touch.
Damn it! she thought.


2

Rena’s pain was as fresh as it was when her customer, neighbor and casual friend, confessed that she’d been sleeping with her man. The couple had just celebrated five years of marriage—the paper anniversary. The information was deceitfully divulged in a final attempt to accrue an already-housebroken husband. In fact, Austin had abruptly snuffed the woman out of his life the moment he realized that her vow—no strings—was just a pick-up line. Shortly after that, Austin initiated a job transfer across the country.
After their move, the Bensons found The Covenant Grace Church, pastored by Reverends Darnell and Elizabeth Glass. In a stretch to initiate a life-change and a healing, they joined the church. Rena heard that the reverends, married nearly twenty-two years, had earned a solid reputation in the professional community of family and marriage counseling. They operated out of a separate wing, built onto their church.
* * *
At that initial session’s end, Rev. El stood waiting at the door and hugged them both. Rev. Glass removed his ample frame from behind his desk and rushed to Rev. El’s side. He extended a firm handshake to Austin, then, reeled him in like a tiny fish, to force a brotherly hug. The Reverend spoke to Austin confidentially, “See ya next week, man. Hang in there, it’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll see.”
Austin stared at him with hesitant hope in his eyes. Until that moment, he hadn’t planned on returning. “Yeah, Rev,” Austin relented in a low voice.
Before the Bensons completely exited the threshold of the office, Rev. Glass and Rev. El grabbed their hands to pull them into an intimate circle. Everyone bowed heads for a closing prayer. Afterward, Austin clutched his wife’s trembling hand and pulled her close. He pleadingly whispered in her ear, “You need me.” She clung to him like Elmer’s glue on construction paper. A tear loosed itself onto his neck. With care, he led her outside and to the family car. As soon as their conjoined silhouettes were out of office-window view, a poisoned dart struck its mark. Rena jerked her body away from Austin and snatched her hand back. She got in the car and slammed the car door so hard the side-view mirror cracked.
Rev. Glass watched the Bensons until they were out of sight. He released a long sigh as he reentered the center space of their expansive mahogany-trimmed office. Rev. El was already busy tidying up and disinfecting. She held a small circular blue and gold trash can with one hand, and gathered up crumpled tissues and pieces of this-and-that with the other. She carefully returned an array of Bibles to their bookshelves. They had used them to billboard, in everyone’s mind, the biblical principles for marriage.
“The Bible is a book for lovers,” Rev. El assured the Bensons earlier in the session before all the boohooing started. “It also holds the rules of marriage. Follow it wholly and you’ll never go wrong.” All this was hard to believe, thought the Bensons. They just stared at her and absorbed the new information in silence. Rev. El smiled because she’d seen that blank look of disbelief before. “Just keep an open mind and hang in there with me,” she said to them in a warm sage-filled voice.
Rev. El adorned a well-fitted pastel blue pantsuit that complimented her coke-bottle figure. She wore it to welcome spring. At forty-six, she looked good. She was soft and firm where she was supposed to be soft and firm. She was strong and submissive in accordance to the rulebook—the Bible. And she wore her years of experience well. Rev. Glass, cresting fifty, stood tall, chiseled and thick like a pro-football player. He was the type of man who grew more handsomely distinguished with age. At the same time, his face adorned a boyish, innocent quality—wide eyes and long lashes that smiled whenever he did. The sparkle in his eyes instantly welcomed you into his world. Rev. Glass was alluring even when he wasn’t trying to be. The Glass’s made a striking and charismatic couple with a huge persona like their matching Cadillac Escalades that sat in their driveway. Everyone wanted a piece of them, and a generous chunk of their happiness.

The reverend stood there surveying his wife adoringly. Sunlight had filtered through the stain glass window. Its rays splintered and danced in Rev. El’s curly brown hair. To him, she looked like a sun-drenched angel. He supped on her glow and became full. When he harbored those thoughts, he was just plain Donny. His swell invoked a seductive swagger as he moved slowly toward his wife with intentions to press his warmth up against hers. But he was careful to be subtle about it, appreciative of what he had, and above all, romantic.
“Those young people have a long road ahead of them, huh, honey? But God is on their side.” He paused to let all his meaning transfer. “I believe they’ll get through it,” Donny said to his wife, seeking conversation, plus the promise of a little more. It seemed a lovely afternoon for a little more. Good counseling sessions and great sermons worked on him like that.
“Fuck you, Donny,” El snapped without looking up, “You fuckin’ men think you can shit all over women and just get away with it.”
The reverend’s eyes bugged. His bottom lip fainted and fell away from his top lip. Her attack washed him cold and limp. There was a growl in her tone that didn’t even sound human. She never slowed her housekeeping chores when she cursed him, and she managed to loose herself from his lustful grasp just by sensing his body heat. El pelted him with one or two more obscenities, then, slipped out the side entrance, slamming the door behind her. Donny ran to the door, opened it with the intent to give chase, but he only watched. El looked like a frightened light blue bunny rabbit scurrying for cover across a thick, plush green lawn. Defeated, he locked up the office and followed her to their house—that was adjacent to the church.


3

The reverends lived in a spacious split-level home with their three children; all were in school at the time. Donny stood bewildered in their marble foyer. It was lavished in colors of beige and gold. He projected his frustration into the empty space of their sunken living room.
“El, you’re not gonna act like this every time we have a session with these people are you?” he called out into the space.
She heard him, but she didn’t answer. A poisoned dart had hit her, too. He hurriedly traced her perfume to their master bedroom and caught the heavy bedroom door in motion—as she had intentionally waited for him just so she could slam it and lock it in his face.
“Ohhh …,” El retorted, pouncing on her side of their king-size bed like a prizefighter claiming her corner of the ring, “… oh now, you’re going to tell me how to act? You ho-bastard.” She was shouting.
“Jesus! El, how long are you gonna keep this up? Damn it, I told you that was some twelve years ago. I’m sorry. Lord knows I’m sorry. Why can’t you ...,” he paused to regroup because now he was shouting. He lowered his voice. “Those women didn’t mean anything to me. I told you I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to make it up to you ever since. Haven’t you felt that?” He pitifully reasoned, while picking the lock and entering the bedroom. He had gotten good at lock-picking.
El’s face contorted when the word “women” passed through Donny’s lips. She released a sound that was half-curse, half-shriek. She didn’t even hear the rest of what he said. Finally, she fought to compose herself. Sitting on the bed’s edge, feet firm on the floor, she placed her elbow on her lap and slid the back of her hand under her chin. She was the great thinker, now.
“Let… me…see,” she said, searing with sarcasm, “how long am I gonna feel sick to my stomach?” A pause took place before El rattled off what she had to say next. Using speedy inflections, she said, “Oh, I know. How many times did you crawl on your snake belly and lay up with some bitch?” She stared up at him, waiting for the answer that wasn’t forthcoming. While he stood there drawing a blank, she answered for him, “That’s how long I’m gonna act like this. You bastard.”
Sighing and gazing at the ceiling, Donny recapped the afternoon in his mind. Just what happened? He thought, when did everything go sour? This wasn’t the scenario he sought after. He was looking for a little afternoon delight, not another afternoon fight. And he didn’t mean to sound smug, he wanted to explain, when he impatiently suggested that she hurry up and get over it. “El, baby, I’m gettin’ tired of this shit.” That’s what came out his mouth.


4

Donny had strayed a long time ago during a rough patch in his, then, eight-year marriage. It was during a time when he and El tussled over everything: money, jobs, the kids, everything. They were like two angry roosters battling in a cockfight. Divorce loomed heavy. So, he thought, what the hell. Why not start single life, early.
Spring-cleaning, one afternoon, more than a decade after the fact, the truth unfolded, literally, out of old telephone and credit card bills. Questions arose that begged fateful answers. After a week of strange hesitation—remorseful confessions about a waitress, a flight attendant, a dental assistant, and a young woman who fled the church as quickly as she had joined, poured from his soul.
Over the years, many times from the pulpit, Rev. Glass preached on how lies and deceitful secrets eventually angled toward the light, and pierced themselves through it. “That was a good thing,” he preached with his right hand outstretched to the heavens, “because God wants us to learn how to be humble, live faith and repent. Not to do so is cheap grace.” And he truly believed that. He just hadn’t been tested yet.
Prior to the spring-cleaning interrogation, Rev. El erased from memory the depths of their rough years. She proclaimed their union, exceptional. “We’ve witnessed the worse,” she often preached from the pulpit or volunteered in a counseling session or during one of her many facilitated marriage workshops—just to be effective. “And we’ve weathered the storm,” she’d say. El was unaware that she had already fallen victim to adultery, the very thing she secretly swore would kill her.
Growing up, she watched the only other man she adored, her father, slip and slime into the arms of outside women. He often took her on his escapades, using her as a ruse to get out of the house. Innocently, she reported it all to her mother. Not until Rev. El was grown did she understand the decayed look on her mother’s face. Over the years, she’d seen that look plastered on the faces of countless women, she counseled. She wouldn’t be able to stand it, she knew, if someone inflicted such pain upon her soul. Therefore, in her marriage, only perfection sufficed.
Each year, Rev. El put her man a notch higher on her pedestal. As she grew stronger in her faith and understood her role as a submissive wife, she wanted nothing more than to please God by pleasing her husband. They’d married young, but the marriage had grown solid. Eventually, they each invited God into their hearts. A combined faith became the cornerstone of their foundation, and life was good.
Rev. Glass worked hard to fulfill his wife’s every need and desire. She barely had time to conjure up a wish before he began moving heaven and earth to make it come true. Later, their newfound counseling partnership in ministry blessed them spiritually and financially. Rev. El coached countless women on how to overcome the challenges of marriage. She boldly offered up her own marriage as her biblical sacrifice-model for success. She didn’t say it outright, but what she meant was, play your godly cards right and you can have all this perfection, too.
Driving on Figueroa Street, one evening, fresh from a Christian women’s conference, she felt like praying and thanking God. Rev. El was driving her baby blue convertible Porsche—a quick-get-around ride, a gift from her husband—south on the 110 Freeway. Her vanity plates bore the letters G.D.M.Y.O.T.H. It abbreviated God Is My Oath, the biblical translation for the name, Elizabeth. Rev. El was named after the mother of John the Baptist. Leaving the conference that was overrun with tears, heartache, and pleas for God’s help, she earnestly prayed, God, please help those hurting women back there. And bless all women like them. I pray for them, happiness. And I pray for them a man as perfect as the one You gave me. Her smile deliciously savored a sinful gloat of satisfaction. Breezing down the highway, the reverend couldn’t anticipate the brick wall in her path. Her crash of truth came without warning.
Donny’s confessions brought death to El’s spirit. Yet, total rigor mortise was impossible because she was still a parent, a preacher, and a counselor. So in public, she pushed her embalmed body about her daily chores—dusty, dazed and disintegrating.
The naked truth of betrayal was devastating enough, but the fatal blow came from being betrayed by someone she thought incapable of such a deed. That’s what pronounced her a dead-woman walking, a breathing corpse. This is how wives kill husbands and husbands kill wives, El surmised, one morning, using her newfound wisdom; and spying Donny’s jugular vein, catching up on a little sleep.
After her shock, hurt, anger and embarrassment settled in, El did a clean sweep of their home and destroyed every innocent reminder of that impious time. She cut up clothes and torched photos. She trashed gifts, mementos and even jewelry. She either quizzed him incessantly for details or didn’t speak to him for days. Sometimes he fought back, but that only kicked the feud to fire status. Most of the time, he tried to reason with her by using the biblical rules of marriage.
First Peter and Ephesians sounded good. The verses told El to submit to Donny, and trust him to love her as God loved the church. He read to her from 1Corinthians thirteen, too. “Love keeps a record of no wrongs,” he shouted one evening, while dodging his own heavy wingtip shoe.
Once, in response to his scripture reasoning, she spit in his face. Wiping leftover moisture from her mouth, she recited back, “Adultery is a sin against your own body, and that’s what’s gonna have your behind burnin’ in hell.” Actually, that wasn’t all true because he did get points for trying to repent. She knew it and that pissed her off more. El fantasized about having her own adulterous affair. But, then that could seal her fate and send her to hell. Damn it! she thought.
On most days, even when there were no outbursts, El quietly wished hell on her husband. But no matter what, she never let outsiders see her falter. In public, both Donny and El cleaned up extraordinarily well. The pastors projected the perfect, loving couple—pride and position demanded it. They played the role so well until Donny often mistook the act as a white flag. As soon as they exited stage left, however, his reality rang clear. Sometimes, it even slapped his face. Still, Donny dug his heels into their misfortune. He was hell-bent on seeing El through the residuals of his selfish act. Now that he knew just who he was in Christ, he vowed never to leave or jeopardize the happiness of his family again. Donny deeply loved El. He sought forgiveness from God and from her.
There were days when Rev. Glass’ sermons made Rev. El vomit. The nerve of him, she’d think, while springing from her pulpit seat, clapping, feigning support. There were also days when she felt strong enough to climb the rocky hill of forgiveness. She made honest attempts, but the darts kept setting her back.
Poisoned darts shot out of hapless flashbacks and song lyrics blaring from the car radio. Darts launched from television sitcoms and news reports that celebrated infidelity. A venom reload occurred whenever the counselor had to sift through another sad story. Setbacks were all, but guaranteed when Donny, or somebody else’s husband, assumed the posture of betrayal being simply something that boys do—no big deal. They also came when Donny made some unfunny joke about infidelity. Such instances instantly devalued her pain, which seemed forever sewn into the lining of her skin. That’s what happened the day the Benson’s walked through the door. Austin Benson reeked of that boys-will-be-boys attitude, El quickly surmised. El wanted to punch Austin, and Donny, square in the mouth.


5

Post the Benson’s session, back in the bedroom, El tried to regroup. Quietly, El said to Donny, “You’ll never understand the magnitude of this pain, will you?”
“I want to,” he answered softly, “I want to understand and make you not hurt anymore.” He slowly sat down on the bed next to her, testing the waters to see if the worse was over. She accepted his closeness. And he concluded a private sigh of relief.
El asked, “How many times did you do it, Donny?”
And so, he answered, “I don’t remember, El … you talkin’ fifteen years ago.” He strengthened his statute of limitations by adding a few years whenever he could.
“How many?” she asked.
“Five, maybe.” He answered.
“With anybody I knew?”
“No/Yes/Sometimes/Once,” he fumbled.
“Who?”
“You remember that woman who used to live up the street from where we lived when Noel was a baby?” He hesitantly, but sacrificially offered it up.
“That cow?” Tears started to fall. “How could you?”
“I told you, I don’t know. I was stupid and selfish, and stupid. And those women were stupid. I never respected them. And they were never you,” he cried out in frustration.
She rolled her eyes when he uttered the part about not respecting women. Then she clicked to the last thing he said. “Then why the hell did you feel the need to do it?” She asked.
“I said, I don’t know. I wanted to make myself feel like a man, I guess. I wanted to get back at you.”
“Get back at me! Why! What in the hell was I doing to you?”
“Nothing. Everything. You were busy being right about everything and always telling me about it.”
“WHAT?” El yelled out in an incredulous tone. What she heard sounded ridiculous.
Donny jumped quickly, “I said I didn’t know. I resented having to take care of a family. All my friends were free.”
“Those deadbeat pinheads!” El yelled. She lowered her voice and said, “I wish you understood the magnitude of the hurt you caused.”
“I understand now,” he snapped.
“No you don’t,” she lobbed back, shaking her head.
Stumped and confused, he changed gears. “Didn’t I always take care of you?” He said, “You never give me any credit for that.”
“Donny,” El said with slow intention, “I would have sat my ass … on my couch … after it had been set out on the street … on fire … rather than to have you disrespect and hurt me like that.”
“I know that, too,” Donny relented in a low shaky voice that cried uncle. He added,
“Stop cursing me for not knowing then what I know now. It doesn’t change anything. El, I can’t erase the past. Believe me, I would if I could.” They exchanged a glance that pondered the same question; will this pain ever leave?
“Shoot, Donny, I know that!” 
Softly, Donny answered, “I know better. I do better. Can a man get some credit for that?”
There was silence. He peeked over at her face and spied a half smile struggling to bloom. The smile, plus the decline of El’s cussing-fest signaled that the argument was, perhaps, nearing an end. He thanked God for the anticipated ceasefire. He attempted a bold step by inching his arms around her waist. When she allowed it, he tickled her a bit. Her laughter loosened warm teardrops on his knuckles. He kissed her salty cheeks.
“You know what’s wrong with you, girl?” Donny said venturing a smile of his own.
“What?”
“You had me up on some pedestal.”
“Oh Yeah?” she said, knowing he was right.
“Yeah,” Donny said, “I was just some stupid kid playing at being a man, and you had me up so high, I couldn’t make any mistakes—big or small.”
She pulled back just a little and said, “Oh now you’re saying what you did was my fault?”
“No, no, of course not,” Donny quickly responded, “I’m just saying that no human could live up to that. No one. But I’m sorry girl, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” El said, referring more to the current blowup than to her blunder of putting him on a pedestal. The cloud in their bedroom dissipated.
Playfully, Donny asked, “Am I still on the pedestal?”
Playfully, but truthfully El answered, “Heck no!”
“Thank God,” Donny said. They both laughed and fell back on the bed that still adorned a thick autumn-colored comforter. It was flushed with scattered leaves of yellow, burgundy, burnt orange and lima bean green. As the two became one, the rich colors blended with their skin tones. It was as if the hues had been poured into one bowl.


6

The Glass’s continued to counsel Austin and Rena. As expected, the couple crept along in their progress. The progress of El and Donny didn’t move much faster. The pastors remained better at doling out their weekly advice than taking it. They continued to exude nothing less than perfection in their public life. Poison darts ricocheted off the walls for months.
During one particularly arduous session, Rev. El caught herself leaning rather harshly on Austin. “You’re not sorry you did it are you? You’re just sorry you got caught,” Rev. El said through her clinched teeth. With Rev. Glass unable to stop her, she postured the accusation in several different ways. She pressed him to condemn himself for what he had done.
Austin grew uncomfortable and his mouth got desert dry, and he had to swirl his contaminated pink tongue around his lips a few times to moisten them. But, sadly, for the most part, the attack missed its intended mark. Each cross-examination of Austin passed through him and stabbed Rena’s already injured heart, and the bleeding flushed her face an apple-orchid red.
Finally, Rev. Glass could take no more. “Let’s take a break,” he declared, bolting to his feet. His gruff and heavy tone shocked Rev. El out of her hidden agenda. Ashamed, she fell silent for the remainder of the session.
“You guys are mourning the loss of what was—the marriage each of you thought you had—the way you thought it was supposed to be, but wasn’t,” Rev. Glass said, “as I’ve told you before, when communication stops; silence distorts the truth. Austin, you ran for cover in the wrong direction. Rena, you put your head in the sand.”
Austin, Rena and Rev. El listened intently. The reverend spoke as he pulled to his feet, again. Once standing, he paused to remove his gray suit jacket and arrange it neatly on the back of his chair. He wore a crisp white shirt, tailored to his thick cut physique. The edges of his collar were trimmed with a gray stripe that matched his suit. Rev. El enjoyed his look and movements. It calmed her down. The sight of shirt sleeves always signaled that the reverend was about to cut into the meat of the matter. With purpose, he walked around his desk to get closer to the Bensons.
He resumed his speech, “Mourn the death of your former marriage, which you’ve already done.” He said, “Now it’s time to move on to the newer, improved marriage. It will be a union filled with fresher, more knowledgeable ingredients; you—transparent! That’s why we’re here.” Rev. Glass said calmly, “We’re not going to forget about the past, lest we fall into the same pit. But no longer will we let it have rule over our lives. If you can’t do that…” He let the notion hover all around them. “…then you’ll be a victim forever. And pain will become your god.” The reverend spoke authoritatively—as if he knew. The next words he spoke came flavored with emotion, “But, we are going to forgive. God gives us opportunities to repent and to forgive. Everyone must learn to do both. Our Holy Father gives us the grace to begin again. When those opportunities end, life is over.” Rev. Glass delivered his next statement sternly, “You can be the walking-dead or you can be dead, lying in your casket. Your choice.” Propping his large body on the edge of his desk, Rev. Glass swiveled his torso around to retrieve his open Bible from his desk.
“Flip your Bibles to Matthew, chapter nine,” he instructed, to the immediate sound of fluttering pages. “Put your finger on verse fourteen, and we’ll travel down to verse seventeen.” He read it aloud. They listened. He repeated a part of the last verse. Using his preachy voice, the reverend said, “New wine must be put into new wineskins. Both the skins and the wine will be safe.” The session closed with prayer.


7

Spring and summer came and went. And autumn had ushered in. The Bensons started to accept the biblical rules of marriage and they even began to view them as tangible. They put in place all that Rev. Glass and Rev. El counseled and preached to them, and their marriage showed signs of renewal. El didn’t know whether to be proud of her accomplishments or disgusted because of her deception. Though her bad days were fewer in number, she still took hits from poisoned darts. And Donny was still sleeping in the guest bedroom for the most part.
One night after a counseling session, El went to bed wanting and praying for better. Lulling off into a weary sleep, she cried out sentiments that hadn’t come to her before. Gone were pleas of vengeance or validation for her pain—negative energy that boomeranged poison darts. An outpouring of something different came forth. “Dear Lord,” El whispered, “please forgive me for my deceit. Rescue me from my pain. Lord, where do you want me to go from here? What I mean is—in light of this, what will You have me do? I’m an open vessel. I surrender wholly to Your will.” She laid still and allowed her inner voice to feed her.
Forgiveness comes only in the exact measure you are willing to dole out forgiveness, something in her inner voice said. That wasn’t really new news to El. She knew The Lord’s Prayer.
El awoke that new morning, feeling desperate for change. Suddenly, it no longer mattered what Donny had done or was doing. And punishing him no longer felt like her life’s calling. It only mattered what she did from that day on—how she handled herself, how she decided to live. Pushing herself out of bed, she knocked a pamphlet off the nightstand. It was piled atop many and had fallen outstretched on the floor. When El stooped to pick it up, a statement written in bold beamed up at her. Those who receive wisdom, often receive pain to refine it. Embrace it. Learn to use it. To her memory, came parts of a Bible text out of Genesis: You tried to harm me, but God made it turn out for the best, so that He could save these people. Alone in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of her bed, embalming fluid leached from her veins. The power of life flowed back in. And that dull gnawing pain, the kind a person just learns to live with, began to fade. That morning, El thought, new wine, new wineskin.


8

Austin and Rena transitioned smoothly after nearly a year of counseling. Things had gotten a lot better. That next spring, new life flourished in Rena’s womb. Counseling continued, but reduced to bimonthly sessions.
“Two things you need to remember,” Rev. Glass said, during one of those sessions. He issued eye-to-eye contact to both Austin and Rena, while he spoke, “When you have problems with the marriage, those problems need to be resolved inside the marriage.”
“That’s a directive for the both of you.” Rev. El added, then stressed, “And this is really most important. If you two are to remain on the road to forgiveness and healing, you must train yourselves to hate the sin and not the sinner. Hiding hatred beneath a smile is like coating a clay pot with cheap glaze.” 
Rev. Glass’s eyebrows arched with surprise.
Rev. El quizzed them to make her point. “If you do something bad,” she asked, “do you hate yourself or do you hate what you’ve done?” Rena looked at Austin for silent confirmation then answered for them both because they were on one accord now.
“I’d hate the thing I did,” she said. Austin nodded his agreement.
Rev. El then asked, “And what would you do about it?”
Austin volunteered, “I’d resolve to fix it, if I could, and do better.” Everyone nodded an Amen.
Rev. El said, “And that’s what we all must learn to do as Christians.” She said to the both of them, “Please try to remember that it isn’t so much about what you did as it is about what you do now.” Her words painted success.
Rev. Glass’s heart overflowed with warm surges. He was inspired to weigh in with a point or two more, but he saw that his wife wasn’t yet finished. She was sitting in her leather navy blue wingback chair that swiveled, and he tracked her with a sliver of wonder as she veered it close to Rena’s La-Z-Boy.
Rev. El spoke to Rena gently, “I know what your pain is like …” She paused and pulled in a deep breath, then continued cautiously. “I know … not because of what I learned in textbooks or even gleaned from the hurting hearts of others. Rena,” Rev. El said, “I know because I’ve been there, too.”
Rev. Glass walked over to his wife and softly placed his hand on her shoulder.
That coming Sunday, the reverend recounted his testimony of lies, deceit, regret and the work of repentance. He preached on the perils of living in cheap grace. Rev. El, with tears streamed down her face, sprung from her pulpit seat, clapped and rendered sweet Amens in support of her husband—and in God’s steadfast promises. Her praise and thankfulness came from her heart—healed, happy and wholly transparent.
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