Jesus, Divorce, and the Magic of the Moon

a faith story

I climbed over the middle of Mama’s station wagon, to the bench which faced the back window. The air conditioner never reached the “back-back” but at five years old, I didn’t mind. I opened my lunch box and pulled out some raisins and an Ecto Cooler Hi-C., then I stripped the straw with my teeth and stabbed it through the aluminum. 

Mmmmm, that sugary goodness.

Technically, it was against the rules to drink juice in the car, but Mama didn’t seem to care much lately. And besides, I was the family outlaw, always getting in trouble. My grandmother said that needed I more spankings, but she was wrong: I didn’t mind paying for my crimes. 

Especially when the crime looked like an ice-cold box of Ecto Cooler Hi C.

The driver door slammed and Mama sat down, pausing behind the wheel. Then she took a deep breath and adjusted the rearview to get a glimpse of her babies: my toddler brother, secure in his carseat, playing with matchbox cars. My 9-year-old sister, sniffling loudly and reading the Bernstein Bears. And me, in the back-back with my Teddy Ruxpin, slurping a contraband punch.

Mama sighed, but as a predicted, she didn’t bother fussing. She just buckled her seatbelt and started the car.

“Well, kids…who’s excited?” she asked, forcing a smile. 

None of us were excited, and none of us answered, so she pressed the FM radio button, and ‘Love Shack’ came blasting through the speakers.  As Mama pulled out of the driveway, I pressed my fingers against the glass. I watched as a little brick rancher slowly faded into the distance. In it: my father, my childhood, and everything that was once familiar.

One of the greatest joys of being a mother is sharing words with my children. It’s incredible to watch them discover this world, while at the same time, learning to describe it. Everything is magical and waiting to be named.

Like, HOLY CRAP, there is a stick with wings and it’s fluttering around my head! 

“Mommy--what’s dat?”

“That’s butterfly. Butt-er-fly.”

And, OMG, those shiny circles of air always disappear when I catch them!

“Mommy---what’s dat?”

“Those are bubbles, baby. Buhhhh-bles.”

There are days I feel like Darwin exploring a new land, with two tiny understudies under my feet.  

My kids ask “what’s dat”, and I give it a name. 

It’s a dog! It’s a pony! It’s a lollipop!

I am all knowing. I am all powerful. I have all the answers.

***

The moon was rising along Highway 65, as we traveled toward our new home. My sister and brother were already asleep, and I wasn’t too far behind. With my head leaned against the window, I lazily traced the outline of the moon with my little finger. I yawned.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Is the moon following us to Dothan?”

“The moon is always up there, baby. It stays put, wherever you go. You’ll see it at our new house, like you saw at our old house.”

I was pretty sure the moon was following me in particular, and Mom was missing the point. 

“Okay, so when we get to our new house, the moon is going to be there?”

“Yes.”

“And the sun?”

“Yes.”

“And my toys?”

“Yes.”

“And Baby Brother and Karen Leigh, too?”

“Yes.”

I sat quietly for a few more miles, staring out the window. The moon was definitely following us to our new house, so that was a good thing. It couldn’t be all that bad if the moon was making the trip.

“Mama?” I asked, dozing off, but still bursting at the seams. “What about Daddy? Will he be at the new house, too?”

****

One of the hardest things a mother must do is teach the language of pain. To give her child a word for divorce, or cancer, or death. A word that doesn’t give life to something beautiful, but rather, sucks life out of something beautiful. We must give them language for the good and the bad, even when it is hard. Perhaps, especially then. 

I remember learning one such word that forever altered my universe. Big fat tears streamed down my cheeks, as Mama explained divorce. It was a word that told me love was impermanent, and grief could be felt for the living. I was five years old when Mama explained what it meant for a family to break. And all of the sudden, I understood that the moon didn’t really chase cars. It was just an unmagical lump, stuck up in in the sky, that I could see wherever I was going.

Nothing could set the cheerleaders abuzz quite like an out-of-town football game. Our bus was all pom-poms and gossip as we bounced our way to another town for what would be yet another heartbreaker. But we had hope and spirit to spare—and the fumes from cans of glitter spray probably contributed to the happy atmosphere.

Conversation circled around boys, and before long, an unfortunate game of Truth or Dare fired up. I had been around those girls long enough to know that “dare” was a fool’s choice, so I opted for truth. Besides, chances were slim that my life would yield anything juicy.

“Alright, MK,” one of the girls asked, “How far have you been with a guy?”

The girls leaned in for my answer, curious what their youth-groupy captain would confess. My response was a disappointment, met with boos and a few tossed pom-poms.

“Sorry, girls,” I giggled and shrugged. “You said you wanted the truth!”

But the truth was, I hadn’t told the whole truth. I hadn’t told anyone at all. 

I was in second grade, still sleeping with stuffed animals, when the sexual abuse began.  His shadowy form haunted me still, looming in my bedroom door. I would close my eyes and hope to disappear. My purple dinosaur never left my side.

On the way home from the game that night, I stared out the window and cried. The girls chalked it up to my devastated school spirit, but I couldn’t have cared any less. I was contemplating the actual truth, and what would happen if I shared it. Who would believe me, who it would hurt, and how it would upend everything.

***

My senior year, every Wednesday was Current Affairs Day in History class. A newspaper was thrown in the middle of a laminate table with some plastic scissors. Our task was to choose an article, summarize it, and report it to the class.

I remember racing to the table that Wednesday, flipping to the middle section, and hoping it wasn’t too late. A rectangular-shaped cutout confirmed my worst nightmare.

Thirty minutes later, a clueless young lady was sharing her summary with the class. A well-known local had been arrested for sexually abusing a minor. Details were vague, but the abuse had gone on for years. My classmate said that in most of these cases, the victim’s a family member.

She added, “And how gross is that?”

The trial hit the docket right before graduation. It was both terrible and perfect timing. Terrible because, once again, my darkest secrets were all over the news. Perfect because it would be over before high school ended. In one day, a plea bargain was reached: Guilty in exchange for no prison time. And just like that, my trauma was over.

Except that, really, it wasn’t. I went to college with wounds I didn’t know existed. I made horrible choices in an effort to medicate those wounds. I sought comfort and distraction in dark places. I failed classes and compromised friendships. There was no excuse, but there was a reason: I was broken, and broken things don’t behave as they should.

When I first met Brian, he was sitting on the porch of the Pi Kappa Phi house. I knew he wasn’t a fraternity guy, cause he stood out like a sore thumb. For one thing, he was very sober, and for another, he wasn’t hitting on girls. He just lounged in a chair, bright eyed and friendly, making small talk with anyone who would listen. 

“Who is that guy?” I asked a friend who had talked with him over an hour. 

“Oh,” she said. “You mean Brian? He’s president of some Christian group. But he’s not weird or anything. He’s cool.” 

It was obvious Brian was a pocket full of sunshine, but his presence at the party unnerved me. Maybe it was his beard, or how folks surrounded him, or his kind and gentle demeanor. Brian reminded me of Jesus. And while I came to that party looking for something, I was pretty sure that wasn’t it.

The following Friday, I was back for another party at the Pi Kapp House. I stumbled up the front porch steps, primed to make bad decisions. And lo, there was Frat House Jesus.

“Mary Katherine?” he said, with a friendly voice. “Hey! I’m Brian Fulton!”

I couldn’t just ignore the man, when he was practically Fred Rogers. And surprisingly, I didn’t want to. His kindness had a gravitational pull. I told my friend I’d catch up with her in a bit and walked across the porch.

“Hey Brian,” I said, taking a seat. “Glad to finally meet you.”

A few hours later, I realized I had never gone inside for the party. Instead, I stayed on the porch all night, with Brian and others who had joined. We talked about high school football games, and the best food to order at Al’s. We exchanged some roommate horror stories; I laughed more than I had in months. Around midnight, some girls walked out of the house, hanging on one another’s shoulders. They were all more than a little bit drunk, including the one holding keys.

“Well, it’s been fun,” Brian said, hopping out of his seat. “Y’all come by the BCM some time. I literally live upstairs.”

He jogged down the sidewalk, caught up with the girls, and asked if he could please drive them home.

“But how will you get back?” the driver asked, handing over her keys.

“Oh, I love walking,” Brian replied. “And really, it’s not that far.”

*** 

A few weeks later, my boyfriend dumped me, and moved on with a gorgeous blonde. I responded in the classiest way possible: by cutting my bangs and drinking cheap vodka. I then showed up at the fraternity house, a hot and sloppy disaster.

I’ll show him what he’s missing. 

This probably doesn’t have to be said, but I didn’t accomplish that goal. Instead, I embarrassed myself so badly, my sorority put me on probation. I was no longer allowed at any Greek functions. They were worried I’d make them look bad.

It was Thursday night, and I was alone on the couch, curled up in the fetal position. I had come to college for a fresh new start, outrunning the pain of my childhood. But in one short semester, I proved to myself what I’d suspected was true all along: I was an unfixable disaster-human. An embarrassing, unlovable mess. 

My phone vibrated with an incoming text, and I peeled myself off of the couch. 

“Hey MK! It’s Brian. The BCM has worship at 7. I’d love for you to come.”

It was literally the last thing I wanted to do, and I had plenty of reasons to decline. First, it was already 6:45, and my face was swollen from tears. Second, there was thunder rolling in the distance; a storm would pass through soon. But the thoughts in my head were getting dark, and I didn’t want to be alone. So I washed my face, threw on a sweatshirt, and fired off a response. Then I tucked my phone in the pocket of my jeans and headed to the BCM. 

Brian was in the lobby when I arrived. He gave me a friendly hug.

“I’m so glad you could make it!” he said. “Let me introduce you to some folks.”

By the time I took my seat for worship, I’d met at half the BCM. Brian took his place at the front of the room and opened the night with prayer. 

I had never heard anyone pray like that. The way he talked to God was so familiar, like he was on the phone with a friend. He spoke so casually, with so much confidence, like He knew the Lord was listening. Brian thanked God for being a loving Dad, and in my mind, I wondered what that even looked like. What was clear to me is that God Brian loved, clearly loved him back. 

As I Brian offered up his prayer, his face full of joy, a strange feeling crept in my heart. I couldn’t discern what it was: A tug? A nudge? A whisper? 

Brian opened the floor for prayers, and suddenly my palms were sweaty. I wanted to talk to this “Father” of his, but I was scared to do it out loud. Which was weird, considering I was raised in church. I’d been praying for most of my life. But the God I knew was always mad or disappointed. I prayed when I needed to say sorry. This was something different. Something I wanted to try.

“Um…Dear God?” I mumbled a bit with my words, but the room was respectfully quiet. “Hey, it’s me…MK. I mean, obviously you know that. You are God. 

My face felt hot and my heart was racing. I was embarrassing myself, I was sure, but I knew I needed to finish. Whatever was happening inside of my heart, would probably not follow me home.  

“It’s been a pretty bad year, God. And feeling…I feel so sad.” 

My voice cracked when I said “sad”, and I knew my levies were failing. 

“I’m so sad, and I’ve been trying to feel better. But everything I do makes it worse. I feel stuck and angry and hurt. And I am tired, God. Please help me. 

Amen.”

The rest of the room said “amen” and someone patted my back. When I looked up, Brian was gone and a band had taken the stage. The guitarist had just opened a song, when a loud clap of thunder shook the room. Every light in the building went out and rain started beating the roof.

“Don’t worry, everyone,” said a familiar voice, with a hint of laughter in his words. “It’s only darkness, God isn’t gone. Your eyes will adjust soon enough.”

The guitarist unplugged his instrument and sat down at the foot of the stage. He started picked up intro where he left off, and soon the whole room joined in.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me

I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see

The song seemed to fill the room, our words floated up to the ceiling. Was God in here? Was He listening? I wanted to talk to God. Not the God that frowned whenever I cussed, but the God who filled faces with joy.

The rain came down even harder.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved. 

How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed. 

My eyes did adjust, and I searched the room, desperate to locate Brian. I realized he’d invited me here for a reason. That he knew something I hadn’t known. He knew I was lost, floating around, like a balloon whose string was cut.

I was tired of drifting. I wanted that precious grace. I wanted to be “found”, but I needed someone to walk me through it. And I knew Brian would understand. When the storm passed, the lights came on, and he closed the students in prayer. 

“Hey, Brian,” I said. “I have a few questions. Do you mind going for a walk?”

It turned out, Brian had told the truth. He really did love walking. We walked to my dorm, but that didn’t’ take long, so we circled half of the campus. I still had questions, and he still had energy, so we walked a little bit more.

I told him about this this hole in my heart, that I never felt I could fill. How childhood had left me a broken person, and college was making it worse.

“Where was God in all of this mess?” I asked. “He just leaves us here to suffer?”

“He never leaves you, Mary Katherine,” Brian said. “He’s with you wherever you go.”

He explained that pain entered the world when we broke our covenant with God. That by choosing sin, we were separated from the One who loved us most.

“A God-shaped hole is the kind of injury nothing on Earth can fill.  It’s why we feel so hollow and sad, when chasing these worldly things. But God doesn’t relish our suffering. That’s why He gave us Christ. To reconcile us back to Him, so we can feel whole again.  The world is still a broken place, and suffering won’t disappear. But God never leaves you, Mary Katherine. He’s with you wherever you go.”

This all sounded wild and strange, but I knew in my heart it was true. There was a presence I’d felt in the depths of my soul, otherworldly and familiar. I had more information than I could possibly process, and a million more question to ask. But I was tired, and my mind was spinning, and I didn’t know what else to say. Thankfully, Brian was the type of person who was comfortable walking in silence.

When I got to my dorm, I sat on the couch, where earlier I felt the world crumble.  I was still a little sad, because sad things had still happened. But something was changing my spirit. It was something that rushed into broken places and filled me heart with hope. It was the voice of a Father, promising a child that he’d never leave her side.

Before I fell asleep that night, I opened my bedroom curtains. Hanging high above the campus: a shining, silver moon. 

For a while, I stared at my old friend, and felt a childlike wonder. 

God never leaves you, Mary Katherine. He’s with you wherever you go.

This is an excerpt from my national best seller, Holy Hot Mess. It releases in paperback next week—don’t miss it! ORDER HERE