People use the word love to describe many things, but to see what love really, truly means, we have only to look to the Cross and who hung there. Love is sacrifice. Love is being willing to put others first. Love is putting wrongs behind us and turning to the future.
I am not so fond of that last sentence. Especially with my mandatory dinner with Preslee and my parents coming up.
One of my girls, Nichole, raises her hand. Nichole and I still try to meet weekly, though lately it’s been more like every other week. She moved here with her mom after her parents’ divorce.
“So, the whole putting things in the past …,” she says.
“Yes, Nichole?”
“What does that mean? I mean, my dad left us for his secretary. So should I just move on like he never did anything wrong?”
Twelve pairs of eyes stare at me.
I hate teaching the girls. They ask hard questions.
I rub my cheek and pray that God gives me both grace and wisdom. “No,” I say slowly. I squint at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what is in my head so I can put it into words.
“I think there is a difference between forgiveness and forgetting.” I pray my interpretation of the Bible is in fact biblical. “You can forgive someone without forgetting what he’s done.”
They all just look at me, and I see no connections happening.
“For example,” I continue. “Nichole, you’re right. Your dad sinned against you. And you should forgive him. You should give all the hurt and pain and anger to Jesus. But you will always remember what he did. It’s just choosing how you will react to him now.”
Every word I’m saying is turning into a pocketknife the second it leaves my lips, flipping around 180 degrees and slamming right into my chest.
Teaching is painful when you haven’t come to grips with the subject.
“What about the whole like, ‘forgive and forget’?” Tanya asks.
“God forgives and forgets. We forgive and move on. I’ll use another example. Let’s say you are in an abusive relationship with a boyfriend, so you break up with him. You can forgive him. You should forgive him. But I would never counsel you to forget what he did and start dating him again.” I rub my forehead, wincing. “Does that all make sense?”
Twelve heads start nodding like an audience of bobble-head dolls, and I start seeing some pistons firing in their eyes.
“Sooo …” Nichole says, drawing the word out, still some confusion in her expression. “I should forgive my dad, but I shouldn’t trust him again?”
I sigh. “Here’s what I’m saying. Remember that verse, ‘Shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves’?”
The bobble heads are back.
“I’m just saying be wise. You might someday be able to trust your dad again. Be gentle with him. Encourage him to turn back to the Lord. But be wise with yourself. Don’t put yourself in a situation where you could get hurt again too soon.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Okay. I think we’re done here.” I’m so physically battered and emotionally spent, I couldn’t keep teaching even if we weren’t done. I take prayer requests, writing them in my teaching binder so I can pray for the girls over the week, pray a blanket prayer for tonight since God knows all anyway, and dismiss them into the youth room for snacks.
I just sit there for a few minutes, thinking over what I said, thinking over what the lesson said, thinking over the list of wrongs longer than my leg done against me by two people in particular.
Tyler pokes his head in the half-open door. “You okay in here?”
“I need EMS.”
“Early Morning Syndrome? You don’t want it.”
“Emergency Medical Services.”
“That’s only in Canada. We refer to them as EMTs here. Welcome to Texas.” He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Tough group?”
“Tough lesson.”
“Better that than the other. My guys must have been drinking Red Bulls all day. I finally told them I was going to make them sing karaoke during snack time, singing only songs about love, or they were going to sit down, shut up, listen, and answer the questions.”
“You told them to shut up and answer questions? Aren’t those mutually exclusive?”
Tyler shakes his head. “You were that kid in school.”
He holds out a hand and helps me up off the floor. “I think I saw Allison’s mom handing her a grocery bag full of Nutter Butters to bring for a snack,” he says quietly as we walk out the door. “Make time, Paige.”
As a general rule, I prefer Oreos, but Nutter Butters are a very close second when it comes to junk food. Followed by Skittles.
We hurry into the youth room and snag a few cookies before the senior guys’ group gets out. They are notorious for walking in this room, breathing in, and leaving the place completely void of edibles. One time I followed them in and one guy had even tried to eat Natalie’s pumpkin-scented lotion on a graham cracker.
Boys are gross.
“So when is our next movie night, Paige?” one of the high school girls asks me, crunching a Nutter Butter.
“Yeah!” “Yeah!” “I was wondering that too!”
Suddenly I am surrounded. A few months ago, we started an informal movie night at my apartment every so often. The girls wanted it to be once a week.
I was envisioning more of a once-a-month thing, especially seeing as every time they come over, I have to spend the following Saturday morning cleaning.
“Not sure.” I try to be all nonchalant about it. I once asked if anyone else wanted to host it but was quickly assured that having the movie night in a cramped apartment was way more cool.
Ah, to be young and think crappy apartments are cool again.
“Well, we should do it soon. It’s been a long time” is met by a bunch more enthusiastic “yeahs.”
I finagle my way out of the mob and Rick walks past me, heading for the snack table. “You could be paid for that,” he singsongs as he walks.
“Paid for what?”
“And this,” he says, drawing the word out in a falsetto that makes the inside of my eardrums ache.
“Listening to you sing?”
“No. Movie nights. Nutter Butter consumption. Bible studies.” He crunches a cookie and grins at me. “The ever-changing and joyous company of Yours Truly. All a part of the job I am humbly offering to you.”
So not only would I be teaching Bible studies that stab me in the chest, I’d be accepting a paycheck for doing so.
I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse. At least I could afford EMS.
Or the EMTs. Whatever.
On Flashpoint they call them EMS. Any knowledge I have of emergency services is from movies and TV shows, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. I’ve never even sat in an emergency room waiting room before. Not for myself. Not for someone else.
I think that is considered a good thing, no matter what country you’re in.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, just to get him to change the subject.
“Yes! Thank You, Jesus, she’s thinking about it!” Rick yells, raising his hands in victory fists.
Rick’s outbursts are normal. No one even looks in our direction. They just keep talking and eating cookies, chatting with their friends.
“You are obnoxious.”
“All a part of my joyous company.”
“What’s she thinking about?” Tyler asks, coming over, holding a half-empty Nalgene water bottle. I always wished I was sporty enough not to look completely ridiculous holding one of those. Tyler looks good with it. I believe he can suddenly pack up everything he owns into a single backpack and start walking across the mountains, fleeing the Nazis or whatever while a bunch of nuns sing a song for him.
I would just look ridiculous, like when I caught the end of the unfortunate stirrup pant craze in late elementary school.
I have told my mother to burn those pictures.
“She might come work for me, buddy.” Rick whacks Ty
ler with a friendly but painful-looking thump to the shoulder.
Boys are weird. If I greeted a girl like that, I’d get sued. Or written in some awful slam book.
These days, I’m not sure what’s worse.
“Are you really?” Tyler asks me.
“Now, now. What’s that tone?” Rick says.
“No tone. I’m just surprised. I thought you were hoping to get promoted to counselor someday,” Tyler says to me.
“That day is looking bleaker,” I say.
“Did they hire someone else?”
“No, but they offered me a raise.” I sigh. I still haven’t taken it. I just try to avoid the subject when I am talking with Mark.
Part of me thinks that taking the raise is the smart thing to do. I could start building up my savings again. I’d have more spending money, which means I could finally start looking at some of the cute summer clothes in all the stores, and I could stop eating cheese sticks for dinner.
The other part of me is just depressed to think of spending my life answering the phone.
No one prepares you for this stage in life. Someday, very far in the future, I’d ideally like to get married and hopefully have kids. Then I’d fit back into our church. There’s youth group. There’s college group. There’s young marrieds and then the family circles.
Nothing for the out-of-college working single who doesn’t quite know what she wants out of life yet. SINGLE AND CONFUSED CLASS. I haven’t seen that sign on any of the classroom doors yet.
Which is why I am here. Back in high school.
I look around and grab another Nutter Butter. Might as well enjoy being here.
Chapter
8
Layla calls me at nine o’clock on Saturday morning.
“French Cottage or Sparrow Eggshell?” she asks, not bothering with a hello.
I rub my eyes, having trouble focusing on the coffeemaker in front of me while I’m spooning the dark grounds in, much less what Layla has just asked.
“What?”
“Paint, Paige. Which one?”
“What are you painting?” Layla lives in an apartment. As far as I know, her management would not look kindly on Layla repainting the walls.
“Wake up, Paige! Remember that armoire I found on the side of the road?”
I do not remember Layla ever saying the word armoire to me, much less picking one up on the side of the road. I don’t have any trouble believing her, though. Ever since she started reading some trash-to-treasure blog a few weeks back, she’s been waking up early, going to garage sales, and picking up the weirdest things.
Two weeks ago, she brought home an entire box filled with old, empty Chef Boyardee cans.
“So you are painting the armoire,” I say slowly back to her.
She sighs. “Yes, Paige.”
“With paint.”
“You just got up, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Making coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It’s a beautiful morning and you are missing it.”
Says the woman who used to sleep until eleven and tell me that a.m. stood for “absolute morons,” as in only absolute morons got up when the clock still said a.m.
“What is the color difference? I don’t memorize paint samples, you know,” I tell her, turning on the coffeemaker.
“So the French Cottage is more of a rustic, creamy color like what that brown sweater I have looks like on the outside edge of that bleach spot I accidentally got on it. And the Sparrow Eggshell is almost the same color but maybe with a slight bluish tinge to it.”
“Sorry about that sweater,” I say.
“Yeah. I really wish that blog had mentioned not to wear dark clothing when using bleach. Oh well. I’m repurposing the sweater.”
“Repurposing” is going to become my least-favorite word that Layla says. I just know it.
“Um. What are you doing to the sweater?” I ask, a little scared to hear the answer.
“I’m cutting it. Making mittens. Don’t worry, I saw a whole thing on how to do it step by step. I’ve just got to find a sewing machine.” She says the last sentence suggestively, and I know what she is hoping I’ll offer.
Just solely my opinion, but I don’t think Layla should be around anything that involves a fast-moving needle. However, I keep my lips shut and don’t mention that she could use mine.
I will not partake in the bloodshed of my best friend.
“I’m going with the French Cottage,” she says.
“Okay.”
“Thanks for your help, Paige!”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s true. Well, since you haven’t helped so far, want to come help me paint it today?”
“Not really,” I answer truthfully. Layla is anything but crafty. She tries hard, but she just doesn’t have the touch, sort of like me with gardening.
I feel like watching her try to paint this dresser would be like watching a train hurtling right toward a cute little bunny and not having any way to warn the rabbit of approaching danger.
“Oh come on, Paige. It will be fun! And we haven’t hung out in ages and I miss you and I’ll buy Panda Express for lunch.”
Orange chicken suddenly makes the bunny look more like a cockroach and I sigh, pouring myself a cup of coffee and accepting defeat. “Okay.”
“Okay! I will see you, Paige Alder, in twenty minutes! Bring paint clothes!”
“I’ll just wear your brown sweater.”
“I don’t want to get paint spatters on my new mittens.”
I just laugh.
I drink my coffee and decide that a shower is pointless if I’m going to go watch Layla paint, because watching Layla paint is equal to me painting the dresser while Layla directs.
I really like orange chicken.
I find a pair of old, paint- and Super Glue–flecked shorts in my closet and pull them on. My craft shorts. I dig through to the back of the closet and come out with an old T-shirt from high school and grab my oldest pair of sneakers and a rubber band for my hair.
I dab some mascara on and walk out the door. Painting or not, I always wear mascara.
I find Layla in her assigned parking space of her apartment complex, car moved, staring at a beat-up, oak-colored armoire that looks exactly like one my grandparents had in the sixties.
“Wow,” I say, climbing out of my car and walking over.
“I know. Isn’t it great? I just can’t believe someone left this on the side of the road!”
Right then the right bottom drawer front falls off and clatters with an empty whomp that basically shouts, “I am made out of particle board and Super Glue!”
“That keeps happening but I figure we can definitely fix that,” Layla says. “They just don’t make quality furniture like this nowadays.”
“Mm-hmm.” It’s the safest thing I can think of to say.
“Well!” She looks at me with an excited smile and hands on her hips. She’s got her shoulder-length brown curly hair up in a curly mess of a ponytail on the top of her head, faded sweatpants, a white tank top, and gardening gloves.
I love Layla.
“Let’s begin!” She grabs the paint can and shakes it.
It would be easier for her to just pop the top open and stir it, and it probably is fairly well mixed already, seeing as how she just came from the paint store, but I don’t say anything. This is Layla’s project. I will let her craft.
She finally sets the can down and pulls a paint can opener from her pocket, cranking open the lid. The color inside is pretty, but looking at the armoire, I’m going to guess we’ll need at least two coats.
Maybe three. That oak is looking awfully thirsty. I would imagine forty-plus years and getting kicked to the side of the road would do that to you, though.
Layla hands me a brand-new brush, grabs another one for herself, and starts swiping the paint on, leaving the drawers and everything still in the dresser. And I highly doubt that she sa
nded it or prepped it or even cleaned it, but somehow that doesn’t seem like the biggest issue at the moment.
“Um … Layla?”
“Gosh, this is so fun!”
“You might want to take the drawers out.”
“Why?” She swashes a thick and bubble-crested glob of paint along the top of the dresser. “They’ll be easier to paint right there.” She points with the paint-dripping brush.
I almost hold my tongue. But I decide this is a matter I need to speak up on. “Yeah, but then you’ll never be able to open them.”
“How come?”
“The paint will dry.”
“That’s what I want it to do.”
Maybe with Layla it’s better to let her live and learn. Except I know that I will be the one prying open the paint-sealed drawers with a utility knife, so I take a deep breath and explain it again. “The paint will settle in the cracks, Layla. So you won’t be able to open the drawers when it dries.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” She plunges the paintbrush up to the handle into the paint, steps back, yanks all six drawers out, and sets them beside the dresser. “I may not use the drawers, but I guess it’s better to have them working.”
“Probably.”
Then she resumes swishing the paint around.
Paint flecks are all over the asphalt at this point. Management may not look kindly on this crafty adventure.
But I keep my mouth shut. And I start on the back of the dresser.
“Use more paint, Paige. I only want to have to go over it once.”
“I just don’t want it to drip.”
“It’s supposed to look like that.”
I backhand my hair off my forehead and look around the dresser at her. “Drippy?”
“I’m going for a specific look here, Paige.”
“Drippy.”
“Raw,” she says, overannunciating the word. “I’m looking for raw.”
“Who are you, the next design star?”
She shrugs, totally serious. “I could get into this.”
I hide my smirk behind the dresser. This is classic Layla. She’s forever going through crushes. A few weeks ago, she was trying to take up cooking.
A pan of gelatinous scalloped potatoes fixed that one.