Chapter One

Dear Clint, I bumped into your news story about your recent trouble. I want you to know I am praying for you in this time.

When I was twenty-seven and early in my ministry, my life was a trainwreck. I remember feeling like I was living in Good Friday. And then it was the silent Saturday of grief for a long, long time. Eventually, I began to get glimpses of Easter—not at once, not like one glorious dawning—but bit by bit. A peek here and there, until I realized Jesus was walking with me all along.

These days made me a better pastor and a better person, and I now cherish my life and my faith in a way I don’t take for granted.

So, I am praying for you through the Good Friday. Praying for you through the silent Saturday. Praying you awake into the dawn of new life. However healing needs to take shape in you. And may you know the presence of the Living Christ every step of the way.

God’s peace, which surpasses human understanding be yours.

—Michelle

Sam, Saturday, September 30, 2017

Sleepy Eye, Minnesota

He said 6:00, so for two hours I battled every X-chromosome in my body screaming, “Are you on your way home?” “How close are you?” “Why are you so late?” Nagging wife melded with mom brain. “Maybe he made new friends. … Oh, that would be awesome.”

Okay, if he isn’t home by the time I get the girls to bed, I’ll call. The Little Mouse ate up his red, ripe strawberry a mite faster. The slow, sweet bedtime song galloped at a “William Tell Overture” pace. Rushed kisses camouflaged as “silly.” Good nights and air hugs. A closed door. A sigh of relief.

I stumbled into my bedroom and dialed my husband’s number. No answer. I tried again. No answer. I checked the ringer volume on my phone, so I would hear when he called.

I pressed my thumb to the green circle on the screen. Again. No answer.

I made sure my phone wasn’t set to Do Not Disturb. 10:00 p.m. came and went. No answer. Dread crept in. I checked for missed calls on the phone glued to my palm.

Brushed my teeth. Took my contacts out. No answer. Went to the bathroom. Changed into pajamas. Still no answer. Zombies attacked the main characters on the TV screen, but I barely noticed. My husband had thirty-eight missed calls from me. I hit send again. Just for the heck of it. Thirty-nine. Forty.

At 11:11, I wished not to kill him when I spoke to him again. At 11:30 I pretended the forty-one different emotions churning in my stomach wouldn’t keep me awake. At 1:30 a.m. Sunday morning, the sound of my ring pierced the darkness.

“Clint?”

“Mrs. Evans?” A man’s voice, but not my husband’s.

“This is.”

“This is a sergeant from the New Ulm police department. There’s been an accident. Your husband’s alive, but he’s been taken to the hospital.”

My heart screeched to a halt. Please tell me I’m wrong.

“Was it alcohol?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t say for certain. But he’s all right.”

Anger sideswiped fear. I rolled my eyes. “Not when I’m done with him.”

“Excuse me?”

My eyes widened, realizing what I’d said and to whom. “Never mind.” The inappropriate, poorly-timed joke wouldn’t be my last.

“Mrs. Evans, your husband will be arrested upon discharge from the hospital. “He …” I heard “fled from officers,” “side swiped a car,” “hit a utility box…” but the sergeant continued.. So, yes, alcohol, then. Pain stabbed my heart. No, no, please, no. I can’t live through another Chicago—and we have so much more to lose now. “Oh, my God. Please.”

The call ended. It must have, because I wrote this seven years later and we’re not still on the phone, but I have zero recollection of a “goodbye.”

I stared at my closed bedroom door, where just beyond, girls five, four, and two years old dreamed in blissful innocence.

Church tomorrow. Today. I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Really. On a Saturday night?” I calculated how much time I’d need to get the girls ready. I hoped I’d fall asleep more easily, knowing where Clint was. Every time I nearly fell asleep, my brain blasted me with another implication of loss as a result of the accident.

I woke up to the alarm at 7:30 a.m. I catapulted out of bed, rehearsing the words I’d share with the congregation. At 7:45, while I rinsed conditioner from my hair, the phone rang.  I dried my hand on a towel in route to the phone.  “Sergeant Reid?”

“Mrs. Evans?” A female voice.

“This is.”

“Hi. I’m a nurse calling from the hospital. The doctor found something on the CT scan. You need to come in right away.”

Conditioner coated my hair. Water puddled at my feet. Six hours prior, Sergeant Reid’s call thrust me into survival mode. Already running on adrenaline, already navigating damage control, already in shock, my brain did not have enough storage space to compute her words. Three children suddenly felt like extraneous puzzle pieces.. Therefore, try not to judge my next words.

“The soonest I can get there is 11:30.”

Silence stretched on the other end. “Mrs. Evans, we can’t talk to him without you here.”

That didn’t feel true. What do you do with single people? Wait for their spouse? But, okay.

“You need to get here as soon as possible,” she repeated. “Don’t bring your kids.”

The hospital was fifteen minutes away. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

I hung up. Rinsed the conditioner. Phoned Janet from the leadership team. “Clint was in an accident last night. I was going to make an announcement this morning, but they found something in the CT scan. Can you let Faith United Methodist know, please? … Thanks.”

Without hesitation, I scrolled to Erin’s number.

Years prior, Erin battled a heroin addiction and broke free, by the grace of God. People who’ve been in it don’t pass judgment. And don’t need explanations.

“Clint was in an accident last night. I think alcohol was involved.”

“Bring the kids over.”

 My girls might have been barefoot when I left them with Erin, for all I remember.

Chapter Two

Dear Clint, Sam and family,

I thank you for your faithfulness to the Lord, and in your service of the Lord, both as prophet and priest—from the people to the Lord and the Lord to the people. I pray blessings from God over you as a covering, and under you to support you. Roger always said, “to understand someone, stand under them, supporting them. We love you and pray for you many times during the day, every day.

—Helen Melquist, a pastor’s widow

Clint, Sunday, October 1, 2017

New Ulm, Minnesota

I opened my eyes. White walls, beeping machines. A long window formed the wall between my room and the hallway. Nurses with clipboards flitted to and from computers and phones at the station just beyond the window. A dark, blank spot where memories of the last twelve hours should have been. I noted my wife’s set jaw and sparking eyes when she rounded the glass and stepped into my room. The last time we found ourselves in this scenario, ten years prior, she told me it would be our last time.

“Whatever you decide about our marriage, I won’t fight you,” I blurted.

She grunted a non-committal answer and stormed over to the seat farthest away from me— a plastic commode against the window. With all the crap I’d put her through, the metaphor fit. Her head sunk into her hands and she stared at the floor.

Minutes of silence passed. The absence of words clued me in to the depths of her fury.

“What happened last night?” I asked.

Pure wrath stared back at me. “You were too drunk to give them my phone number.”

She catapulted from the commode and stormed into the hallway.

Reassurance vanished with her. Thick cobwebs replaced concrete thoughts. Sunday morning, I realized. Oh, no. Missing church on Sunday from time to time isn’t a huge deal unless, like me, you’re the pastor paid to preach the sermon.

Shame flooded through me.

My wife strode in with the  doctor, who  scanned a laptop on a rolling cart against the wall with his security badge. While Sam reseated herself on the commode, the doctor clicked through apps until my files appeared on his screen. “Well, your liver is four times larger than it should be and your Blood-Alcohol Content was .25. But Mr. and Mrs. Evans this, here, is what worries me.” He brought up an image of my lungs. “You have a lesion here. We’ll need to biopsy right away.”

“Cancer?”  My heart plummeted the way it did on the Giant Drop ride at Six Flags. My voice cracked like a throwback to seventh grade. 

“I can’t say for certain.”

My wife and I stared at one another. A thousand moments flashed before my eyes. The day we met at a Christian music festival. Throwdown arguments about my addiction. The births of our three daughters. Years of church ministry together. I know I screwed up, but God, I’m not ready to say goodbye.  “I have cancer. I’m going to die.”

She pinched her lips together. “It’s not cancer until it’s cancer.” 

The doctor left and a policeman appeared in the hallway on the opposite side of the window. The fluorescent lights from the hallway glinted off the metal cuffs secured to his thick, black duty belt. My wife, nonplussed by his appearance, hopped to her feet and dashed out as if the room were sinking.

A female nurse entered with a pair of canary yellow socks. On the bottom, white, rubber dots surrounded a giant, white, smiley face. Great.

When I reached for the socks, pain lit up my body like an internal explosion. I gritted my teeth and leaned back into the pillow.

“I can help you, Mr. Evans,” the nurse said.

Waves of humiliation relentlessly crashed into my chest. A thirty-six-year-old man shouldn’t need help to pull socks on. Over the nurse’s shoulder, my wife and the officer spoke in hushed tones. My life was happening to me, about me, but I was only a bystander.

“I can get the second sock, if you want to get his things,” my wife told the nurse. She stalled at the sight of the bruises on my legs and shimmied my second foot into the left sock without looking at my face. “You’re being arrested. I told the officer you’ll go willingly and he doesn’t need his cuffs.”

The officer didn’t say a word. We followed him past hospital rooms. One patient in a bed, with hair matted to her face, watched us walk by. Nothing moved but her eyes.

At the elevator, Sam said, “So, what happens next?”

The officer scanned the hospital floor. “Let’s wait.”

He didn’t speak again until we stopped in a café located at the side entrance of the hospital. The lights were off and chairs rested atop the tables. Closed.

Because it’s Sunday morning. My stomach rolled. I couldn’t tell which thought made me more nauseous, my congregations speculating about their absent pastor, or the cancer diagnosis. I wanted to lie down and never stand again.

The officer studied our surroundings. Satisfied, he offered a straightforward explanation of the next steps and invited us to ask questions.

Sam’s words came then. All of them. She asked questions and repeated the same questions different ways.

My ears buzzed, my head thrummed. God, Clint, you’re so worthless. Why couldn’t you have died last night and put everyone out of their misery?

Most people go their whole lives without having Miranda Rights read to them. This was my third time? Fourth? The sky spewed piercing October rain atop my bald head. I didn’t feel the cold. I didn’t remember leaving the café. The officer opened the back door of his SUV. I angled my feet and crammed them into the miniscule space in front of me. The seat reminded me of a cheap waiting room chair.

Sam’s eyes scrunched, confused. Why plastic? I watched comprehension dawn. It’s easier for officers to clean blood, puke, and urine off of plastic. 

Sam kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”

The officer shut the door between me and my wife.

She shivered from the cold in her paper-thin, black leather jacket. “Five dollars at a garage sale, Clint,” she’d exclaimed several years prior.

Sam deserved better than life’s cast offs. Go inside, sweetheart. But she wouldn’t. She would stand in the cold, in the rain, until the SUV was out of her sight. Despite anger and resentment, Sam would follow me as far as possible so I wouldn’t be alone.

The weight of the car shifted, and the officer closed his car door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans.”

“Yeah. It sucks.” I glanced out the window. He’d parked near a loading dock, out of sight from the main parking lot. I was as new to receiving respect from police officers as Sam was to seeing the back of a squad car. “Thank you for concealing my arrest.”

“Least I could do.”

***

Darkness seeped in for my wife that day. Shattered trust. Shattered dreams. A chasm formed between us that I hoped we would have time to mend.

For me, the darkness started years prior. No kid wakes up and thinks, “I’m going to be a bully today.” The bullied becomes the bully. No teenager thinks, “I hope this drinking turns into a lifelong battle that steals relationships and opportunities and joy.” But when tolerance kicks in, more and more substance is required to numb the pain. Self-loathing took years to perfect, but childhood circumstances laid the groundwork.

Becoming an alcoholic pastor doesn’t happen overnight. I remember the first time I told a lie. More dangerous, though, was the lie Legion told me. The lie that became a death sentence when I believed it.

Chapter Three

Pastor Clint,

I have been delaying sending you this email for quite some time because I wanted to give you all the space and privacy you deserve. The joy, excitement, and love you bring to our church has been missed dearly.

My heart hurts when I think about your cancer.  As I write this email, my children are running around the living room playing together. We are close to the same age and the reality of you dealing with this horrible disease  is scary. It reminded me never take the little things for granted. Continue to give your fear to God and know his plan is never wrong.

In regard to the legal issues, forgive yourself. Every day I deal with good people who make poor choices. As a deputy I am expected to skirt a line close to perfection and I know you can relate. When I think of you, I remember a loving man who helps my family grow closer to God. I owe you a great deal and if you ever need help with anything, I am a phonecall away.

God bless you and your family.

~A Congregation Member

Sam, Sunday, October 1, 2017

New Ulm, Minnesota

The local Hardee’s became my favorite writing spot. I lost weight eating at Hardee’s multiple times a week by ordering the low-carb combo with a side salad. I thought of the teenage boy behind the counter as my conscience. Every time I tried to say, , “frisco and fries,” my conscience behind the register, wearing a nametag that read “Josh” said, “low-carb combo with a side salad. Coming right up.”

Those interactions began two years prior to Clint’s accident and the two worlds felt like alternate realities. While I watched the officer emerge from jail, I thought about stopping at Hardee’s on the way home. I hope Josh isn’t working, so I can eat at all of the carbs.

In my Trailblazer, I followed the officer’s squad car to a part of town I didn’t know existed. He unlocked the tall, chain-linked gate of the impound lot. I idled  my SUV through the gates behind him.

He stopped his car at a two-story, windowless shed. Gears whined when the metal door retracted into the ceiling, exposing the inside of the garage inch by moaning inch. I craned my next to see beyond my hood. The front fender of Clint’s gray sedan came into view first. My breath jammed as the garage door revealed increasingly more. The plastic grill was missing. Leaves stuck out from behind the bent license plate. A crinkled, concave depression in the hood looked like a large animal fell out of the sky and landed on the car.

If the damage stopped there, and I knew nothing of the backstory, the driver might have hydroplaned, swerved off the road, and hit a tree.

I parked to the left of his car. From my driver’s seat, I stared at the front passenger side wheel—rather, the space where the tire should have been. The bent rims suggested he drove on bare metal for awhile before police used their SUVs to barricade his vehicle. That reminder drew my attention to a police SUV with a bent bull bar, also parked in the shed. The vehicle that stopped him? He tore through the town like a nightmare game of pinball.

I forced my cement legs to exit my Trailblazer. The officer stood on the driver’s side of Clint’s car and watched me. I circled the car starting toward the trunk. Dents and scars made me want to vomit. This isn’t my mess.

How could he do this?

Oh, God, how do I do this?

I walked past the officer. On the driver’s side, a dent and streak of white stretched across both doors. Then I saw the driver’s window. My throat went dry. I stared. My gaze flitted to the officer. Did he strategically position himself to protect me? I steeled myself and turned back to the blood smeared across the window. Clint’s blood. One tomato-sized circle of crimson colored the glass like sponge paint, and three tails of red had dried as they dripped downward. 

Where they pressed his face into the glass to cuff him? God, pick someone else. This can’t be my life.

The officer shifted his weight. “Let me know how you’re holding up.”

 “Every part of this feels like someone else’s life.” I inched closer to the car. “Am I allowed to touch the car?”

“Yes. Take anything you need.” 

I reached for the handle, and retracted my hand. Blood coated the handle. Blood on the door. Blood on the fractured side mirror. I felt the officer studying me and shoved panic aside. I knew somehow, through the static of shock, I needed to empty the car myself to heal from a grief that hadn’t reached me yet.

Metal crunched when I forced the dented driver’s door open. Blood on the dashboard, the A/C and radio knobs. Blood on the gear shift and steering wheel.

On the passenger side floor, open cans and bottles of alcohol lay strewn beside a brochure for The Walk to Emmaus, a spiritual retreat Clint intended to attend. Reality flayed me and I simultaneously felt nothing. I opened each door one by one as fast as my sluggish body would allow. Removing Kelly and Trinity’s car seats required me to kneel in the chair to release the buckle. I huffed and grunted and nearly cried in frustration as the seat outmaneuvered me.

I felt cold air on my bare back and yanked my hoodie down. No need to add indecent exposure to the list of the Evans’ weekend activities. I shifted my backside out of view, and continued my losing battle with the car seat gods. Just as the officer offered assistance, I released the latch for the car seat. Board books lay on the floor of the car. I have nothing to put those in.

I tossed the car seats in the Trailblazer and popped Clint’s trunk open. An unzipped, black duffel held his dirty football gear. A leather communion kit rested next to the bag. I tossed the communion kit and the kids’ books into the football duffel, sluffed through random papers and empty diet Mountain Dew bottles, and declared myself finished.

I left the impound lot and sped past thirteen miles of cornfields toward home—and Hardee’s.

When I lagged into Hardee’s, Josh stood behind the counter. Shoot.

“Wow. Sam. You look awful.”

I sighed. “You have a way with women, Josh.”

His cheeks pinked. “Sorry.”

Something inside me deflated, surrendered. “My husband’s in jail and he might have cancer.” I shrugged, like I’d said something as ordinary as “my cat vomited on my favorite rug.”

Josh touched the screen in front of him. . “Frisco it is. I’ll even let you eat fries today. Do you want fries or a side salad?”

The simple choice overwhelmed me. “I don’t know.”

The  teenage boy reached into his back pocket and withdrew his black billfold. “My dad’s been in and out of jail.” He completed the order. When the drawer slid open, Josh slipped bills from his own wallet into the register. 

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of my house, surprised to see my in-laws’ car. I vaguely remembered calling Chuck on the way to the hospital.

Inside, I tilted my head with the ghost of a smile when I saw the dining room table. Hardee’s bags, abandoned chocolate shakes, half-eaten cheeseburgers, and the dehydrated fries no one eats littered the surface.

Clint’s mom sat in the living room to my left. Her weary gaze met mine. I followed the sound of my daughters’ chittering. Two steps in, their  Barbie-and-Duplo-and-Little People minefield came into sight.

I knelt to greet them with hugs, mustering casual cheer. “Daddy was in a car accident. He’s okay. .” I stared over their heads to my in-laws.  “Daddy should be able to come home from … the hospital… Tuesday, we hope.”

The girls’ attention returned to the imaginary world  they’d created.

Crisis averted, I maneuvered through Barbies toward the dining room. I swept the girls’ Hardee’s debris to one end of the table, creating space for myself, sunk into a chair, and opened the bag Josh packed for me. Inside, I found a frisco burger, fries, and a side salad. With Josh’s thoughtful gesture, the tears finally came.

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