I never knew redemption had a smell; I guess I have much to learn.
It wasn't one of those picture perfect days. It was a very Wisconsin-like, early June afternoon--partly cloudy and a cool fifty-six degrees. The drive to go see her seemed to take forever, and I tried to keep my head clear by thinking about anything but what was about to happen. But no matter how hard I tried, reality kept bombarding me. I was about to do something I had not done in five years. And even if, for an instant, I was able to stop thinking about the conversation I was soon to have, her face was in the mirror every time I glanced behind me and looked at her daughter. Four years ago, my life was forever changed by the birth of this little girl, and today, more than ever, I couldn't help but see her mom whenever I looked at her or heard her voice. She asked me why we have trees and where our hair comes from and I responded, wishing, all the while, that her mom was the one to give her those answers. But she couldnt. Presently, she had been in drug rehab for a month, and we were on our way to spend time with her. I couldn't help but realize that, although she was only four, Emily had spent more time with her mom in the last nine years than I had. I was hoping to change that.
"What's going to happen when your mom gets better?" I asked her as she sat idle, smiling at me from the back seat of my car.
"Well, we're all going to be happy again," she replied in the unwavering innocence and faith a child possesses in her hope for the future.
At that moment, I almost lost it. I couldn't remember the last time our family was at peace. Even more appalling, though, was that Emily knew there was something more fulfilling than what was happening, that things could be better.
As the trees zipped by and the butterflies seemed to spawn inside my stomach, I thought about the magnitude of the moment ahead. Six months ago I was filled with so much hate for my sister, Jenny, I refused to tell others she even existed. In my mind, Jenny was dead. She had hurt me and my family so badly that I wrote her off completely, telling people that "in five years, shell either be in jail or in a coffin--and I won't cry about either." I had become so completely hardened that I had stopped loving her. I took part in the greatest form of hate: I would not acknowledge her existence. Angry words and actions have one good quality about them--the very nature of their use suggests that the person they are directed toward is worth the time and effort to use them. I did not even allow her that much dignity. I stopped contacting her, calling her, talking with her and respecting her. She would walk into the room and my body would quiver, my jaw would tighten like an anaconda around its prey, and I would rather stare at the elephant in the room than look at the human being in front of me. She was the one person in this world I hated and I had no intention of ever making things right. In my heart, she had made even the thought of reconciliation impossible through her actions, words, and attitude, and I wasn't willing or able to fight through the walls that she put up around herself. I had two brothers and one sister; that's what most people knew and that's what I had come to believe. In reality, I was one of five kids, but I had created my own world inside of reality where Jenny no longer existed. However, something changed inside me and brought me to this hour car ride with Emily.
Donald Miller of Blue Like Jazz says that sometimes you have to see someone else enjoying something before you can enjoy it yourself. Don is exactly right. It wasn't until I saw my family, especially my brother Jeremy, start to forgive my sister that I knew it was time to let go. I knew my brother harbored some of the exact feelings I did, so seeing him start to let them go tugged at my heart. However, it wasn't until I saw my sister truly trying, after two rehab failures, to pull herself out of the most deplorable state that I have ever seen or heard of anyone being in, that I realized it was time to make the effort once again. I prayed so hard for God to give me love for her. For nine years I had been cultivating hate and welcoming it as a means to deal with the pain. Now, it would only be God who could uncover the real heart that had been wrapped in anger, hate, and unforgiveness. I recognized that, on my own, I could not love Jenny. I had trained myself to despise her, and a complete turn around was not in my power. I thank God for his grace.
When we got to the house I was jolted out of my dreamscape into the reality of the magnificent task that lay before me. We had parked up the street and Emily asked why we were so far away. I told her that we needed the exercise so that she wouldn't have such a puffer belly. She stuck it out, laughing and patting her little stomach like it was a drum. The truth is, I was so nervous I needed the extra time to try and get rid of my anxiety. I had no idea what to expect. Jenny and I had not had a real, genuine conversation in over five years, and we had never spoken to each other as adults. I couldn't remember the last time I hugged her or told her that I loved her. In fact, I could not even remember looking at her without despising her. I think we all have moments in our lifetime that we categorize as definitive. For me, this was one of them. I was about to put to rest nine years of hate and start a new life. For a moment, I felt like I was the one going through rehab, not Jenny. At times, I think I still am.
I was brought back to my senses by a tender touch. A soft lake breeze with human fingers and the peace of a summer afternoon was tugging at my being. Emily grabbed my hand: "Come on Uncle. Let's go see my mom." It was as if God reached out to me and said, "Jonny, it's time." With Emily in one hand and God in the other, the three of us started down the sidewalk.
She came running out of the house, as much as a girl who is seven months pregnant can. She was so beautiful. She had put on about twenty pounds and had a beach ball for a stomach. Her hair was done and her face was clear. She looked so different from the time before. The last time I saw her, the Crack had completely taken over. Her face was sunken in, her cheekbones were more visible than the life in her eyes, and she hadn't taken a shower in days. The smell of stale cigarettes mixed with the faint odor of old shampoo hovered above her head. She was four months pregnant but it looked as if she was only slightly bloated after eating a big meal, although I knew she hadn't eaten in days. She was so strung out that she literally looked like a walking corpse. I was overcome with emotion. I went into the bathroom and cried. She would tell me later that she doesn't even remember that night.
We walked through the house and out to the back yard. Emily played, and after awhile, it was time. She went inside with another little girl who was visiting her mom and Jenny took a seat across from me on the picnic table. "I want to read you something." She proceeded to pull out a forty page handwritten packet entitled her First-Step. "This is everything," she said, "it's my entire life story. I want to read it to you." I looked into her eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever and saw Jenny. I saw the addict, not the addiction. I saw the little girl I would play with for hours in the driveway until we would stub our toes so bad we would have to go inside. I saw the mother of two young children, committing to get better. I saw my sister.
I told her I would love to hear it, but I could never have prepared myself for what she was about to read. She put her head down and began to explain the last nine years of her life. It all started when she was twelve. She revealed to me when she lost her virginity, the first time she smoked pot, the escalation to the Crack use, and the empty, dangerous life of prostitution. I sat in silence listening to the stories of bad drug deals and graphic rapes by guys she had never met. My heart ached as she glossed over the tales of how she was beaten and nearly choked to death with a gun to her head, the time she was ransomed off, and all the stories in between. I was learning about the twisted life that she had come to call normal. I closed my eyes and tried to transport myself into her world, a world where she would try and stay high as long as she could keep her eyes open, sometimes for two or three days at a time. In this world, Jenny would pay the strange lady downstairs to watch Emily and lock herself in the bathroom for hours, losing herself in the crack. Emotional abuse was her constant companion and the death threats that were on her and our family were close to becoming tomorrows headlines. I would like to say that her life had become a wreck, but that does not do justice to the stories she was telling me. She experienced pain and hurt that I would never be able to understand. I would never wish what she went through upon my worst enemy, which, ironically, was her up until a month ago.
I looked at her through the tears in my eyes and stared silently. I felt horrible; I had never considered what she was going through. With every word on every page, we were both being liberated. My entire view of Jenny was changing. Years of pain, hurt, and hate were melting away. From my vantage point, life slowly started to seep into her being once again. Even the birds seemed to give audience, staring silently in amazement at the beautiful swan emerging from the feathers of a broken life. It's as if we were standing on the opposite ends of nine years, running to each other with our arms open. The picnic bench was the middle ground, and we met halfway. I realized that Jenny was a person, not the monster that the Crack had turned her into.
I told her that I wanted to write the story of us. I had gotten my family's permission and now I needed her's. She excitedly agreed and wanted me to do this for her. Ill never forget what she said to me next:
"You're so different. I don't know what it is, but you've changed." She leaned in and cocked her head to the side, eyes squinted and eyebrows lowered. Her whole life was lying in front of me, free to take and caress or trample on like the hundreds of people before me. I chose the former, never thinking I would get the chance to make the choice.
"I know, I just never thought this day would come," I said as I picked up the broken pieces of nine years of misplaced love.
"Neither did I." She let out a smirk, as if it felt so good to use the past tense.
I hugged and kissed her as we said goodbye, the first time I really had ever done that with sincerity in my heart. Her head briefly rested on my shoulder and a certain smell swept through the air. It was the familiar smell of hair laden with cigarettes and shampoo; the smell I always hated. It was different now. That smell no longer rested on a ruined life. It symbolized something greater, something better. It wasn't the smell of a dead sister; it was the smell of redemption.
I couldn't stop thinking about Jenny the entire drive home. I had been thinking about her on the way there, but this was different. My entire view of her changed. I realized I had found something I had been missing for a long time but hadn't put forth the effort to seek out--my sister. I looked at Emily asleep in the back seat and smiled. I used to wish that Emily would never grow up to be like her mom, but as her big brown eyes lay shielded from the world her mom had tried so hard to drown out, I longed for the day where she has as much strength as her mom; the day where she can stare down the toughest trial in her life and beat it, coming out more beautiful than before. Not only did Jenny become my hero that day, but she solidified herself as a role model for her own daughter. She made the journey from despair to hope, anger to love, brokenness to peace.
Although the story may seem like it's over, it's far from it. It's like an unresolved chord that hangs in the air, only partially complete. There are still many more paragraphs to be written about Jenny, Emily, her soon to be born little Noah, and the many members of my family that have been affected. Those stories can wait for another day, when the melody is ready to be sung by a choir of people who have emerged healed and whole. For now, it's a small story of redemption, love, and hope. It's a story of how Jesus can change even the stoniest hearts: how he can turn absolute hate into love, how he is showing one girl the difference between shame and guilt, and taking her to a place where neither have control over her life. A place where love, hope, and peace rest slightly above faith and understanding. A place that can be found by crawling up into the arms of a savior. A place called "himself."
