Memoirs and Miracles IV

                Truth and More Lies

I sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up to my chest. This could not continue. I'd known the truth for a long time, but it wasn't enough. I needed to know WHY he lied- and he needed to know I wasn't going anywhere. Closing my eyes, and squaring my shoulders, I decided it was now or never.

“Ok. So come clean. Just tell me the truth and we will start from here and move forward.” My whole body felt tense. I just wanted a normal marriage-- one where we would argue about paint colors; where I would get mad at him for leaving towels on the floor. One where we would have to compromise on things like finances and budgeting. I knew the first few years of marriage were hard... but this? This was far beyond any nightmare. It was the ultimate "fun house" with illusions and smoke in mirrors. This was marriage to a con-man.  

 I’d already lost my dad. My credit was ruined, most of my belongings sold, and “home” a thousand miles away. I couldn’t deal with this anymore. The agony was too great—every day, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, waiting for something horrible to happen. Waiting for the next lie. Waiting for the next thing to go "missing". 

I so desperately wanted what my parents had- complete trust, adoration, laughter, loyalty- they were a team. They sought to honor the Lord in everything they did- they treated each other with respect and love.  That was what I prayed for growing up- my childhood dream of marriage, family and life together- nothing about those prayers and desires were “wrong”. There was nothing “sinful” about wanting a strong, godly marriage. So why was this happening?!

“You’re right” was all he said, without looking at me.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. I wanted to scream. To punch him. To throw things. But I just sat there. Still. Quiet. Don’t move. Don’t scare him.

I looked at him, “So… the 50 acres in Golden, culinary school in Portland, two bachelor’s degrees from U of H and A&M… all that was… not true.” I tried to choose my words carefully. This was further than I’d ever gotten with him.

“No. It’s not true.” He repeated, looking down at his folded hands. Ok. We were getting somewhere. We could move forward now. He trusts me and we can start over. Right as a wave of relief was washing over me, all hopes were again dashed on the rocks as he continued, “but I had to tell you those things. I was working for a secret government organization, more secret than the CIA and I had to enroll in school because I was under cover. It wasn’t safe to tell you until now.”

“not again. The schools had NO record of you attending, enrolling, graduating, NOTHING. Seriously?! A secret government organization? And it wasn’t ‘safe’ to tell me until now… aka, you’re caught.?!”

Fuming and feeling the thick weight of despair creeping over my heart once more, I refused to lose this one. I was finally breaking through- this was no time to back down. 

“Ok. I’m not even going to address that right now. I know you are lying so lets just move forward. I don’t understand why you have to replace lies with lies- try to justify your deceit with more deceit. Don't you want to be free?!” He got up and left, slamming the front door behind him.

Memoirs and Memories III

 “I’m sorry. I don’t have a record of anyone with that name, date of birth or social security number.” My heart was racing but I managed to mumble a “Thank you” as I hung up. I tried to collect my thoughts. The whole reason we’d moved to Colorado was because he said he owned 50 acres in Golden. “We can eventually build a house out there. It will be a great place to raise a family. The air isn’t as polluted as it is in Texas”. Really? Pollution? That’s our deciding factor in relocating?!

After several months in Colorado, and several planned trips to see “our property”, and then having to reschedule for various reasons (migraines, work schedules, paychecks not being signed on time, and lastly, “I don’t remember the address of the property- I’ll have to look it up”), I decided to call the tax office. Since property records are public information, I knew there wouldn’t being a problem- but I had a deep gnawing fear. I knew. I knew it wasn’t true. There was no property. Just like there were no Bachelor’s degrees, or Culinary school certification, or job offer with BP that would move us to Spain (the reason for us planning a wedding so quickly).

It’s exhausting playing “private detective”- especially when you are digging up things about someone you live with- love- someone to whom you are legally bound. My heart would beat so loudly I was sure the person on the other end could hear it. I called the transcript office at University of Houston and Texas A&M to “verify education” on a resume.  “No- we have no record of anyone graduating or attending school with that name”. I swallowed, “Thank you for your time.”

Who had I married? And what now? “A vow is a vow.” I told myself, “marriage is ‘for better or for worse’ and this is just the ‘for worse’ part. Besides, what would people say? Christians don’t divorce.”

I knew he struggled with telling the truth before we were married, but I didn't realize how deep these festering waters ran.

Just two months after we were married...  

"I found more tobacco cans under our mattress." Trying to be as non-confrontational as I could. 

"Yeah- I found those in the parking lot and I was going to throw them away but then I thought you would think I dip so I hid them." He looked me straight in the eye.

"So you found trash and put it under our mattress?"

"Yes". 

Deep breaths. It would come out eventually. Finally, one evening, I was in the shower and I heard him go into the closet. I heard him rummage around. I heard the tobacco can open. I heard it hit he floor. I heard him swear under his breath. I left the water running, grabbed a towel and burst through the closet door to find him on his knees frantically scooping up grounds of tobacco. "So are you still going to tell me you don't dip?" Before he could respond, I went back into the bathroom, locked the door and cried. He didn't trust me enough to tell me. He didn't feel safe enough to ask for help. The ache was growing. 

"Great news, babe! I got a job as a chemical engineer for a brand new company that is being built just north of Denver. The salary is $85,000 a year with full benefits" 

I sighed inwardly. What was he doing now? "That's great. I didn't know you applied for a chemical engineering job." ..."especially since you don't have a chemical engineering degree," I thought. But he didn't know I knew, so I played along. I'd been reading up on pathological liars. Confronting them was tricky. 

"yeah- the guy who owns it is named Michael. I'll be working with him at his house until the facility is finished."

Months went by. No paychecks. Weird "work schedule". No groceries. Rent was late. Furniture was missing. DVDs and CDs were disappearing. He posted Izzy's bedroom set; changing table, dresser, crib, on Craigslist. Her CRIB! "She can sleep in her pack-and-play for a while until I get paid. I'll buy her another bedroom set. Trust me." 

"Trust me." That phrase I loathed. That phrase that sent chills up my spine. If I can truly trust you, and you are trustworthy, why don't you just show me instead of trying to convince me?

"We are going to move into a different apartment. I found a cheaper place and it's closer to work. The first two months are free." 

I was too tired to argue. "ok... When do we move in?"

"We need to move in next weekend". 

I started collecting boxes and wrapping dishes. 

Dad died. 

Weeks later, no word from "Michael" at the "chemical engineering job". 

"Michael had a stroke and is in a coma and doesn't remember hiring me or anything." 

"Didn't you sign papers? submit an application? get an offer letter? Even if the building isn't done, if they are hiring, they must have an HR department." 

"No.. we were going to take care of all that when this happened."

I was screaming on the inside. Who could I call? My dad was gone. I couldn't call home- I didn't want to bother anyone. So I called my cousin. "Natalie he sounds psycho. Who lies about stuff like this?! These are the kinds of things you see on TV- where they are all quiet and soft spoken and then their spouse ends up murdered and in a lake" I promised her I'd be ok- that I would check in with her daily. But then, my cell phone was disconnected.

Memoirs and Miracles II

                       Craigslist

I had quite a few reservations about moving out of state, not the least of which was the feeling that I could neither trust nor rely on the man I’d married. But perhaps the greatest fear of all was that “something” might happen when I was away. What if something awful happened and I couldn’t get home? What if I didn’t get to say goodbye? What if I missed out on precious time that could have been spent with my family? “You can’t live your life in fear, Natalie”, he'd said, clearly irritated. I knew that. But it was a fear of something I couldn’t describe- something dark and sinister that I could discern, yet was unable to name.

He sold SO many things on Craigslist—my things—without asking or telling me. Craigslist has been a source of much pain, yet also, ironically, through Craigslist, God provided.

We lived in Tyler at the time, and we needed a coffee table. He found one on Craigslist and I was leery (this was BEFORE the Craigslist killer thing!!!); Meeting people you didn’t know, in places that were unfamiliar, to buy a product with no guarantee…What kind of weird people would want to do that?  It all just sounded “off” to me. But what do I know? Needless to say, we ended up at the home of a lovely, NORMAL family…and we bought their coffee table.

We stayed and chatted with them for quite a while- we were new to town, newly married, newly pregnant; they had been married for a while and had school age children. They were home schooling their children and I had been home schooled. We were looking for a church and they went to a great one—and we ended up attending that church while we lived in Tyler and finding a wonderful group of friends. All because of a coffee table on Craigslist.

Fast forward to the following spring when he decided we would move to Colorado. We posted some of our furniture on Craigslist (we would buy new stuff when we got there he said). A young, single guy bought our dresser and bed frame. Somehow, small talk revealed he had just moved from Denver, and he had friends there who were helping to start a church. I wrote down the church name and address.

Our first Sunday in Denver was Easter. I insisted on attending Sunday morning service regardless of how exhausted we were from moving and unpacking. We visited the church that the young man recommended.

The service started and immediately, I realized that this was a different kind of church. I was raised Baptist- clapping and raising your hands were about as expressive as we got- and sometimes even that was pushing it.  These people were jumping up and down, dancing, and all manner of things. “It’s just ONE Sunday,” I told myself. “At least we are in church.” At the end of the service, the pastor announced they would be having a raffle; each family was to write the names of all present family members (regardless of age) on a ticket. They began to draw names and announce winners. You can imagine our shock when we heard them call out the name of our five-month-old daughter, winner of a $3500 travel voucher through Triple A Travel.

That travel voucher allowed my mom and dad to come visit us in Colorado for a week at the end of May. My dad passed away unexpectedly three months later. It was the last time I saw my father alive.

So again, looking back, I see God in the details. Would I rather have stayed in Texas and spent more time with my family? Would I rather my dad’s life been spared? Should I not believe in God because He didn’t follow my views on how life should be? I remember standing outside our apartment as my parents drove away, thinking, “This might be the last time I see him”. And in that moment, though the fear and sorrow were almost overwhelming, I had a feeling of such thankfulness. I didn't know it then, but God gave me a week. God gave me memories. God gave me photographs. God used something that Jonathan used for evil, to give me something good—Time with my daddy that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. God used Craigslist.  

Memoirs and Miracles

             Despair and Diapers     

There it was again; that sickening, gut wrenching feeling that sent shivers up my spine. Something wasn’t right- something hadn’t been right for a very long time. Things weren’t adding up- not in finances, not in life. He was supposed to be working, bringing home paychecks. My 10-month-old daughter needed diapers. There was nothing in our account. I got on my knees, fighting back the tears and all the words I so badly wanted to say to him but didn’t, looking for loose pennies and quarters under the couch. Nothing. Clenching my jaw, I headed toward the closet. I checked pockets, shoes. I checked old purses. Nothing but dryer lint and a few crumpled up gum wrappers.

Here I was, in Denver, Colorado, a thousand miles away from home with a beautiful little daughter, a bank account that was either overdrawn or empty, a husband who was always gone, and the terrifying feeling that he wasn’t who he said he was.

The phone rang. “Susan, he’s pawned my engagement ring. It’s gone.” Silence. Then finally, “You need to come back home.” We talked a while longer. Susan knew what few people did- she knew about the lies, she knew about the financial problems. She knew he hadn’t been able to hold a steady job. She knew about the overlapping prescriptions of pain medication.  “You know all you have to do is say the word and we will come and get you and Izzy.” My eyes were spilling over. The ache. That crushing, breathless ache. “ I know, Sus. Thank you so much.”

I’d barely sat down on the couch when I heard Izzy. Brushing away tears, I opened her door. She was sitting in her crib, with an expectant look on her face. I smiled and laid her back down to do the routine post-nap diaper change. One diaper. One last diaper. Squaring my shoulders, and breathing a prayer, I thought, “well if worse comes to worst, I will cut up burp cloths and kitchen towels and use them as diapers”. We made our way into the kitchen to find lunch. I heard a knock at the front door. Baby on my hip, red rimmed eyes, I opened the door to find a neighbor from the next building over. “I was at Target and I thought you might need this.” She handed me a gallon of milk and a box of diapers. Immediately, I thought of the overdrawn bank account and my empty wallet. “Thank you! H-how much do I owe you?” She raised an eyebrow, “Nothing! Let’s go take the girls to the pool later, k?” As she walked away, I felt my knees collapse under me. I leaned against the closed door and sobbed. The smallest need seemed so great in that moment- and the warm gesture of a friend who’d heard nothing of my struggles was a clear reminder that God knew. He knew and He saw and He provided. Not in a way that fixed everything- but in an amazing, beautiful way that was so full of His tender heart toward me; a way that would keep me relying on Him. Not just for rent. Not just for gas. But for diapers. And for milk.