Christian Living
"You have to leave" she barked. "If you're not off the property by noon on Saturday, we'll dump you and your stuff onto the street and lock the gate."
Jobless, newly relocated, and with assets totaling $27.06 and four kids, we had nowhere to go. My best friend had invited me and my family to move across four states and share her home until we afford our own. After 10 weeks she was kicking us out. And Hope didn't care.
She was my best friend. Hope (not her real name) and I met at a Christian college in California in 1980. We shared lunch after class and the next 22 years together as kindred spirits. At my side as my Maid of Honor, for the births of our children and my mother's death, Hope stood with me through all the major milestones of my adult life. She was the truest, dearest friend I'd ever known. My forever friend.
When Hope married Ben Lah (not his real name) in 1993, I was her Matron of Honor. The Lahs settled in Texas, where they had two children. We couldn't visit regularly due to distance, but we kept in touch with letters, phone calls, and email. No matter how much time or distance passed between personal visits, it never took long to regain our closeness and camaraderie. A few minutes of laughter and "girl talk" and our rapport burst into flame.
Hope was my best friend. The kind you treasure for life. Or so I thought. Until I called her regarding a housing crisis.
Our rented house in California was owned by missionary friends. Their overseas assignment complete, the Simpsons returned to the States to reoccupy their home in June 2002. Which meant we had to move. Three independent housing opportunities fell through and moving plans toppled like dominoes. We frantically scoured four counties in search of affordable housing for a family of six. And came up empty. Out of sheer desperation I turned to my best friend in south Texas.
"Why don't ya'll come out here and live with us?" Hope offered over the phone. "We have a big house and plenty of space."
Her invitation was enthusiastically seconded by Ben, who offered glowing reports of booming job markets and hire-hungry employers. It was a firm, open-ended offer. From a true friend.
Hesitant about ripping my family out of the only neighborhood they'd ever known and moving lock, stock and barrel across 1,700 miles to another state, Ben and Hope assured me and my husband, Chris, that teachers were "in short supply" in Texas and thus "in great demand." Besides, they affirmed, "You only need a B.A. degree to teach school in Texas. Schools are hiring anyone with teaching experience. Texas doesn't require a teaching credential--that's only in California."
Chris has an advanced degree and teaching experience, but no formal teaching credential. He taught elementary schoolchildren as a Field Naturalist with the Orange County Department of Education. Until budget cuts and downsizing resulted in a pink slip.
The Texas teaching market glowed with promise. With housing secured and jobs seemingly plentiful, we moved east fully expecting to build a new life in the Lone Star State. Like Dorothy landing in Oz, our expectations soon crashed with a thud.
To our dismay we found that "hire hungry" school districts did not exist. Furthermore, Texas public schools did indeed require a formal teaching credential. "Plenty of space" turned out to be a 10 x 10 room. The "big house" was a rickety, dilapidated mobile home. My four boys slept in a treehouse. Using the air conditioner, dishwasher, microwave, dryer, stove or oven was strictly prohibited because "It costs too much." Food and water were hoarded in Scrooge-like fashion, then grudgingly doled out in Auschwitz-sized portions. My toddler lost four pounds in a week, as did his siblings.
More unsettling than the physical environment in Texas was the woman I found there. The gracious, gentle soul mate I'd cherished for over 20 years was replaced by a contentious, screaming imposter I didn't even recognize. Hope was a stranger to me. The benevolent, balmy personality I once knew had been invaded by an alien whose incendiary temper and scathing criticism blasted away at me and my family like a white hot jackhammer.
Volatile, erratic, and unpredictable to the point of paranoid, Hope's smug, self-righteous sniping and caustic tongue corroded our friendship like battery acid. She awakened angry, went to bed angry and spent every moment in between shrieking and screeching at anyone and everyone who dared share the same breathing space.
Even my three year-old wasn't immune from Hope's groundless accusations and bizarre behavior. I watched in astonishment as Hope's dog, who had a well-worn history of unprovoked attacks, bit Josiah, who was then roundly denounced by Hope for "harassing the dog."
Hope hadn't seen what I had. When confronted with the facts concerning her dog's unprovoked attack and Josiah's innocence, Hope spewed her venom on me for my "out of control kids." When I insisted on nightly baths and daily laundry to keep my family clean in the un-air-conditioned 99' Texas heat, I was accused of being "a clean freak" and "wasting water." When my son, Daniel, inadvertently dropped Hope's younger son during a game of "piggyback," she threatened to call the police.
Ben was a similar story. Beefy and imposing, his peculiar habit of closely trailing me and my kids when Chris wasn't around was less than comfortable.
Attempts at extending an "olive branch" and engaging the Lahs in productive dialogue were briskly rebuffed.
"Get out of my way!" she snapped. I soon realized that this stranger preferred diatribe to dialogue. Or perhaps life with Ben had changed Hope so much that she was no longer able to differentiate between the two?
Fearful for our family's safety, Chris and I soon made it a point to spend as much time as possible off the Lah property, only returning at night to sleep.
We were almost glad when the Lahs breached our agreement 10 weeks later and curtly withdrew their housing offer.
"This has been harder than we expected" Ben mumbled on a scorching Wednesday morning as Hope stood dutifully at his side. "So you need to leave. We want you off our property in 72 hours."
Hope bristled, "If you aren't gone by Saturday, we'll dump you and your stuff onto the street and lock the gate."
I looked at Hope as Chris and I exited the sweltering room, awaiting some explanation or an offer of compromise. The stiff, seething woman who glared back was as unknown to me as the man in the moon. Wordless, she blazed with an animosity that was mystifying, evidencing a vehemence and hostility of Mt. Vesuvius proportions. If I or my family had done anything to warrant this abrupt eviction, it was news to us. But the Lah ultimatum was unilateral. And immutable.
Our move to Texas had wiped out our meager savings. In a new state with no job, no income, and no long-term contacts, we now had no home. Where could we go? How? Thin as an onion skin, our options ranged from bleak to grim. So we prayed. Hard. We contacted every individual and organization we could think of. No one could accommodate a family of six. So we prayed. Hard. Desperate, Chris phoned his brother in another state and outlined our predicament.
"How many rooms do you need?" Don asked from the cell phone inside his truck cab.
"Two or three" Chris sighed, steeling himself for another rejection.
"Well, if you can make it to the West Coast, you can live with us. We have two extra rooms we never use, and we're on the road most of the time."
Don and his wife, Nadine, are long-haul truck drivers. They needed someone to occupy their home and keep an eye on things while they were gone. We needed housing. It made sense. It was also the ONLY door that opened.
Scraping together money from friends, family and overdue Unemployment compensation, we packed up kit and caboodle and left Texas at 1:00 a.m. on September 6, 2002. Eight days, seven states and 2,300 miles later, we arrived at our new "home." We were thankful for a roof over our heads, even if it wasn't ours.
After unpacking I had time to review the tempestuous events of our brief tenure with the Lahs. I wondered, "Had life with Ben changed Hope that much?" With one decisive slice of her rancorous razor, she severed 22 years of friendship in just over two months. Like a walnut under a sledgehammer, our "forever friendship" was smashed.
I attributed most of this to Ben's influence. But I couldn't shrug off the inescapable conclusion that Hope had also played a major part in the demolition of our friendship. In fact, she chose to join her husband in pronouncing its death knell.
"How could she do that to me? To ME, her Best Friend?" I fumed. My rage sputtered into resentment. "WRONGED!" screamed every fiber of my being. I felt maligned, mistreated, misunderstood. Disparaged and defamed. Violated. By the one person I trusted above all others. The one friend who "should've known better."
Like venom from a foul beast, bitterness spread its putrid poison throughout my heart. I choked and gagged, trying to shake the fangs loose myself. I couldn't. I needed help.
"Lord," I implored, "I don't want to live with this grudge any more. This anger and bitterness will eat me up. I want to get rid of it, but I don't know how. What do I do?"
Philippians 1:3,4 poked at me: "I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all..."
"You've GOTTA be kidding!" I exploded. "Thankful for the Lahs? Thankful for HER?! I'd rather eat raw oysters!"
He was gently insistent: "See that no one repays another evil for evil, but always seek after that which is good for one another and for all men. Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." (I Thessalonians 5: 15-18)
Sputtering indignantly, I finally caved. I knew what I had to do: I had to forgive. Not for Ben or Hope. My resentment didn't hurt THEM. But it was eating ME alive. Forgiveness was my antidote. My only antidote.
It took months. After steeling myself for what was sure to be "a fate worse than death," I took a deep breath, clenched my fists and whispered the world's briefest prayer of thanks for Hope. The effort was excruciating. But as I woodenly continued the process day after day, week after week, my heart began to thaw. Even through gritted teeth, forgiveness coupled with thanksgiving slowly pried loose the fangs of the bitterness beast. His venom finally dislodged, my heart began to mend.
I took a few more tentative, teetering steps toward healing when I gave up my right to retaliation and revenge, leaving Hope in God's hands. In so doing I also learned a valuable lesson: Bitterness cannot withstand deliberate, prolonged thankfulness. The two can't co-exist simultaneously. One or the other must leave.
Stomping and clamoring all the way to the exit, the creature departed. Scars remain, but they aren't screaming anymore. When they threaten to rip open, I run to my Help. He never fails to respond, enabling me to link arms with Thanks and open my door to Grace.
This is where my story should have a Happy Ending, a poignant reconciliation and joyous reunion. It doesn't. I've never heard from my Texas friend. All attempts at reconnecting have been summarily and viciously rejected. But I still have hope. Fully. Not in a person, but in the One who defeated death. Who specializes in resurrecting. The One who remains my steadfast Hope when all other hope is gone.
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