The Rumble

Just another ordinary Tuesday... my workday begins around 7:00 a.m., editing a column for my friend, Tim. Then, the extraordinary happens. As I read his words on the page my head begins swimming, a memory leaves the quiet of its resting place and floats toward my consciousness.

In the late '90s as the internet became a new and efficient connector for so many, a woman reached out to my husband, accusing him of violence toward her... years earlier... decades, actually. I cannot know how long my husband endured the weight of her accusation before sharing the burden with me. I hope it was minutes or hours, not weeks or months. 

I never asked. I cannot now know.

When the words he desired to say were spoken and silence filled the room, my first thought was: that is not possible... that is not the man you are. In the days that followed, the woman's sister contacted my husband, providing insight, giving details not of what her sibling believed had happened, but what was happening now.

I remember standing in the dining room, looking into my husband's eyes as he reached out by phone to someone he trusted, an attorney. The advice? Do not voluntarily submit to her request, ever. Too much risk. Too much uncertainty. Too much chaos over which there is no control. Do not, under any circumstances, participate in a paternity test.

Again, the timeline is lost in the passing of years. Eventually, though, the rumble of this is not possible made conforming our hearts to the attorney's advice untenable.

We made the decision to open a conversation with the sister and discuss what was happening now, and that discussion led us to another, and another, and then one day we drove north to meet a 20-something woman who'd been told my husband was her father. 

She wanted an accurate medical history, not for herself, but for her children, the ones she and her husband were raising.

On a sunny and otherwise unremarkable day, we sat in a booth in a Subway restaurant alongside the highway that connected her city with ours. I watched as my husband opened the envelope, read and signed the consent form, then scraped the inside of his cheek before handing the swab to the young woman.

I remember thinking how intelligent and engaging this young woman was... how brave. I was not fearful of the outcomes. My heart and mind were on her, contemplating the similarities in age and attitude she shared with our children. My mind drifted into the weirdness of an unknown future.

If the swabs affirmed no connection, would she suffer or rejoice? If the swabs revealed paternity, would she be blended into our family? Or, simply walk away a stranger with the medical history she risked so much for?

We sipped our sodas and made small talk for a time... a very short time... before leaving the restaurant.

Weeks passed.

We waited.

Then, one day, the information came.

My husband was not her father; he was not the shadowed figure of her mother's nightmares.

I wept.

I wept for the young woman... for the story of horror that surrounded her birth... for the pain in her life... her courage and the journey ahead of her.

Life grew quiet, contemplative, for my husband and for me... our hearts drawn closer together in this earthy life.

R

... 
Get wisdom.
Though it cost all you have, 

get understanding.
Cherish her, 

and she will exalt you;
embrace her, 

and she will honor you.
She will give you a garland 

to grace your head
and present you 

with a glorious crown.

-- Proverbs 4:8-9