Anne Lamott (come on, woman, set up a Google alert on your name and come find me already, for crying out loud) is one of my favorite writers. Recently, I have been reading Grace (Eventually) in stolen moments, usually in the bathroom. The kids are not generally deterred by a closed bathroom door, but they seem to hesitate at the sound of running water, or maybe I they waver when the sound of the shower causes a delay in my response. So, I've learned to turn on the shower and "wait for the water to heat up" while I read. (Yes, I'm contributing to the destruction of our planet for some alone time with a book. I've tried reading in the shower. I actually have. But I can't bear the warped pages that result.)Yesterday, I was reading a piece in which Anne bought a $50 carpet for her Sunday school class from a rundown little store. When the carpet was unrolled, it was moldy, so a friend from the church returned it and called Anne to tell her she'd have to drop by the store later to pick up her $50 refund. She never did get her $50. The carpet guy said someone else had picked up the money. The friend from church said no one else had.
It seemed clear to Anne Lamott that the carpet guy was trying to swindle her, and I think most people would read the situation that way. After all, really, who are you going to believe? A guy who runs a shady little carpet store or a friend of Anne Lamott's who volunteers to teach children about Jesus? But I found I was reading it as a mystery. Who had the money? Who did it? Maybe the carpet guy was a swindler, but maybe sweet church volunteer lied about not getting the $50 (or lied about the carpet being moldy entirely) and ran off to spend it on crack.
There were many times in my marriage in which I heard two conflicting stories: one coming from someone I didn't know personally (often seemingly shady) and the other coming from a good and loving man who (to all appearances) loathed lying and liars. I knew the stories didn't fit. I knew someone was lying. And I would invariably target the likely suspect with my wrath or disdain: the shady carpet guy, the clumsy waiter, the neurotic acquaintance. It was never the dedicated volunteer or the caring husband who did it.
Yet, fourteen years into our relationship and six years into our marriage, Mark admitted he was a sex addict, and I found out I had been wrong. My husband wasn't a fellow victim of the world's dark forces, but in collusion with them. He was going to the world's carpet stores, picking up the cash and siccing me on the carpet guy who had dutifully paid out the refund. This knowledge fractured my view of the world. If I couldn't believe Mark — the most seemingly honest and trustworthy person I've ever met — who can I believe? I live my life now in a state of conscious, temporary suspension of disbelief, basing my decisions on what seems to be, always knowing that most of life is a mystery and that narrators are unreliable.
As I read the last sentence and climbed into the shower, I found that my mind was still clamoring for the answer. Who did it? Where was the money? Who really had it? But I've learned this lesson before. And as the water rolled over me, it washed away the questions to reveal the same old answer: I only have my truth. What's outside of that, I can never really know. And the details of what "really" happened aren't important anyway. All I need to know is that the person who has taken from me is usually hurting more than I am in the loss and that in letting go of my need to know, I'm free.
This post was originally published at The Second Road.
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