She understood why she needed to work through all of that in order to identify her triggers and manage things in a healthier way in the future. It’s just that the old saying “too much of a good thing” certainly applied to introspection.
Since Sam’s departure from the cottage yesterday afternoon, she couldn’t seem toquitassessing her motives, reactions, and bad habits.
Her dim, morning-lit surroundings spoke of charm and comfort. She’d filled this building with high-quality, tasteful items. Yet the air inside the cottage felt cold. The light leaking around the curtain’s edge looked cold. The regret and self-loathing lodged in her stomach? Also cold.
She huddled more deeply under her luxurious duvet. Lying on her back, she contemplated the wooden beams supporting the ceiling.
Sam had asked her if she responded to uncomfortable situations by lying. He’d said that her lack of transparency was strangling her.
He’d been right on both counts. Even in the moment, she’d known he was right. She wished she’d simply taken responsibility for her lie and apologized. Instead, she’d attempted to protect herself by striking back. Her response had alienated Sam, leaving her wretched without his friendship.
Why was transparency so hard for her?
It hadn’t been, back before she’d started Oxy. She’d been a truthful person once, fairly open about her mistakes in her writings and on the stage. Of course, in those days, she’d never made any mistake half as shameful as an addiction to prescription drugs. So the truth hadn’t been quite so expensive as it later became.
How could she have come out and confessed Oxy publicly? Doing so would have jeopardized her entire ministry. Christian women didn’t read books or line up to hear speeches by drug addicts.
As a consequence, and because she hadn’t succeeded at kicking her Oxy habit in secret the first two times, she’d started lying. Just like anything, with practice she’d become more and more skilled at it. The lying, like her reliance on the pills, had become more and more automatic. White lies smoothed over awkwardness. They helped her avoid confrontation. They made her likable. They made her seem more perfectly Christian.
She knew the lies were wrong. Over time, though, the more she’d sidestepped the Holy Spirit’s conviction, the quieter the Holy Spirit’s voice had become. She’d told herself that the results of her Christ-honoring ministry justified the means. But deep down, her integrity wailed, and shame grew inside her. The lies increased. The shame increased. And her relationship with God unraveled.
Shehatedthe lies she told. “I’m so sorry, God. Please forgive me,” she whispered.
Genevieve rolled onto her side and tucked her hands beneath her pillow.
Over and over in the Bible, God’s love was described as steadfast. In fact, she’d written an entire study on that facet of His character. So even though it felt—when longing for Him, when searching for Him—as if He’d drifted away, He hadn’t. He wassteadfast.
She’s the one who’d drifted. When you’d walked with Him as she’d walked, her mortal life weaving with His immortal hand, His absence echoed.
The shame that had driven a wedge wasn’t from Him. The lies weren’t from Him.
She had to find a way to lay down the shame, and she absolutely must stop her knee-jerk reaction to lie. But that was easy to say and hard to execute when you’d done something that embarrassed you deeply.
After twenty-nine years of stellar choices, she’d spent the past year messing up in spectacular ways. The most recent of those with Sam. The only thing she could do about that at this point? Try to repair the damage. Which she would do, once she’d given him a bit of space and time.
The alternative—the two of them existing here at Sugar Maple Farm with animosity between them—absolutely would not do. Especially now that she knew about Kayden. Obviously, Sam had loved Kayden deeply. He’d loved her in a way that no man had ever loved Genevieve, and so Kayden’s death had gutted Sam.
In light of this information, she understood why he was living in a self-imposed prison. He was grieving and probably condemning himself, wary of connections with people that could cause him pain.
Her phone alarm sounded. She plucked it from the bedside table and punched it off. Empathy had always come naturally to her. She earnestly wanted to lighten Sam’s load. To make him smile more. To bring him joy. But today, she didn’t even have the energy to walk to the coffeemaker and brew herself her morning cup. She certainly didn’t have the heart to follow her schedule.
Forget breakfast. Forget walking the property.
Sam answered a knock on his farmhouse door Thursday evening to find Gen’s sister standing on his front porch.
Her presence immediately put him on guard.
He hadn’t spoken with Gen since their argument Monday afternoon. He’d hoped putting some distance between them would improve his state of mind. Instead, his state of mind had been a war zone for the past three days.
He’d liked Natasha when they’d talked the other morning at The Kitchen, but he didn’t want reminders of Gen in the form of her sister.
“Good evening,” she said cheerfully. The sky behind her blazed orange and pink with sunset.
“Good evening.” He flicked on the porch light.
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“No problem,” he replied automatically. Even though the way that Gen and, in this case, her family member, disturbed his solitude had become a very big problem for him. “Would you like to come inside?”
