I’ll tell you something. Going to church after fighting with your mom all weekend — not fun. You don’t want to give the least indication something’s wrong at church, or everyone who knows you will swarm over you and try to encourage you and pray for you, and you feel like a misfit, because here’s all these people sharing in your troubles by saying they’ll pull you out of it. That’s not sharing. That’s feeling good about yourself at the expense of another person.
Not that there aren’t hurting people in our church. There are, but they’re always hurting, you know, so it’s a constant state of “How are you this week?” And it’s not that I think everyone’s hypocrites. It’s that I don’t want them poking their nose into things that don’t affect them. Mom’s the same way — private. We deal with our own problems, thank you very much. And so we’re both smiling and chatting to people, and I, at least, feel wretched inside. Then we go home and try to keep out of each other’s way.
It’s all about moving out. First, they want me to “shape up” and “be responsible.” And so I get a job, and they’re happy about that, and now I want to move out. Oh, it’s not the moving out that scares them (apparently) but Beth.
Let’s remember something: They sent me to a boarding school when I was fourteen! I’ve dealt with people on my own before. And honestly, what’s so bad about Beth?
You know, I took a gamble after church and made a point: “Wouldn’t Jesus have spent time with Beth?”
And my mom, quick as ever, replied: “You’re not Jesus.”
But what makes this so weird is that yesterday evening, after all this drama, my parents sat down with me. “We’ve decided to let you move out,” mom said. “You can make your own decisions. Just remember that we’re always there for you.”
I don’t know what changed. I have a feeling dad talked to her, but I don’t think he was very excited about the prospect either. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. It’s time I got packing.