I did it.
I can’t believe it, but I finally did it.
I returned home from my appointment with the good doctor and finally had The Talk with DH. He has seen this coming the entire time we have been together, and he’s not surprised, though of course he is very sad. My guilt is overwhelming, and a grotesque nagging monkey who never sleeps clutches to my shoulder shouting in my ear day and night “THIS IS WRONG! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! TURN BAAAACK!!”… but for once, I shut out Guilt and listen to Monica. And Monica’s newly discovered tiny voice is quietly whispering this has to stop.
Sorry, monkey. Not today.
We discuss the future, and agree to walk through this together, resolving to talk daily about progress through this uncharted territory. He’s a good man, and I tell him he’s just a beautiful fish in the sea, not the right one for me, but one I am sending back to find the right person for him, who will be what he needs, what will make him happy. We commit to remaining friends, and we are to this day. It’s very bittersweet. We discuss how to make this as smooth as possible for the kids, parenting together while living apart.
My life is my own for the first time since I was 18.
I set up a little spot to sleep in the basement while I figure out where I could possibly go from here. I start seeing a parade of therapists, including the original doctor who diagnosed me with You Really Should Get Out Of This Relationship.
And the bit of Monica inside me starts getting fed at last, taking a few tentative bites…and slowly pushes a tiny sprout through the soil.
But I have a problem… we have yet to tell Pastor Almost. My dear BF- best friend, thinks he will take it well, and allow us to work through this with the church folks who have become our family. DH and I come up with a plan… since I am the one requesting a divorce, I will take some time off while he takes over leading worship for a while. Since it’s totally amicable, and we are committed to making everything as smooth as possible for all involved, we think this just might work.
Or it will all blow up. I am taking a huge risk…
…She pulls the heavy brass door open, takes a deep breath, and enters the dark shadows of the casino. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light within, and the smoke hangs in the air, the set of a drama about to take place surrounded by the DING DING DING’s and “OH!”‘s of excitement and “Awww”‘s of disappointment…
We have been spiritual leaders in three churches in Tiny Town for over twenty years. I am known by everyone as DH’s wife in this community. I’m about to shock a village.
I am TERRIFIED.
Being brave has nothing to do with lack of fear, it’s being scared shitless and marching alone, straight into the enemy encampment, head held high, knowing you could be shot down at any second and doing it anyway.
We set up a meeting with Pastor Almost. The guy who has a near-perfect Harlequin Romance marriage. The man who is with the woman of his dreams. I know, because he talks about it constantly. It’s super annoying. He is entirely clueless as to what my situation would be like. And I absolutely will not be telling him what’s going on with my body.
We enter the building that has held my full-time job for five years. I walk past my office, urban sprawl of instruments, mics, music, cables, and papers everywhere. I have written out hundreds of event plans and sermons and charts and setlists and schedules in this room. My heart pounds on in my throat, snare drum beating out a morose soundtrack for this march. I walk past keyboards, drums, guitars, music stands, sound equipment, wayy too many instruments for this size church. This worship team stands at 22 members, most of whom are professionals. I love every beautiful one of them. I lead teams. I preach the Sunday sermon at times. I love all of it. I can’t believe I’m doing this MONICA WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU LOVE THIS JOB!
I’m about to take a one-in-a-million chance…
… “Place yer bets, Monica is placing her entire life on Black 22, and let’s spin that wheel, folks,”….and the watching crowd quiets as the shiny steel ball is cast, and round and round it goes, a light reeling sound amongst the clinking glasses and chatter of the casino…
A note I had once written hangs from the tambourine instructing UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS THIS TO BE USED WITHOUT PROPER TRAINING. Ha. My guitar, a hybrid Michael Kelly that was a gift from Pastor Almost, rests in its stand, beckoning me to play but remaining mute, a silent witness to my journey. I walk past a million memories, and descend to the basement conference room. This is my green mile, and it takes days to get from the parking lot to the folding padded chairs below that somehow exist in every church. Hello, my name is Monica chairs (Hi, Monica). We sit around a white plastic conference table.
I drop the bomb.
DH and I are getting divorced.
His immediate reply hits me sideways.
“Someone else?”
Pastor Almost instantly assumes I’m having a fucking affair. He didn’t even hesitate.
I sit in shock.
SHIT. I didn’t see this coming. EVERYONE is probably going to assume something like this. I hadn’t thought through the fact that nature abhors a void, and since I’m sure as hell not going to tell the whole world the rather intimate details of why I’m getting divorced, Tiny Town will concoct their own sordid tales. I can tell already, even Pastor Almost doesn’t believe me. Great. All of the ideas people have about why this is happening will get fed into the ever-hungry steel jaws of the Tiny Town gossip mill, grinding out delicious sausage for all of the community to devour. People love this shit.
I say no, it just isn’t working and is never going to work. We have been together 25 years, and I just can’t do it another day, pushing water uphill with my bare hands, liquid spilling out the sides and through my fingers… I tried everything, and nothing worked. I want DH to be with someone who can be what I will never be for him, I want both of us to be happy, but I can tell that Pastor Almost, indoctrinated in the Assembly of God his entire life, Mr. Picture Perfect Marriage who once filled his wife’s car with rose petals, is NEVER going to get it. He will never understand. My explanation to him is like Nerf darts volleyed at a concrete wall, and absolutely nothing I say…is Ever. Going to make it through.
We tentatively explain our idea of how we could proceed through this gracefully, and a shred of hope remains within me…
…the ball continues, round and round in a dizzying trek to its final destiny, slower now, the outer conflagration of numbers in its opposite direction also now slowing…slower…slooooowwerrrrr….
He says he needs to speak to the board of elders. I already know the board of elders includes a cynical fiftysomething woman who tragically never met the husband she prayed for all throughout her strict Christian upbringing, and another guy, happily married with small children. And Pastor Almost’s wife is a very conservative woman who still strongly believes in submission to your husband.
I. Am. FUCKED.
At around 11 am the next day, my phone buzzes, the banner proudly announcing… PASTOR ALMOST.
and I weakly answer…helloo??
Pastor Almost has a plastic, overfriendly tone. The elder board has met.
I am fired, they would like my office cleared out by the end of the week.
…The ball falls into place with a firm CLICK.
“36 RED, FOLKS!”…
the grinning dealer reaches out around the pile of chips and she watches them slide away and vanish across the table
END PART ONE
Worship Leader Gone Wild 