"Sit here," the G.C.'s silky voice doesn't fit his portly posture and recently buzzed dome. He has nearly as much stubble on the graying jowls as on the graying scalp. What could a nine-to-four-thirty type guy have to do that precluded the morning shave ritual shared by other professional men for generations?
I sit, dutifully, in the uncomfortable chair opposite his massively comfortable looking high back leather one as he settles in for the count. A 55 minute count, to be exact.
"So," he says, with utter warmth, "tell me what's going on with you?"
I clear my throat and wrestle my brain for my rehearsed speech. "Well," I begin, brilliantly.
He looks as if he's been stabbed. "Hold on," the G.C. announces. With too much difficulty, he finds his feet and waddles to an "old school" file cabinet, abruptly breaking my carefully crafted stream of concsiousness. The G. C. is rummaging through the cabinet, seemingly the only thing he still identifies with in his chic new trendy mega church office with a view of the north parking lot.
He mutters as he rummages, saying letters of the alphabet until he comes to mine. Retrieving a file folder with my name on it, he slams the drawer shut with his ample posterior before plunking my file down on his distance inducing mahogany desk.
Back on the "safe and sane" side of the desk, he opens my file, eyes darting over the latest entry as my mouth gets principal's office dry. He nods and grunts to himself as he reads, confirming my damnation no doubt, before resuming his slouched, hands-behind-head position, appearing comfortable, yet approachable. Do they teach the "settle in" look at shrink school?
I shift in my seat. 54 minutes to go.
"Well," I say again, equally as brilliantly as the first time, "I'm sick of my life."
His brow crinkles in professional concern, but he bites his tongue, waiting as I unfold my latest marital skirmish.
"I want to do the right thing," I confess, truthfully, "but my wife won't listen. She's finished with excuses, despite the fact that I'm finished, too."
The G.C. frowns like a bulldog.
"With excuses, that is. What I mean to say is that, I, too, am finished with my excuses."
I wonder if I sound like a third grader or a fourth grader? My ears are hot.
His bulldog turns labrador. "Good," good," he says, smiling. "Taking ownership of your role in the conflict is healthy and necessary for improvement. I'm very proud of you for that."
He thumbs through a thick leather Bible. "God hates divorce," he barks, starkly.
"But if you truly repent and set your eyes on Him, He will guide you. You don't have to rely on your own understanding."
He reads a passage or two, to back up his words. He looks back up at me, as if he's evoked a divine revelation. I feel nothing. All I can do is wonder if this spiritual giant's wife has ever tried to run him over with the family Volkswagen.
The G.C. dives into challenge mode. "I want you to journal all your thoughts and feelings rather than confront her with anything negative this week," he says. "Direct all your angry questions and remarks to the page, and address them to God in your prayer time."
Oddly, the exercise makes sense. I'd been trying to use logic and task oriented penance this past week, but my wounded wife would have none of it, seeing more holes in my attempt at reconciliation than are in a brick of Swiss.
I had to draw an ugly conclusion. I was a hypocrite, and I hate hypocrites. Maybe a bit of self loathing was setting in, but perhaps that was better than transferring animosity to my wife when she refused to accept my apologies.
And yet...
I admit, I'd screwed up by breaking her trust multiple times, but what about forgiveness? Where was the "seventy times seven" math formula Jesus spoke of to Simon Peter?
And what about Jesus' admonition to the self -righteous Pharisees who'd caught a woman in adultery. "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone?"
Come to think of it, with all my training and spiritual intuition, perhaps I was in the best position to allow God to work a miracle in my life, and ultimately, my marriage.
The G.C. rambles on, and I nod mock agreement to avoid nodding off.
12 more minutes.
I glance at the "hidden" camera in the corner of the ceiling and wonder who else is watching.
The G.C. senses my wilting attention and reaches in his analogy bag. "When you see a stray dog coming to you for help, what's your first instinct?" he says, smiling smugly.
"Shoot it," I reply, truthfully.
I've always hated dogs. And stories that don't help.
