Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“I see,” I said.

We were silent for a while. I couldn’t help smiling.

“Why are you smiling so big?” she asked behind a smile of her own.

“I enjoy your company,” I said. “I also enjoy giving you a dose or two of your own medicine.”

“I am working on my OC tendencies,” she said. “How about you?”

“What about me?” I asked. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten.

“Are you actively working on your recovery? I’ve heard a few things about you, you know.”

“Been checking up on me, have you?”

“A girl has to be careful these days.”

“You’re not a girl, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself quite well. As to your question, I do not miss my two AA meetings each week, I have a sponsor, and I read a lot of recovery books.”

“I know. I just wanted to see how honest you were about it. You think I would go off with a recovering alcoholic without being sure that he was, in fact, recovering.”

“It seems you know a good deal about me. Tell me about you.”

“I will. Just as soon as you tell me where we’re going.”

“Okay,” I said trying to think of how to tell her. “Here goes. We are going out to eat and to a jazz concert in the park and to spend a leisurely afternoon in our state’s beautiful capital.”

“Don’t you mean lovely?” she asked. “And, I am talking about this morning. What are we doing this morning?”

“Well, on the way to an exciting afternoon, we’re going to a funeral.”

“You are taking me to a funeral on our first date?” she asked and then opened her mouth to speak again and could not.

“I can’t believe I was here to see it,” I said. “You’re speechless. You are actually speechless.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” she said. Her smile had completely vanished now, replaced with the look of disgust ordinarily reserved for perverts. “I can’t believe this. I hate funerals.”

“I don’t know anybody who loves them, but it’s certainly an important time of ministry for me. People experiencing loss need help. However, I did arrange for you to stay with a friend of mine during the funeral if you want to.”

“Whose funeral is it?” she asked.

The sides of the highway, like every highway in northwest Florida, were lined with rows of pine trees. The occasionally visible sun behind the rows of trees caused them to cast shadows like prison bars across the highway.

“One of the inmates from Potter,” I said.

“Do you go to all of the inmates’ funerals?” she asked. She seemed to really be trying to understand. Gone was her look of shock, replaced now with a look of curiosity.

“No. Actually, this is my first one,” I said.

“Why this one?” she asked.

“His family asked me to do it.”

“You’re doing the funeral?” she asked her eyes widening.

I nodded.

“Did you know the family from before?” she asked.

“I’ve never met them, and if I met the inmate, I don’t remember it.”

She was silent, her eye taking on the abandoned look of someone in deep thought.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m very sorry about this. You were giving me such a hard time yesterday I thought I’d pull this little surprise on you, but I shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate, and I’m sorry. However, I probably didn’t think it’s such a bizarre thing to go to a funeral because they are so much a part of what I do.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said, her expression changing from contemplation to compassion. “You must stay depressed.”

“I have my fair share of depression, but probably not too much more than most people.”

“I would think that someone in your position, whether it be a chaplain, minister, or priest, would either have to totally disassociate or vicariously feel depressed most of the time.”

“You’re right that many people in helping professions maintain a professional aloofness in order to protect themselves, but as someone whose primary job it is to follow Jesus and enter into the sufferings of others, I can’t do that. The foundation of ministry is compassion-to feel with others.”

“No, I guess you can’t disassociate,” she said, “not like us cold clinical shrinks anyway.”

“To be honest, I think the best caregivers, whether counselors, doctors, nurses, or ministers, are those WHO risk truly caring.”

“Maybe. But who can do that without eventually burning out, or worse?”

“It is a tightrope. And I fall off it quite often. But I’ve been through some pretty dark times in my life, and those who tried to help me from a safe distance out in the light were unable to.”

“So, what do you do?” she asked.

“I care. I get my heart broken. I get manipulated. I get depressed, but only occasionally. And that’s because I care for people, but I don’t adopt them. I do all I can, and if they need more, then God will send them someone else who can give them more, and if she doesn’t, well then she must not want them to be helped anymore. I try to be responsive to needs, and I try not to take responsibility for people.”

“And that works?” she asked with genuine interest.

“Not very often. No. But in theory . . . in theory, it’s great.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh and the first time I heard her laugh genuinely. Every other time I had heard her laugh it was at me and had it come out forced and a little mean.

“I bet it does work for you,” she said, becoming instantly serious, “and I have a lot to learn before I begin my practice.”

“Anyone who says they have a lot to learn is someone I trust. I’m willing to be your first client and send you my referrals. And, if you ever get to the place where you feel like you don’t have a lot to learn, let me know, because I’ll need to terminate our sessions and find someone who does.”

“It’s a deal,” she said, but then seemed to reconsider. “However, if we have a relationship, won’t that be unethical, you know, dual relationships and all?”

“So you think we might have a relationship then, huh?”

“We have a relationship now, but I would say that if I don’t drive you off and if your God is not overly jealous, then we might have even more of a relationship by then.”

“She is very jealous, but she will share me with one other lover, so long as she’s good for me and she knows who’s the wife and who’s the mistress.”

We were silent again. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and reflected off the car in front of us. I put on my shades. They improved the situation only slightly. I pulled over to the left to pass, and when I did, I noticed that Laura eased her right hand over to the door and held onto the handle. Her knuckles turned red and then white.

After we had safely passed the car and she had time to recuperate, she said, “I would like to go to the funeral with you, and I’m sorry for before.”

The clouds covered the sun again. I pulled my shades off.

“Now, will you tell me about yourself?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You seem to see way too much as it is.”

I looked at her with an expression that said, I don’t buy it .

“Well, the short version is that I’m working at FedEx while I finish up my master’s at FSU. I should finish this fall or at least by the spring. I would like to have a practice in Tallahassee, but the field is so

flooded now that it’s doubtful that I will.”

“What about family?” I asked.

“My dad lives in Tallahassee. He was a deputy with your dad at one point. He and my mother divorced when I was thirteen. My mom and my sister live in Pottersville.”

“You too, right?”

“No. I just visit on the weekends. You think I would let a strange man come to my home?”