Wife Beater!

 

(We) have renounced the hidden things of dishonesty,

not walking in craftiness,

nor handling the word of God deceitfully;

but by manifestation of the truth

commending ourselves to every man's conscience

in the sight of God.

                                                                                    -- 2 Corinthians 4:2

 

I have this adorable red-headed friend with an unusual Christmas story. Let's call her "Abby."

 

Abby found herself with a baby daughter and an unhappy marriage. She got a divorce.

 

Maybe it was immaturity, or maybe the sudden freedom. But boom! She married again, quickly.

 

Like her first husband, this one was handsome and well off. They lived in a gorgeous home. He bought her a lot of bling. Things looked great.

 

But soon after the ink dried on the marriage certificate, what she thought was his sophisticated, discerning attitude about life was revealed as . . . well, what's the male version of rhymes-with-witchiness?

 

He criticized her spending. He criticized her taste in furnishings. He criticized her clothes: "Oh! You're NOT wearing THAT!?!" He criticized the way she disciplined her daughter, and how loud she laughed, and how one of her nostrils flared out a little wider when she breathed. . . .

 

OK, I made that last one up. But you get the drift. She was in a trap.

 

She found herself the victim of verbal abuse and emotional torment. But she didn't think she could afford to leave him. It was bad, but not bad enough to have him prosecuted. Everyone else under the sun thought he was the greatest guy who ever lived; he was a secret abuser. So she couldn't count on much friendly support if she left him, either. She was in a double bind. Worst of all, she knew she was setting a terrible example for her daughter, by wussing out and "taking" it.

 

On a cold Christmas Eve some years ago, things culminated in a terrible argument. She says he threw her violently over a couch. There were other ugly things that happened that she won't even tell. Bottom line: she had had enough.

 

She moved herself and her daughter out that same night. Yes, it was Christmas Eve, so she could relate to the plight of Mary and Joseph.

 

On shaky ground emotionally, she cried a lot, hugged her child a lot, and told her she was sorry. She found a place to stay, got a job and started the long process of putting her life back together.

 

Naturally, as these things go, she had signed a prenuptial agreement. She got next to nothing in the divorce. Men like that always work it that way.

 

But she coped. Almost a year passed. She hadn't seen him. She avoided the places he liked. It was better that way.

 

Then one busy Saturday at a sandwich shop in mid-town, she was with her daughter on a Christmas shopping excursion. They had just paid for their order at the counter when her ex came in and saw her.

 

Frowning, he focused his laser-beam eyes on her, and started walking toward her, a little menacingly.

 

Her heart was pounding. Her mind shifted through half-forgotten scenes of abuse, treachery, pain and confusion. She told the clerk, "Would you make that to go? I don't feel like eating here any more."

 

Her ex stood there, furious, as she and her daughter grabbed their sacks and rushed for the door.

 

Over the din of the lunch-time crowd, he yelled sarcastically at her retreating back:

 

"I BET YOU WON'T BE GETTING ANY BOXES FROM BORSHEIM'S THIS CHRISTMAS!"

 

The crowd hushed. Borsheim's is Omaha's world-famous jewelry store. Ooh! A scene! Why WOULDN'T she get anything from there? People stared.

 

She stopped cold . . .

 

. . . and turned dramatically, pulled herself to her full height under that magnificent crown of red hair, pointed her beautifully-manicured forefinger at him, and yelled back:

 

"WIFE BEATER!!!"

 

The room went dead quiet, in the solemn way it does when everybody knows they're just heard the truth.

 

Yeah, it was gutsy and over the top. Give her a break: she's a redhead.

 

He stood there, slack-jawed.

 

Her daughter beamed up at her. They linked arms and left.

 

As the door closed behind them, you'd swear you could hear merry jingle bells.

 

Merry? Sure! Because that's the Christmas message. You don't have to live with evil and abuse. You don't have to keep it a secret. That's why we had Bethlehem.

 

Go tell it on the mountain: we're free. And you know what? You can't beat it. †