That Day Had Come

Mateso Kazembe

My husband’s deeds were killing me. To be precise, I was on the verge of going insane. I had prayed, begged and cried to God to change him back to what he used to be - loving and caring - but to no avail. With each passing day, he grew worse. He gave himself to drink than ever before and kept coming home late.

I reached a point where I began to question God’s inscrutable ways. As I considered the long hours I had devoted to prayer; the many times I had fasted and the myriad prayer requests I had submitted at church pleading with God to do something about him, I began to lose faith. My brethren’s assurances that God would eventually answer my prayers no longer enchanted me.

As I contemplated, I came to the conclusion that God was being entirely unfair with me. I had served him faithfully for many years and yet, He couldn’t honour that little query to bring back my husband’s sanity; instead, he had opted to ignore me completely. That thought made me bitter and I felt there was no need to worship Him anymore.

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” I mumbled to myself bitterly, “He’s taken the bird. I’ve nothing. So what’s the need of praying?”

Some weeks passed and the pastor of my local assembly paid me a visit. Possibly, he had come to notice my erratic attendance of fellowship and wanted to find out why. He came with his wife and found me sobbing. My husband had beaten me for complaining over his actions. This was something he had never done all our married life and I was at pains to accept the reality of it.

“I’m so sorry sister Grace,” the pastor said after I had narrated what had happened, “But everything happens for a reason and sometimes it seems God isn’t listening to our pleas but by and by…”

“Well that I don’t need,” I interrupted him, “All I need is this to work out not somebody telling me everything happens for a reason. Pastor, I’m desperate for a miracle. My husband’s beaten me! Something he’s never done. At this pace, I won’t be surprised to hear he’s going after other women.”

The pastor’s face was grave as a professor of philosophy considering the riddle of the universe as he listened to me.

“Your frustrations are understandable my sister,” he concurred and then looked like saying more before his attention shifted to the posters and pictures I had put on the walls of the house. Almost everywhere in the house was a bible verse, or a religious poem or something biblical. This, I had done as a desperate attempt to make my husband change. The pastor appeared shocked.

“Sister, I think you need to cultivate a new attitude in the way you perceive your husband.” He paused for a moment and continued: “Sometimes the thing that makes a difference is attitude. Why don’t you stop pestering him to change about the way he lives? Try changing the way you talk to him... Also when I look at your house, there is no place for your husband to be recognized. Take down a lot of these Bible verses and also some of the pictures. Put up a few pictures that are associated with his life, I believe you might begin to see things take a drastic change.”

“But pastor, aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” I protested, “Why are you attacking me and taking sides with that pathetic drunkard? You’re such a great disappointment!”

“No! No! No! I have taken no sides,” he denied vehemently, “But sometimes as Christians our ideas and approach concerning certain perspectives are wrong. While Jesus loved sinners, we tend to do otherwise. You know the story about that harlot, don’t you? The one who washed his feet with her tears. Did Jesus say, hey harlot get off, I’m the Son of God. No. He didn’t. Just think of his disciples, would you consider He would go for such in spite of all the learned men of that age? Jesus loved sinners and treated them as His dearest friends. That way He won them. All I’m saying is instead of screaming at your husband to change his ways, why not just love him? Become his friend, sister Grace.”

After they had left, I began to contemplate that perhaps I had looked at it all wrong. Yes, I had pleaded, begged and cried but it always seemed like everything I did was just no good. Maybe, I had to try what he had suggested.

I took down the posters and pictures and stopped preaching and saying anything to him about going to church. I began calling him sweetheart. This surprised him at first, but eventually he began responding.

Four months later, he asked me with concern: “What have you done with all the pictures you took off the wall?” My answer was loaded with feigned disinterest: “Ah, you mean that. I put them in the bottom of the drawer. I figured you were tired of looking at them.”

“Oh,” he said in surprise, “Now dear, I’ve noticed you don’t ask me to go to church any more?” At this moment, I wanted to scream with joy. It had been ages since he called me that. I answered unable to conceal my joy: “Well, I figured I had asked you so much that I have worn out your patience.”

That night as I prayed, I thanked God for bringing back my husband. He had not changed for better completely, but he was on track. He was coming home on time. His visits to the pub were decreasing. I had faith he would become better. I apologised to God for my earlier despairing and begged him to grant me the wisdom on how to act when faced with similar situations.