A few weeks after Charlie left, I got a call from him in the evening. He was crying.
“I’m not doing well,” he said.
“What’s going on?” I wished that I could give him a hug.
“I’m sick,” he said. “I’m sick inside.”
I waited and listened.
“I think that it was a mistake to start kissing,” he said.
“You do?” I started, disappointed.
“No. Let me finish. It did something to me. It woke up a part of me that I had put to sleep.”
Fear and anxiety filled me instantly. “What do you mean?”
“I …” he broke down crying. “Oh God! I am such a sinner!”
I waited for him to explain, pacing my bedroom, looking at the bed where we had made our mistakes.
“What we did reminded me of what I did with Bianca,” he began.
“But we didn’t even …”
“I know. All we did was kiss. But it woke up something in my mind, in my body.”
“So?” I was getting impatient. “What happened?”
“I started looking at porn again.”
“What?” I whispered. “You promised you were done with that.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I’m trying to tell you the truth. I don’t want it. I’m struggling.”
“What now? What can we do?”
“Pray for me, Miriam. Please.”
I said a prayer over the phone.
When I finished, he ended the phone call. “Jack just got home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I was quiet.
“I love you,” he said.
“You do?” I challenged him.
“Please believe me.”
“I believe you. I love you too.”
For the next few days, I agonized and prayed over his struggle. I was mad at God for allowing porn to even exist. I was mad at our government for allowing it on the Internet. I hated the stupid hackers who sent spam emails containing porn to young people. My worst enemies were the women who flashed their junk at my sweet Charlie.
I was so upset, I couldn’t hide my dilemma from Sophia. “What can I do, Sophia? I love him. I can’t dump him, but I can’t change him. I’m helpless.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not familiar with that topic. People don’t talk about porn in Christian circles. I’ll pray for you guys. You can make it through this.”
Rose, my spiritual mentor and life coach, met me at Café Calabria for coffee, and I told her what happened. She had insight on men—she was married and had raised three sons.
“Charlie’s struggle doesn’t make him a bad guy,” she said. “Men have their sexual parts on the outside of their bodies, and it brushes against their pants when they walk, when they sit—all day long. That’s partly why they think about sex all the time.”
I tried not to make a face. I didn’t like talking about penises.
“For most men, it’s a matter of learning what to do with sexual thoughts. If a man sees a beautiful woman and thinks something sexual about her, he needs to simply notice the thought and let it float away, like a boat or a leaf floating down a stream. The trouble comes when he takes the sexual thought and dwells on it for too long—then he will get himself in trouble.”
“That makes sense. But I still don’t get it. I just don’t get what he is going through. Please pray for us.”
That Sunday, the pastor at church announced an opportunity to attend a two-day seminar at Regent Seminary the following week.
“It’s called ‘Hope in a Sexually Pervasive Culture.’ If anyone would like to attend, we can arrange a carpool to Regent.”
Sophia let me miss two days of camp so I could attend the seminar.
The speaker commenced by telling the story of his past addiction to sex and pornography. The struggle affected his wife and other relationships. His healing began after he received in-patient hospitalization, and he learned to maintain daily accountability.
I was fascinated. I could have been disgusted. But I could hear God telling me, “Look at the plank in your own eye. Look at your own sin first.”
I listened carefully as the speaker explained his styles of intervention and treatment and his definition of healthy sexuality.
I cried as I read stories of pastors struggling with the temptation of pornography.
I gawked at the statistics of Christians and pastors who admitted to visiting porn sites multiple times per week.
“Having the Internet in the home is the equivalent of having millions of pornographic magazines under your bed every day and night,” he said. “What man can resist taking a peek? Once he does, how can he resist a second peek—or an exploration of the whole collection?”
By the end of the conference, I had more compassion for Charlie’s struggle, I had hope in his recovery, and I developed an action plan. I called Charlie that night. “I feel like I had a glimpse into the mind of a man. Weird, huh? But totally cool. I have some ideas for you about getting out of your trap.”
“OK. That’s great.”
“Will you write them down? There are three things I believe you should do.”
“I’m ready.” He sounded uneasy.
“First. You have to move your computer out of your bedroom and put it in the living room with the screen facing the front door.”
“Why?”
“So whenever you’re on the computer your screen is not private. Someone could walk in at any time and see what you are doing.”
“Oh, I see. That makes sense, I guess.”
“Second. I think you should get baptized. Have you been baptized?”
“When I was a baby.”
“Yeah, me too. But when I did it again in high school, I felt like I had an extra blessing and help from God in overcoming temptation. Will you consider doing it again too?”
“Yeah, I’ll think about that.”
“Third. I think you should talk to someone about your struggle. Is there a man you respect who would know what you are going through? You may find out things about yourself that you didn’t realize. There might be something about your parents’ divorce or your break-up with Bianca that compels you to look at porn.”
“Wow. OK.”
“So will you talk to someone?”
“Yes. I think I’ll talk to the campus pastor.”
“When?”
“I guess I’ll go to his office tomorrow.”
We did not talk for about five long days. Later that week, I got a card in the mail. It was from Charlie. I ran upstairs to my room, shut the door, jumped on my bed, and opened the card. It was all blue, his favorite color, with an image of an airplane on the front. Four photos fell out. They were of Charlie and me in Vancouver, overlooking the water at Granville Island, hugging in my room at the Manse, relaxing on the grass at Stanley Park, and standing in front of Figaro’s Garden.
Miriam,
I know these are hard times. I know I have hurt you. I can hear it in your voice.
I want you to know that you are my best friend. You have shown me that you love me as my sister in faith, enough to rebuke me. Your rebuke hurt me. My life has hurt you. I accept the pain and shame.
You are willing to be destroyed inside for me. You are always restoring me; your words are healing. I will not sin this way any longer. God is with us.
Thank you for being my friend. You are a strong and beautiful woman. I love you, Miriam.
Truly,
Charlie
P.S. Enjoy these pictures … I miss you.
I picked up my guitar and sang by myself, imagining that Charlie was with me.