Coming home was no picnic.
"What's for lunch?" my husband, Steve, mumbled, barely looking up from the couch. He sat unshaven, still in his bathrobe, watching a ball game on TV. He looked just as disheveled as he had two hours earlier when four-year-old Lauren and I had left for church, only now he was hungry. Out to the kitchen I went, and with a loud banging of pots and pans, slapped together a colorless meal.
Without a doubt, we were miserable! Steve had no interest in my new faith in Christ; in fact, he reacted as though I'd taken a lover. As he retreated into a hostile, quiet shell, I grew increasingly hurt and resentful, casting disapproving glances at everything he did.
We sat down, and I said a stiff prayer over dinner. When Steve looked up, he asked, "How was church?"
"It was wonderful," I returned flatly. "You might have liked it if you'd been there." Another disapproving glance.
"I don't think so. I don't fit in there," he answered thoughtfully, and after a long pause he added, "You know, if I were you, I'd feel pretty guilty."
"Guilty? Guilty?!" I exploded, bringing my fist down hard on the table. Lauren darted out of the room. "Why should I feel guilty? You're the one who's rejected Christ! You're the one who refuses to believe! How can you have the nerve to say that?"
With the softest words I ever heard, Steve delivered a blow from which I'd never recover: "Because, Virelle, I'm a pagan, and I'm behaving exactly as a pagan should. But you're a Christian, and you're not loving." Silence. For once, I had no words.1