Staying True (18 page)

Still, I continued to struggle with the concept. If I didn’t forgive him, it would be as if I were saying that what he had done was too painful, too humiliating for anyone to say to him in any form that what he had done was okay. As much as that is true, I reminded myself that it was not my responsibility to mete out judgment. Saying “I forgive you” is not the same as saying “what you have done is okay.” If I continued to deny Mark my forgiveness, I would remain entangled in his emotions. I knew that I couldn’t force myself into his heart by refusing to forgive him. He was supremely self-absorbed, involved in his own tragedy, the tragedy of his lost chance of happiness with his one true soul mate, or however he might characterize it. He was not concerned about my feelings. I had become an abstraction to him, an obstacle, and whether I forgave him or not was irrelevant to what he would do next. Forgiveness, then, was for me.

As I walked the beach on those mornings of profound struggle, I thought again and again of the substance behind a favorite quote from Desmond Tutu, “forgiveness is the grace by which you enable the other person to get up, and get up with dignity, to begin anew.” Forgiveness really is a gift for each of us. It gave us the freedom to move forward happily, free from our unfortunate situation.

Mark and I had long ago planned to go to Coosaw for July 4 so our house at the beach had been rented for that week, soon after Mark had returned from Argentina. I didn’t want to spend a week at Coosaw given what was going on between Mark and me. My Mom and Dad were in Chicago for the summer and offered to let me use their house in Florida. Wanting to make this week special for the boys, and needing the strength and support of friends for me, we headed to Florida with Frannie and her four kids and two extra kids in tow.

We loaded the cars with surfboards, golf clubs, and tennis rackets and off we went. Denise, an old roommate from my time in New York, flew to meet me from her home in DC as did another friend from New York, Melissa. My sister Gier and her oldest son Fitz traveled from Chicago. The eleven kids kept us busy cooking big meals between all of the activities. My sister and girlfriends kept me laughing whenever possible.

We were all together the day Mark called to tell me that he had more explaining to do. Another woman, it seemed, had come forward and suggested to a member of the press that she had also had relations with Mark, which meant he would likely have to address the accusation with an AP reporter who would be interviewing him later in the day. I was gut-punched all over again. Mark had sworn to me when I’d discovered his secret back in January that Belen was the only “other” woman. Now he explained that there had been nothing much at all with this new woman, nothing he had felt I needed to know about before. Ever businesslike, he wanted to know what I thought he should reveal in the interview. Here again he was asking for
my advice
instead of first considering how the news might make me feel. Here again he was only really admitting his indiscretions because the woman had come forward, forcing him to come clean. I would soon learn—secondhand from the AP interview—that Mark had had yet more dalliances over the years, but that in his opinion he had not “crossed the line” as he’d done with Belen. When I pressed him for details when I saw him a few days later, I understood fully that his and my definition of an appropriate line were not at all the same.

Discovering that he had flirted with the idea of other affairs and perhaps even acted on some of his impulses was in a way more devastating than the public humiliation of the press conference when he returned from Argentina. How long, I wondered, had I had my head in the sand? I couldn’t help but think I had been deceived through the entire marriage, and for the first time in all that painful year I felt duped. Mark had handled me the way he’d tried to handle the press. He’d given me just enough information when he had to, but clearly he hadn’t given me the whole story. Not back in January. And maybe not even now. How could I know? How would I ever really know? I despaired about being able to forgive this bigger, broader hurt. I was about as close to breaking as one can be. I was testy, grumpy, teary, and exhausted.

My sister and girlfriends put up with me and supported me every step of the way. They made sure I took care of myself and that I remained focused on the kids and on deciding what was to come next with the kids and the marriage. Denise even made sure I started thinking about my future. Emails and letters poured in from around the country. We heard about people forming Jenny Sanford support groups and some organization began hawking t-shirts and mugs with “Team Jenny” on them. Denise registered web sites in my name and applied for a trademark so I would be protected from people exploiting my name and my image. I don’t know what I would have done in this time without these and other friends and their loyal and loving support. I needed them desperately and they came through brilliantly.

Mark joined us in Florida at the end of the week to help drive home, and I found him to be surprisingly devoid of true remorse, only regret for the outcomes. Needless to say, I was incredibly disappointed and our drive home was tolerable for me because I had Mark drive with Frannie, who remained mostly silent except for the boys in her car roughhousing and harassing each other in the back.

After we returned from Florida, feeling spent by Mark and simultaneously recharged by my friends, Mark and I went to an intense five-day marriage counseling session. I got a lot out of this marathon session—I learned a lot about Mark’s psychology and a lot about my own as well. Day after day of talking about yourself and probing your motivations was helpful to me. I came home from the counseling hopeful for my future, whether with Mark or without, but also had a renewed willingness to work one last time to improve things, for the sake of our kids. Mark seemed distant still, but promised me that the trip to Europe we had planned for the next week near the end of that summer would be great for the two of us and the kids. I didn’t really want to go to Europe, but I didn’t want to disappoint the boys; they had been earning money to help pay for the trip and their dedicated efforts should, I felt, be rewarded. (Bolton had walked the beach selling lemonade and water from a cart and Blake sold lemonade and performed magic tricks [!] from a stand on the street while Landon painted part of the house.) At that point, I was committed to reconciliation, though not much in Mark’s actions gave me reason to be hopeful for it. But Mark repeatedly promised he would
show me
how committed he was, and this family trip to Europe, I reasoned, would give him a chance to start doing so.

But there wasn’t much time for him to demonstrate his professed new resolve. This was another jam-packed Sanford family vacation with a cruise from Venice to the Greek isles along with time in London, Paris, and the beaches of Normandy, all in less than two weeks. Mark was considerate and sweet to me the first two days, and then he was hot and cold for the rest of the vacation. All in all, I think he was wallowing in his self-pity and still pining for his girl, while also trying to go through the motions to keep the marriage together. By the end of the trip, I couldn’t wait to get home.

Before heading to Europe, in anticipation of a possible more permanent move to the beach, I had hired a contractor to add some bookshelves and closets and to paint and restore the interior of the house after its years of summer rentals. My Mom came through like a superstar and made sure the workmen did as promised while we were away. She got the house put back in shape with new computer lines and freshened up bedrooms for the boys. This was no small task in a short time and I was so thankful to have her there in charge.

The boys each said Europe was the highlight of their summer, so I guess Mark and I were able to keep it together in their eyes. On the last day, however, we took the Chunnel from Paris to London and were recognized by a member of the press on the train. On arrival in London, there was a small pack of paparazzi waiting for us, and it broke my heart to have the boys see Mark hounded like a criminal.

One thing was clear to me when we got back. Mark hadn’t yet convinced me that he would be the least bit different in our marriage going forward. As soon as we got back to Columbia, therefore, I told the boys that we were moving back to the beach for the foreseeable future and that they would be changing schools. My not-so-secret hope was that Mark would be lonely in the big mansion by himself and that he’d glimpse the future that would be his if he continued to be so remote and unrepentant. Mark wasn’t keen on the idea of us moving—he would miss us, he said, and he thought the move punished him too much—but he backed me up in order to present a united front to the boys. The boys were not wild about the move either, but with their parents in agreement, we started to prep for it.

I didn’t look forward to having to move, but as it turned out, I had pleasant surprises in store for me. All I had to do was tell a few girlfriends of my planned move and they went into action. Some put fresh flowers in the pots at the beach so the house would feel lived in. Others showed up with garbage bags to help move things from the mansion, and another crew met us at the beach as we arrived. Mom smiled at me in the kitchen as the camera trucks waited for a tidbit of news at the end of the driveway. Mark had taken the boys to Coosaw for two days so that they wouldn’t have to be a part of the chaos of the move, and so they too were pleasantly surprised to find peace, calm, and, to top it all off, private bedrooms at long last (and for the first time in their lives!) for Marshall and Landon.

If nothing else, this crisis has taught me never to take my friends for granted. Not that I ever have taken them for granted, but it reminded me that there are times in life when we absolutely need friends. We need to love them and we need to listen to them. Likewise there are times when we need our family. We can easily get into a position where we think we can do so much on our own, and often we can, but we are not meant to live alone. I can only imagine where I would be this very moment and what our family and future would be like if Mark had listened to and respected the advice of his dear friends instead of following his “heart.”

FOURTEEN

N
OTHING REJUVENATES MY SPIRIT MORE THAN A WALK ALONG the shore. Watching the willets scamper at the edge of the water as the tide ebbs calms me and makes me feel closer to God. In the quiet, unstructured time that comes when I can be still and soak up the wonders of His creation, it is difficult to feel anger or to wallow in my suffering. My daily walks there help me put my life in perspective, all of its insignificance, and all of His goodness.

Now that the boys and I have settled at the beach, we have relaxed into a comfortable rhythm. I am up early reading and then getting their breakfast. Then they race through their meals, and Marshall herds them into his truck. A few minutes later, they are peeling out of the driveway, gravel spraying, as they dash off to school. Then lovely peace, and hours ahead where I can think, or write, grocery shop or see a friend. But first, I can hear the beach calling to me as I open the gate to the path there. With each step I take away from the house, I release. Release from the bills to be paid, laundry to be folded, scraped knees to be kissed, and dreams, dreams yet to dream, let alone fulfill. And what of the dreams for our marriage that the house once contained? Who was I to Mark and who was he to me?

Daily chores mix with questions, images, and memories that sometimes distract me from what really matters and how I truly feel. Near the end of the path, my steps quicken with eagerness for the sea and the sense of order it can give to a disordered mind. And then I am there, with the Atlantic stretched wide before me. The sense of timelessness and the beauty I feel in this space helps me cultivate my faith.

There are days when I feel supported by its peace, charmed by the brightness as the foamy edges of waves timidly advance across the sand. Other days the sea is violent, tumultuous, aggressive with gritty wind and cold spray. Sometimes I look out across its peaceful and unruffled surface and wonder what turmoil remains below. The sea allows a world of contradictions. Tossed around by contradictions, I am steadied by my faith.

Faith is waking up every day with an attitude of gratitude, knowing that, as I once wrote in my journal, “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it!” These were the thoughts that steadied me in this tumultuous year when my world fell to pieces. My pain was so intense and the future horribly uncertain, I took my faith from watching the sun set and knowing it surely would rise again, or watching the tides rush out, knowing the waters would flow back in. At that moment, faith needed to be just that simple for me to receive comfort from it, as everything I believed had suddenly shown itself to be untrue.

There were times when I walked with swift determination, in a heart-pounding frenzy, to shake these feelings out of me. Other walks, I went slowly, pausing to absorb the vastness. On days filled with turmoil and doubt, I wanted to know, to feel, that these problems were insignificant spread out across this calm expanse. I didn’t always find peace there quickly, but my faith kept me searching until I did.

In July, just a few weeks after Mark’s visit to Argentina, I was returning from a long walk on the beach when I saw a young woman helped to shore and saw the Sullivan’s Island rescue squad speed out in search of another. The sea had stripped the woman of her clothes, and another woman had wrapped her in a t-shirt and towel. I hurried over to help comfort her. She said the friend she had been swimming with was not from the area, and had thought she knew how to handle the strong currents but proved not to be as strong a swimmer. The other woman and I prayed for her and for her lost friend. When it became clear that she was in good hands, I hurried home to make sure my boys were safe.

I called Marshall, who was with his brothers, and all were accounted for and safe at a nearby park. I began to cook dinner, watching the rescue helicopters as they circled in vain, searching for a young life. I thought, Lord I am listening…. what are you telling me? I began to sing happily while I made spaghetti. I have a beautiful home, a good life, and wonderful, happy, bright children. I have great friends and a loving family. I am fine and I am blessed beyond belief. In my journal the next day I wrote of joy: “Find joy every day. My problems are insignificant.” I prayed, Psalm 139: “Search me, O God and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me and lead me in the way everlasting.” My heart has been pained but it is clean and I have peace. I have so much gratitude, there is no space, even in this vastness, for one drop of bitterness or regret.

I have many good girlfriends on the island, as well as my sister and friends nearby. On weekends, we often sit together while the kids tumble around. There are often communal dinners where someone brings a salad and someone else gets something on the grill. There seems now to be enough time for everything and yet each of these moments is too precious to waste. It is not perfect, but we have found balance.

I have been unwavering in my quest for understanding—for growth, knowledge, wisdom, and discernment. This has been true throughout my life and my marriage and certainly through these trying personal times. I have been patient and worked hard not to judge rashly or quickly but rather to understand, to learn. And I have learned. I learned that I need others to help and support me in trying times. I am vulnerable. I have learned just how loved I am. My family and friends have been incredible. My faith has remained strong and my God ever loving. I have also learned just how great and resilient our boys are and how undeserving of this crisis they truly are.

I have loved and will love again. I have lived these married years as loyally, as honestly, as lovingly and as committed as I could. I have worked hard and enjoyed our successes. I have given of myself, have been blessed with incredible friendships, and have worked on building character—mine and our children’s. With the strength of my faith and the blessings in my midst I am ready for the next chapter of my life where I hope to fully live each day, love each moment, and find joy along the way. I have known that character, self-respect, and integrity are so difficult to develop and earn and so easy to lose. I have tried my best to act responsibly, patiently, and fairly and will freely welcome the next chapter with no regrets from the past and no fears for the future. I will persevere with my feet firmly planted—preferably with some sand between my toes—focused on my priorities and looking onward and ever upward.