The Cutting Room Floor ~ Volume 1

The scene below never made it into my published memoir, She’s Still In There: Healing the Wounded Child Within. I’ve learned that some readers wonder whatever became of Paul, my alcoholic first husband. Well, you no longer need to wonder. You’re welcome!

Fall, 2003

I dropped into my office chair, turned towards my computer, and did what every busy manager does at the beginning of their workday—opened my email inbox. I sighed and scrolled through dozens of messages, mentally prioritizing which to review, which to answer, and which to delete. My eyes scanned a name that stirred a faint sense of familiarity, like I should know this person, but couldn’t remember why.

Linda Cranston. Hm. Wonder who that is?

I clicked open the email and read the following message, “Were you ever married to Paul Cranston? He doesn’t have much time left and is looking for his ex-wife.”

The words hit me like splash of cold water. Paul and I divorced in 1986 and I hadn’t spoken to him in over fifteen years. When I thought of him, which wasn’t often, it was usually with a sense of sad regret. I held no sentimental emotional attachment to this man, who I counted as one of the biggest mistakes of my life. His life had held such promise, but, to my knowledge, he had never followed any kind of recovery program that would have helped him climb out of the destructive well of alcoholism. Did booze finally erode his physical health? And who was Linda and how did she find me?

This pivotal moment wasn’t lost on me. I had built a solid family life with a wonderful husband and two beautiful children. If I stepped back into Paul’s life, would it harm Greg and my family? I could just ignore the message, pretend I hadn’t received it, and keep the door closed on my past life.

And yet.

Was it possible that my years married to this man had left him with a literal life-and-death issue that needed resolution? Would reconnecting with him bring a small measure of redemption to the miserable years I spent trying to be a force for good in his life? Was God in this with me?

“Yes, I’m the Lisa Baldwin who was married to Paul in the early 1980’s. I’m sad to learn he is not well. How did you find me and why does Paul need to speak with me?”  My hand hovered over the mouse a full minute before I clicked send.

As it turned out, Linda Cranston was Paul’s fourth wife, a fact I learned from the phone conversation we had the next day. She found my contact information in the state government staff directory, a public information source. Paul asked her to contact me because he had been diagnosed with stage four cancer and had recently learned that there were no more treatment options that would arrest the spread of this disease. Facing his own mortality, he asked Linda to “find the only woman who ever got me into church.”

I marveled, not only at Linda and her generous spirit, but also at the wonder of how Paul could always find kind, capable women to take care of him. He seemed to have a knack for it.

“I think God brought Paul into my life because he wants me to take care of him before he dies. Will you talk with him? I think it would help him with some big questions he is struggling with,” Linda said as we concluded our phone call.

“Let me think about it,” I said, stalling. I had to talk with Greg first. My devotion to him surpassed any loyalty to my dying ex-husband.

Greg, the solid, self-possessed guy who is never easily threatened, gave me his consent.  “You know, he never deserved you then, and he really doesn’t deserve you now. But I know you want to do the right thing for the guy.” Greg—he’s such a keeper.

I called Paul a few days later. “Hi Lisa,” he said, and it sounded like an apology. Just two words, but the Eeyore tone to his sad voice was shockingly familiar, even after all those years.

“Hi Paul. I hear you’re having a tough time.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he said, followed by a rueful chuckle. “Looks like I’m not getting out of this one alive.”

I shivered, my thoughts trailing back to the call room at the Suicide Prevention Hotline, the urgency and emotional charge that came when I answered the phone. I had spent most of my marriage to Paul trying and failing to be the intermediary between him and God, which never worked. God’s plans for us are never designed to work that way, but my broken younger self didn’t know that.

In the years after our divorce, God strengthened me through many Lessons of Love and I was no longer that insecure young girl trying to save the world from their own sadness.

I wasn’t shackled to the belief that the act of saving others made me worth saving as well. Paul still needed a Savior, and I fully understood it wasn’t me.

We talked a long time, catching up on the fifteen year span that separated us. I learned that he had actually quit drinking a few years after we divorced but had never worked a recovery program. His stories revealed the same self-centered, miserable person he had always been. He also never quit smoking cigarettes, the source of the terminal cancer diagnosis that would shortly end his life.

He sounded adrift and detached, like life had whooped the fight right out of him. So I waded out of his personal swamp and got to the point.

“Paul, why did you look me up? What do you want?”

“I first believed in God when we were together. It seemed so real. But I never did anything with it. I just kinda went through life on my own since then. I never quit believing, though.”

“I remember. I was there that day you gave your heart to Jesus at Warehouse Church. It was as real as it gets. Nothing changes that Paul.”

“Yeah, but how can I expect God to take me in after, you know, the way my life turned out.”

I knew what he was after. In the very core of my soul I knew what he wanted, even though he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say the words out loud.

“I forgive you Paul. I forgave you many years ago. It was the only way I could get on with my life.”

He didn’t respond, so I just let the silence rest, the familiar rasp of his cigarette lighter and long exhale of breath the only sound between us.

“You know I’m not really the one you need forgiveness from, right?” I said.

“Ya’ think? Yeah, I know that.” The sarcastic quip did little to cover the depth of the sadness that, like his cancer, was eating away at him.

“Would you feel better if you talked to a pastor about all of this?” I said, pulling away from the  powerful current that wanted to drag me back into an unhealthy role from an outdated script.

“Maybe I would. Makes me nervous though.”

“Now is not the time to be nervous about seeking forgiveness from God. Do you want me to give Linda my pastor’s information and see if she can set up a meeting with you? I know he would love to talk with you.” Which was true, and also handed the work of arranging this meeting to his current wife, who clearly wanted this role. With that he handed the phone to Linda. She was gentle and easy to talk with, which makes sense considering how much we had in common.

Paul met with my pastor a few weeks later, and he also talked with my brother Tim. The last time I spoke with Paul he sounded calm and settled that he had, at last, made peace with God.

Linda called me six weeks after my first phone call with Paul to let me know he had died. She invited me to the funeral, but I declined. I wasn’t Paul’s wife, Linda was.

During the weeks following Paul’s death, I reflected on my years of frantic prayers for him and how desperate I was for him to get sober. I often wondered if God sometimes just gave up on the people who hardened their hearts towards him. Turns out he doesn’t, which gave me great hope. I’m convinced that Paul is with Jesus right now, forgiven, free, and full of eternal life. What a beautiful thought.