Free Lundyn Bridges by Patrice Johnson Page A

telling her parents. The only thing she was willing to do was pray with me for her safety. I was extremely uncomfortable keeping this secret with her.

    Beginning in November, Francine agreed to have our weekly meetings at her apartment. I did not look forward to being on her turf - not out of fear, but I didn’t totally trust her. In the four months I had known Francine my most recurring thought was to give up, but I was always humbled by God’s grace in my life. That, coupled with our Bible study, helped me focus on being a sower of God’s Word. I continued to share scriptures and invite Francine to church. I even offered to buy her a Bible, which she adamantly declined. Francine wasconvinced God had never helped her, and I was convinced she thought God was a spiritual genie. On one occasion, when the door was open, I asked Francine why she would ask a God she didn’t believe in to help her and why she thought God should have answered her previous prayers when He knew she didn’t believe in Him. My questions were received antagonistically, and Francine responded, “If He has all power, then He could have helped me.”
    On Friday morning, Kiarra and I met at Starbucks before going to My Sister's Keeper. Her client had already enrolled in a program at Bidwell Training Center. Francine, on the other hand, was still resisting her own progress. When I arrived for my third home visit, Francine’s apartment door was ajar. I held the door knob, balancing my coffee cup between two fingers, and knocked with the knuckles of my left hand while clutching the handle of my briefcase.
    â€œCome on,” she said from inside the apartment.
    When I entered, she was standing at the sink with her arms crossed. A dish towel hung from her hand like a tassel. “You’re ten minutes late,” she said condescendingly, looking at the clock on the wall. “I thought timeliness was soooo important.”
    â€œI apologize for being late,” I smiled. “It’s good to know you’ve been listening in group. Timeliness is very important.”
    â€œWell, if I count the times you’ve kept me waiting in your office, then this is the third time you’ve been late this month. What does that say about your commitment to your client?”
    This was another one of those times when I didn’t know if Francine was being serious or sarcastic. Ichose to ignore the comment and took a seat on the couch. Francine continued drying the last of her dishes.
    â€œI hate group,” she said joining me on the couch.
    â€œFrancine,” I began, ready to give my therapeutic discourse.
    â€œYou know I hate talking about myself,” she interrupted me. “You know I don’t want none of them in my business. All women do is get in your business and then tell it, and then they tell it wrong!” She stopped to sip her coffee. Then she put the cup back in the saucer so hard that the coffee in the saucer spilled onto the table. Francine sighed and rested her forehead on the palm of her left hand.
    I spoke softly and quickly. “Francine, the goal of group therapy is to help you, not to have other people in your business. All of you have things in common from your past, and group therapy provides an opportunity to share those feelings of regret and shame with others who have walked in your shoes.”
    Before I could finish my statement, Francine stood up and snapped, “Who said I got shame and regrets? See, you’re just like my family – keep blaming me for things I couldn’t help. It was the drugs. How many times do I have to say it? It was the drugs! It was the drugs! Those drugs made me leave my kids. I was addicted, and I couldn’t help myself. My kids should be glad I didn’t drag them in the streets. They should be glad I didn’t prostitute them. They should be glad that I let someone else take care of them when I couldn’t!”
    Francine’s