The phone rang. “Can I visit you?” a woman named Carol asked with that particular tone of voice that lets you know she’ll be crushed if refused.
I clasped my hand over the receiver and whispered to Mary, my wife, “That girl we met after worship wants to come and see us.”
“You mean here?” she mouthed incredulously, casting her eye over the packing cases still strewn everywhere from our recent move. I nodded. We wanted to be friendly to our new congregation. So Mary nodded in agreement, and I told Carol, almost honestly, “You’ll be welcome.”
Within ten minutes of Carol’s arrival, we knew she was different. Her world was small, amounting to her job, her parents, and her church. Any question on these three subjects would elicit a one-sentence answer, often accompanied by a high-pitched giggle. Rarely did she initiate a subject.
However, she never failed to give me perfect attention. Her eyes never left me.
Mary spoke frequently to divert her attention, but Carol barely responded to her. After an hour of this, I suggested we view some TV. Mary and I watched the program, but Carol mostly watched me, interrupting regularly to get my attention.
When the door finally closed on Carol that evening, both Mary and I were exhausted. I sank back into a chair and sighed a heartfelt prayer, “No more evenings like that, Lord, please!”
That was not to be, however. Carol began to come over regularly, and she didn’t wait for invitations. Instead, she’d call and say, “I bought your son a birthday present. Please, can I bring it to him myself?” She made it impossible to refuse.
A deficit personality
Carol had no friends, having smothered every friendship under a ton of oppressive attention. She was a single 35-year-old with a huge minus in self-esteem and a huge plus in loneliness. No wonder she wanted to be my “special friend.”
Our every instinct made us want to run. We also realized that rejecting Carol might be particularly cruel. She was one of those “in-between people”- not mentally handicapped, yet so slow and inept that she was no one’s equal in verbal skills. In appearance she had a glazed look. In conversation she took a minimum of initiative. In social sensitivity she scored next to zero. Those deficits doomed Carol to the poorest of chances of love and friendship.
Surely a pastor and his family ought to show such a young woman Christian love. We couldn’t rewrite Carol’s history, but at least in one small context we could guarantee it didn’t repeat.
So we persevered with Carol, including her in family events, giving her small gifts at Christmas, paying her compliments about her hair or clothes. We showed interest in her, trying to build her self-confidence.
Carol continued to ask, “When’s the next time I can come round?” Mary quickly learned to invite Carol only when I had other plans for the evening. I’d do my bit by having coffee with her when I returned and then driving her home. Unfortunately, Carol wanted more.
One evening we pulled in beside her house, and before I had a chance to say a word, her arms were around my neck, pulling me toward her, intending to impart a kiss that would have taken Romeo’s breath away.
Startled and angry as I pulled away, I exclaimed, “No, Carol! You won’t do that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said softly, as a sheepish look came over her. “I didn’t mean any harm,” innocence oozing from every pore.
“Good night, Carol,” I replied firmly, and with little decorum ushered her out of the car.
As I drove home, I pounded the steering wheel in anger. She’s been planning this! I fumed as hints and remarks Carol had made earlier fit into place.
Mary also became angry when I told her what happened. But eventually we calmed down. We understood that Carol was scarcely a threat for my affections. And that made it hard to take Carol’s amorous advances seriously.
Then the letters began. And the cards: “Ever since the first day I saw you across a crowded church, I felt you would always be special for me.”
We tried ignoring the correspondence. It only got worse. “I love you with all my heart,” she wrote. “No one is more important to me than you.”
I raged.
“Don’t hurt her,” Mary said, sensing my anger but feeling sorry for a soul who wasn’t “all there.” As far as I was concerned, she was too much there, especially in my house.
I took Carol aside at church and spoke directly: “Carol, you must stop writing these romantic letters to me. I don’t want any more. I’m a married man, and you shouldn’t be thinking these things.”
“I’m so sorry. Have I been a naughty girl? I didn’t mean anything bad.”
Yes you did, I thought. She might fear exclusion, but as for real repentance, I was unconvinced.
At least the love letters stopped. Cards came addressed to both Mary and me, and the sentiments were reasonably subdued. Her ability to make that change convinced me that Carol knew right from wrong.
Others in the church were not blind to all this, of course. They saw her rush after every service to fetch me coffee. They heard her boast of being a special friend of the pastor, and of how often she was in our home. But on the whole they didn’t take it seriously. They knew Carol and her limitations. Her actions and talk were thought of as little more than innocuous idol worship.
Nonetheless, Mary and I suffered from Carol claustrophobia. Her presence, both in our home and at other gatherings, closed in on us. There seemed to be no escape.
Dealing with the deficit
We did take action, however. Carol still remains somewhat of a problem, but we’ve found ways to preserve our sanity and yet help Carol.
Remove opportunities. It’s partly my responsibility to keep Carol from indulging her fantasies, if only by avoiding being with her in certain contexts. I no longer drive her anywhere if only the two of us will be in the car. Mary sometimes drives her, and we’ve learned to involve friends.
When we started asking others to take Carol, we discovered Carol had been sabotaging that strategy. They said, “We’ve wanted to help you, but when we spoke to Carol, she’d say, ‘I don’t need a ride. The pastor will be taking me.’ So we assumed you’d already made an arrangement.”
Now our friends know I’ll never have made a prearrangement to drive Carol. They insist she goes with them.
Immediately halt advances. It’s rare, but Carol sometimes lets overly affectionate feelings resurface. Her words go beyond an acceptable boundary of fondness. A sentimental card or letter on perfumed paper may reappear.
When it happens, I immediately raise the matter with her. With Carol, nothing improves by being ignored. Whether she’s indulging in mere flirtation or a full-blown imaginary affair, it’s unacceptable. So I make it clear to Carol that there will be no relationship at all if her flirting continues. That usually puts an effective brake on romantic expressions.
Speak clearly. Although I try not to be cruel, I’ve chosen not to be vague. Carol doesn’t care to know how to take a hint. Only plain talk makes a difference. Otherwise, she smiles coyly, as if to say, “I know you don’t really mean that.”
I sometimes tell her directly that “it’s time to back off.” I make sure my meaning cannot be missed. Sometimes she is hurt, but I’ve found that if I don’t deal forcefully with the issue when it’s small, then I’ll have to be even more blunt when it’s grown large.
Give legitimacy to our own needs. We’ve learned that self-preservation is one form of self-discipline. During one period, the pressure of Carol’s self-imposed company had been building. Under Carol’s interminable insistence, Mary had allowed a visit on an evening I’d be at a meeting. Carol usually took a 10:00 bus home, which meant I would arrive after she was gone.
However my meeting ended early. I delayed my arrival at home-driving around the block, waiting in my parked car-until I was sure Carol would no longer be there. Finally, I swung into my drive. Into the house I went, only to find Carol still there, beaming from excitement that I was back before she’d left.
I could have cried. That Carol never knew how I felt at that moment may constitute my lifetime peak of self-discipline.
Mary and I decided afterward that the strain of accepting that self-invited guest had gone too far. Carol would soon hear the word no more often when she asked to visit, and she’d have to be told when to leave.
Keep Carol’s need in perspective. There’s no doubt Carol is a needy person. What Carol is not, however, is the only needy person. Others qualify for our love, perhaps with a greater need than Carol’s.
Around me are people with no family, no work, and no attention at all. But many are either too hurt or too reserved to ask for attention. They know Mary and I are busy and don’t want to burden us.
I’m learning to force myself to go beyond responding to who’s shouting loudest and ask, Who’s most needy?
Every time I allow Carol’s peremptory tactics to occupy our lives, I’m choosing to care for her rather than these others. That’s fine if her need is genuinely the most important; the reality is that usually she’s only making the most noise.
Allow priority for family needs. One year Carol decided not to spend her Christmas vacation with her parents, and for months she threw out little comments to us like, “You wouldn’t have me sitting all alone at Christmas, would you?” And for months I swallowed my real answer and changed the subject quickly.
By early December Mary wanted me to make a decision. “Can’t we decide in January?” I asked lamely. But after prayer and conversation with friends, we decided firmly against Carol coming, even if it meant Carol had to spend the day alone.
So Mary sensitively but directly told Carol it wouldn’t be possible for us to have her at Christmas. She gave no detailed explanations. All Mary said was, “We need to be quiet and organize ourselves at that time.” Carol took it calmly and said she hoped we’d come see her after Christmas.
And as it turned out, she did find a family to spend the day with. It appears she didn’t need us so desperately after all.
Carol still wants to bestow her presence on us generously. Sometimes we see her and sometimes we refuse, but we simply won’t be controlled by her. Probably we’ll always struggle to get that balance right. But whether we’re encouraging or discouraging Carol, we always try to do so in love.
Jesus often went the second mile for needy people of his day, but then again, sometimes he found sanctuary from them. Whatever he did in any given circumstance, however, his priorities were ordered by his Father and not by the most persistent of those to whom he ministered.
-Name withheld
Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
