My twins and I spend a chunk of time together. I never watch any tv shows without them, although they do enjoy some without me. We have read dozens of books aloud, and savored the suspense like the warmth of a mug of cocoa in your cupped hands. Most of our choices are squeaky clean. If any of us start to feel uncomfortable, we turn it off or close the cover. 

One of their birthday gifts was a novel from their sister, who said she read it in one gulp. The girls and I have taken longer, wedging it in between play practice, dance rehearsals, church, and chicken chores. The plot has been outrageously funny, and far fetched. It is about a loving family, up to their noses in interpersonal implosions. 

But the last installment took a downward spiral. The dad had an affair. The air grew thicker as we all came to realize what was happening, and sighed at the choices of a man we had come to know in the last hundred pages. But we were invested and after a collective sigh, kept reading. 

As more of the story bubbled to the top, it became clear that the circumstances of his floundering family had left him vulnerable. His administrative assistant, whom we had previously seen as a neutral character, had fallen in love with her boss and orchestrated time alone with him. She became pregnant. 

We paused to process this. I talked about how the Lord holds adultery, and the gradations between a person who is mired in deceit, feeling no regret, and a man like this one who fell into it, and had no intention of hurting his family. I would probably never have plunged into a conversation like this over spaghetti, and yet it was holy ground.  

I have no idea how the book will resolve, though I dearly hope the family comes through with their arms around each other. Having one story about forgiveness in their repertoire could be a stepping stone that gets my girls across their own white water one day.