the lynch mob sounded like a good idea

I've been cleaning like a madwoman this afternoon, right down to the strips of rubber on the refrigerator door that help seal the cool air in. A mild solution of white vinegar and water is what I like to use for this chore. I suppose the acidic content of the vinegar helps eat mold and destroy microscopic creatures that would otherwise build their condominiums right next to the fresh egg compartment.
Yesterday afternoon I got a phone call from an old friend. She was rounding up me and four of my oldest, most beloved friends from our college years, calling an emergency meeting for that night on behalf of X., who had something she needed to tell us.
When an emergency meeting like this is called, it's rarely for celebratory reasons. We met at the restaurant, all of us feeling a little concerned, and settled into the biggest booth we could find. X. steadied her nerves with a glass of wine and told us that she had been living in a physically abusive relationship with her husband for ten years. She was initiating a separation from him. He finally went too far this week, his rage reaching a level that left her fearing for her life.
I went cold and shuddery at the news. I could only shake my head. We all listened as she told us what she had been through for the past ten years. How it started with a little shove against the wall years ago from this man, who is two heads taller and eighty pounds heavier than she. And then things just got worse and worse.
We all cried, and told her how much we supported her, and offered sympathy and help with lodging and practical necessities. We remembered times when things had seemed not quite right between the two of them. We said mean things about her husband. We expressed wishes for him to experience pain, a lot of it, and slowly. I had to hold my tongue during that part — I wanted to go into graphic detail about exactly what I wanted for this man, but I also knew that that wouldn't help.
Truthfully, I kept thinking about how great it would be to go down to Ye Olde Viking Superstore, and get some big torches, the kind as big around as the trunk of a sapling, the kind that actually drop little pieces of flaming cinder on your shoulders as you hold them aloft. And then I was thinking about how maybe all of us could go down there, march down the street with our torches blazing and cinders flying everywhere, and beat on the door of his house and demand that he come out.
Of course, I do think of myself as a peaceful hippie, a middle child, a peacemaker, someone who has actively sought to incorporate the qualities of Nonviolent Communication into my relationships. To suddenly relish thoughts of leading a lynch mob was unnerving, and I quickly tried to bleach the thought from my mind. Calling a lynch mob together would not improve the situation in any way.
Plus, I might get put in jail.
As we continued talking, I realized that X.'s husband is exactly where he needs to be. He has stopped denying everything, and is beginning to recognize the depth of his problem. And his wife is already doing OK. After years of knowing that things have not been right, she is getting her life back. She is going to be fine. She is going to be very, very fine.
The women that were called to the restaurant that evening have been in my life for a decade or two. Though the reason for the gathering was very painful, I couldn't help but rejoice over the fact that we were all together in that booth, all thinking the same thoughts, wanting the same things, a tribe who would gladly walk through fire to help our friend. These women found ways to support, care for, question, and bear with me during some of the darkest days of my life, and they were doing it again for X.
I thought about the strength of that tribe of beautiful, strong women, and I knew that we didn't need a lynch mob. We were unleashing hell on X.'s husband simply by being completely present for her, for bearing witness to her story and reminding her that she would never feel that kind of aloneness again.