“I’ll get my sweater.” She slipped away before I could kiss her, leaving me at the door.
Stepping inside, I watched her jog up the stairs. It took an instant to realize her parents weren’t there. The house was silent and dark beyond the entrance hall. I waited, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock. Something about the house discouraged wandering. I’d never been upstairs and wouldn’t dare tread on Richard’s territory without permission.
Footsteps preceded Corey’s appearance at the top of the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“How was the shower? Get lots of fun stuff?”
Reaching the last step, she slipped into the sweater. “It was fine. Are you hungry?”
“Hey, slow down.” I put an arm around her as she passed me. “What’s the big hurry? Show me what you got today.”
Flicking a hand toward the stairs, she pulled away. “It’s all up in my bedroom.”
“You okay?”
The question stopped her at the door, one hand on the knob. She wouldn’t hold my gaze. Instead, her eyes darted around, as if seeking someplace safe to land. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. A blind man could see that. “You’re not nervous about the wedding, are you?”
“No, it’s not—” Her eyes caught mine and she sighed. “You know what they say about people marrying their parents? I mean, a guy marries a woman like his mom, and…you know, a woman marries a guy like her dad.”
“What’re you saying? I’m like your dad?” I tried to make light of it, but there was enough edge to my tone to shut her down. I’d known it then, even if I couldn’t admit it.
And as the wedding drew closer, she seemed to pull farther away. Wedding jitters, that’s what I told myself. She’d be fine once we were married. But something in Corey had died, and I hadn’t tried to resurrect it. I hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it.
Until now.
Chapter 30
Corey
Entering Reflections, Tricia’s shop, is like stepping into a fairy tale for grown-ups, and she’s the fairy godmother. Every wall, every rack, every conceivable space is showcased with her impeccable taste in color, style, and texture. My fingers trail across faux suede, soft cashmere, and a light wool blend as I lead Taylor through the wonderland.
“Hi, Corey. Hi, Taylor.” Jasmine, Tricia’s assistant, appears. She reminds me of the Disney character with the same name—long sleek hair, exotic eyes, unreal figure. How is it possible to be that thin? “Tricia’s in the back on the phone. She’ll be out in a sec.”
I catch my reflection in a full-length mirror and boy do I pale in comparison. Ill-fitting jeans, baggy t-shirt and—is that a stain from this morning’s breakfast? —dull, unruly hair.
“I’m going to start working here today.” Taylor plucks a lace camisole from a rack. “This is so cute.” She holds it up against her. “What do you think?”
Jasmine snatches a light jacket from another rack. “Pair it with this and a pair of skinny jeans. It’d look great. Especially that color.”
I shake my head. “Not in our budget, kiddo.”
Tricia emerges from the back room. “My goddaughter doesn’t have a budget.”
“No, but my daughter does.” I give her a pointed look.
“We’ll discuss it,” she says dismissively. “How about I bring Taylor home around lunch time?”
“I want to work all day,” Taylor says, breaking away from Jasmine.
There’s no way she’ll have the energy. “I don’t know—”
“How about this?” Tricia says. “I’ll bring you home for lunch, and if you feel up to it, I’ll bring you back after.”
She walks me to the door. “You know, Taylor’s not the only one without a budget here.”
“As beautiful as your clothes are, they aren’t for me.”
“Hmm. You’d be surprised.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“We’ll see you at lunch,” she trills, closing the door behind me.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I take a moment to soak in the sunshine breaking through a mist of high fog. With no agenda and no Taylor, I’m lost. It’s Thursday morning. What would I be doing if I were home?
As I retrieve my car, I think back to my conversation with Paul the evening before. I don’t know what I expected, opening up about Taylor’s memory returning. Before everything fell apart, Paul was my best counsel. Godly, clear-minded, maybe a little over-bearing. But it came with the territory.
And now?
With no destination in mind, I drive up and down the narrow streets of Carmel until I spot a charming little church tucked behind a few trees, its white steeple a beacon to my bruised soul. Oceanside Presbyterian Church, the wooden sign announces. I know as well as anyone that I don’t need to be in church to pray. But God and I, we haven’t been on the same wavelength lately. It’s my fault. The reawakening of my sin’s put a wedge between us. That same wedge that’s been erected between Paul and me.
Pulling into the parking lot, I see only one other car, but it’s enough to assure me the church is open. I park and climb out, taking a moment to bask in the warmth of the sun on my face, the faint whiff of cedar, and the uplifting notes of a bird’s song. Contentment, even for such a brief moment, is a welcome relief.
The tall, narrow double doors are made of a dark wood, the handles black wrought iron. I grasp one and tug, revealing a foyer, and beyond that, straight rows of wooden pews, stained glass windows depicting Bible scenes, and the comforting musty tang of age. The altar is marble and wood, the wall behind taken up by a simple wooden cross.
Stepping inside, I glance around. Empty. Although the doors were unlocked, it feels as if I’m treading where I don’t belong. If Paul were here, he’d march inside as if it were his right, and I suppose it is. This is God’s house. Everyone belongs. Even so, I take tentative steps toward the back pew and ease into it. The bench is as hard as it looks, the wood smoothed and shaped by years of use. How many lost souls have found their way to this very same spot?
Closing my eyes, I struggle to find the words to pray. My cries for help get tangled up in a conscience entangled with guilt, shame, repercussions. You made your bed. It’s not God who continually reminds me of my past. I know in my head that He doesn’t hold an account of my sins. But how do I get my heart to take hold of it?
A rustling draws my attention to a door to the left of the alter. Someone exits—a man. Tall, slender, familiar. Dressed in black slacks, a gray shirt, and a clerical collar. It can’t be.
“Jonas?”
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” Jonas’s grin is welcoming, but not surprised. Was he expecting me?
“Is this…are you the pastor here?”
He slips his hands into the front pockets of his slacks while moving down the middle aisle toward me. “I am. Been pastor here for going on twenty years now.”
I think back to our two previous conversations. Was there anything he said that hinted at his occupation? No. Even when Taylor told him about Paul being a pastor, he gave no indication that he shared the same calling. But now, standing before me in the formal pastoral garb, it all fits.
“What brings you here on this beautiful morning?”
“I love old churches.” Could I give a lamer excuse? “I mean, our church is modern. It doesn’t have the same feel.”
His eyes move about the room as if admiring a beautiful piece of art or a beloved child. “There is something quite comforting about them, isn’t there? Maybe the spirit of those who’ve come before us seeking God’s grace and forgiveness.” His eyes land back on mine. “But of course, you’d know about that, being married to a pastor yourself.”
“Yes,” I murmur, unable to maintain eye contact. Grace and forgiveness. Two things that have been in short supply.
“I was getting ready to take a walk. Would you care to join me? Or,” he indicates the pew, “am I disturbing your time with the Lord?”
“I�
��d like to walk with you. I’ll slip back in here before leaving, if it’s all right with you.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
I follow him out the doors I’d entered through not ten minutes earlier. Even so, I squint against the brightness of the sun as we pass fragrant gardenias and azaleas in full bloom. Evidence of God’s abundant creation. The streets are quiet—midday, mid-week, away from the tourist traps. No shops or beaches here.
“Your daughter…Taylor, right?”
“Yes.”
“She seems very sweet. Reminds me of my Rebecca. Of course, it’s been quite a few years since she was a teenager.”
“How many children do you have?”
“I had five. I lost a son to cancer when he was only sixteen.” He shakes his head, eyes focused on the ground. “That was a hard year. Especially on my wife, Beth. I wasn’t sure she’d ever recover. That’s what brought us here to Carmel. Beth’s always been partial to the ocean.”
“And did she? Recover, I mean.”
He chuckles. “She sure did. Give that woman a mission and watch out. Only thing she loves more than kids is the Lord. Practically ran the youth center single-handed for years.” Pride and affection for his wife infuses his tone.
“How long have you been married?”
“Forty-six years this fall.”
I hesitate to ask. “Beth, she’s still with you then?”
His smile is sad. “In body. She’s got Alzheimer’s.” He takes my elbow as we cross the street. “Enough about me. Tell me something about yourself. I know you’re married to a pastor and you have a beautiful daughter. She said something about a brother.”
My heart’s still linked to Beth and the tragedy this poor man’s suffered. Whatever I might say will be trivial in comparison. But then maybe Jonas needs to walk in someone else’s shoes for a time. “Michael. He’s fifteen.”
“Are he and your husband here in Carmel with you?”
“No. I…” What? Pastor or not, I don’t even know this man. To share my soap-opera-like life is unthinkable.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I can see it in your eyes. Noticed it the first time we spoke.”
“What?” I try to laugh it off.
“I’ve been there myself. Pain so deep, you don’t know how to climb out of it.”
Is it so obvious? Like Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book, only instead of a scarlet A, I have a scarlet S for shame. It takes a moment to find my voice. “Six months ago, if we had this conversation, I’d have convinced you that everything in my life was perfect. I might have even been able to convince myself.”
“Nah.” He looks at me and grins. “Hate to break it to you, but there’s no such thing as perfection on this side of heaven.”
“I suppose not. But for some of us, there’s a wide chasm of sin separating us from God.”
“Afraid I have to disagree with you again, Corey. Christ filled that chasm. ‘For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
As Jonas quotes the apostle Paul from Romans, my eyes fill, blurring my vision, and I stop. It sounds so simple in scripture, but in reality—
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“It doesn’t matter. If you were Hitler himself, standing here in front of me, repentant, I’d tell you the same thing. Your sin is no better, no worse than anyone else’s.”
He leads me over to a bench. When did we enter a park? “You want to tell me what it is that was so awful? I guarantee you I’ve heard it all. Took part in quite a few of my own, too.”
The slats of the bench press into the back of my thighs, and I shift to a more comfortable position before recounting the past several months. I share what only moments before seemed unthinkable to divulge, and with the confession comes relief. Jonas doesn’t interrupt or allow his face to communicate his thoughts.
“So, here I am. A last-ditch effort to save my marriage and my relationship with Taylor.”
“I see.” He sighs, folds his arms, and rests against the bench back. “It seems you have quite a problem on your hands.”
Finally, someone who agrees with me.
“You expect your husband and daughter to forgive you for something you aren’t able to forgive yourself for?”
“No.” What’s he talking about? “That’s not it.”
“You don’t expect them to forgive you?”
How can they? “I don’t know. Of course, I want them to. It’s just…”
“You don’t think it’s possible.” Jonas’s eyes soften and I have to look away.
“No, I suppose not.”
“You have to forgive yourself first, Corey. Have you read First Corinthians thirteen?”
“Of course.” My response comes without thought. “It’s the most used scripture at weddings.”
He nods. “True. But as often as it’s used, those verses aren’t speaking of the love of a husband and wife. I urge you to go back and reread First Corinthians thirteen five. We can read scripture from dawn till dusk, but if it doesn’t penetrate our hearts…”
I tuck his words away for a later time, until I can retrieve them, study them, and pray that they’ll take root. “It must seem crazy to you. A pastor’s wife struggling with the basics of Christianity.”
“Not crazy. Human.”
Some of the guilt eases from my weary shoulders.
“It makes me a little curious, too.” He seems focused on a little yellow-and-black bird hopping about the lawn not twenty feet from us. “What was, or is, your relationship with your father like?”
“My dad?” Where is this coming from?
“Often when we struggle with the idea of God’s love and grace, it’s in direct correlation to the lack of the same we had growing up.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know. And it explains so much.
Chapter 31
Corey
Life away from home is taking on an eerie type of normal. Communication with Paul is handled with quick phone calls where neither of us says much of value and there is no progress toward changing the status quo. Michael prefers brief text messages—lots of exclamation points and all caps to get his point across. The bottom line? He and Paul aren’t getting along. When am I coming home?
I spend a few days pondering my conversation with Jonas and how my relationship with my father plays into my disconnect with God. More accurately, how my relationship with my father makes it difficult for me to accept God’s forgiveness for my past. How could I have been a pastor’s wife for nearly two decades and never have dealt with this elemental issue?
And what Jonas said about sin—none better or worse than any other—sounds great in theory, but when I try to put it into practice, it feels more like I’m justifying my actions. Repentant? Yes, I couldn’t be sorrier for my past mistakes. But that doesn’t change how they are now affecting Taylor and Paul. And somewhere down the line, Michael as well.
I look up First Corinthians thirteen, a passage I’ve read a million times—a list of what God’s love is: patient, kind, does not envy, does not boast, is not proud. Does not dishonor others, is not self-seeking, is not easily angered. But it’s the last half of verse five Jonas was referring to—it keeps no records of wrongs. It’s arrogant to think my sin is so great, Christ’s sacrifice can’t cover it. And yet, it’s not my sin against God that has me stumbling, it’s my sin against Paul and Taylor.
That Sunday, I talk Trish into attending services at Jonas’s church with me. And while I sit in the bottom-worn pew between her and Taylor, I allow Jonas’s message to take root in my heart. Perhaps if he were my father, I wouldn’t be struggling with the issue of grace. Maybe I wouldn’t have even experienced my Great Shame in the first place. Guilt follows with the speed of a whip, and an apology f
lits through my head before those thoughts have a chance to take hold. My choices cannot be blamed on anyone but me.
The next day, as Taylor and I are driving back to Trish's after the therapy appointment, Taylor asks, "Are you and Dad getting divorced?”
A sense of peace settles over me. Was it my talk with Jonas that prepared me for this moment? I'll never know. A week ago, my immediate answer would have been, “No!" But I don't know the answer to that question and am tired to the core of my heart pretending that I do.
"I hope not," I say instead.
“What?” Apparently, that’s not the answer she expected. “Then that’s why we’re here? Because you guys are, like, separated?”
It only takes a quick glance to catch the crestfallen expression and sheen of tears. “I think it’s time we had that talk.”
Half a mile and two turns later, we’re at the beach. I park the car and gather our sweatshirts, handing Taylor hers before climbing out. A high fog shrouds the day in gloom and the moist breeze has just enough bite to seep into the bones. But it’s refreshing rather than intolerable.
The beach isn’t deserted as expected, and I recognize a number of regulars as we slip off our shoes and navigate the shifting sand. Taylor’s uncharacteristically quiet. Is that good or bad? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
I point north. “Let’s head this way.” My shoes, tied together by the strings and hanging from my fingers, bump against my jeans, leaving a dusting of sand. I focus on my bare feet molding prints as we walk and remember the poem Footprints in the Sand. I have to believe God’s carrying me through this, otherwise I couldn’t be so calm.
I take Taylor’s cold hand in mine. “You asked me last week if you were angry with me the day of your accident.”
“What about you and Dad?” She slips her hand from mine, crosses her arms, and continues down the beach, head hanging.
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