Luke couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead he congratulated her again on her pregnancy and told her he’d pray for her, though the words sounded trite in light of the way he wasn’t praying or trusting God about his marriage.
Long after Luke was back at his dad’s house, after the four of them had eaten hamburgers and chips and settled down in front of Tommy’s current favorite movie, Toy Story, Ashley’s words about being a Baxter stayed with him. What had she said? “Silence is the fading heartbeat of relationships.” Wasn’t that it?
The movie played on as Malin nestled in her grandpa’s lap and Tommy stretched out on the floor beside them.
Luke stared out the window at the silhouette of the barren oak trees not far from the house. How far had he fallen from God’s best for his life? from his role as a loving husband, one who could lead Reagan in the ways that were best for both of them? If his mother could’ve heard his conversation with Ashley today, she wouldn’t have recognized her youngest son.
“You’ve Got a Friend in Me” was playing cheerfully in the background, but Luke tuned it out. I’ve fallen so far I’m not sure if I remember how to get up, God. He gripped the edge of the sofa and closed his eyes. Reagan hasn’t called. It’s like we’ve already walked away.
My son . . . The answer whispered deep within him, a whisper so strangely loud it drowned out every other sound in the room. You must remember. The righteous will live by faith.
By faith? Luke opened his eyes. It was part of a verse his parents had taught him when he was going into middle school. Back then living by faith used to be like breathing. Now he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be that guy. How, God? How do I live that way?
This time there was no answer, no reassuring sense that God was even there. Only the haunting truth that Ashley had already spelled out. If silence was the fading heartbeat of relationships, he and Reagan weren’t only in trouble.
They were terminal.
Reagan stepped out of the cab and pulled her rain jacket more tightly around her shoulders. She handed the driver a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
The man leaned toward the passenger window. “I wait, miss?”
“No thanks.” Reagan glanced at the stone structure of St. Paul’s. “I might be a while.”
The man nodded and turned his cab back into the steady stream of traffic. Never mind that early spring was the rainiest time in New York. The weather did nothing to change the pace and flow of the city.
Reagan climbed the stairs to the chapel. This was the place, the tiny church on the border of Ground Zero in Manhattan’s financial district, the one that withstood the force of the terrorist attacks on September 11 and became a gathering place for firefighters and police officers in the months afterward. Back then, weary volunteers could come to the chapel for a nap on one of the wooden pews or a hot meal or a conversation with a counselor.
It was Sunday afternoon, the last church service of the morning long since cleared out. Reagan wanted it that way. She’d already attended church earlier with her mom, and her flight back to Indianapolis didn’t leave for a few hours. St. Paul’s had been her mother’s idea.
They’d spent the weekend talking about Reagan’s marriage to Luke. Until yesterday, her mom had no idea that Reagan was also guilty of indiscretion. Reagan half expected her to agree that divorce really was the only option.
But her mother’s reaction was nothing of the sort. She stared at Reagan for a long time, the emotions in her eyes changing from shock to disappointment and finally to an intense pleading. “Let the past be the past. You can’t walk away from your marriage.” Her voice held a controlled intensity. “You made a promise to God and to Luke.”
“Promises that both of us have broken.” Reagan’s clipped response sounded sharp and thoughtless.
“Marriage takes work. Your father and I figured that out a few years into it.” Her mother stood and crossed the room, taking the seat next to Reagan. She put her hand on Reagan’s knee. “It’s not too late. Not with God.”
Reagan wasn’t so sure. She patted her mother’s hand and changed the subject. They talked about the early days, when Reagan and her brother, Bryan, were kids and life seemed headed toward a wonderfully happy ending. Back before September 11. Now her brother was married and living in New Jersey, and her dad had been gone for six years.
Though the topic of Reagan’s marriage came up again several times that day, her mother was careful not to lecture. At the same time, her message to Reagan was clear, and she summed it up when Reagan left the apartment today after an early lunch. “The only way to make a marriage work is to never even think about saying the word divorce.”
Reagan moved through the narrow door at the front of St. Paul’s and stopped just inside. The last time she was here, memorabilia from the tragedy at Ground Zero had filled the small church all the way around the inside perimeter. Now, though, the displays were sparse and sanitized. The bulk of letters, keepsakes, and mementos found in the debris of the collapsed Twin Towers had been set aside for use in the not-yet-created official memorial site. The pretty chapel felt more like it was going about its business, as though even here in the shadow of the memory of the Twin Towers, life had moved on.
A small table stood to the left in the corner beneath a window. On it were photos of firefighters and businessmen and women, each with a note scrawled across the bottom or a letter tacked to one side. Next to the photo of a young man in a suit and tie, a note read, “Miss you, John, with every breath.” And beneath the picture of a rugged firefighter, “Our hero and friend forever and always.”
Tears stung Reagan’s eyes. She blinked and turned from the table. She and Luke had attended a Sunday morning service here many years ago. The pastor had been a friendly man who seemed to understand that many of those in attendance were visitors.
“You’ll notice,” he said at the beginning of his sermon, “our pews are not nicely kept and neatly polished.” He paused, his eyes filling with a depth that could only come from living through a tragedy like the terrorist attacks. “Rather they are scraped and battered, worn from the boots of firefighters and the holsters of police officers. The way they will stay, as a reminder to all who enter the doors that this chapel made a difference in some of the darkest days of our country’s history.”
Reagan slipped into one of the empty pews. She ran her fingers along the scarred, uneven surface of the bench beside her. Marks made by men like Landon Blake and countless other firefighters who searched through tons of debris looking for the remains of victims. Victims like her father.
The overwhelming sense of loss fell upon her again. Her father had done nothing more than go to work that Tuesday morning. There had been no closure, no warning . . . no time for good-bye.
Reagan dropped slowly to her knees. She folded her hands and bowed her head, her eyes closed. That was wrong, wasn’t it? There had been time for good-bye, but she’d lost the opportunity for one single reason. She was in the act of breaking her greatest promises to God and her parents. Too busy making out with Luke on the sofa in her Indiana University apartment to be bothered with a phone call from her dad. His last phone call to her.
Anger built and swirled, covering her heart like a cold, dense fog. Of course she and Luke weren’t doing well in their marriage. When had they ever worked through the way Reagan felt about losing her father, the way she had to live forever with the truth that she’d missed her final conversation with him? Sure, she’d forgiven herself . . . but what about Luke? Had she ever really forgiven him for his part in that terrible day? Luke never should’ve stayed that night, never should’ve crawled up next to her while she slept on the sofa during Monday Night Football.
She still hung her head, but now she clenched her teeth and felt hot tears pool against her forearm. The choices made back then weren’t only Luke’s fault; they were her own. But she and Luke never talked about that time, how their failings had cost her that last conversation with her dad a
nd how her pregnancy with Tommy had left her unable to have more children.
Her anger swelled and consumed her. How could her mother tell her to keep God at the center of her marriage when she and Luke hadn’t relied on God since September 10, 2001?
She envisioned her dad, the way he must’ve looked at home in his La-Z-Boy recliner that Monday night, intent on commiserating with her on the Giants’ loss.
Dad, I’m sorry. I should’ve picked up the phone. . . .
There was a touch on her shoulder, and Reagan jumped. She lifted her head and used her wrists to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
An elderly man stood at her side, his expression concerned. “You okay, miss?”
“Yes.” Her answer was quick. Embarrassment brought a sudden heat to her cheeks. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I work here at St. Paul’s. I lost my daughter in the Twin Towers.” His lower lip quivered. “It’s a pain that never goes away.”
“No.” Reagan’s heart went out to the man. She thought about the daunting list of victims, each with his or her own story, each with unfinished business. “There was no time for good-bye.”
The man shook his head. “Not for any of us.” He seemed to understand that Reagan wanted to be alone and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
When he was gone, Reagan lifted her gaze to the front of the chapel. Light streamed in from the stained glass windows, and a stunning cross hung on the wall behind the altar. Above it stretched a banner from one end to the other that read, “In His redemption there is hope!”
Reagan read the sign again and again. Fresh tears gathered in her eyes and made the letters blurry. Was that what was missing for her and Luke? Redemption? The redeeming power of Christ, the hope-giving transformation that could come only from God?
She sniffed and dabbed beneath her eyes again. In the weeks and months after September 11, she had refused to even think about what had happened that Monday night with Luke. She moved home and refused Luke’s calls, pressing forward through the days and nights of hoping that maybe somehow her father would be alive, then through the funeral when it became clear he had been killed in the collapse of the Twin Towers.
Months passed and there had been Tommy’s birth, the tragedy of how she had nearly bled to death and the knowledge that she couldn’t have more children. Not long afterward Luke appeared at her door, stepping back into her life as if they’d never been apart.
In the years that followed, never had she and Luke as a couple truly sought God’s forgiveness for the mistakes they’d made. So maybe that was why a part of her had remained numb to everything that mattered—Luke, the Lord, and even life. She was angry with herself, angry with Luke, and unable to make peace with her feelings.
Of course her marriage was in a shambles.
Reagan read the words once more. In His redemption there is hope! She had no doubt the message was true, but there was a problem. Too much time had passed since Luke’s and her decisions that distant September 10. If her angry heart and bitter regrets were any indications, if her marriage was any sign, the future held no hope for either of them. The fact was, they no longer deserved God’s redemption.
But rather His rejection. His everlasting, unending rejection.
Ashley grabbed her car keys and stepped out back where Landon and Cole and Devin were sorting through a bucket of nails. She smiled at the picture they made—Landon, the dad Ashley had always known he would be, loving and kind, strong and tenderhearted.
He grinned at her. “This time we’re finding the strongest nails in the bucket.”
“Good idea.” She laughed and walked a little closer. A thunderstorm had come through last night, and the winds had ripped down a section of the boys’ tree house. It was Saturday, and Landon had the day off. He and the boys planned to spend a few hours not only fixing the tree house but making it better than before. She stepped into the shade from the tree and peered up at the broken branch that had done the damage. “The winds were stronger than I thought.”
“Not to me.” Cole looked up, his hands plunged into the bucket of nails, his blond bangs pushed to the side. “That’s why I brought Devin into your room.”
Ashley tried to keep from grinning. “Yes, Coley . . . so nice of you to look out for Devin.” The truth was, Cole had scurried to her room during thunderstorms since long before she and Landon married five years ago. Now, though, since he was a big nine-year-old, he liked to say he was looking out for his little brother. Ashley didn’t mind, and neither did Landon. Storms were the perfect time for kids to sleep in the middle.
“You’re going to your dad’s to paint?” Landon brushed his hands off on his jeans. The smears of dirt on his cheek only accentuated the ruggedness of his face, and Ashley felt the familiar attraction, the way his nearness caused her breath to catch ever so slightly at the back of her throat.
Instead of answering him, Ashley slowly touched her lips to his. “You look good with dirt on your face,” she whispered close to his ear. “You always have.”
“Oh yeah?” His eyes sparkled. “Maybe I’ll cut back on my showers.”
She tried to think of something witty to say, something to keep their little game going, but she began to laugh. “You’re a goofball; you know that?” She kissed him again.
“Goo-ball!” Devin toddled over and tugged on Landon’s hand. “Up, Daddy!”
Landon chuckled and swung Devin onto his hip. “Where were we?”
“Painting.” Ashley put her hand on Devin’s back and then touched his soft, downy hair. “Just for a few hours. I have an image I can’t stop thinking of.”
“Well, go paint it.” Landon nodded to the tree. “We boys have our work cut out for us.”
“We might make another floor if we get the time.” Cole came up and hugged her around the waist. “When you get back, come out and see it.”
“I will.” Ashley looked at Landon again. “Thanks.” She hesitated, loving the depth and emotion she saw in her husband’s eyes.
“For what?”
“For letting me paint.”
“Are you kidding?” He grinned and kissed her one last time. “Painting is like breathing for you. If you didn’t want to go, I’d drive you there myself.”
A question rushed at her. Where would she paint when her father sold the Baxter house? Would he include a room at his new house, or would she simply have to find another place, a corner of the living room or a spot in the garage maybe? But she couldn’t bring herself to share her concerns. While the house remained on the market, at least for now, she could still return to her old bedroom, where her easel stood and images came to life without effort.
Ashley bid them good-bye and headed for her van. They were under a tornado watch today until noon. After that the sky was expected to clear up, the way it often did in mid-March. She held tight to the wheel but instead of making the turn to her dad’s house, she went left and headed for the cemetery.
She’d been nauseous for days leading up to the weekend, but this morning for the first time she felt well enough to be out, strong enough to take stock of her feelings and fears. They’d had their first ultrasound, and the baby’s heartbeat was fine. Same as Sarah’s had been. Now they would have to wait two weeks until the next appointment, when the test would show whether this baby was developing normally or if . . .
The thought hung in her mind, unfinished. She stared up at the sky and refused to give in to her fears. The clouds were already breaking up, the threat of a tornado waning. She thought back to the headlines this morning and the follow-up story about the Bloomington tornado two years ago. The town had come back, the article said. Houses were restored and memorials set up for those who lost their lives. The article even talked about the infant who had been found unharmed in her crib on the front lawn of her home, her family’s sole survivor. The child had been adopted by a local couple and was doing well.
Ashley sighed and leaned back in
to her seat. She kept one hand on the wheel and the other tenderly against her stomach. She’d spent a little longer than usual reading her Bible this morning, and a verse from Psalm 130 had jumped out at her: “Put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.”
That’s what God planned for His people. No matter what the difficulty or loss, whatever the sin or moral failing, full redemption was possible in Christ. It had been true for the town of Bloomington after the devastating tornado and true for the Baxter family time and time again. No matter what the health of her unborn baby, His redemption would be true for Ashley too.
She pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. Cemeteries were reflective and quiet and necessary. But so sad at the same time. She watched a middle-aged couple standing arm in arm near a tombstone marked by a small American flag. Had they lost a son or daughter in the war, or were they visiting the grave of a parent, a military veteran?
Ashley turned away and stepped out of her van. She walked slowly, taking several minutes to reach the bench near the graves of her mother and her infant daughter. She stooped to brush the dirt from the flat stone that covered Sarah’s grave. “Hold her close, God . . . please.” She stopped herself from asking that the baby inside her might not go through the same ordeal or that the child might be a girl. God knew these things, and there was no end to the prayers they were sending up on behalf of their baby. But here death was so real and present that Ashley could barely remember to breathe. Her voice was strained by the swell of sorrow inside her. “Hold my little girl. And tell Mom I miss her.”
The only answer was the verse again: “Put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.”
Ashley stood and regarded her daughter’s tombstone a moment longer. For those who believed, there could be no place where the hope of salvation was felt more than at a cemetery. Christ died to redeem those who loved Him and so to promise an eternal life where His people would be reunited once more.
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