Sensible Shoes
A Story about the Spiritual Journey
Sharon Garlough Brown
www.IVPress.com/books
InterVarsity Press
P.O. Box 1400
Downers Grove, IL 60515-1426
World Wide Web: www.ivpress.com
E-mail: [email protected]
© 2013 by Sharon Garlough Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from InterVarsity Press.
InterVarsity Press® is the book-publishing division of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA®, a movement of students and faculty active on campus at hundreds of universities, colleges and schools of nursing in the United States of America, and a member movement of the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students. For information about local and regional activities, write Public Relations Dept. InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA, 6400 Schroeder Rd., P.O. Box 7895, Madison, WI 53707-7895, or visit the IVCF website at www.intervarsity.org.
Psalm 84:5-7 is from the 2011 NIV, Psalm 23 is from the KJV; all other Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
The poem at the beginning of chapter 9 is used with permission. Jim Cotter, Psalms for a Pilgrim People, Morehouse Publishing, 1998, www.cottercairns.co.uk.
This is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Cindy Kiple
Images: small girl sitting on suitcase: susan.k./Getty Images
group of women holding hands: JupiterImages/Getty Images
Interior design: Beth Hagenberg
ISBN 978-0-8308-6453-9
To the ones who have walked with me
And to the Holy Spirit, gentle revealer and faithful guide
With deep love and gratitude
Contents
1: Invitation to a Journey
2: The Pilgrimage Begins
3: Exploring the Heart of God
4: Learning to Linger
5: Come and See
6: Hiding and Seeking
7: Walking Attentively
8: Intimacy and Encounter
9: Found at the Crossroads
10: Deeper into the Wilderness
11: Lightening the Load
12: Walking Together in the Love of God
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Guide
Crescendo
About the Author
1
Invitation to a Journey
Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.
Jeremiah 6:16
Meg, 1967
A solitary little girl in a gray wool coat and red knit cap flitted through the snow, searching for a glimmer of gold. Someone had given the jingle bells to Mama for Christmas, and Mama had smiled when she hung them on the front door. So when the wind snatched the bells and spirited them away, five-year-old Meg was determined to find them and make Mama happy again.
Meg hummed as she searched around bushes in the yard. She loved hide-and-seek. She wished Mama or Rachel would play hide-and-seek with her; but Mama was too busy to play, and eleven-year-old Rachel always said she was too big for baby games. If only Daddy hadn’t gone to heaven to be with Jesus! Daddy had been very good at hide-and-seek.
Meg patiently pursued the lost bells for almost an hour, finally spotting one of them peeking out from a snowbank near Mrs. Anderson’s garage. Clutching her prize, Meg skipped down the driveway and up the front steps.
Mama was standing at the door, scowling and scolding. “Margaret Fowler! Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”
“Mama, I found them!” Meg beamed as she offered her gift.
Mama stripped off Meg’s hat, revealing thick blonde curls. “How many times do I have to tell you? Take your boots off outside. I don’t want snow messing up this floor.”
Meg left her boots on the porch and danced inside, jingling the bells. “Look, Mama! I found your bells!”
Mama frowned as she shut the door. “What bells?”
Meg Crane stepped across the threshold of her childhood home in Kingsbury, Michigan, the jingling of her keys echoing in the foyer. Though she had spent almost forty of her forty-six years in the Fowler family’s large Victorian house, it had never felt this cavernously lonely. Shutting the door behind her, Meg sank slowly to the floor and leaned her head against the wood paneling.
Gone. Becca was gone. Her beloved daughter had flown away.
Meg wished they could have had more time together. The fourth of August had arrived too quickly, and now her only child was on a plane to London, where she would spend her junior year of college.
Becca’s lively presence at home had kept Meg happily preoccupied. There had been so much to do together, so many preparations to make for the overseas adventure. Becca’s joy and enthusiasm had temporarily buoyed Meg’s spirits above her own grief.
But now the empty house engulfed her with dreadful stillness.
Mother was also gone. Still gone.
Months after Ruth Fowler’s death, Meg was still fighting the impulse to call out a greeting to her mother whenever she arrived home. She still expected Mother to appear at the dinner table. She still listened for her footsteps on the staircase. She still paused by the bedroom door, stifling the urge to say goodnight.
Meg supposed she would be slow to process Becca’s absence too. She imagined she would still look for Becca’s pink water bottle on the kitchen counter. She would still listen for her daughter’s cheerful voice humming along with her iPod. She would probably still awaken around midnight and expect to hear Becca arrive home safely after an evening out with friends.
But now the only sounds in the house were the melancholy sighs of an antique grandfather clock and the low hum of the refrigerator.
Meg Crane was alone. Truly alone.
Now what?
Slumping forward, Meg cradled her head in her hands and wept.
On Saturday night Meg dutifully set her alarm. Though she would have preferred to stay in bed on Sunday morning, she arrived at Kingsbury Community Church during the opening hymn. For years she had faithfully practiced the safest way to avoid interacting with other worshipers: arrive while everyone was singing, sit in the far back corner of the sanctuary near the exit door, and leave before the benediction. At five-foot-two, Meg had a singular advantage for slipping in and out of places without being seen. Most Sundays her invisibility strategy worked flawlessly.
On this Sunday, however, Pastor Dave’s wife, Sandy, happened to be standing in the narthex when Meg exited. Meg walked as if she were in a hurry, hoping her determined gaze and stride would give the impression she had other commitments to keep. But when Sandy smiled and greeted her by name, Meg knew she had been thwarted.
“I was hoping to catch you this morning, Meg. I haven’t seen you the last few months. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Sandy. And you?”
“We’re doing well. Enjoying this great weather. Michigan summers are beautiful, aren’t they?”
Meg could hear the choir singing the final response and knew she didn’t have much time before the narthex filled with people she didn’t want to see. It took so much effort simply to keep from bursting into tears. One look of compassio
n, one word tenderly spoken, and she was likely to disintegrate.
She inched her way closer to the door.
“This came in the mail the other day, and I thought of you.” Sandy handed her a plum-colored flyer. “It’s about the fall programs at the New Hope Center. You know about New Hope, right?”
Meg had never visited the retreat center, but as a lifelong resident of Kingsbury, she had driven by the building and grounds many times. “I—uh . . . I know where it is, but that’s about all.” The sanctuary doors were getting ready to open, and soon she would be surrounded.
Sandy clearly did not share her sense of urgency. “New Hope’s a wonderful place,” she went on. “I’ve gone to lots of programs there, and this particular one is really good.”
Meg brushed her ash blonde curls away from her eyes and feigned interest as Sandy showed her the paragraph about a “sacred journey.”
“It’s all about deepening your relationship with God through prayer and other spiritual disciplines,” Sandy explained. “And with the changes you’ve gone through the past couple of months, I thought this group might help you find your way.”
Meg bit her lip. Evidently, the pastor had spoken to his wife about how hard she was finding the grief process.
Sandy continued with a gentle voice. “I remember how I felt after my mom died, and I know how close the two of you were.”
Close?
Meg felt heat rise to her neck and face. The scarlet blotches consuming her fair skin were giving her away. Tattletales. She resented those blotches.
“Thank you so much for thinking of me, Sandy,” she said, wrapping her icy hand around her throat to cool it down. “Please tell Pastor Dave what a meaningful sermon he preached today.”
Then she quickly slipped out the glass doors before anyone else could smile and call her by name.
Hannah, 1976
Seven-year-old Hannah Shepley loved Brown Bear, her faithful steward of secrets and sorrows. When one of his gentle eyes fell off and disappeared, her heart broke. Miss Betty, their elderly neighbor, patted Hannah’s head with her arthritic hand and told her not to worry. She could fix Brown Bear’s eyes. Hannah tearfully entrusted him to Miss Betty, who promised to return him soon.
When Brown Bear came home two days later, Miss Betty beamed and said, “Here, Hannah. See? Good as new!”
But as Hannah looked into Brown Bear’s eyes, she did not recognize him. She knew that he did not recognize her either. The all-knowing, tender expression was gone, replaced by the blank, amnesic stare of large plastic buttons. Hannah had lost her best friend and confidante.
Her mother was embarrassed by her silence. “What do you say, Hannah? Miss Betty worked hard fixing your bear for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Betty,” Hannah whispered. But when she was alone in her room, she burst into tears.
“I always feel so much better after I talk to you,” said the tearful female voice on the other end of the phone.
Thirty-nine-year-old Hannah Shepley smiled to herself. She loved her job. For fifteen years she had served as an associate pastor at Westminster Church in Chicago, and she still loved her work.
“Let’s get together to pray,” Hannah said, pulling out her planner and scanning the details of her schedule that day: Tuesday, the fifth of August. She was booked straight through a dinner meeting. “Is eight o’clock tonight too late for you?” she asked. “I’m happy to come to your home, or you’re welcome to come to my office—whichever is better for you.” They made arrangements to meet in Hannah’s office.
Hannah had never regretted her decision to furnish and decorate her office far more comfortably than her house. Not only did the warm ambience provide a safe haven for people in crisis, but she spent most of her life there. In fact, she had once calculated the number of waking hours she actually spent at home, only to discover it ranked a distant third.
Behind hospitals.
Hannah looked at her watch and grabbed her keys. She needed to be at the hospital by ten o’clock to pray with Ken Walsh before his open heart surgery. And while she was there, she could check on Mabel Copeland, who was recovering from a hip replacement. If she hurried, she would still have time to pick up flowers on the way.
She nearly bumped into Steve Hernandez, Westminster’s senior pastor, in the hallway. “Racing off again?” Steve asked.
“Pre-op this morning and then a bunch of pastoral care appointments.” Hannah tucked her chin length, light brown hair behind her ears. “I’ve got another one of those days where I need to be in three places at once. You know how that goes.”
“Is there anything I can help you with today?” Steve asked.
Steve always asked, and Hannah always said no. She had everything covered. Even so, she was grateful he made a habit of inquiring. Many senior pastors took their associates for granted. Not Steve. He tried to keep his finger on the spiritual pulse of his staff, and they loved him for it.
“Make sure you take some time to breathe today, Hannah.”
She laughed. “I’ve got breathing time scheduled for a week from Thursday.”
The next morning, just before eight o’clock, Steve knocked on her open office door. “Another early start?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
Hannah looked up from her reading and stifled a yawn. “I was at the hospital to pray with Ted and his family before his surgery this morning. I wanted to stay and wait with them, but I’ve got a nine o’clock meeting. I’ll go back later, though, to make sure he’s doing okay.” She motioned to her brown suede couch. “C’mon in, Steve. Have a seat.”
He moved aside a pillow and a blanket. “Did you go home last night?”
“I’ll grab a power nap later.” She took a sip of coffee. “What’s up?”
She heard Steve take a deep, preparatory breath. “Hannah, the elders and I have come to a decision I know you won’t like, but I’m hoping you can receive it as a gift.”
Hannah clenched her jaw and immediately began scanning for possibilities of what he might say. Amazing, how many divergent thoughts could sprint through her mind in five seconds. With a single shot fired into the air, she was off and running. Were they restructuring the staff? Canceling one of the ministry programs? Giving her another team to oversee?
“We’re giving you a nine-month sabbatical,” he said. “Starting in September.”
She skidded to an abrupt stop. “I don’t understand,” she said, studying his face for non-verbal clues.
“I know. But some of us have been talking about it for a while now, and it’s time. You’ve been here almost fifteen years without a break. You’re way overdue.”
“But lots of pastors go a lot longer than that and never get a break,” she countered. “Besides, I had six weeks off last year!”
Steve laughed. “So you could recover from major surgery! And if I remember correctly, you kept working from home.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I don’t need a sabbatical. I love my work, and I’m doing okay.”
“You can’t argue out of this one, Hannah. It’s already been decided. And to express our love and appreciation for you—and to help you relax—some folks have given donations to cover all of your living expenses.”
Hannah had never heard of an associate pastor being given such a generous sabbatical, and she was suspicious. She knew she didn’t have control over her facial expression, so she looked away, fixing her gaze on the potted plant and “Get Well Soon!” balloon she would be delivering later that day.
Steve read her reaction and responded to her unspoken fears. “You’re not being fired, Hannah. I promise. Your job performance is outstanding, the congregation loves you, and you’re a wonderful colleague.”
She still wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t trust herself. Out of her peripheral vision she saw him lean forward on the couch, plant his elbows on his knees, and clasp his hands together. This was Steve’s earnest pose, reserved for particularly treacherous moments of pastoral care: couple
s on the verge of divorce, teenagers threatening suicide, parents losing their faith after the death of a child. Steve would dig his heels firmly into the ground and tug on the invisible rope, pulling a teetering soul safely away from despair’s precipice and into the strong arms of Jesus.
Clearly, Steve thought she was hovering on the brink. What brink? She couldn’t remember him ever using the rope with her. She didn’t need the rope. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.
“Remember that great sermon you preached just a few months ago on John 15?” he continued.
Hannah did not reply. She had a sinking feeling that her words of wisdom about Jesus as the vine and the Father as the gardener were about to come back and bite her.
“You told the congregation that pruning isn’t punishment—it’s improvement. You reminded us that pruning is God’s way of shaping us to become even more like Christ. Jesus said the branches that get pruned are the ones bearing fruit. And you’re bearing fruit, Hannah. Lots of it. This sabbatical isn’t punishment—it’s pruning. It’s time to let God care for you and shape you so you can become even more like Christ.”
“But September?” she exclaimed. “That’s impossible! I’ve got all these fall programs already planned. There’s no way I can wrap up everything here that fast. And who would even cover for me?”
Steve hesitated, and in his hesitation, Hannah discerned the truth. They’d had this planned for a while. They had just avoided telling her until now. Why hadn’t they given her more warning? Why hadn’t they included her in the planning? More than that, why hadn’t they consulted her to begin with?
“We’ve got everything covered, Hannah. You don’t have to worry about anything. I promise.”
This was crazy. Absolutely absurd. How could this be happening?
Steve spoke with a low, reassuring voice. “You’ve done a great job here at Westminster—the staff and elders all think so. But I also think you need some time and space to disentangle your personal and professional identities. You don’t know who you are when you aren’t pastoring. You don’t know what to do when you’re not being needed. And you have no idea how tired you are. Trust me. I’ve been there.”
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