He grinned. “Starve.”
She tousled his hair. “How was the football game?”
“Yours truly scored the game-winning touchdown.”
“You missed your calling as a professional athlete, John.”
“You’re right. At least then we’d have two cars.”
Charissa laughed.
“How ’bout you, Riss? How was the class?” John kept one hand on the steering wheel and rested the other on the back of her head, stroking her hair.
“It wasn’t at all what I expected.”
“Oooh . . . That doesn’t sound good. So was it like a special kind of Bible study, or what?”
“No, definitely not a Bible study,” she replied, communicating volumes of displeasure with her tone of voice. “The leader started off with a kind of meditation exercise. She read the text about Jesus calling the disciples and told us to imagine that we were there. What did we see? Feel? Hear? It was all very subjective. I guess we were supposed to experience the text in a fresh way. But I’ve heard that passage so many times before that I didn’t get anything new out of it. Then she had us read a handout about something called a labyrinth. It’s like this big maze marked into concrete, and you walk it and pray as you walk. I’m thinking it’s some kind of New Age thing. And there’s no syllabus and no assigned readings,” Charissa harrumphed.
“That’s a little weird, isn’t it?”
“Well, I think it is. What kind of teacher doesn’t give you a plan to follow? I don’t get it.”
“So what are you supposed to be learning?”
“No idea.” Charissa twirled a stray strand of hair around her finger. “All she said was that she didn’t want us charging ahead on our own. Then she gave us an assignment to think about our images of God. I got that done while I was waiting for you, even though I’m not sure I’ll go back. I don’t know what to do. Dr. Allen spoke so highly of her, and he really thought I’d get something out of this. But I sure don’t see what that might be.”
That night Charissa didn’t sleep well. As she lay in bed at 2 a.m., listening to John’s rhythmic breathing, she tried to remember the impertinent dream that had awakened her.
There was an attic room filled with books, and she was down on her knees unpacking them. She knew that if she could get all the boxes unpacked, she could put together a beautiful library. She carefully categorized and alphabetized all the titles, filling shelf after shelf. But just when she thought she had finished with the last box, more boxes would appear. As she tried to put the books away, someone was knocking on the door. She kept working without answering, determined to complete her project. But the knocking persisted, getting louder and louder. “Come in!” she called, still sorting. But no one entered, and the knocking continued. “What do you want?” she barked. “I told you to come in!” The door didn’t open, and then she saw it was dead-bolted.
Charissa had awakened with the sound of knocking still echoing in her head. At first she thought there was actually someone at the door, and she sat bolt upright in bed. But there was only the steady tick tick tick of the wall clock, marking off the maddening minutes of insomnia.
Charissa had intended to sneak out of Monday’s class before Dr. Allen could ask her any questions. But as she packed up her books, he managed to catch her eye. “Charissa, don’t leave yet,” he said, briefly interrupting the student who had stopped to talk with him.
She breathed deeply, finished packing her bag, and waited for him to end his conversation.
“Walk with me,” he said, picking up his briefcase. “I want to hear about the sacred journey group.”
She arranged her facial expression, disguising her irritation behind a calculated smile. “Well, it wasn’t exactly what I expected.”
“Go on . . . ” He wasn’t going to let her off the hook.
“I thought it would be an actual class on spiritual disciplines and prayer. That’s what the flyer said, anyway. I was expecting a lecture with some discussion, and instead it was all very experiential. No syllabus, no assigned readings. No sense of direction for where it’s going. Just not what I expected.”
“I see.”
She had a sinking feeling that he did. Dr. Allen possessed infamous skills in literary analysis, and suddenly, her life was his text. Charissa was accustomed to people seeing only what she wanted them to see, and now her professor apparently saw things that were concealed even from her.
She didn’t like it.
“Remember, Charissa—the things that annoy, irritate, and disappoint us have just as much power to reveal the truth about ourselves as anything else. Learn to linger with what provokes you. You may just find the Spirit of God moving there.”
They had reached his office, and he turned to face her. “True learning requires more than a syllabus,” he went on. “In fact, sometimes a syllabus can get in the way, particularly if a student’s primary goal is to master material.” He hesitated, studying her carefully. “You’re an excellent student, Charissa. You’re conscientious, efficient, and skilled at doing things well. But there is more for you to see and to know.” Although his compliments sounded like a rebuke, Charissa was determined neither to flinch nor look away. “Come in for a minute.”
She followed him into his office. Setting down his briefcase, he picked up a photo from his desk and held it out for her to see. “You’ve heard me talk about my passion for sailing before,” he said.
Charissa looked at the picture of Dr. Allen and some friends on a sailboat. Someone had managed to capture a moment of full sail—the wind ruffling his graying hair, his face glowing with joyful exhilaration.
“Have you ever sailed?” he asked.
“Only once with my dad when I was little. I just remember sitting on the water, waiting for the wind to come up. My dad was pretty frustrated, and I think it was the last time he went sailing. He bought a motorboat.”
Dr. Allen laughed. “Exactly. Sailing isn’t efficient. That’s why I use it for my own spiritual growth and discipline.” He paused. “For a Type A personality like me, it’s hard not to be in control. I much prefer setting a course and getting there without detours or distractions—motoring through life, if you like. So sailing has been good training for me to learn how to be patient, to wait for the wind, and to discern how to set the sails to maximize the wind’s power. Even though I have absolutely no control over the wind, I can respond to it if I’m paying attention.”
He put the photo back on his desk. “Much as we might wish to direct our own spiritual journeys,” he continued slowly, “growing in love for God and others is a lifelong process that can’t be achieved by self-effort. We’ve got to learn how to cooperate with the Holy Spirit.” He smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps God wants to reveal something to you about your frustration with the group.”
His dark eyes were piercing, and she half-wished he’d go ahead and tell her what that revelation might be. But Dr. Allen knew better than to dispense information she needed to discover for herself. Self-restraint was the gift of a fine teacher, and at that moment she resented him for being a fine teacher.
That night she stewed in bed long after John fell asleep. Learn to linger with what provokes you. What in the world did that mean? Dr. Allen had certainly provoked her with his advice, but she didn’t know what to do with it. What good was it? What good was any of it? She found herself wishing she’d never seen the New Hope flyer in the first place.
John had suggested she walk away and not go back to the group if it upset her so much. But Charissa had never been one to walk away from anything. Especially now that Dr. Allen was watching.
At 5 a.m. she gave up trying to sleep and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. She might as well be productive if she was going to be awake. Since her Bible reading plan directed her to the Song of Solomon, she quickly skimmed through the pages. As a student of literature she knew she ought to appreciate the vigor and beauty of the ancient poetry. But as a student of Scripture she ha
d never understood its purpose. It taught no doctrine and gave no precepts about how to live correctly. Frankly, the sexual imagery seemed wholly inappropriate for sacred text. Song of Songs was the sort of book teenage boys could read and enjoy, but Charissa had no use for it. She was just eager to be done so she could move on to the prophets.
She finished reading the Song in less than half an hour and ticked “quiet time” off her to-do list. Then she began organizing their walk-in closet, determined not to think anymore about Dr. Allen.
Or sailing.
Hannah
Mommy sometimes let Hannah play with the ceramic figurines from the china cabinet if Hannah promised to be very, very careful. “These are precious to me, Hannah. They belonged to Grammy, and they’re very fragile.”
Hannah’s favorite was a little yellow bird with green and blue on its wings. One day she made a nest for the bird out of a small cardboard box filled with cotton balls. Then she climbed the tree oh-so-carefully and placed the nest on one of the branches. But before she could climb down and look, the nest tipped, and the little bird flew out onto the concrete below.
When Daddy found her, she was hiding behind the tree, rocking the shattered bird and crying. He took her in his arms and told her not to worry. He could fix the bird, good as new, and no one would ever know it had broken. Hannah stopped sniffling and handed over the bird.
Daddy was right. When he was done fixing it, it was as good as new. She could hardly even see the cracks.
In fact, if you didn’t know they were there, you wouldn’t see them at all.
Hannah sat in a booth at Jill’s Coffee House with her laptop open, checking her church e-mail. Nothing. In less than two weeks she had gone from complaining about having too many messages in her inbox to resenting that no one needed her.
At first she had tried to pretend she was on a luxury vacation. She read, walked, and browsed shops and galleries in the nearby town of Lake Haven. She watched sunsets and fed the birds. She perused the West Michigan tourist magazines, shopped at the farmers’ market, picked her own apples at a local orchard, and attended an outdoor community band concert. But after a few days of relaxing, she was ready to go home.
She closed her empty inbox and checked Westminster’s website for news: youth retreat, leadership training seminars, food pantry. Her replacement was leading a women’s prayer group and a Bible study on Romans. No surprise there. Romans was a predictably ambitious choice for a fresh seminary graduate.
Steve was preaching a series called “Finding Hope Again,” but the audio files hadn’t been posted on the website. Maybe she should call the church office and see if they’d send her the sermons. She could use some hope.
She also wanted an excuse to call the church.
She dialed the number. “Good afternoon; Westminster. This is Annie.” Just hearing the receptionist’s voice was a way of connecting with her old life—her old life of two weeks ago.
“Hey, Annie, it’s Hannah. How are you?”
“Hey! Fine, Hannah! How are you doing? How’s your sabbatical going?”
Terrible. She hated it. “Fantastic!” she exclaimed. “It’s beautiful up here. I miss everybody, though. What’s new there?” Hannah tried to sound like she wasn’t fishing for details. Which she wasn’t. Was not.
“Oh, you know how September is with everything kicking off,” Annie replied. “It’s busy here. But Heather’s doing a great job. She fits right in—lots of energy and passion. So you don’t have to worry about anything! She’s got it all covered.”
Hannah had never been worried about Heather being incompetent. She was just disappointed by how easily she had been replaced.
“I guess you heard about George Connelly, huh?” Annie asked.
“Uh . . . no . . . What happened?” There was an awkward pause.
“Oh. I thought maybe that’s why you were calling. George had a heart attack and went in for quadruple bypass surgery yesterday. I think he’s doing okay, though. Steve’s been at the hospital with Lindy today. Guess they’ll send George home in four or five days if everything’s straightforward.”
Hannah couldn’t believe no one had called her. Though she wasn’t particularly close to George and Lindy, the Connellys had been members at Westminster for years. “Is Steve still at the hospital?” Hannah asked.
“No, he’s back. I think he’s in his office. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Yes, please.” Hannah waited on hold while Annie transferred the call. Why hadn’t Steve called her? It was completely inconsiderate of him to leave her out of the loop like that.
“Hi, Hannah.” Steve sounded tired. Or was it her imagination?
“Hey, Steve.” She wasn’t going to waste time with small talk. “Annie was telling me about George. How’s he doing?”
“He’s hanging in there.”
“How about Lindy? How’s she holding up?”
“She’s tired, but doing okay. Feeling grateful and relieved that the surgery went so well.”
Mentally, Hannah already had her suitcase packed. She could be there in three hours. She was only three hours away from her old life. “How about if I come down for a couple of days, Steve, and help out with the hospital visits? I can be there in a few hours.”
“No, Hannah.” His voice was firm. “There’s a reason why I didn’t call you. We agreed to the boundaries before you left, remember?”
She sighed. “I know . . . but . . . I have nothing going on here, and if I could be helpful at all . . . ”
“Hannah, I know how hard this is for you.” No he didn’t. Not really. “Having nothing going on is the point. You’re supposed to be resting. More than that—I told you I saw warning signs that you’ve wrapped your whole identity around serving and being busy. Even now I’m hearing this compulsive desire to be useful, to be needed. It’s not good, Hannah.” She didn’t want to hear this. She really didn’t. “I’m hoping you can trust my heart enough to know that I’m for you, even when I say things you don’t want to hear. Now—”
She recognized his tone of voice. There was no negotiating. No arguing. He was shifting gears.
“Tell me what you’re doing for yourself while you’re away. Did you sign up for that spiritual formation group you mentioned in your e-mail?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to conceal her disappointment. “We had the first session last Saturday. I think it will be good.”
“Fantastic.” He paused, and she wished she could analyze his facial expressions or body language. Was he pulling on the pastoral rope again? “Hannah, I’m thinking it also might be helpful for you to connect with a spiritual director while you’re up there. This sabbatical is radical surgery, and you can’t operate on yourself. You’re going to need some help.” Hannah couldn’t think of anything to say, so she stayed silent. “Maybe the person who leads your group can point you in the right direction. You’ve got some grieving to do, and that takes time. You know that. You’ll need to walk through the same process you’ve shepherded so many others through. And you can’t do it alone.”
Hannah never did ask for copies of the sermon series. She already had enough of Steve’s voice in her head.
September 23
7 p.m.
I’m sitting here on the deck, looking out at a shimmering lake and finding it hard to believe that I’ve only been here at the cottage for two weeks. It feels like a lifetime already. How in the world am I going to survive nine months? For one thing, I guess I’d better make a regular habit of journaling. Otherwise I just won’t be able to process everything that’s going on inside of me right now. And there’s a lot whirling around.
I just can’t get Steve’s voice out of my head, telling me I have “a compulsive desire to be useful.” Really? All I’ve ever wanted to be is a faithful servant. Nothing more. I’ve spent the past fifteen years pouring out my life for the church because that’s what I’m called to do. I’m called to be obedient and faithful. I’ve wanted so much to please God—to he
ar the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” It’s been a blessing that I haven’t had a family because the church has required every last ounce of my energy. Every bit of it.
Steve claims I need to go through my own grief process, and I guess he’s right. I’ll have to name the things that have died. I’ll need to confront them in order to let go of them.
So here goes. I’ve been separated from my home, my friends, my routine. That’s obvious. I’ve lost my work, and I loved my work. It was hard to hear about how well Heather is doing. I hate admitting that I feel threatened by her, but I’m admitting it. I feel jealous and threatened. I guess I’m grieving being so easily replaced. I’m not indispensable. Am I wrapped up in people needing me? I don’t know.
Maybe Steve’s right that I can’t be my own surgeon. Maybe I’ll ask Katherine on Saturday if she can recommend someone to walk alongside me.
I just don’t know what to do.
When Hannah’s cell phone rang Thursday morning, she was glad to hear Nancy’s voice. “How’s everything going, Hannah? Are you finding your way around? Is there anything you need?” Hannah stared out the large picture window, watching a spider dangling from the eaves by a gossamer thread.
“The cottage is wonderful, Nancy. Beautiful.”
“Oh, good. I hope everything’s comfortable for you.”
Physically, yes. Spiritually, no, she thought. Aloud, she said, “You didn’t miss a single detail, Nance. Thank you. I’ve got everything I need to relax.” She just didn’t know how to do it.
Nancy sighed. “Listen, Hannah . . . I promised I’d call you if anything significant happened down here.” Hannah braced herself. “George Connelly passed away yesterday.” A wave of nausea swept over her as she lurched forward.
“Oh, Nancy—”
“I know,” Nancy murmured. “The church is rocked. I keep thinking about Lindy and those four little girls.”
A Story about the Spiritual Journey Page 9