A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Meg raised her eyebrows. “Am I allowed to do that?” She had never heard of personalizing Bible verses.

  Katherine chuckled. “Absolutely! At the moment we’re not looking at this text historically. We’re reading it devotionally as prayer. As God’s promise to you.”

  Meg cleared her throat before she began to read the verses aloud, slowly and prayerfully. “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, Meg; he who formed you, Meg: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”

  She stopped reading. Mine. You are mine. It was the same promise of assurance she had heard in the labyrinth! The same exact promise. Had she told Katherine what she had imagined the shepherd saying to her? She couldn’t remember, and maybe it didn’t matter. It was still God’s word: God’s word for her.

  She kept reading aloud, continuing to insert her name. “When you pass through the waters, Meg, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire, Meg, you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.”

  I have called you by name, Meg; you are mine. I have called you by name, Meg; you are mine. Mine, mine, mine. The words danced in her spirit. She sat, savoring the promise, as if the Good Shepherd were speaking the words directly to her. God had created her, formed her, redeemed her. And God was calling her. I will be with you, Meg. I will be with you.

  She looked up at Katherine, her eyes filling with tears. She knew what God was inviting her to do, and she was going to do it. With God’s help, she was going to do it.

  “I think I’ll call Becca as soon as I get home.”

  “Are you serious?” Becca exclaimed. “You’re actually coming? I can’t believe it! That’s the most amazing present ever, Mom. Thank you! We’ll have the best time together!” For the next hour Becca spoke excitedly about all the places she wanted them to visit together: museums, tea rooms, art galleries, historic buildings. “You’re not going to believe everything there is to do over here, Mom. You better plan on coming to stay for a few weeks, okay?” Becca’s joy and enthusiasm buoyed Meg’s spirits above her own fears, and by the time she hung up the phone, she was ready to pack her suitcase.

  Just before midnight Meg fell asleep with images of castles, thatched cottages, and rolling hills swirling around in her head.

  And all night long she dreamed she could fly.

  Charissa

  Charissa laced up her shoes and waited for Emily to arrive for a Saturday morning power walk. At least they had good weather. She didn’t like walking laps at the mall.

  “You sure you don’t need the car this morning, Riss?” John asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Say hi to Emily for me, okay?” He kissed her on the forehead. “And Tim wanted me to tell you that he’ll make sure I don’t do anything stupid. I’m just watching from the sidelines to cheer the guys on.” He fiddled with his keys, looking hopeful. She turned away. “Okay . . . I’ll be back about one o’clock or so. Love you.”

  She waited to get up until she heard the door close behind him. Then she went to her bathroom mirror to check her makeup.

  What was she going to do about John?

  After days of not communicating with him, it was becoming difficult to lay down her defenses. If he would just explode at her in frustration, she wouldn’t feel so guilty for shutting him out. But he continued to endure her icy cold front with a sunny cheerfulness that was becoming increasingly irritating.

  She was plucking errant eyebrow hairs when Emily rang the buzzer. “Be right there!” Charissa called into the intercom. Pulling her hair into a pony­-tail, she went downstairs to greet her friend.

  “I’ve missed you!” Emily said, embracing her. “I don’t know where the months go.”

  “I know. Grad school is keeping me really busy, and now with that Saturday class I’m doing twice a month, the weeks just slip by.”

  Charissa covertly scrutinized her friend. It had been several months since they’d seen one another, and Emily looked like she could benefit from working up a sweat. Her jeans were definitely too snug around her hips, and her belly folded over the waistband. It wasn’t that Charissa would have wished her back into compulsive obsession over her weight. After all, Emily had spent years waging war against her physical, emotional, and mental demons. But as Charissa followed her to the car, she couldn’t help thinking that Emily had gone to the other extreme. A little more effort regarding her physical appearance wouldn’t hurt her. It might even help her in the world of dating.

  “You still want to walk the loop at Castleton Park?” Emily asked. They had been walking the loop at Castleton since they were sixteen.

  “Sure,” Charissa said. “And I want to hear everything about what’s going on in your life, Em.” Then Charissa wouldn’t have to talk about hers.

  It was usually a strategy that worked.

  “So, enough about me and my Internet dating disasters,” Emily panted as they completed their second mile loop around the park’s hilly terrain. “I mean, if the guy’s only interested in me for the way I look, and he never sees the real me, then I don’t want to be in a relationship with him anyway. Right? I’m just going to keep praying and waiting for the Lord. Jesus has never failed me, no matter how rough it’s gotten.”

  Jesus. It always came back to Jesus with Emily. Charissa didn’t know how to respond, so she picked up the pace and kept her eyes fixed on the freshly tarred path ahead of her.

  “What about you, Charissa? What’s the Lord doing in your life?”

  Ugh. Why did Emily always ask that question? Charissa hated when she asked that question. If only she had rescheduled their walk for another day. Or week. Or month. She didn’t have her usual margin for humoring Emily’s Jesus-and-me theology.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Charissa said. “I’m just keeping busy with everything.” She was still watching the path and listening to the sound of her footsteps pound the pavement. Right. Left. Right. Left. One in front of the other in a perfectly precise, brisk rhythm.

  “And how’s John?” Emily asked, visibly struggling to keep up with her. “I was worried when I got your message about his concussion. That was scary, huh? He hasn’t had any more headaches or anything?”

  Charissa drew in her breath. She didn’t know. She had been so preoccupied rehearsing her anger with Dr. Allen, she had actually forgotten about the hospital visit. She didn’t have a clue if John had been feeling well or not. She hadn’t asked him.

  No wonder he had promised her he wouldn’t be playing football.

  “He’s doing great.” She pumped her arms harder. “He’s out with the guys again this morning, though he promised me he would just be watching from the sidelines.” She laughed casually, hoping Emily wouldn’t ask any other questions that might uncover the lack of spousal communication.

  “I’m so glad he’s okay,” Emily puffed. “He’s such a great guy. After all these years, I still just have to keep confessing how jealous I am. Guys like John give me hope, you know? Like there might be another diamond in the rough out there.”

  Charissa did not reply. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten about John’s concussion. How could she have forgotten about a trip to the emergency room? What kind of wife was she, anyway? And how could she possibly admit to him that she had been that self-absorbed?

  Then again, maybe she wouldn’t need to confess anything. She’d simply start talking to him again. That would go a long way. She could just pretend nothing had happened and move on. John wouldn’t demand anything from her. He never demanded anything from her. He would just be grateful to have her communicating. He was so easygoing, so easily pleased. She could find a way of pleasing him, and it would cover up everything else.

  Everything.

  Emily was back to talking about Jesus again. If she kept talking about Jesus, then Charissa wouldn’t have to worry about her asking probing questions. “Remember how I told you about that women’s spiritual for
mation group at my church?” Emily was saying.

  Charissa nodded, silently willing Emily to go faster. C’mon, c’mon. They still had three miles to go, and at this rate, she’d barely make it home before John.

  Emily continued, “Well, we were talking a few weeks ago about how we all have this tendency to stuff and hide our darker sides—to think, ‘Good Christian girls shouldn’t feel that, shouldn’t think that, shouldn’t do that.’” Emily stopped walking and motioned to a bench beside the path. “You mind?” she wheezed. “My allergies have been acting up. I just need to catch my breath for a sec.”

  Charissa did mind, but she didn’t say so. Smiling indulgently, she fought the temptation to keep stepping in place and instead bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, scrunching her toes. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.

  “Anyway,” Emily went on, leaning back into the bench and breathing deeply. “One of the women came up with this really great metaphor. She said it’s like we all have these toxic waste containers inside of us. We shove our junk in there and then put a doily on top, pretending to everybody that we’ve got everything under control. We’re constantly hiding behind these happy Christian masks. And now that I recognize that, I keep discovering all these ways that I’ve been stuffing my junk and trying to make it all look pretty and presentable. But Jesus is inviting me to face it and confess it so I can let go of it. I can’t even describe to you how freeing it is to confess my sins to a group of women—these sisters in Christ—and to quit pretending I’ve got everything all together. It’s amazing. The freedom is amazing.” She took a long sip from her water bottle. “When I think back to all the stressful years and all the pressure I put on myself and how sick I became trying to be perfect . . . Well, you remember, Charissa . . . ” Her voice trailed off. “I’m just so glad Jesus found me. Where would I be without the Lord?”

  Charissa didn’t have an answer.

  She was thinking about toxic waste containers with doilies on top.

  “How was football this morning?” Charissa asked when John got home. She had changed into a cropped tank top that accentuated her figure and was reclining on the couch with her hair down. John liked it when she had her hair down.

  “It was good. I coached. How’s Emily?” He put his wallet on the kitchen counter and hung up his keys. She saw his gaze fall momentarily to her chest as he lowered himself into the recliner.

  “She’s Emily. Still no boyfriend. Still talking a lot about Jesus.” John smiled and leaned back in the chair, pressing his hands to his forehead. “Headache?” Charissa asked, shifting position on the couch.

  “Just tired.” He yawned. “I think I’ll go lie down for a while.”

  She pulled the tank strap below her shoulder. “Want some company?”

  John was eager. Thirsty. Charissa knew how to give him what he wanted and needed. She held nothing back of her body, even while her mind and heart were miles away. She could make up for days of shutting him out by letting him in, and he would be satisfied. More than satisfied.

  “I love you, Charissa,” he whispered, pulling her to himself.

  She flashed her whitened smile and did not reply.

  When John awoke a few hours later, Charissa was sitting at the table, typing on her laptop. “Hey,” he said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just thought it might be a nice change of pace . . . you know . . . give us a chance to talk without any distractions.”

  Talking was something she didn’t want to do. “I don’t want to take the time to go out, John. I’ve got a ton of work due on Monday.”

  He sat down across the table from her, looking disappointed. His expression irritated her. Couldn’t he be satisfied with what she’d already given him?

  “Then how about if I go pick up pizza or something?” he asked.

  “That’s fine.” She kept typing, while he sat in silence.

  “Riss?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Can you stop typing a sec?” She looked up. “I was just hoping we’d have a chance to talk. I still don’t have a clue what you’ve been so upset about, except for what I’ve overheard you and your mom talking about. And I just don’t want to keep walking on eggshells around you. I’m not sure what to say, or what to do, or how to help. I thought maybe—maybe after this afternoon and everything—I thought maybe you were ready to talk to me, you know?”

  She tapped the keyboard in agitation. Eggshells? This wasn’t about him. He wasn’t the one who had been unjustly criticized and persecuted. “I told you before, John. I don’t need you making me feel guilty. I’m allowed to get upset over stuff.”

  “I know. I just wish you’d talk to me about it.” He paused. “C’mon, Riss,” he said gently, reaching for her hand. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Then why won’t you talk to me?” She didn’t know. She honestly didn’t know. “Charissa?”

  “Hmm?” Why did she feel like crying? She hated crying.

  “What did Dr. Allen say to you?”

  She sat a long time, rolling the words around in her mouth before she spit them out. “He called me a sinner. A hard-hearted Pharisee. A control freak. An angry, critical, judgmental, perfectionistic bitch.”

  John raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?” She did not reply. “Gimme that guy’s phone number.” John looked angrier than she had ever seen him. “Seriously, Charissa. Gimme his phone number. I wanna talk to him. He totally crossed a line. How dare he say those things to you?”

  She felt her lips quivering, and her eyes burned. John came over to embrace her. “C’mere,” he said, pulling her to her feet. She rose reluctantly. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll take care of this. We’ll call the dean, the president. Somebody. That guy oughta be fired.” Tears burst forth without her permission. “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry.”

  He was stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, whispering words to soothe and comfort her. His gentleness was suffocating.

  “I need to go to bed,” she said, pulling away. “And I don’t want to talk about this again.” She hated the wounded look in his eyes.

  But not enough to change her mind.

  Sunday

  Meg scooted out the back door into the narthex as soon as Pastor Dave pronounced the benediction, hoping to catch Sandy before she was surrounded by a crowd of people.

  Pastor Dave had announced in worship that Angel Carpenter, a young mother in the church, had just lost her husband in a car accident, and the deacons were looking for people to cook meals for her and her two little girls. Meg never heard the sermon. She couldn’t stop thinking about the young widow. She wanted to help. She had spent three years sneaking in and out of worship at Kingsbury Community, but something had shifted. She wanted to serve. She didn’t have much to offer, but she knew how to cook; and she missed cooking for other people.

  “I’d like to volunteer, Sandy,” she said shyly, the heat rising to her face. “To help that young mom, I mean. I’d like to make some meals for her.”

  Sandy grasped Meg’s icy fingers. “That’s wonderful, Meg. Thank you. She’s reeling, you know?”

  “I know.” Though Meg felt her eyes brim with emotion, she didn’t look away.

  “If you’d prefer,” Sandy said, “you can drop the meals off at my house, and I can get them to her.” It was a kind offer, and a month ago Meg would have accepted it. In her old life of a week ago, she would have said yes.

  “Thanks, Sandy, but I think I’ll take them myself. I’d like to meet her.”

  Sandy smiled. “Well, I know Angel will be grateful.”

  As she drove home, Meg was the one filled with gratitude.

  Hannah spent Sunday morning in her robe and slippers, with her Bible and a pot of English Breakfast tea. Meg had invited her to worship, and she had been
tempted by the offer. Not for her sake, but for Meg’s. She wanted to support Meg and encourage her on the road toward overcoming her fears and timidity.

  Hannah had already decided, however, that it was best if she simply invested in her own personal spiritual growth for nine months. She didn’t need the distractions of corporate worship. It was one of the casualties of her seminary training: she couldn’t turn off the incessant internal monologue. Even when she wasn’t leading worship, she was constantly analyzing everything from the flow of the service, to the style of the music, to the content of the sermons. The prayers didn’t escape her scrutiny either. There were just too many temptations to be critical, and she rarely entered into any sense of communion with God during corporate worship. If she avoided church, she could focus on encountering God without meditating on anything else.

  So she prayed for Meg and stayed by herself at the cottage. It was easier that way.

  Charissa awoke on Sunday morning with a massive hangover. After years of being intoxicated with her own goodness, she felt sick to her stomach, and her head was throbbing.

  Though John had respected her request not to talk about Dr. Allen, his tenderness revealed just how strong an ally he was in the battle against her persecutor. John had always possessed an extravagantly large vision of her—almost as lavish a vision as she possessed of herself. But in the past twenty-four hours, Charissa had caught a glimpse of her own internal toxic waste container, and what she saw nauseated her.

  “Can I get you anything before I go?” he asked, tying his shoelaces. She shook her head slowly. “You sure? I’d be happy to skip church and take care of you.”

  That was exactly what she didn’t want. “No, you go,” she said quickly. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a headache.” She wasn’t sure if he believed her or not, but he didn’t argue as he kissed her good-bye.