A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “You’re fifteen! As if it’s not bad enough that you’re out drinking, you get dragged home here in a squad car for all the neighbors to see! How dare you! How dare you bring that kind of shame upon this family!”

  “Oh, right! I forgot! The perfect Fowler family! Gotta make sure nobody finds out what really goes on around here!” Meg heard the slap of a hand against bare skin. “I hate you!” Rachel screamed.

  Meg tried to scamper back to her room without being spotted, but she wasn’t quick enough. Mother stormed up the stairs and saw her racing down the hallway. “Don’t you dare take this out of the house, you hear me?” Mother hissed. Meg nodded and dove back into bed, pulling the covers tightly over her head.

  She didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

  When Meg got home from the lake, there was a message from Rachel: “Just checking in with you to say hi. I’ll be home tonight. Call me!”

  Good, Meg thought. Now she had an excuse to call and mention she had spent the day at the lake. Her heart was beating fast as she dialed Rachel’s number. “Hey, Rache! Sorry I missed your call.” Meg hoped she sounded relaxed. “I was at Lake Michigan with some friends.”

  “Wow! I haven’t been there in ages. Where were you?”

  “Near Lake Haven.”

  “I remember Lake Haven,” Rachel said. “Cute town. We used to go there for ice cream after the beach, remember?” Meg didn’t remember, and her chest was pounding.

  “I guess I don’t remember that,” she said casually. “We used to go there with Mother?”

  Rachel snickered. “Hell, no! Are you kidding? With Daddy! You think Mother would have anything to do with sand in her shoes?”

  Meg gripped the phone. “And I went with you?”

  “Well, you were really little, but yeah, you came with us a couple of times. ’Course, you were such a scaredy-cat, you wanted nothing to do with the water.”

  Meg was trying to figure out how much to ask. “I wish I could remember that.”

  “I haven’t thought about those trips in a long time,” Rachel said. “Those were good days, just being with Daddy. Of course, I liked them better before you came along.” Meg couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rachel laughed. “You took his attention away from me!” Her voice was lighthearted. “Once you started coming with us, he couldn’t play with me in the water. I swear you were scared of everything. And you were so slow! I always had to stop and wait for you.”

  Meg steadied herself. Was she on the verge of discovering if her memory was real?

  “Come to think of it, I do remember a staircase on a beach.” She waited to see if Rachel would supply any details.

  “Yeah! I would race down to the sand and have to wait forever for you. And Daddy would tell me to be patient because you were little and needed help. I can still hear him too: ‘It’s okay, Meggie! It’s okay! C’mon, Meggie, you can do it!’”

  Meg gasped. “He called me ‘Meggie’?”

  “That’s what I remember, anyway. I could be wrong.” Meg could hardly take it in. “You know,” Rachel continued, seemingly oblivious to the impact of her words, “there used to be photos somewhere in the attic. Next time I’m in town, I want to take a look up there. Who knows what we might find?”

  “I’d love to see you. When could you come?”

  “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be in Detroit for business in a couple weeks. I guess I could tack on a day or two and come see you. Let me play with travel plans, and I’ll let you know, okay?”

  They chatted a few more minutes, and then Meg began to review her day in prayer.

  She was spilling over with gratitude, pouring out her thanks for the gift she had been given. An authentic memory of her father! Not something she had imagined from photographs, but a real moment of presence with her dad. She played the scene in her head over and over again. Yes, Rachel had more memories, but Meg had a gift now too.

  And yet there was a dark side to the gift which Meg did not want to examine, despite what Katherine had told the group that morning.

  “For some of you,” Katherine had said, “it will be easier to review the times when you were aware of God’s presence. It will be easier to name the moments when you experienced joy, love and peace. You may be reluctant to confront the difficult struggles and darker feelings, but God is present in all of life. Our everyday lives are the raw materials for encountering God; so pay attention. Don’t be afraid of asking what God is saying through the things you’d rather overlook and ignore. Often, that’s exactly where the Spirit is moving.”

  Meg sighed. There were so many things she had refused to acknowledge: heartaches and disappointments, trials and pain. Meg had coped by packing difficult things into mental and emotional boxes. Then she had hidden them away in dark attic recesses, out of sight and out of mind.

  Now that Meg had begun to unpack some of the boxes of grief and regret about Jim, it seemed no coincidence that a memory of her father had emerged as well. But if she accepted the joy of remembering her dad, wouldn’t she also need to face the pain of losing him? Wouldn’t she also need to address the heartache over how her childhood might have been different if Daddy hadn’t died? And if she began to think hard about Daddy, she might also need to think hard about Mother.

  She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for that.

  She sat at the kitchen table, cradling her head in her hands. It was too much. Too hard. The journey to healing and transformation suddenly seemed even longer and more treacherous than ever before. She felt her spirit recoil in fear. I can’t do it. I’m sorry, Lord. I can’t.

  That’s when she heard her father’s voice again. “I’ve got you, Meggie. Keep comin’.”

  Again and again the words rang in her head, and she felt the steadying grip of a strong hand, helping her walk forward. As the voice resonated in her spirit, Meg began to understand the meaning of the gift. These weren’t just her father’s words, were they? Her Heavenly Father was also speaking them tenderly to her, echoing the promises Katherine had given her from Isaiah 43: I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.

  “I’ve got you, Meggie. Keep comin’.”

  As she continued to concentrate on the strengthening words of reassurance, Meg grew increasingly confident about one thing.

  Her Heavenly Father wasn’t going to let go.

  Hannah

  Hannah didn’t bother eating dinner Saturday night. She wasn’t hungry after Meg, Mara, and Charissa left the cottage. So she went to bed early, intending to continue her daily discipline of lectio divina in John’s gospel. Opening to the second chapter, she began reading prayerfully about the wedding at Cana, listening for a word or phrase that caught her attention.

  On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

  Do whatever he tells you. Do whatever he tells you.

  Hannah couldn’t get beyond those words. So she began to chew on them, inviting the Spirit to show her how those words connected with her life. Then she read the text aloud again.

  On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

  Do whatever he tells you. Why did those words choose her? Hadn’t she already done what God had asked her to do?

>   She had left behind her work, her home, her friends, her life. She had obeyed, doing whatever he told her. Had she ever neglected doing what Jesus asked her to do? Ever?

  Why, even when Nate—

  No. She wasn’t going there. She definitely wasn’t going there. Was not, was not, was not.

  Isn’t it enough for you that I walked away, Lord?

  She was not going to relive the moment. There was no point reliving the moment. She tried to distract herself from thoughts of Nathan by reading ahead in the text, but the words pursued her.

  Do whatever he tells you.

  What, Lord? What do you want me to do? What haven’t I already done for you?

  She read the text again, this time thinking about the wine that had run out. Is that what the Spirit wanted her to see? Is that what God wanted her to confess? That the wine of her life had run out and the joy was gone?

  Okay, Lord. I see that. Forgive me. The joy is gone, and I’m running on empty. Please fill me with living water that can become new wine.

  That’s when it hit her with blunt force: Jesus’ indifference, his reluctance to get involved, his insistence that it wasn’t time for him to intervene.

  It wasn’t time.

  Well, thought Hannah, time ran out for me, and you certainly didn’t do anything to help, did you?

  Wait.

  Whoa.

  Was that her voice speaking words of accusation against the Lord? She sounded so bitter. But she wasn’t bitter. Was not, was not, was not.

  I’m sorry, Lord. Forgive me. I know I won’t stay empty. I know you fill me with good things. Help me trust you. Please.

  Just then a memory from the picnic rose up again: the look of helpless sorrow that consumed Meg’s face when Hannah mentioned the hysterectomy. But Meg didn’t need to feel sorry for her. Hannah wasn’t disappointed about not having a husband or children. Was not, was not, was not. People always presumed she was grieving, but she wasn’t. Was not. She had never grieved over that. There was nothing to grieve.

  She had no regrets—absolutely no regrets about the way her life had turned out. What she had gained in serving God was far greater than anything she had lost or left behind years ago. She had no regrets. None.

  Then why did she feel sick to her stomach whenever Nathan came to mind? Why did the words of their ancient and painful conversation keep rising up to torment her?

  “Isn’t it possible that God wants to show his love for you through me?” Nathan had asked, his eyes brimming with deep emotion. “Isn’t that possible? Why are you running away from love, Hannah? What are you hiding from?” He begged her not to walk away. He begged her to pray and seek God. “Please, Hannah. Please . . .”

  She had told him she knew what Jesus wanted her to do. She was confident that saying no to Nathan was an act of obedience. But if she had known that she would someday be almost forty, single, and childless, would she have made the same choice? Would she have sealed off her heart and walked away? Suddenly, she didn’t know how to answer those questions, and her uncertainty frightened her.

  Not only had she lost everything she had known and loved in Chicago, but she had been thrust into a place where the past now returned to haunt her.

  It all seemed like some sort of cruel, cosmic joke.

  Hannah closed her Bible and turned off the bedside lamp.

  What had Charissa said about how Nathan had helped her? “Dr. Allen told me to pay attention to the things that make me angry, defensive, and upset.”

  If God could use pain and agitation to uncover hidden hurts and reveal unresolved sorrow, then one thing was clear. The Spirit of God was moving.

  Curling her body into a fetal position under the covers, Hannah wrapped herself in darkness and wept.

  Mara

  Mara microwaved a frozen dinner and sat on the couch with the television off, waiting for Tom and the boys to get home. Her notebook was open so she could read what she had written that morning after she walked the labyrinth: “I’m getting it! I’m getting how Jesus sees all the crap in my life but doesn’t condemn me. Like the Samaritan woman. She wasn’t ashamed to tell people that the Messiah knew everything about her. Maybe I have a story that might actually help somebody. How cool would that be?”

  As Mara examined her moments of gratitude from the morning, she was struck by how easy it was to forget what God had revealed to her—especially since she shifted so quickly into self-doubt. But here were her words on the page, serving as markers that the Holy Spirit had spoken to her. She wanted to remember. She needed to be deliberate about remembering so that she could move forward with faith and hope.

  Katherine had said that some people would find it easier to focus on the negative parts of the day and lose sight of the blessings God had given. Mara was tired of being negative. Maybe the examen was a spiritual discipline to help her become more grateful.

  Shifting her weight on the couch, she asked the Holy Spirit to give her courage to prayerfully review the rest of her day. She asked for light into the dark and difficult places, as well as vision to see the blessings and gifts. Then she imagined sitting next to Jesus, talking with him about what she had thought, felt, and experienced during the afternoon at the cottage.

  She remembered the joy of feeling included and how grateful she was for her emerging friendship with Meg and Hannah. She closed her eyes as she pictured the scene again: warm sunlight on her face, wind in her hair, sand beneath her feet. She had tasted peace as she sat beside the shimmering lake, feasting on the good gifts of God.

  Then she felt the searing pain of regret. She was so eager to connect with other women about their lives and relationships that she had pushed Hannah too hard. If only she hadn’t asked about Hannah’s personal life.

  Mara had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to atone for her indiscretion. Determined to make amends for whatever sorrow she might have caused, Mara had willingly submitted to all of Hannah’s probing questions about her life. She had made herself vulnerable, even as Charissa sat there screaming disapproval without saying a word.

  Mara didn’t care. She knew Charissa’s type, and she was tired of having her buttons pushed. She had lived her whole life surrounded by little Charissas who grew up to be critical, judgmental, hard-hearted women. She didn’t want Charissa’s approval. She didn’t. She didn’t care. She didn’t need approval or acceptance from shallow and superficial people. Charissa could reject her. Mara rejected Charissa. Her first impressions had been right after all.

  The hum of the garage door interrupted her prayer, and she quickly wiped away her tears.

  Tom and the boys were home.

  Hannah

  Hannah awoke on Sunday morning, exhausted.

  Over the years she had spent countless nights weeping for others in intercessory prayer. But she couldn’t recall the last time she had spent a night sobbing uncontrollably for herself. As she lay in bed, she remembered something she had once read about tears being waters of the womb, breaking before the birth of something new. But her tears weren’t the prelude to new birth. Her womb was gone. And there was nothing growing within her except disappointment: disappointment with herself, disappointment with her life, disappointment with—

  Yes, profound disappointment with God.

  There. She’d said it. Happy now, Lord? Isn’t that what you want? “Truth in the inner parts?” Fine. Take my truth.

  She rolled over and looked at the alarm clock: 11 a.m. When was the last time she had stayed in bed until 11 a.m.?

  The second service would be underway at Westminster. The congregation would be gathered, singing the opening songs of worship, lifting their hearts and hands to the Lord. She was glad she wasn’t there. She was glad she didn’t have to sing praise choruses; glad she didn’t have to fake joy and thanksgiving in front of anyone; glad that no one would be commending and admiring her for tireless servanthood to Christ and his church. Glad. She was tired of faking. Tired, tired, tired.

  I’m empty, Lord.
Completely empty. And you know what? I’m not even interested in being filled. How’s that for honest?

  She threw on her clothes, listening to the wind whip and lash a rope against the neighbors’ flagpole. A storm was brewing. The gray sky was moody and menacing above the swirling, churning, crashing surf; and the sea had turned to slate. Good. She might have been soothed by a sunlit, sparkling lake, and Hannah didn’t want to be soothed—not today. She skipped her morning cup of tea, braced herself against the wind, and headed for the beach.

  Do whatever he tells you. Do whatever he tells you. Do whatever he tells you. The words still would not release her.

  She had spent the night mentally rehearsing everything she had ever sacrificed for God. She had spent the night recounting every act of obedience, every denial to self, every detail of devotion: all the time, all the energy, all the strength. And for what? For what?

  As she walked along the beach, she spit out her prayer through clenched teeth.

  What did I ever do to you to deserve what I’ve gotten? I gave up everything for you. Everything! And for what? I’ve given you a lifetime of total devotion—body, soul, mind, strength. What did I ever hold back from you? Name it! I tell people, “Oh, you know it’s impossible to out-give God!” I’m such a liar.

  She shielded her eyes against a wind that was hurling stinging fistfuls of fine-grained sand into her face. The lid was off. No more stuffing and containing. The harder the wind blew, the more freely she voiced her anger.

  God is great; God is good, huh? No, you’re not. Not to me. How’s that for honest? How’s that for truth?

  You know what? I wish I had said yes to Nathan. I wish I hadn’t cared about what you wanted because clearly, your plans for me weren’t great, were they? Is this what you planned for me? That somehow it was good for me to be alone? This was the best you could come up with? Do you even care how much my heart broke every time I pronounced a couple “man and wife”? Do you care? I could’ve had a life with him! But no! I gave that up for you! Remember? I gave up EVERYTHING for you!