A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “I was so afraid Jesus wasn’t going to stop and help Bartimaeus,” Meg said in a small voice. “So I yelled for him to stop, and he turned around and asked me what I wanted him to do for me. And I told him I wanted Bartimaeus to be able to see him. Like I’ve seen him. And Jesus heard me. He did what I asked him to do.” There was so much more Meg wished she could say, but words failed her.

  “Beautiful!” Katherine exclaimed. “The Lord moved you to pray his heart for those who have yet to see and follow him. What a special gift of grace, Meg.”

  Meg felt faint as Mara grasped her icy hand. Though Katherine continued to shepherd the group discussion about how the Word of God had come to life, Meg hardly heard anything. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

  Just before noon Katherine wrapped up the animated conversation in the room. “A few weeks ago,” she said, “we prayed through the text in John 1 where Jesus asks the would-be disciples, ‘What are you looking for?’ Then Jesus invites them to ‘come and see.’ Now we meet a blind man, and Jesus asks the same kind of question: ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ Bartimaeus asks for sight. That’s a courageous thing to ask for, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s easier to remain in our darkness and blindness. But Bartimaeus wants to see.

  “I invite you to cry out for sight,” said Katherine. “Cry out for God to shine light into the darkness of your lives so that you can be healed and set free to join Jesus on the way. And don’t be afraid. ‘Take heart; get up! The Lord is calling you.’ ”

  Charissa’s heart was pounding as she kept step with Mara down the hallway. Her meditations on the Bartimaeus text had revealed her toxic waste container.

  Again.

  As Charissa prayerfully listened to the Word, she knew where she was in the story. She was in the crowd telling Bartimaeus to be quiet. He was so loud, so persistent, so totally unconcerned with what anyone else thought of him. Jesus was on a mission, after all. He had to get to Jerusalem. He couldn’t get derailed from his destination by some blind beggar.

  But then Jesus stopped. “Charissa,” he said, “go tell Bartimaeus that I’m calling him. Go and bring him to me.”

  She started to argue. They had to get to Jerusalem. They were on a schedule. But Jesus smiled and shook his head. “We have time, Charissa. Go and get him. Help him come to me.”

  Mara had shared with the group that she imagined herself as Bartimaeus, yelling and crying out because she was so desperate for Jesus. Mara claimed she didn’t care what people said or thought. She just knew what she wanted and needed.

  Now as Charissa walked beside Mara, she knew what she had to do. She needed to apologize for her judgmental and condemning attitude, much as she didn’t want to.

  At first, she rationalized her reluctance: it would only wound Mara more to know that someone else had rejected and condemned her. Wasn’t it enough for Charissa to confess her sin privately to God? Mara never needed to know about it.

  But the closer she got to the parking lot, the clearer the Spirit’s voice became. Charissa knew she was being asked to lay down her pride and humble herself. She took a deep breath and long-jumped out of her comfort zone.

  “I’ve been thinking the past couple of weeks about what you said at the cottage, Mara. About all the wells you’ve tried to drink from. I want you to know that God used what you said to help me.”

  Mara looked shocked. “Really?”

  Charissa was tempted to leave it there. She could give Mara a gift of encouragement and then walk away. But the Spirit urged her forward.

  “I also have some wells I’ve been drinking from,” Charissa confessed. “Mostly about trying to be perfect and keeping up appearances so I can have everybody’s respect and admiration.”

  Mara looked like she wasn’t sure what to say.

  Charissa cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’m beginning to see what a stuck-up Pharisee I’ve been. And I’m sorry. That day at the beach . . . ” She had started the confession, and she had to finish it. “When we were together for the picnic that day—well, it was hard for me to hear your story. I felt really judgmental and uncomfortable. I’ve had such a terrible attitude about other people and their sin that it’s kept me from seeing my own. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Mara did not respond: not by word, gesture, or facial expression. As they walked together in silence, Charissa felt sick to her stomach. What else could she say? She had made things worse. She should have kept quiet. She had made things even harder for Mara.

  No. She had made things harder for herself. Now what? She wanted a do-over. On everything.

  They had reached the portico, and it was raining hard. Since John hadn’t arrived yet, Charissa would have to stand there, either waiting for Mara to reply or bearing the discomfort of being scorned if Mara walked away. Did Mara know how vulnerable and exposed Charissa felt? Why wasn’t she saying anything?

  C’mon, John, where are you?

  Of course, Mara knew all about being exposed and vulnerable, didn’t she? She had suffered Charissa’s astringent condemnation two weeks ago, not only at the beach, but in the forty-five minute ride home in Meg’s car when Charissa had refused to speak to Mara, addressing only Meg in conversation. Wicked, cruel, juvenile. Charissa regretted it.

  She scanned the parking lot for moving headlights. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.

  It wasn’t just Mara, either. There had been others. So many others. Somehow, as she and Mara stood there side by side and miles apart, Mara became all of them—all the girls Charissa had rejected, judged, scorned, and ignored.

  They lived in Mara.

  If only Mara would say something. Anything. What was she thinking?

  Mara was staring at the ground. “We’re wearing the same shoes,” she said quietly.

  Charissa was startled, not sure what she meant. Symbol? Metaphor? Her mind was racing for an interpretation of the cryptic comment. “Sorry?” she asked.

  Mara pointed to her feet. “We’re wearing the same shoes.”

  Charissa looked down. She was wearing her favorite, most comfortable pair of navy and white sneakers. Mara’s were identical.

  Smiling slightly, Charissa shrugged and answered, “I guess even goody two-shoes need to find the right pair for sacred journeys.”

  Mara looked up into Charissa’s eyes and laughed with a chortling kind of unrestraint that swelled up and made Charissa laugh too. “The Sensible Shoes Club, right?” Mara said, resting her hand on Charissa’s arm. “That took guts for you to apologize, girl. Thank you.”

  A wave of relief and gratitude washed over Charissa. “You’re welcome,” she said. Thank you, Jesus, she breathed.

  “I’d like to ask your forgiveness too,” said Mara, her hand still resting on Charissa’s arm.

  Charissa raised her eyebrows. “What for?”

  “For being judgmental and condemning about you. For thinking all kinds of nasty things about you. From the moment you joined our table that first day, I started judging you for your looks, for your name, for the way you carried yourself. I started blaming you for causing years of pain because you reminded me of some people who hurt me really bad. Crazy, I know . . .”

  Charissa shook her head slowly as John pulled up to the portico. “Not crazy,” she said, smiling. “I guess it’s not surprising we have the same shoes, Mara. We’re walking the same road.”

  Mara grinned and opened her fluorescent pink umbrella. “Amen, girlfriend.”

  “I’m proud of you,” said Katherine as she and Meg cleaned up the room together. “That wasn’t easy for you to speak up.”

  “No, I didn’t want to. Then I kept feeling more and more nervous, knowing I was supposed to. I don’t think I was very clear, though.”

  “You were perfectly clear! Not everyone connects with God’s heart for the lost and blind, Meg. That’s a wonderful gift.”

  The two of them continued in companionable silence for a while before Meg said, “My sister’s coming to town next week. We ha
ven’t seen each other since our mother’s funeral.” She loaded the last coffee mugs onto the cart and wiped down the refreshment table with a damp cloth. “I guess I’d never really thought about it before, but Rachel is lost and blind. She just doesn’t know it. I wonder if my insight today has something to do with her.”

  Katherine smiled but did not reply.

  “I can’t imagine talking with her about Jesus, though. She’s kind of spiritually eclectic, and I’ve always been the little sister. Even at forty-six, I’m just the little sister who doesn’t know much.”

  “I’ll be praying for your visit.”

  “Thank you. Thanks for everything.” Meg embraced her and then picked up her purse. “By the way, Katherine, did you see Hannah leave? I’m worried something happened to her.”

  Katherine gathered her papers together. “She told me she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I’ll give her a call.”

  Katherine nodded. “God bless you, dear one.”

  On her way to her office, Katherine stopped in the chapel again. Quieting herself at the foot of the cross, she asked the Holy Spirit to help her pray for Hannah. Hannah was so afraid. So very afraid.

  Be tender to her, Lord. She’s so frightened. There’s a wounded child inside of her who is terrified and alone. So alone. Dear God, pour out your love and heal her. Heal her heart. Remove her resistance and overcome her fears with your perfect love. Take away her terror of intimacy—intimacy with you and intimacy with others. Meet her in the wilderness of her grief and fear, and show her that you see her. You see her, Lord. Please help her see you. Give her eyes to see you! And grant her courage—not just to confront the past, but to walk into the future you have for her without fear. In the strong name of Jesus.

  Let it be, Lord. Let it be.

  “I saw something,” Hannah said, opening her eyes and looking at Nathan. She hardly recognized her own voice. This voice was youthfully fervent—more like the voice she had used years ago when she and Nate were talking about God in her dorm room or at the student center. This voice was passionate and excited. “I saw something while you were praying for me.”

  She simply couldn’t contain herself. She had to tell him. Nate was leaning forward in the armchair, his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees, still in a posture of prayer.

  “Did I ever tell you about an image I saw years ago of me running in and out of God’s throne room with flowers?”

  “Remind me,” he said.

  Her words tumbled out. “I was praying in my college dorm room one day, and I saw an image of myself when I was a little girl, maybe four or five years old. My hair was in this little bob cut with a couple of plastic barrettes keeping it out of my eyes, and I was wearing one of those flowered sundresses my mom always loved, with a big bow at the back.”

  Nathan smiled.

  “Anyway . . . I was running really fast, in and out of God’s presence. Every time I ran in, I dumped flowers at Jesus’ feet—armloads and armloads of beautiful, colorful wildflowers. Then I’d race out to gather more. I kept running in and out, back and forth to gather and deliver. And then finally, on one of my rushing trips in, Jesus leaned forward, scooped me up into his arms, and sat me down on his lap. He smiled at me with this wonderful, warm smile and said, ‘Thank you for the flowers, Hannah. But what I’d really like is to hold you for a while.’”

  Nathan still had his hands clasped together. “I remember now,” he said quietly. “The perfect image for your desire to please God.”

  “Yes,” Hannah said. “And a reminder that I was often so busy serving him that I forgot to be with him.”

  He nodded slowly.

  She was breathless as she continued. “Well, as you were praying for me just now, I saw another image of the same scene. I was back in the throne room again. But this time I was grown up, and things were reversed. This time Jesus was the one with the flowers. And I kept racing in and out of his presence to grab the flowers and deliver them to people outside. I kept running in and out, back and forth, taking more and more flowers from Jesus so that I could give them to lots of people.”

  “God’s delivery girl,” Nathan said, smiling.

  “Yes!” Hannah laughed. “And then . . . Then, something happened. On one of my trips in, Jesus stopped me. He took me by the hand and smiled at me and said, ‘The flowers are for you, Hannah. The flowers are for you.’” Her voice caught, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Nate’s eyes mirrored her emotion. “Flowers,” he repeated softly. “The lover’s gift to the beloved. . . . What a treasure, Hannah. Thank you, Lord . . .”

  Flowers. Lovers. Gifts. Beloved.

  That wasn’t what she had expected him to say.

  And she was going to have to find a way to leave his office quickly so she could concentrate on Jesus without being distracted by Nate.

  October 25

  7 p.m.

  I’m sitting here at the cottage, listening to the steady rain landing on the deck and trying to process everything that happened—everything God revealed to me today. Maybe the prayer of examen is exactly what I need to work through tonight in order to see the movement of the Spirit in today’s events. I need to go back over the details in Jesus’ presence and ask for his perspective on everything that happened.

  I can see it now, though I didn’t see it this morning. I see how God stopped me along my own wilderness road. I was so upset when I left the group. I couldn’t risk breaking down in front of all of them. My pride was wrapped up in that—a pride that refuses to let anybody see me disintegrate.

  Forgive me, Lord.

  And then to wind up lost because I was so distracted. Not only lost, but locked out of my car and angry. So angry. What does it say about God’s power and providence that even when I thought I was avoiding God and running away, I end up right where God wants me? That God sees me and finds me? I used to have an Einstein quote on a poster in my dorm room: “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” What kind of grace is it that finds me in my fear and disobedience and gives me the gifts God gave me today?

  It was such a gift to hear Nathan’s story. There’s such freedom in him. Freedom to be honest about where he’s come from. And he has such joy and peace in knowing where he’s going. He never had that kind of confidence in God when I knew him years ago. He’s like a new person. A new creation. And if pain and sorrow have accomplished that in his life, then who am I to say pain and sorrow aren’t gifts the Lord will use in my life? I want the kind of rest Nathan has. Rest in knowing God’s love and enjoying the gift of being God’s beloved. If stripping everything else away can bring that kind of gift, then help me trust you and yield, Lord.

  I remember Katherine telling me at our first spiritual direction session that my journey toward healing and freedom will deepen when I truly understand myself as the beloved. What a beautiful image God gave me for that. If I can be confident in God’s love for me, then maybe I can go back into the past without being so afraid. Maybe.

  I deleted the resignation letters a little while ago. I don’t know where I’m going when the sabbatical is done. I’d like to think that I’ll be pastoring again, but I need to hold that desire with open hands. Those decisions aren’t for me to make today.

  Tonight, though, I have one other small answer to the “where are you going?” question.

  Tomorrow I’m going to worship. Meg called earlier to invite me, and for the first time in a long time, worship doesn’t feel like a “should.” It’s a desire. That’s also a gift, Lord. Thank you.

  10

  Deeper into the Wilderness

  I will lead the blind by a road they do not know, by paths they have not known I will guide them. I will turn the darkness before them into light, the rough places into level ground. These are the things I will do, and I will not forsake them.

  Isaiah 42:16

  Together

  On Sunday afternoon Hannah and Meg sat together in a Corner Nook booth, eating butternut squas
h soup and talking about the worship service.

  “Thanks so much for inviting me,” Hannah said. “It was good for me to be there.”

  “I’m glad,” said Meg. “I’ve been worried about you. Praying for you.”

  “Thanks.” Hannah knew she was standing at a crossroads. How much was she going to reveal? “I’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” she began. “You’ve been so sweet to keep checking in with me. I really appreciate it.”

  “Well, you were there for me when I needed help and encouragement about Jim a few weeks ago.” Meg’s voice was soft. “I’d really like to support you, Hannah. If there’s anything I can do to help . . . I know my faith isn’t as strong as yours, but if there’s anything I can offer you . . . I just wish . . . ”

  Meg’s words pierced her. Hannah was no model of spiritual maturity. So why couldn’t she confess that to Meg? Why was she so afraid to disclose the truth about her grief? Did she really believe Meg’s faith would be harmed if she confessed her struggles or how disappointed she had felt with God? Was she protecting Meg or herself?

  “Keep praying for me, okay?” Hannah said, stirring her soup methodically. “With everything I’m learning and processing, that’s the best gift you can give me right now. I’m grateful for your prayers.”

  There. A confession of need without a confession of weakness. That was enough for today.

  Hannah shifted gears smoothly and effortlessly. “I was thinking last night about what God showed you that day on the labyrinth,” Hannah said. “About Jesus loving you even more than Jim did. I was so happy for you, thinking about what a gift the Spirit had given you. And yesterday God surprised me with the same kind of gift.”

  Meg’s face lit up. “Really?”

  “I saw an image as Nathan prayed for me in his office.” Hannah broke off a piece of sourdough bread to dip into her bowl. “I was running in and out of the throne room of God, collecting flowers from Jesus to give to other people. Then suddenly, Jesus caught me by the hand and told me that the flowers were actually for me.”