A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Loretta wasn’t going to speak about what she had observed of Rachel. Rachel had kept her father tightly wrapped around her little finger. William had indulged and spoiled her, Loretta often remarked to Robert. But when your wife didn’t return love and affection—well, he needed to pour his adoration somewhere, didn’t he?

  She continued aloud. “Then when you were born, your father fell in love all over again.”

  She wished she could see Meg’s face. She wished she could know if her words were helping or hurting. She heard Meg blow her nose.

  “Really?” Meg asked quietly.

  “He absolutely adored you, honey,” Loretta answered. “His face would light up every time he spoke about you. He would often bring you over to see us. He knew how fond I was of you, and we hadn’t been able to have children of our own, you see. Your father was kind that way. Very kind. And I used to love to watch the two of you play together in the yard. He’d spend hours playing hide-and-seek with you. I can still remember you squealing with laughter whenever he found you. He’d scoop you up out of your hiding place and carry you around the yard, singing.”

  “Singing?” Meg repeated.

  “Yes! Your father loved to sing. A beautiful voice. A songbird. Like you.”

  “I wish I could remember that,” Meg said. Her voice was wistful. “There are so many things I wish I could remember.”

  Loretta did not reply. There were many things she was glad Meg did not remember.

  Loretta had watched with sadness as William’s joy and love of life gradually ebbed away. In his last years the laughter yielded to a persistent melancholy. He started drinking. Heavily. Loretta didn’t know enough about alcoholism or depression to say which had come first. She just knew William battled demons.

  Much as she had liked William when he was sober, he was a different man when he was drunk. Aggressive. Menacing. Not that he had ever hurt the girls. Loretta didn’t think he had ever hurt the girls. But there were many things that happened behind closed doors, and she was convinced Ruth had died with secrets. Many of them. Loretta supposed she would die with secrets too, out of honor and respect for the dead.

  Meg’s voice interrupted her meandering thoughts. “Rachel was telling me the other night that she thought I stayed with you during the funeral.”

  Here we go, thought Loretta. She braced herself. “You did. You were so little, and you didn’t understand what had happened. It was better for you not to be there.”

  “What do you remember about that?” Meg asked. “I mean—about when my father died?”

  Loretta had known the question was inevitable. “Well, my memory’s not as reliable as it used to be,” she answered. That was partially true. Her short-term memory was fading, but her long-term memories lived on in high-definition clarity.

  Meg pressed. “I know, but is there anything you remember about when he died? Any details at all?”

  The details were precisely what Loretta had wanted to forget. How she had longed to forget! But they had haunted and pursued her for more than forty years. She could have played her mental movie back for Meg, scene by scene, frame by frame. In the long moments of silence, as Loretta frantically tried to figure out how much to reveal, she saw it all over again.

  It was a hot, muggy August afternoon filled with buzzing mosquitoes. Loretta was kneeling in her flowerbeds, deadheading marigolds, her knees and hands covered in dirt. A window was open on the second floor of the Fowler house, with a sheer white curtain billowing in the breeze. She could hear the sound of voices raised in anger. She tried not to eavesdrop. She tried to concentrate on her weeding and deadheading. But she caught shouted words and phrases. Enough to know what the argument was about.

  No-good, useless drunk. Disgrace. Shame. Hopeless.

  She happened to look up at the window just as Ruth was peering down. Their eyes met briefly before Ruth slammed the window shut.

  Loretta was still working in the flowerbed when she saw Ruth storm to the car, dragging Meg by the hand. Meg was crying. She wanted to kiss Daddy good-bye. She always kissed Daddy good-bye. Loretta could still see Meg standing in the driveway in her pink sundress, blowing kisses through her tears and waving at the house. Loretta didn’t know if William was there, waving back.

  She had never been able to erase the image of Meg’s tiny face pressed against the car window, staring forlornly at the house as Ruth drove away. If Loretta had only known what would happen a few hours later, she never would have let Ruth drive away. Never.

  “It was August,” Loretta finally replied. “A very hot day in August. Rachel was playing at a friend’s house, I think, and you and your mother had gone out. I was working in my flowerbeds when I heard what sounded like a car backfiring. I wouldn’t have paid attention at all, except Robert happened to be standing next to me. When he heard it, he knew it was a gunshot. Robert was a hunter, and he sometimes went hunting with your father; so he recognized the sound, and he went running over to investigate.” Loretta’s voice caught. She wasn’t sure she could go on with the story.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” Silence. “Loretta? Please . . . if there’s anything you can tell me . . . ”

  Grateful that Meg couldn’t see her, Loretta gripped the table to steady herself. God, help me. Please.

  “Robert found your father in your parents’ bedroom,” she said quietly. Loretta had seen him too, but she couldn’t speak about that. The image was too painful, too fresh, even after all these years. William lay there lifeless on the bed, a blood-spattered photo of his little girls on his pillow.

  But Loretta didn’t reveal that detail. In fact, she gave as few details as possible, fervently hoping Meg wouldn’t press for more. “Your mother got home shortly after Robert found him, and you came over to stay with me while Robert waited with your mother for the police. I don’t remember Rachel coming home that night. I think she stayed at her friend’s house.”

  She wasn’t going to talk about the moment Ruth got home. Ruth had been icy and stoic, seemingly more provoked about the neighbors’ intrusion than about her husband’s death. But that was merely conjecture. Ruth had never been one to display any kind of emotion, and it could have been the shock of William’s death that caused her to appear so dispassionate.

  Loretta sighed. “And that’s what happened,” she said slowly. “It was terrible. A terrible tragedy, and my heart broke for your mother and for you girls.” The seconds were ages as she anticipated the dreaded, inevitable question.

  “Was it an accident, Mrs. Anderson?” Meg sounded like the little girl Loretta had adored, her soprano voice even higher than usual.

  “I . . . I honestly don’t know what to tell you, honey.”

  That was the truth. That was the honest-to-goodness truth.

  Mara

  Mara sat in worship on the first Sunday of November, feeling sorry for herself. Though she had desperately hoped her spiritual growth would impact her family, nothing had changed. Nothing. Tom still wanted nothing to do with church, and she could no longer bribe or coerce Kevin and Brian into coming with her.

  “They’re good kids,” Tom said whenever Mara mentioned her desires for Sunday mornings. “Don’t you dare spread your guilt around. It doesn’t matter if they go to church or not. Go ahead and do whatever you want, but leave us out of it.”

  Why had she thought anything would be different?

  As she watched the Happy Families sitting together in worship, Mara wondered if they were grateful for the gift they had been given. She didn’t like feeling bitter and resentful, but living out her faith was so much easier when there weren’t other people involved.

  So much easier.

  “So, Mom, are you sure you don’t mind that we’re gonna be with Abby’s folks for Thanksgiving?” Jeremy asked later that same day.

  “No, of course not,” Mara replied, avoiding eye contact by concentrating on stirring a pot of soup on the stove. Round and round and round with the wooden spoon. Circles, circles, circles.

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nbsp; “I mean . . . I figured we were with you guys last Thanksgiving, right? And with the baby coming in January, we’re probably not gonna want to travel down to their place for Christmas. So plan on us spending Christmas Day with you, okay?”

  Mara recognized his conciliatory tone. He had probably had a long conversation with Abby about how to keep the mothers-in-law even. “Sure, Jer. That sounds great.”

  At least Jeremy lived nearby. Mara was counting on having an advantage with the baby. Since she would get to see the baby more often than Abby’s mother, maybe she would even become the favorite grandmother. She hoped so. She couldn’t bear it if her granddaughter grew up preferring Ellen. After all, there was only so much love to go around, and Mara had spent a lifetime competing against people who could get there first. If she didn’t get there fast enough, there would only be leftovers.

  Or nothing at all.

  “So . . . are you still thinking you want to serve Thanksgiving dinner at Crossroads?” Jeremy asked, dipping his finger into the saucepan. Mara good-naturedly slapped his wrist and handed him a spoon.

  “I don’t know. You know how Brian is about tradition. He’s already got everything planned in his head about how the meal should be.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “But you could probably manage both, right? I mean, maybe you could have your dinner later that night. Or have it on Friday. I just know how much Crossroads means to you.”

  Mara nodded. “We spent a lot of Thanksgivings together there, didn’t we?” she said quietly, remembering glowing, candlelit tables set with paper plates and plastic utensils.

  “I just remember the pies,” Jeremy said, grinning. “They let me have as much as I wanted.”

  Mara ladled the soup into bowls and took bread from the oven. “I’d love to be there. But I’m not gonna go by myself.”

  “So ask Tom if he’ll go.”

  Mara snorted.

  “I’m serious, Mom! Ask him to go with you. It would be good for Brian and Kevin to experience it. They need to get out of their suburban bubble.”

  Jeremy was right. Brian and Kevin had no comprehension of the life she’d had before they were born. Mara had sheltered, shielded, and protected them as much as possible.

  “Tell you what, Mom. You’ve been talking so much lately about how God is answering prayer in your life. Why not ask God for a Thanksgiving gift? I’ll pray for that for you, okay?” Mara’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at her son. “You’re the one who keeps telling me nothing’s impossible with God,” he said. “Right?”

  Mara sighed. “Right, Jer. Right.”

  So why did she struggle to believe that life with Tom would ever change?

  Charissa

  Charissa had never been late. Never. Like everything else in her life, her monthly cycle had always been under her careful control, especially after she and John got married. Though John sometimes teased her about her rigorous discipline, Charissa took The Pill at precisely the same time each day. Being meticulous and exact prevented anything unexpected.

  So when she sat staring at a faint blue plus sign, she was sure it had to be a false positive. In fact, she was so certain that she retook the test three times over three days with three different brands. But dots, lines, and plusses all confirmed the truth.

  She was pregnant.

  “Now what?” she exclaimed, finally revealing the truth to John.

  John was shocked, thrilled, exuberant. “What do you mean, ‘Now what’? We’re going to be parents! This is amazing!” He went to embrace her, but she drew back.

  “It’s not amazing—it’s terrible! I can’t believe this!” She started to cry.

  John looked as if he had been kicked. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not kidding! Do I look like I’m kidding? I can’t believe this! After all the hours I’ve put into that Ph.D. . . . for this to happen? This wasn’t part of the plan!” She began to cry harder.

  “Whose plan, Riss? Whose plan?” John was shaking. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you’re acting like this. This is a baby we’re talking about—our baby!”

  She wasn’t listening. “I can’t believe this,” she said over and over again. “I’ve worked so hard. So hard! And now this? I’m going to have to give up school. I can’t believe I’m going to have to give it up.”

  John stared at her, frozen in disbelief and hurt. “All you can think about is your precious Ph.D.?” he asked, his eyes brimming with tears. “I knew you were self-centered, Charissa, but this is unbelievable.” He went to the kitchen and grabbed his keys. She didn’t look at him. “I’m leaving before I say something I regret.”

  She heard the door slam behind him.

  When John arrived home three hours later, Charissa had gone to bed. As he watched her lying there, he wasn’t sure if she was really asleep or not. She did not move, and he did not try to speak to her. He changed his clothes in the bathroom, grabbed his pillow, and went out to spend the night on the couch.

  This was not the way he had imagined it would be. He had lived in joyful anticipation of the day when he would become a father. Granted, he hadn’t thought it would happen for a few years—especially since he knew how important Charissa’s education and career were to her. But as careful as Charissa had been about her birth control, couldn’t she see God’s hand in this? John had witnessed so much evidence of spiritual and emotional growth in her the past few weeks, and now it seemed to have completely evaporated. In an instant—gone.

  Who could have imagined that a simple plus sign would have the power to reveal so much about his wife’s heart?

  He turned off the light but didn’t sleep.

  Meg

  Meg tried for a week to reach Rachel by phone, eventually receiving a brief e-mail in reply to her increasingly anxious voice mail messages.

  Meg,

  Just want you to know that I’m okay. You don’t have to freak out just because I haven’t had a chance to return your calls. I’m really busy right now with work and travel, so we probably won’t connect for a while.

  I’m not interested in having a conversation about Daddy. Believe what-ever you want. You didn’t know him like I did, and I know for a fact that his death was an accident. I don’t want to discuss it with you any further.

  I left without taking the photos I wanted. Just leave the box in the attic, and I’ll pick it up the next time I’m in town. Probably sometime in January after you get back from England. Have a good trip.

  Rachel

  Meg had hoped the revelation about their father’s death would be enough to bind their hearts together in a new way. But there would be no changing Rachel’s mind about having a conversation. She had their mother’s stubbornness, much as Rachel had spent a lifetime vehemently denying any similarities between them. That’s probably why they had always had so much conflict. They were too much alike.

  Then again, maybe it was better that Rachel refused to consider the possibility of their father’s suicide. She would only end up blaming Mother for driving him to it, and then Rachel would have one more reason to stay bitter and angry with the dead.

  At least Meg wasn’t bitter. Even though she was convinced her father had made the decision to end his life, at least she wasn’t bitter.

  Please, Lord, don’t let me be bitter. Please.

  Later that afternoon Meg sat in Katherine’s office, recounting what she had discovered about her father. Katherine listened carefully and then asked, “Do you know anything about your name, Meg?”

  Meg was surprised by the question. “My grandmother’s name was Margaret, and I’m assuming my dad named me. But I only got called Margaret when I was in trouble.”

  Katherine smiled. “Do you know what Margaret means?”

  Meg thought for a moment and then answered, “‘Pearl,’ I think.”

  Years ago Mrs. Anderson had given her a mug with her name and its meaning printed on it. She wondered if she still had the mug.

  Katherine was sipping
her tea slowly. “What do you know about how pearls are formed?” she asked.

  “A grain of sand in an oyster, right?”

  Katherine nodded. “Sometimes sand,” she replied, setting down her mug. “And sometimes a parasite or other irritant. At first the oyster tries to get rid of it. But if it can’t, it encloses the intruder into a sac. Then the oyster begins coating the sac with mother of pearl—the same substance that lines the shell. The oyster adds layer after layer for the rest of its life.” Katherine grinned. “So the next time you look at your natural pearls, consider the possibility that they’re tombs for parasites.”

  Meg laughed. “I think I was happier imagining myself as a precious gem.”

  “You are! That’s the miracle of the process. Life’s painful intrusions aren’t negotiable, are they? They happen. It’s what we do with them that matters.”

  They shared the silence while Meg gazed outside at the labyrinth courtyard. The roses were gone, and the fiery colors of autumn had disappeared. Only the brown of the oak trees and the green of the pines remained. It was good to remember that the pines were always green. Even in November—especially in November and especially this November when she missed Jim more than ever—there was still evergreen.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Katherine spoke gently. “I’ve met many people over the years who coat their suffering with bitterness, resentment, and self-pity, and nothing fruitful comes of it. And I’ve met just as many people who try to pretend that the pain isn’t there. They think that denying their pain is God’s command—that denial is somehow the evidence of faith. But Jesus invites us to name our pain and to receive his grace for our suffering so that nothing is wasted.” She handed Meg a tissue from the box on her coffee table. “Jesus is the perfect Redeemer of our sorrow and suffering, if we entrust ourselves to him. The miracle is that Christ has the power to make something precious and beautiful out of it.”