“You okay, Charissa?” Mara asked as they packed up their things.
Charissa stretched her lips into a broad smile. “Absolutely. Thanks.”
Mara reached into her bag. “I keep thinking about that story Katherine told us about her seminary prof,” she said. “I’d never thought about hearing God’s question in the garden that way before.”
Though Charissa didn’t know what Mara was talking about, she didn’t want to call attention to the reasons why she had been late.
“Katherine was telling us a story before you arrived, Charissa,” Meg explained, accepting Mara’s offer of cinnamon Altoids. “She had a seminary professor whose older sister ran away from home when he was a little boy. His parents searched for her for months—they scoured the country for her—and couldn’t find her. One day he got home from school early, and he heard his mother weeping upstairs in his sister’s room, crying over and over again, ‘Where are you, Karen? Where are you?’”
Mara said, “Yeah—Katherine told us he preached this amazing sermon about Adam and Eve hiding from God. He talked about how God’s heart broke over Adam and Eve, just like his mom’s heart broke over his sister. And Katherine said she’s never been able to hear God’s ‘Where are you?’ question the same way again.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to, either,” said Meg quietly.
Mara offered the mint tin to Charissa, who shook her head slightly. She was beginning to feel nauseous again.
“I was writing down my answers to those questions Katherine gave us on the handout,” Mara said, “and I realized I’ve always heard it like God was angry at them . . . like he was trying to smoke ’em out from hiding to punish them. But hearing it this way changes everything. I think I’ll be spending the next two weeks just sitting with those questions from today.”
Mara paused, rattling around the Altoids container before putting it back into her bag. “You know,” she went on, “I put so much energy into hiding over the years, and now suddenly, everything’s breaking loose, and I’m not afraid like I was before.” She smiled at Charissa. “I’m not terrified of rejection anymore. How amazing is that?”
A single question was swirling around in Charissa’s mind: Where are you, Charissa? Where are you? John’s wounded face rose before her, pleading with hurt and sorrow.
She felt her cheeks flush. Blasted hormones.
“You sure you’re okay?” Hannah asked, looking at her with the sort of curiosity that threatened Charissa’s already fragile equilibrium.
Charissa gave a slight nod. She didn’t trust herself to open her mouth to speak. Where are you? Where are you?
She had wounded John more deeply than ever before. What if she had done irreparable damage to their marriage? What if he’d never be able to forgive her for her selfishness?
Mara was flipping through the pages of her spiral bound notebook. “I can’t believe the junk I’ve dumped since we started walking this path,” she said. “I’ve got tons more crap to give up, but at least I’m seeing some of it. And like Katherine says, it’s a gift when light comes, right?” She read from her notebook. “I wrote down what she said: ‘The exposure of sin is the beginning of its destruction.’ That’s good, isn’t it?”
Meg rested her hand on Charissa’s arm. “Are you sure you’re okay, Charissa? You don’t seem yourself.”
“Headache,” Charissa said simply.
Where are you? Where are you? Her eyes were filling with tears without her permission.
“Can we pray for you?” Mara asked.
How could she politely refuse an offer of prayer? And what was she so afraid of, anyway? Charissa took a deep breath.
“I’m pregnant,” she confessed. Before anyone could make things worse by congratulating her, she quickly added, “And I don’t want to be. John and I aren’t even talking right now because he was so excited when I told him the news, and I was so upset. All I can think about is everything I’m probably going to have to give up. All my plans, all my hard work. Everything. And I hate being so selfish.” Meg squeezed her arm in a gesture of encouragement. “And now I’m worried I’ve hurt John so badly that he’ll never be able to forgive me.”
“Let’s pray,” Meg said, looking at the others and reaching for Charissa’s hand.
Charissa was surprised by the strength of Meg’s grip.
“You sure you won’t join us for lunch, Charissa?” Mara asked as they walked out to the parking lot together.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get home. I need to talk with John.”
“We’ll keep praying for you,” Meg said. “If you need anything, you’ve got my phone number, right?”
Charissa nodded. “Thanks. I feel like a load has lifted off my shoulders, just by being honest with you guys.” She paused, jingling her car keys. “You know, I’ve spent years investing energy in keeping up appearances—wanting everyone to think I’ve got everything put together. Dr. Allen calls it, ‘impression management.’”
“The proverbial mask, huh?” Hannah asked, smiling broadly.
“Yes,” Charissa replied. “And I’m starting to see just how exhausting it is to wear it.”
Hannah nodded vigorously.
Perhaps it was Charissa’s imagination, but something in Hannah’s eyes didn’t seem to match the rest of her face.
“I just don’t know how to say I’m sorry this time, John. There aren’t words to describe how self-centered and selfish I am.”
John was sitting in the recliner, and Charissa was on the floor, kneeling in front of him.
“We don’t get a chance to relive that moment,” he said quietly. “We don’t get a second chance of experiencing that joy together. You took something really precious away from me.”
She felt sick to her stomach. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her whole body was trembling.
“I’m still not getting the impression that your heart has really changed about having a baby,” he said. “I get that you’re sorry for being selfish, and I forgive you. But what hurts is that you’re not seeing parenthood as any kind of gift.”
“I know,” she said. “You’re right. I just need some time, John. Change is really hard for me. You know that. Like I told you: I’ll go see Dr. Allen on Monday morning and withdraw from the program. I don’t know how else to show you that I’m committed to this baby. To our baby.”
She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want tears to manipulate him into embracing her, so she bit her lip. Help, Jesus, she prayed. Please.
John was silent a long time. “I never asked you to walk away from school, Riss,” he finally said.
Placing his hand upon her head, he slowly stroked her hair. The tenderness in the gesture opened the floodgates of her emotion. He loved her. He forgave her. How much grace was too much grace? Her shoulders began to heave in silent sobs of relief.
“I’m not asking you to give it up, honey,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “You do this all-or-nothing, black-and-white thing, and maybe there’s something in between. I don’t know. But we don’t need to rush into any major decisions right now, do we?”
She loved him, truly loved him.
“Besides,” John said, smiling, “wouldn’t Dr. Allen tell you that you can only walk a sacred journey one step at a time?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
That was exactly the sort of thing Dr. Allen would say.
Meg
On Monday, the tenth of November, Meg sat by herself in a secluded booth at the Timber Creek Inn, sipping soda in the candlelight.
She had not set foot in the Timber Creek since the night she and Jim had celebrated their ultrasound glimpse of Becca. Now, exactly twenty-one years after his death, Meg decided it was time to revisit the past. Listening to Mara talk about writing letters had given her an idea. Maybe she needed to write a letter of her own.
Breathing deeply, she pulled her journal out of her purse and prayed, asking God to help her find the words she had been too frightened to say.
/> My dearest Jim . . .
Could she really do this if those first three words caused her to cry? She inhaled and exhaled again, fixing her gaze on the small vase of flowers on the table. Walk with me, Jesus. Please.
My dearest Jim,
I’m writing this letter for myself. If you were here, I know you’d understand. You always told me I needed to be kind to myself. You tried to help me understand that loving myself wasn’t a selfish thing, but a way of opening up to God’s love for me. You always knew God’s love in a way I couldn’t comprehend, and you used every day of our life together as an opportunity to show me what it meant to be loved and treasured.
Thank you, Jim. I understand now.
I’m letting go of you in a new way tonight. Or maybe I never truly let go before. Maybe I just buried you so deep within me that over the years I forgot you were there. But tonight I’m saying I love you, and I miss you.
By admitting how much I still love you, I’m also saying how much it hurt when you died. I died that day, too. Except I had to go on living. I just didn’t know how. I wish I could have done it differently. I wish I hadn’t been so afraid. But you’d be so proud of your beautiful daughter. She’s not afraid. She has your love of life and love for other people. I’m praying she’ll come to know your love for God, too. Or rather, that she’d come to know how much the Lord loves her. You would have shown her that, Jim. You would have lived in such a way that Becca would have never doubted how much her Heavenly Father loves her. I’m praying I’ll be able to point her to God’s heart. Lord, help me.
I remember you told me once that you were praying I would come to know how much the Lord loved me. You said you hoped someday I’d realize your love for me was just a shadow of God’s love for me. I’d forgotten about that until recently. I can’t believe I forgot that. But in the years after you died, I forgot so many things. I lost my way.
I’m found now, my love. I’m found. I just wanted to say thank you for this, your last gift.
And I love you. Always.
On the way home from the restaurant, Meg stopped at the florist to buy herself twenty-one white long-stemmed roses.
It was the sort of thing Jim would have done to tell her how much he loved her and missed her.
Hannah
Hannah stood at the kitchen sink, washing her breakfast dishes. She couldn’t stop thinking about the list of questions she had been accumulating: Who are you? What do you want? Where have you come from? Where are you going? And now, where are you?
Such simple questions to ask, such complicated questions to answer. Was she really making any progress at all?
She reached for a red checkered towel and slowly dried her cereal bowl.
Who was she? She was God’s beloved, the one Jesus loved.
What did she want? Well, she wasn’t going to examine that. She would just skip that question.
Where had she come from? She’d started unpacking some of the sorrows from the past, even though significant mental and emotional boxes were still duct-taped shut. At least she was acknowledging she saw them.
She put her mug and bowl back into the cupboard and wiped down the kitchen counter.
Where was she going? She was meant to be journeying deeper into the heart of God, deeper into trusting God’s good intentions toward her.
Where was she?
She walked over to the picture window, curled up on the sofa, and began to write her reply.
Wednesday, November 12
10 a.m.
Where are you, Hannah? Where are you? That’s the Holy Spirit’s question to me right now. I’m just not sure how to answer it.
Hiding, I guess. Still hiding things from others, hiding things from myself.
I sat there at the Corner Nook after the group on Saturday, presuming to counsel Meg and Mara about grief and forgiveness, and all I could think about was what a fraud I am. Physician, heal thyself! Meg and Mara have both been so courageous, not only to confront the past, but to talk about it so freely and openly.
Can I just say how much energy it takes for me to listen to Meg talk about her dad? It hits too close to home. Way too close. Not ready to go there. Not even in the safety of these pages. I can’t, Lord. I’m sorry. But I can’t.
No. “Can’t” isn’t the right word, is it? I won’t. It’s an act of my will. I’ve got way too many things I’m trying to process. I don’t need that one piled on top of everything else. Don’t ask me to do that, Lord. Please. Not now.
Then there was the whole thing with Charissa on Saturday. There she was, bravely confessing her sin, and all I could do was sit there and feel resentful and sorry for myself. She was talking about being upset over being pregnant, and I was feeling angry. She has what I wanted and never got. And even though I confessed all that to God, even though I poured out my anger and disappointment, my circumstances haven’t changed. It still hurts. I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting.
When I put on my pastor’s hat, I understand Charissa’s grief process. I understand that the pregnancy wasn’t part of her plan, and her other dreams are coming to death. But I was still so upset when I heard her talk about it. I felt so angry. So incredibly angry and resentful.
So I confess it all again, Lord, and ask you to help me. I confess that I coveted Charissa’s life. I coveted her loving husband and the gift of a baby. Forgive me, Lord. I need your grace to help me live in my reality. I need to know your presence and love even when I don’t have what I want. Please, Lord. Help me want more of you. Will I always want your gifts more than I want you? I have moments of hope, but my buttons get pushed so easily. Like I’ve always told others, maybe part of my progress is realizing what triggers me and catching it more quickly each time. Help, Lord. Help. I can’t change myself. I spiral so quickly into regret. Please help me fix my eyes on you. Please.
So where am I? Still grieving and trying to let go. A few steps forward, a few steps back.
I can’t help thinking about Meg pushing me a few weeks ago after the worship service. She surprised me by asking point-blank about Nathan, and I gave all sorts of evasive answers. I haven’t wanted to answer the “Where are you?” question with regard to him either.
He and I have talked a few times by phone and have another lunch set up for next week. On the one hand it’s all very casual. He’s very easygoing about reconnecting with an old friend. I think he’s eager to help me navigate through my own “spiritual wilderness,” if I’ll let him. But where am I with that?
Scared. More than scared. I don’t trust my heart. Every time I talk to him, I want more. There. I guess that’s honest. And that terrifies me. Because I didn’t come to Michigan to fall in love. So I’m trying to guard my heart.
He told me the other day that he and Jake have already signed up for the pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I had no idea he was going when I mentioned I was considering it. Now I’m afraid to go. Much as I’d love to walk in Jesus’ footsteps—much as it would be a dream come true for me—I’m not sure I could manage it with Nathan. I’m afraid of getting too close. That’s where I am.
Help, God. I’m a mess. I wish I had the courage to come out from hiding like the others have done and share my burdens. No, that’s not exactly true. I have to take one step back from that. I suppose I could ask for the desire to come out from hiding and have courage. Because I don’t want to stop hiding. I don’t really want their courage. That’s where I am.
Nancy phoned the other day. She invited me to come down for Thanksgiving. It was a very sweet offer, but I think that would be too hard right now. I don’t trust myself. Even if I were there for only a couple of days, I’d be trying to reconnect with the church. I need to stay away. Hard as it is, I need to stay away. Of course, Nate also invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with him and Jake. It’s just the two of them. But I made an excuse about that, too. Lied, actually, and said I already had plans. It’s better for me to be by myself. For all kinds of reasons. That’s where I am.
Phone’s ringing. More later.
“I don’t know why I felt so strongly that I needed to call Hannah,” Charissa told John as the two of them lay in bed together that night. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, stroking her hair.
“I mean, there I was, after the sacred journey group, talking about how selfish I’d been over the pregnancy . . . how I’d been unhappy about it and how much I’d wounded you in that. Then today I suddenly remembered our picnic at the beach when Mara was trying to find out about Hannah’s relationships, and it came out about her having a hysterectomy last year. She changed the subject pretty quickly, but there was this look on her face when Mara told her it wasn’t too late for her to fall in love and have kids. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Upset?”
“No. Completely stoic.”
“Maybe it didn’t bother her,” John commented.
Charissa shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. Anyway, I was trying to put myself in Hannah’s shoes. I mean, if I were her age and didn’t have a family, I might feel really resentful about someone coming in and complaining about being pregnant. So I just wanted to apologize.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me not to worry about it—that it hadn’t even occurred to her. She said how happy she was for us and that I’d shown real courage in confessing my sin to them. Then she changed the subject.”
John shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t a big deal for her. There are lots of women who are single and happy.”
“I know,” Charissa sighed. “I just don’t think she’s one of them.”
Meg
On Thursday, the thirteenth of November, Meg sat at her kitchen table, reading a handwritten letter she had just received from Loretta Anderson.
A Story about the Spiritual Journey Page 33