“The bottom shelf in my office holds the planners I’ve carried through the years. It lets me look back at my prayers. I put a checkmark beside those He answered, and write no beside those He didn’t. Or leave blank the ones He might answer sometime in the future. It’s useful to me to see my history with God.”
“What are you praying about me?”
He opened the planner to her page and held out the book.
She hesitated, changing her mind about seeing it.
“It’s okay.” He put it in her hands. He’d written a Scripture at the top of the page under her name, followed by a list of specifics he wanted to pray for her.
She didn’t make it past the Scripture. He held out the box of tissues from the side table, but she shook her head, scrambled up and left the room. He heard the bathroom door shut. He closed his eyes at the pain inside that was creating those sobs.
The Scripture was from the Song of Solomon: “You are beautiful, my beloved, truly lovely.”
He waited for her as the minutes passed, finally heard the bathroom door open, and her steps in the hall.
She hesitated in the doorway. “You see me that way?”
“Yes.”
“I’m broken,” she whispered.
She was breaking his heart. “You won’t always be,” he said simply.
She wiped her arm across her eyes, came back into the room and curled up on the couch. “Could I read the full page? And could you ignore the fact I’ll probably cry some more?”
Her tears made his chest hurt. He gave her the Kleenex box, then again opened the planner to her page and handed it to her.
Is Charlotte at peace with you? If not, you know her questions and what troubles her heart. Find words to comfort and encourage her, lead her to the truth and help her be able to accept it so that she might be at peace with you.
Is there any hurt in Charlotte which has not healed that you wish to heal? If so, please ease her pain, repair what’s damaged, erase the scars, restore what’s been lost, help her forgive, help her forget, make her feel new again—heal her completely.
You’ve gifted her to draw and to enjoy the work. Has she been able to experience that gift to the full extent you’ve envisioned for her? If not, please encourage, mentor, guide, direct, and inspire her today with her art.
Has everyone you would like to buy one of her sketches done so? If not, would you prompt, encourage, and remind them to buy one, and do so persistently, until they have done so?
She wiped her eyes, pulled another tissue. She hesitated, then looked over at him. “May I look through the rest of this?”
“Yes.”
She turned the pages. She stopped on the page he had written for himself. He knew the words on the page by heart, for he had prayed them many times.
Please grant me a humble and teachable heart.
Please make me into a man Charlotte can safely trust.
What have I said today that bugs you, that you would have me apologize for and never repeat?
I wish to do your will today, not less than your will, and not beyond it. Allow me to accept the limits and boundaries and lines you see as best for me, while living fully within them for my joy and your glory.
Am I the husband Charlotte needs me to be, and the husband you want me to be?
Is there anything happening in the world today which is not in your will? If so, would you please stop, frustrate, interrupt, cause it to fail, or prevent it from happening, so that your will might be done instead?
Charlotte slowly closed the planner, ran her hand across the leather, and then held it out. “It’s breathtaking, Bryce.”
“God made me a businessman,” he said as he accepted it, “gave me a desire to give, made me comfortable teaching. But I’ve never thought of those as the center, the way you can say ‘I’m an artist,’ or Ann can say ‘I’m a writer.’ Maybe God made me comfortable with prayer. I haven’t talked about it with anyone. Maybe this is normal after being a Christian for decades. I simply know I’m supposed to pray, and I find life is better when I do so.”
“I think it fits.” She wiped her eyes one more time. “You pray nice things about me.”
“God will answer them. I like praying for you, Charlotte.”
Bryce thought the tone of things between them changed, softened, after she read the planner. She seemed more willing to simply chat with him about her day and what she was thinking. She started leaving him thumbnail sketches stuck to his coffee mug of a morning or slipped into his planner.
He tugged this morning’s missive from its perch on the coffee maker and smiled at the image. He was in a suit and tie with baby ducks playing tag under his feet. He’d invested in a livestock program through World Vision the day before, bought ten thousand baby ducks. Not for the first time, he thought Charlotte was more comfortable indicating what she thought with a picture rather than words.
He took his coffee and headed back to the office. She had made a walk through the house sometime late last night because the books and papers she’d been working on were gone. He liked a neat house, preferred the order of it, but thought she probably was further along that spectrum than he was. Every few days her things disappeared and visual order returned. She was easier to sync up with than he had expected. Other than the fact she slept a fraction of what she should and their tastes didn’t overlap much in music, there weren’t many friction points. He added the thumbnail sketch to the growing collection he kept in his top desk drawer.
The early morning sunlight was just beginning to cross his desk surface. Rather than turn on the computer and look at the information flowing in overnight in response to his inquires, he simply sat and drank his coffee.
Buying her flowers for her Florist sketch had turned into something of a small delight between the two of them. She liked the surprise of what he would have delivered and what the card would say. He liked the opening it gave him to tease her a bit, and compliment her, and find things to say that would bring a smile. He had a feeling she’d been keeping the cards like he kept her small sketches. He’d continue the flowers after her artwork was completed. She needed the words. He didn’t think she’d heard nearly enough of them over the years.
She was laughing with him more, mostly over the Saturday morning cartoons he insisted on recording so they could watch them together on Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t much for watching sitcoms, and shied away from anything that was a law-enforcement drama. She watched sports with him, or movies, occasionally the news.
She rarely slept without eventually getting up to throw the locks on her door. She was still skittish in ways that bothered him. He’d made the mistake of tossing a pillow her way from the couch, which made her cringe. Twice she’d checked throwing a fist at him when he made the mistake of startling her in the laundry room. He’d grabbed her arm to stop a fall on the steps and she had froze under his touch and then nearly panicked. She had triggers near the surface, and he kept brushing into them. She tried to downplay those moments when they happened, tried to ease the embarrassment she felt and wave off his apology, but they were taking an emotional toll. She was trying hard to adapt to him always being around, but she was certainly having a harder time of that than he was.
She was embarrassed by her quick emotions, both happy and sad—she cried over movies and books, and often he’d catch her struggling with some tears after her Sunday afternoon calls with her sister. But in some ways he was glad for those tears. Marriage had changed more than her name and where she lived. It had put her in a permanent place. It was safe to feel emotions here. For the first time he thought she was letting her emotions show without the buffers of always having to be in control. It was a good sign. It told him in small ways she was continuing to heal, was accepting him as her husband, and trusting him to see the emotions.
Those whispered words I’m broken told him everything he needed to know about his wife’s perception of herself. She was wrong. She’d survived. If anything, that fact showed
she was too strong to be broken. He desperately needed to change the way she saw herself.
He had another hour before he expected to hear her stirring. He needed a plan to court his wife. An old-fashioned word, but one he thought suited matters. He was going to be in love with her long before she got near that point with him, but he was a patient man when it mattered. She was simply nice to live with, and he wanted the rest of what marriage would give them. He was married to the lady he wanted to spend a lifetime with—now he just had to win her heart and get her comfortable trusting him.
She had to trust his love to be strong enough to deal with her past, strong enough to hear the truth and still accept her. She was his wife. His beloved and truly lovely wife. He wondered how long it was going to take before he could get her to see herself as he saw her. Patience was a good virtue, and never more necessary than now.
Bryce tightened the laces on his tennis shoes.
“Where do you go to run?”
He glanced over to see Charlotte coming into the kitchen.
“The university track. It’s one of the perks for the alumni—we’re free to use the track during hours it’s not being used by the university.” He wasn’t getting much done in the office, he needed a break, and a few miles around the track would chase out some cobwebs.
“I wouldn’t mind coming with you as long as we don’t try to run together. Our strides are too different.”
“Yeah? I’d like that.”
“Give me five minutes to change.” She lightly ran upstairs.
Bryce added extra water bottles to his gym bag.
When they reached the track he put the gym bag on a bleacher bench and began to stretch.
Charlotte looked around the large track and smiled her appreciation. “I can see why you enjoy this place. Let me know when you’re ready to call it a day. I run like a tortoise, so I expect you’ll lap me a few times.” She put on earphones, turned on the music, and took off at a slow and steady run.
John walked over. “You can safely leave the wallet, keys, and phone. I’ve got some phone calls to return, but I’ll be around. I told Ellie we’d swing by and pick up the dogs on the way back from here. I would have brought them with me, but she insisted they deserved a visit to the dog spa for a shampoo, hair and nail trim after a few weeks running around at the lake.”
Bryce smiled. “We’ll enjoy having them. Charlotte hasn’t said, but I know she’s been missing them. Sure you don’t want to run with me?”
“I’ll pass for today.”
Bryce nodded and hit the track with a plan to do twelve laps for three miles. He waved at Charlotte the first time he passed her, the second time he slowed to run with her for a bit, the third time he ran backwards a few steps until she laughed and pushed him on. He settled into a steady run and felt himself relax.
Bryce looked back to the track, where Charlotte was still steadily running. He and John had been talking for almost an hour. He’d done his three miles and cooled down. She was at more than five miles now even at her slower pace.
“She’ll go until someone tells her stop,” John mentioned. “She’s a natural marathoner; she just doesn’t like the crowds at the events.” John stepped into the track as she came around the curve and gave her the cut-off signal.
She tugged off the earphones.
“Cool down, Charlotte.”
“How about a race, four laps?”
“Nope.”
“Chicken.”
John laughed.
“Two laps.”
He picked up a towel and tossed it on the track.
“Time me then. Two laps.” She took off.
She did two laps at speed, then slowed and walked half a lap, jogged back. “I like this track. It’s got a friendly surface, a bit of spring, and not much slant.”
“You were zoning out with the music,” Bryce observed, handing her a towel.
“Best way to run. Start your feet moving and think about something else.”
“How many laps did you do?”
“No idea. Enough I got some kinks out and enjoyed the run. We should do this more often, Bishop.”
“We should. I enjoyed watching you.”
She laughed and tossed the towel at him.
Bryce brushed his teeth and then shut off the bathroom light. One of the dogs had curled up on the rug beside the bed. “Hey, Duchess.” The tail slap on the floor told him he had guessed right. He knelt to rub the dog’s coat. One of the dogs would join Charlotte, the other would join him. He still had to watch them for a moment to tell them apart. Princess was sleeker, had a narrower face, and a more deliberate walk. Duchess was a little heavier, had more inquisitive eyes, and liked to bound from place to place in a hurry. He liked having them around.
“I wondered if she had retreated up here.”
He glanced to the doorway to see Charlotte had joined him. “She’s good company.”
“Princess is asleep by the couch downstairs.” Charlotte was carrying a handful of cookies and held out her hand to share.
He took two. “Thanks.”
He moved to the closet. He set out his choice of suit and tie for Sunday morning, checked to make sure his shoes were polished, added breath mints and cough drops to the pocket, the routine of small things he did on Saturday night before he taught.
Charlotte curled up in her chair.
He glanced over at her, curious about what was on her mind. He poured a mug from the carafe he had brought upstairs, added honey to the hot tea. “You sure you don’t want to try this? You might like the taste.”
“No, thanks. It keeps your voice from growing hoarse?”
“Maybe at the margins. It’s more habit than anything.”
“Do you need to review your lesson for tomorrow?”
“No. It’s nearly memorized now.” He settled against the pillows against the headboard, drank the tea, set aside the mug. He folded his hands across his chest and let himself relax. She was awake, on the edge of restless, and he was glad she had chosen to join him. He didn’t try to break the silence, simply shared the time.
She drew her legs up in her familiar fashion, resting her chin on her knees. “I think I want to tell you something, but every time I get to the words I hesitate.”
“You can wait until you’re sure.”
“I’m just giving myself a headache chasing the idea around in circles. If I tell you, will you keep it to yourself?”
“Yes.”
She still hesitated, and the quiet stretched between them. He didn’t know how to make this moment easier on her. As the silence lengthened, as she started to speak and stopped, he expected her to shake her head, get up and leave, unable to take the step.
Her arms around her knees suddenly tightened, and she looked over at him. “There was a third man. He whispered, ‘I’m a cop. I will kill your sister if you mention me.’ The next day cops broke in, shot the two men, and rescued me.”
The silence in the room absorbed the words and made them unsaid again. Bryce didn’t feel much like breathing.
“Maybe he lied about being a cop,” she whispered. “Maybe he was the cop in the wreck, and he’s dead now. Or maybe someone else is still out there who does carry a badge. It was only the two of them in the van with Tabitha and me. The third man showed up at the house later. I don’t know when. Sometimes I think he was always there. Sometimes I think it was just before the end.” She was crying now, silently, her dripping tears turning a spot on her jeans dark.
He moved, he risked her retreating from the conversation, but she couldn’t take much more of this memory. Bryce rose, picked up the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, and draped it around her, hunkered down beside the chair and mopped her face with his handkerchief. Her gaze caught and held his. The simple misery in the depths of her eyes broke his heart. He brushed her hair back from her face. “Tabitha is safe. John has excellent security around her.”
“I know.”
“And you are safe with me,
Charlotte.”
“I know that too.”
She was a sketch artist. If she could remember a face, John would be drowning in sketches of the man. So she had only a voice and the memory of what he had said. And without knowing for certain the man was dead, was no longer a threat, she had no choice but to keep silent.
“Let the book say whatever it’s going to say. You don’t talk about it. You haven’t in the past. You don’t now. You can’t take the risk.”
She nodded. “That’s what I’ve always concluded. I don’t talk about it.”
He eased open her clenched hand. She’d lived with that decision as the only one she could make for the last nineteen years. He would have read about the cop in the book, but not heard the rest of it. She was risking the rest of it with him. He felt physically sick at the news, and she didn’t look relieved to have shared it.
“John’s always known, but I haven’t told Ellie much of it. Tabitha has no idea.”
“Why did you tell me?”
“A lifetime together is a long time. I think it’s easier on me if I don’t have to carry the added weight of you not knowing.”
She was offering a great deal of trust. He carefully brushed back her hair so he could better see her face. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re going to regret knowing. And I don’t think I can say anything more than what I just told you.”
“I’ll never regret you trusting me, Charlotte. What do you say we go downstairs for an hour? We can start a movie while you let a couple of Tylenol kill that headache. There’s no need trying to sleep while this memory is clouding your thoughts.”
She wiped her eyes again, nodded.
Before he let her up from the chair, he made her a promise. “Charlotte, I won’t ask. But I’ll listen. Whatever you want to say, whenever you want to say it, I’ll listen.”
The movie he had chosen finally ended.
“It’s one a.m. You teach this morning,” she whispered.
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