Stepping Into Sunlight

by Sharon Hinck

  “I guess this could sound really simplistic, but use one of the best weapons we have. Dig into Scripture every chance you get.”

  He paused. “Maybe you’re rolling your eyes. Maybe I deserve that for stating the obvious. But let’s keep reminding each other, okay? Deal? And when you find a verse that comes alive to you, e-mail and tell me, okay? I’ll do the same.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “I wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow.” He tried a smile that came out crooked while the light caught a shimmer in his eyes. “Okay, I have time for one last message. Save it for later. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  I hugged my knees and absorbed his words. Except for the one Psalm I’d clutched at after my last crying jag, I’d avoided my Bible, secretly afraid the words would mock me. Numbly, I wandered into the bedroom, picked up my Bible, and carried it out to the couch, where I settled cross-legged. Last time I’d read, I’d found some deep comfort—at least for a while. Why hadn’t I returned? I turned pages aimlessly and found myself in the Gospels.

  Bits of familiar phrases flickered past as I skimmed. Then I stumbled across the story of the widow’s mite and slowed down.

  A woman in poverty. Empty, bereft, surrounded by others who flaunted their wealth and strength. A few copper coins. She gave from what she had. I read the chapters before and after, but kept coming back to the moment of Jesus’ praise for the woman. “She out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”

  The silence in my living room swelled with purpose.

  Thank you for giving me what you can.

  God whispered the words deep inside my heart, and goose bumps rose on my arms. My chest filled with a painful ache of hope.

  “Really?” I breathed. “But I don’t have anything to give you. I feel so worthless, so broken.”

  Open your notebook.

  Swallowing hard, I walked the few steps to the computer table and reached into the garbage can, pulling out the battle-worn pages. I flipped a few pages and read the brief entries, page after page of notations from the past weeks. I read the names of Ashley, Camille, Henry, and Daniel. Their stories had stirred compassion in me and pulled me out of my misery. God was using our circle of broken people to help each other. Our tiny acts of kindness seemed pitiful in the face of the world’s huge needs. To me they’d been a forced exercise. Hardly the great acts of love I wished they were. But He was using them anyway.

  I hugged my notebook and closed my eyes. “Father, I didn’t rescue the old couple. I’m not speaking at churches about how you protected me. I don’t want to appear on Oprah and talk about how I’ve adopted the young man who almost killed me.”

  I’d concocted a daunting scenario of what recovery from trauma should look like. Could it be that He wasn’t demanding all that from me? Could I stop demanding it of myself? Could I be patient while healing unfolded in my life by His timetable? My throat felt thick as I prayed.

  “All I’m doing is getting through each day—and sometimes not doing that very well. My Penny’s Project feels like the story—a few pennies. A widow’s mite.”

  She put in all she had.

  And He cherished the gift. Cherished her.

  In the quiet of my living room with the dingy carpet and commonplace furniture, God’s grace moved through me. Insisted that I hear the truth. Impressed it deep into my mind. My spirit rose up to respond.

  “Yes. If it matters to you, I’ll keep going. And please multiply the tiny kindnesses and meet the true and deeper needs that I don’t know about.”

  The intense touch of His presence eased to a place where I could breathe normally again. I continued to sit for long minutes, murmuring occasional words of thanks and praise.

  Later in the day, my lack of sleep began to catch up to me, in spite of the sense of peace that hovered around my heart. I needed to stay busy and awake, so that I’d sleep better at night. I managed a brief errand to the craft store for pom-poms and pipe cleaners. Bryan needed them for his science-class DNA model. Then I spent an hour slicing and sautéing and mixing up homemade spaghetti sauce. When that was simmering, I decided to tackle my voice mail.

  “Penny, it’s Cindy. Why haven’t you called me? Isn’t this wild? You should see Alex with my kids. It’s so cute. Can you believe he’s back?”

  Muscles around my forehead tightened, and a dull ache pulsed at the base of my skull.

  “Mrs. Sullivan? This is Dr. Marci’s office. Would you like to reschedule your appointment? And Dr. Marci asked me to remind you of your group session on Tuesday night.”

  The headache sent tendrils across my temples and dug into my brain.

  “Pen? It’s Alex. Look, I got a call from some friends who want me to stop by, so I’ve decided to stay with them in Pennsylvania before I head down to your neck of the woods. Hope it’s okay if I’m not there until the week after next. Let me know.”

  I drew a slow, deep breath, and the squeezing pressure around my head eased. At least I’d have a reprieve before seeing my long-lost brother and all the unknowns his visit would bring. Staying with friends? I didn’t even know he had friends.

  I didn’t know anything about him, and right now I couldn’t handle extra uncertainty.

  Bryan arrived home in a good mood, and I sat on his bed while he fed sunflower seeds to Gimli. He’d found some books about hamsters in the school library and was full of new information.

  “Hey, Mom, did you know that they don’t like you to wake them up when they’re napping?” He slanted a look my way. “Kind of like you, huh?”

  “Oh, come on. How can they tell a hamster doesn’t like being woken?”

  Bryan faced me and crossed his arms in lecture stance. “The book says they sometimes bite when they’re upset. And waking them up upsets them. So does dropping them or not feeding them.”

  I leafed through one of the books on hamster care. “That sounds reasonable. You get cranky when you’re not fed.”

  He giggled. “And you better not drop me.”

  I grabbed for him and swooped him into my arms—not an easy feat now that his limbs were stretching into the gangly length of a schoolboy’s. I hefted him up in a cradle carry and then pretended I was about to drop him.

  He shrieked with delight, and I spun him around a few times and fell back onto the bed, joining him in helpless laughter.

  For those blissful minutes, I was myself again. Warm. Witty. An energetic mom whose son adored her.

  I needed to talk to Bryan about my e-mail to his teacher—about pulling out of the Thanksgiving play. But we hadn’t had relaxed and happy times like this in so long, I couldn’t bear to spoil it.

  Throughout the evening, I waited for the right time, and it never came. I kissed his forehead at bedtime and decided to wait until the next day after school.

  Big mistake.

  Bryan stormed into the house Friday afternoon like a monster truck at a rally. He growled. He revved his engine and tore around the living room. Finally, he crashed against the couch in an explosion of fists.

  “You promised!” he roared.

  I wrapped my arms around his thrashing body and held on. “I’m sorry. I was going to talk to you about it.”

  “My teacher told us today that Brittany’s mom is going to be the Pilgrim instead.” He fought back tears.

  What kind of stoic control had he needed at school when he’d gotten the bad news? No wonder his pent-up fury had built to meltdown levels.

  “Sweetheart, I wanted to do the play. I wanted to so much. But remember when the doctor explained that I have panic attacks? I didn’t want to ruin the play if I wasn’t feeling good. I didn’t want to do a bad job for you.”

  He squirmed away and faced me, breathing hard. “You don’t have to be good at it. I just wanted you there.”

  “But I’m sure that Brittany’s mom will do a better job than I could.”

  His skin flushed a darker red. “You don’t want to do anything with me. Know what?” He took several rapid, shallo
w breaths. “I hate you!”

  Shock hit his face a second after he said it, and he ran from the room. His door slammed, and my heart fractured into glass slivers that cut their way into every protected cubby of my soul. I deserved every morsel of the pain, and I let it lacerate me—holding perfectly still as the words sliced me again and again.

  Sure, I’d gone through something traumatic, but parents all over the world pulled it together for their children. Maybe playing Pilgrim Mom in the school play was too big a leap for me, but I should have at least had the guts to discuss it with my son before he heard about it at school. He wanted some reason to be proud of his mother, and I’d provided precious little of that in the past month.

  I forced myself up from the couch. He needed me. He needed to know his words were forgiven, and he needed an opportunity to forgive me for handling this badly.

  I took two steps and froze. What could I say to him? How could I explain the terror that held me captive in the house, the exhaustion that followed every small attempt to reenter the world, the shame, guilt, and failure that pounded me with dull mallets every waking moment? I didn’t know how to help myself, or Bryan, or our relationship.

  Give from what you have.

  The quiet reminder in my spirit made the skin prickle along my spine. I didn’t have wise and well-spoken words to offer. All I had to give was my presence.

  I stopped waffling and ran to Bryan’s room, opened his door, and joined him on the floor where he hugged his knees, face hidden. I gathered him in my arms. “I understand,” I whispered. “I really let you down.”

  Bryan’s shoulders heaved, and he shook his head.

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  “Honey, what are you talking about? I’m not going to die.”

  He raised his chin and turned to look at me. His eyes were pools of misery, encircled by white fear. “You almost did. And Brittany said if you cheat death, it keeps coming to find you.”

  Where was my notebook? I wanted to write a reminder to call Brittany’s mother and tell her to muzzle her daughter.

  “Bryan, God protected me. He’ll keep protecting me. He’s stronger than death, remember?”

  He adjusted his position but didn’t pull away. “Mom, people die.”

  I seriously did not want to have this conversation.

  “Yes. You’re right. Everyone dies. But that’s not the end, is it?” I asked. He swiped his sleeve across his runny nose. I decided this wasn’t a good time for a hygiene lecture. “Buddy, after people die, then what?”

  “If you believe in Jesus you go to heaven.” He glared at me. “I don’t want you to go to heaven.”

  I smiled. “I don’t want to either. Not yet, anyway.” I nestled him closer. “Have you been worrying about that?”

  One small shoulder shrugged and he looked away.

  “God didn’t make us to be windup toys. He lets people make choices. The robber in the store chose to do something horrible and shoot people. I don’t know why the gun jammed, but I’m really glad God gave me more time with you. It’s a gift. I’m alive.” A tingle of unfamiliar joy warmed my bones as I spoke.

  “But what if he finds us? What if he shoots me, and Gimli, and you?”

  I noticed that I ranked behind the hamster, but ignored that slight. “Honey, he won’t. He’s probably running far away because he knows the police are trying to catch him. He doesn’t have time to come and hurt us.”

  Moms spend a majority of every day believing no one hears them. “Did you finish your book report?” “Don’t leave your shoes in the hall.” “How was your day?” Their words go out into a strange baffle that absorbs them into nothingness. Family members adopt selective deafness. Soon moms wonder if they’ve truly become inaudible to other humans.

  However, there are times a mother’s words ring with clarion power. Holding my son, I felt him draw in strength from my reassurance with a simple trust that both humbled and terrified me.

  We talked until suppertime, and I even ventured into the backyard after supper to kick a soccer ball around with Bryan.

  With inevitable radar, Laura-Beth slipped from her house and leaned on the fence. “How ya been? Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’ll wanna clean out them gutters. We’re due for some rain. They’ve been talking hurricanes on the news, ya know.”

  My shoulders sank as I turned toward her, and my son’s errant kick sent the soccer ball ricocheting off the side of my head. Bryan doubled over with laughter. “Mom, you should see your face.”

  Apparently, his deep concern for my well-being extended to dying but not to being clocked in the jaw.

  Laura-Beth’s chuckle didn’t help.

  I rubbed my stinging face and sighed. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll dig out the ladder tomorrow.”

  “And what about that border for my bathroom? You could come over tomorrow if you want.”

  “Whoops, there’s my phone.” I ran for my back door.

  This time the phone really was ringing. I didn’t want to risk missing a call from Tom when the communications blackout ended, so instead of keeping the ringer off, I let my answering machine screen calls. I needed to have a real conversation with my husband. Of course, I also needed to feel his arms around me and his hot kisses against my neck—but since that wasn’t going to happen in the near future, I’d settle for a phone call.

  My hand hovered inches from the phone, ready to grab it if the person who started to leave a message was someone I wanted to talk to.

  “Mrs. Sullivan? This is Sergeant Stargill from the local precinct. We’ve arrested a suspect in the Quick Corner shooting. Detective Ramirez would like you to come in for an identification.”

  I snatched my hand away from the phone as if the receiver had burst into flames.

  chapter

  21

  “I CAN’T. YOU WOULDN’T do this, would you?” I searched the faces around the conference table for support. The room smelled like burnt dust. The victim center had turned on the furnace in deference to the chill in the air. From the lobby, pinging sounds carried from Bryan playing with his Game Boy. “Come on. Tell me I’m right.”

  Henry adjusted his tie and stared at the floor as if lost in thought. Ashley curled her lip—which probably hurt since it made one of her face rings pull upward. Camille shook her head gently, her face betraying disappointment in me.

  Why were they turning on me? I shouldn’t have come. My online forums had begun to serve the same purpose and were a lot easier. However, the call from the police station had sent me into a tailspin, and suddenly I needed the flesh and blood presence of the victim support group. I’d unplugged my phone and waited out Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. When Tuesday arrived, I raced to the victim center as if reaching for a life preserver. Why weren’t they giving me the support they were supposed to give? Of all people, they should understand that I couldn’t handle helping the police.

  Camille reached over and patted my arm. Another week away from abuse and she carried herself with more confidence, although a haunted sadness still flickered across her eyes at quiet moments. “Penny, you can’t run from your fears. Do they need you to testify?”

  Tension tightened the skin around my mouth. “I haven’t asked. I didn’t call back yet.” My breathing grew shallow at the thought of a mangy police station lineup, intimidating courtrooms, and a face-to-face encounter with the man who tried to kill me.

  Dr. Marci leaned forward. “Take a deep breath.”

  I obeyed with a shaky exhale and inhale. “I was just getting over it. I’ve been able to shut out the memories more. If I talk to the police, it’ll all start up again. The nightmares, the panic attacks.”

  “Someone from the victim center can go with you.” Dr. Marci passed me a cup of water. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “The guy was seriously whacked out.” Ashley sniffed and rubbed her nose. “You don’t want to be the reason he’s running around free, right?”

  My shame met
er had been stuck on full for so many weeks, I hadn’t even thought about the added culpability I’d feel if the murderer walked because of me. I chewed a cuticle and sent a beseeching look in Dr. Marci’s direction. “Would you come with me?”

  “We have another staff member who . . .” Sympathy washed over her face. “Sure. I can go in with you tomorrow morning. I had a regional conference that was cancelled.”

  “There you go, then.” Henry grinned.

  Camille nodded.

  I wanted to scream. What right did they have to pressure me into this? Should I confront Henry about all the sugar packets he’d stuffed in his pocket from the tray of coffee fixings? How would Camille like it if I scolded her into dating someone new and used the whole “face your fears” argument on her?

  “Any breakthroughs this week?” Dr. Marci asked. Perhaps she suspected the rebellion swirling in my mind and wanted to move the discussion along before I went on the attack.

  Henry’s fingers drummed the table. “I made a list of old friends I could do something nice for.” He shot me an apologetic glance. “I figured I’d start with that. I’m not quite ready for helping strangers.”

  I shrugged. “There’s no rule against that.”

  He nodded and tugged his watchband. “So each day last week, I called up a different old friend and met him for lunch.”

  “How did it go?” Dr. Marci asked.

  A quick smile lifted his features, revealing a glimpse of the energetic investment broker he’d once been. “I heard a lot about grumpy bosses, insane workloads, cuts in benefits, and one guy is going through a divorce and another has a sick kid.”