The words to the song.
Great is Thy faithfulness, oh God my Father
There is no shadow of turning with Thee.
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not
As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.
He hummed a bit then, because he didn’t yet know all the words. But one day he would. Until then, he would sing the part he knew.
Great is Thy faithfulness, great is Thy faithfulness
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.”
It was Thursday night again, and the craft store scrapbooking class was empty except for Abby and Jo and two other women. Abby was midway through Nicole’s high-school years and making good progress, despite Jo’s ongoing banter.
There were two hours left in the session when Jo took a deep breath and leveled a new line of questions in Abby’s direction.
“You think you’re going to heaven, Abby? I mean really . . . like there’s a place called heaven that some people go to when they die?”
Abby blinked and set down the photograph in her hand. It wasn’t something she’d thought about much lately, but surely it was true. She’d given her life to Christ ages ago, and even though her personal life was a mess, that didn’t mean God had rejected her, right? She gulped discreetly. “Yes, I’d say I was going to heaven.”
“A real place called heaven? You think you’re actually going there someday?” Jo rattled off the next question without giving Abby time to answer. “Not just a fantasy place, like an idea or a dream, but a real place?”
Abby sighed. It was enough to be racked with guilt where John was concerned, but being forced to think about heaven, too . . . it was almost more than she could bear. They were halfway through the six-month prison sentence of pretending they were happily married, halfway to the day when they would file divorce papers. What do I know about heaven? “Yes, Jo, it’s a real place. As real as anything here.”
For the first time since she’d met the woman, Jo Harter had no response. She let Abby’s comment sink in for nearly a minute before she thought of another question. “If you’re right . . . if this heaven place is real, then that means hell’s real, too. Would you say that was so, Abby?”
Abby rested her forearms on the edge of the table and looked carefully at Jo. I’m the most imperfect example here, Lord, but use me, please. Even as far gone as I’ve been lately I know this much: her salvation is bigger than anything I’m dealing with. “That’s right, Jo. Hell’s a real place.”
“Lake of fire and the whole works? Torment and torture forever and ever?”
“Right, that’s how Jesus describes it.”
“But it’s only for the bad guys, right. You know, murderers and people who fish without a license?”
Abby was completely caught off guard. Help me, Lord. Give me the words. She brought her fingers together and tried to look deep into Jo’s eyes, tried to exude the compassion she suddenly felt in her heart for this woman, her daughter’s future mother-in-law. “Not according to Scripture.” Abby paused. “The Bible says hell’s for anyone who chooses not to accept His gift of salvation.”
Jo released a tired huff. “Now that’s the part that always gets me. Everyone goes on about how loving their God is and then we get to this part about Him sending people to hell and I have to really wonder about that.” She grabbed a quick breath. “What kind of loving God would send someone to hell?”
I’m not up to this, Lord. Speak for me here, please. Her heart filled with words that were not her own. “People get a little mixed up when they think about God. See, when a person dies, God doesn’t really send him anywhere.”
Jo’s face wrinkled in confusion. “There’s only one God, right? Who else might be doin’ the sending?”
Abby smiled. Lord, she really doesn’t know. Thank You, God, for the privilege of telling her. “The way I understand it from Scripture, we make the decision for ourselves. When we die, God simply honors our choice.”
“Meaning?” Jo had all but forgotten her scrapbook layout, her eyes wide with fascination.
Abby was consumed by a feeling of unworthiness, but she continued on, believing God for every word. “Meaning if we’ve admitted our need for a Savior and accepted Christ’s free gift of salvation, when we die God honors that choice by welcoming us into heaven.” Abby didn’t want to give her too much at once. She hesitated, letting that first part sink in. “But if we’ve decided not to pursue a relationship with Jesus, if we’ve ignored the opportunities Christ presents for us, then when we die God honors that choice as well. Without the covering of grace from a holy Savior, a person could not possibly gain entrance into heaven. In that case, hell is the only other option.”
Again Jo was silent for a moment. “So you think the whole thing’s true? And if I died tonight . . . I might not . . .” She didn’t seem able to bring herself to finish the sentence. Instead she picked up her photograph and began cutting. Then without looking up she changed the subject. “Did I hear Nicole right that we’re planning a girls’ getaway the week before the wedding? I can’t think of a better idea, to tell you the truth. I mean a getaway to me suggests a cabin and a lake, and if there’s one thing I love to do when I’m on vacation it’s take in some good old-fashioned fishing . . .”
Jo was rambling again, running as fast and far as she could from the sentence she’d been unable to finish. Abby listened only partially, but focused most of her attention on the Lord, begging Him to let the seeds of truth take root in Jo’s heart.
And in the process maybe ignite something new in her own.
“You know, Abby, I think I remember when it was things got bad for me and Denny. I mean, it was his choice to leave and all, but it was my fault, too. I see that a lot clearer these days. It takes two to make a marriage work and two to make it fall apart. Those are words o’ wisdom for sure.”
Abby nodded. “Sometimes, but not always.” She thought of John and Charlene. “Sometimes one person finds someone else to love. That happens, too.”
Jo didn’t seem to hear her. “You know what it was? I got busy. Busy with Matt, taking him to toddler classes and park outings and falling asleep beside him at night. I forgot about Denny pretty much, Abby. About that time the little things became big, know what I mean? Like him leaving the toothpaste lid off and forgettin’ to put his dirty underwear in the laundry basket. We started fightin’ about everything, and after that it didn’t take long before we was only strangers walking around in a boxy little house in the heart of South Carolina.”
“Hmmm. Where does he live now?”
“Boxy little apartment about an hour from here. At least that’s what Matt says. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
The evening wore on, and Abby pondered the things Jo had said, things about heaven and hell and how it took two people to tear down what two people had built.
That night before she fell asleep, her last thoughts were of Jo Harter.
It’s too late for me and John, Lord, for our marriage. But it’s not too late for Jo. Tonight, Lord, please . . . let her finish that all-important sentence before she falls asleep. Let her know that without You, she would have no chance whatsoever of going to heaven.
Oh, and you do, right, Abby?
The voice hissed in her heart and Abby refused to acknowledge it. She still loved Jesus very much, and she’d never rejected Him or willfully walked away, had she? A sinking feeling worked its way through her gut. Okay, but she hadn’t rejected Him often. And though the choices she and John were making were bound to grieve God, certainly they wouldn’t keep her from heaven.
Abby closed her eyes shaken by the truth. They might not keep her from heaven, but they would keep her from the paradise of growing old alongside the father of her children, from loving the man who once upon a lifetime ago was her other half.
Seventeen
SPRING FOOTBALL
BROUGHT JOHN ANOTHER reason to be out of the house—as well as the certainty that in three short months he and Abby could stop the charade and get on with the rest of their lives. Whatever that meant, John wasn’t sure, but he found himself grateful beyond words for the hours when he stood planted on the sideline of the Marion High practice field, mindlessly barking correction and encouragement as the team walked through passing plays and prepared for a season still months away.
Brilliant afternoon sunshine beat down on the field and the temperatures were unseasonably high. No wonder the team was having a hard time focusing. John crossed his arms and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, knees locked. It was a stance familiar to his athletes, one that always seemed to convey his absolute authority.
His quarterback—a sophomore looking to take over Kade’s position— dropped back and searched frantically for an open receiver. Downfield two players tripped over each other as the ball soared high above their heads.
“Line up again,” he barked. “You look like a bunch of junior high players. Start over and do it right, or we can spend the next fifteen minutes running lines. Take it slow. We’re learning the plays, remember?”
Next time through was smoother, and the ball settled easily into the hands of one of the tight ends. “Better! That’s the way. State championship football, guys. Keep it up!”
He had yelled the same thing every spring for almost twenty years, and by now he could almost set himself on autopilot and coach an intense practice while his mind was miles away.
Four miles, precisely. Back at the house he still shared with Abby, the place where wedding plans were constantly at the center of every conversation and where the woman he was married to had figured out a way to make avoidance an art form.
So this is how it’s going to end, huh, God? In a blur of busyness and wedding plans and promises of new love. The whole family was all worked up over the celebration of Nicole and Matt, and the plans left not even half an hour for Abby and John to talk about how they were supposed to do this, how they might cut ties that ran two decades deep. Was what they had, what they’d shared just going to fade into the distance?
Love bears all things, My son. Love never ends.
John clenched his jaw. “Shift right, Parker,” he shouted. “The defense lines up the same each time. Football is a game of adjustments.”
It wasn’t about love; it was about letting go. Love had long since left their marriage. Twenty years ago—ten even—this separation process would have been unbearable. But what he and Abby were losing now was a marriage of convenience. Two people who’d figured out a way to coexist, pay the bills on time, and celebrate their children’s milestones together.
Love had nothing to do with it.
Remember the height from which you have fallen. Love as I have loved you.
John worked his worn-out gum and rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at the ground. He’d tried that, hadn’t he? Back when Charlene first entered the picture, and he’d had the strength to walk out of her bedroom. Wasn’t that an effort at remembering the height from which he’d fallen? He looked out at the players on the field once more.
It was Abby, really. It was her fault everything had fallen apart. She demanded so much and she wasn’t . . . well, she wasn’t fun anymore. Always bossing him around and giving him that look that said he’d failed to live up to her expectations. Sometimes it seemed the only thing separating John from being just one more kid under Abby’s control was the fact that his to-do list was longer than theirs.
She hadn’t loved him in years. “Line up and do it again,” he shouted. If she did, she had a strange way of showing it. “Get your seat down next time, Sanders. Linemen draw all their strength from their legs. Do it again.”
No, she didn’t love him. Not like she used to back when she would drop by at spring training or find a spot in the bleachers once in a while for summer two-a-days or wait for him at the end of every game—not just the big ones. Back when the kids and the writing and her father weren’t more important than he was.
John huffed. That was the latest guilt trip she was laying on him: her father.
“He won’t be around forever, John. It wouldn’t hurt if you visited him once in a while.”
Why did she have to word it like that?
“Footwork, Johnson,” his voice bellowed across the field. “Catching a pass is all in the footwork. Find your rhythm and let the ball come to you.”
Couldn’t she just have said that her father enjoyed spending time with him? John released a measured breath and shook his head. It wasn’t her words exactly; it was her tone. Everything she said to him these days had an edge to it.
Not like the old days when she’d come up behind him and—
A delicate brush of fingers grazed the back of his neck and he spun around. “Charlene!” His players were watching, and he recovered instantly, regaining his stance and forcing an air of indifference. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
She wore a tight navy tank top and a jaunty skirt that clung to her in all the right places, stopping just short of her ankles. I can’t do this, God. Get her away from me.
“I saw you out here and couldn’t resist.” She pouted in a way that made his insides melt. “Forgive me?”
He could feel a smile playing on his lips, but he shifted his weight and sidestepped her so that he faced the football field again. “Parker, try to hang back in the pocket five seconds this time. Under those Friday-night lights every second counts. Let’s go, guys, come on. Eagle pride!”
From the corner of his eye he watched Charlene position herself next to him, standing close enough so their bare elbows touched, far enough away so as not to spark the curiosity of his players.
All her attention seemed focused on the field. “No answer, Coach?”
Why did she have to make him feel so alive, so good about himself? “Forgiven.” He cast her a sideways grin. Don’t say it . . . “You look good.”
She angled her head so that her eyes were able to travel the length of him. “Yeah, you, too.” When her eyes reached his, her expression grew more serious. “I’ve missed you.”
John clenched his teeth. Flee this, My son. Flee! He blinked back the warning. “Abby and I aren’t talking anymore. Two strangers under the same roof.”
She moved an inch closer, brushing her arm against his in a way that sent fire through his veins. “I’m taking some night classes . . . but I’ll be home tonight.” She slid her sandal closer to his shoe and tapped at him playfully. “Come by, why don’t you? Tell Abby it’s a coaches’ meeting. Sounds like you need someone to talk to.”
John stepped forward and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Run it again! That was terrible, defense. Key on the ball.” He clapped three times. “Let’s look like state champs out there.”
Charlene waited a beat. “You’re avoiding my question, Coach.”
A breeze came across them and filled his senses with the fading smell of her perfume. God, I can’t resist this . . . The idea of spending an evening with her, getting reacquainted after three months of intentionally staying away, was more enticing than he cared to think about. “Maybe.”
Flee! Avoid the harlot, son.
The whispered words echoed through his heart and cooled his blood considerably. For reasons he couldn’t understand, he suddenly regained much of his control. After all, he’d asked her to wait until after Nicole’s wedding. Why was she here, anyway? “Actually, maybe not. I have a stack of tests to grade tonight.”
Charlene’s words were slow and measured, aimed deliberately at the place where John’s passions were birthed. “You can’t run from me forever, John Reynolds.” She let her arm drag along his as she turned to go. “I’ll be around if you change your mind.”
Knowing she was walking away caused sharply contrasting feelings. A part of him wanted to blow the whistle, call off practice, and follow her home, stay with her all evening. Nothing physical, just a night of conversation wi
th someone who actually liked him. But another part of him was experiencing relief like he’d never felt before. Strong and tangible. As though he’d just been spared a tumble into the darkest, deepest abyss.
Possibly into the pit of hell itself.
Matt’s apartment was walking distance from Marion High, and with the weather nicer than usual he’d taken to jogging back and forth to the campus each day after classes. His coursework was actually lighter than during any other semester, but what with studying for the upcoming bar exam and policing himself around Nicole, the stress was starting to get to him. Running did wonders to restore the peace.
That afternoon he figured he might do more than his usual threemile jog. The Eagles would be practicing, and maybe Nicole’s father could talk for a minute or two. It was strange, really. What with the wedding and all, he and Nicole needed to spend more time together than ever, but each day was more difficult than the previous one when it came to their physical relationship.
The night before was a perfect example. Nicole was at his house making plans about which songs the disc jockey would play at the reception, and before either of them knew it, they were on the sofa kissing. The hunger, the desire he felt for her was so strong that sometimes he felt like Esau—willing to sell his birthright for a single bowl of soup. Or in this case, a single night of . . .
Matt laced up his shoes and tied them with a ferocity that showed his frustration. Why couldn’t he get a grip in this area? Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days, and they could love each other the way they longed to. But last night when she pulled away—her eyes clouded with a desire as intense as his—he literally had to ask her to leave.
“Not yet,” she’d told him, still breathless from their kissing. “It’s only nine-thirty.”
He walked to the kitchen, ignoring her comment, and downed a glass of ice water. Think of something else, Matt. Dirty fish tanks . . . bar exams . . . the ACLU. That did it. His emotions cooled slightly.
“Did you hear me?” Nicole’s tone was frustrated, and Matt realized he hadn’t answered her yet.
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