True to You

by Becky Wade

  She’d tried to tell him that he was wonderful, but telling him he was wonderful had been like throwing a pebble into the Grand Canyon. Too little. No impact. She’d wanted to say so much more than she had. She’d wanted to refute the Bible verse he’d thrown at her to support the suggestion that God might be punishing him for the sins of his parents. She’d wanted to explain that his tarnished conception and fading eyesight were like age cracks in the surface of a Monet. If you had the intelligence to view the painting the right way, the cracks didn’t keep it from being what it was—a masterpiece.

  Clearly, John hadn’t been ready to hear any of that.

  She ran her hands down her face. Let her arms fall.

  This struggle John was facing was bigger than she was. Far bigger than he was, too. She loved him, but she didn’t have the power to help him. This crisis was about his identity. This was about what was true and what was a lie. This was a battle of light and dark and, as such, was far, far above her pay grade.

  She knew the One, though, who specialized in battles between light and dark.

  She lowered onto the ground, letting her dress bell outward over her crossed legs, not caring that the damp would stain the fabric. She cleared her mind, preparing to pray for John. But what the Lord laid bare before her, with startling clarity, was . . .

  Herself. Her own mistakes.

  The day of her shopping trip to Seattle, she’d acknowledged that she had issues with letting God take control and issues with her singlehood. But her response to those realizations had largely been a self-help type of response. Choose contentment! Get your head straight about your singleness, Nora. Repair your self-image with a makeover.

  When she’d started dating John, she’d loaded yet more responsibilities onto her own shoulders. Be smart, Nora. Protect yourself as much as you can. Take things slowly! And then, when her relationship with John had encountered its first trial, Make it right, Nora. Fix it.

  Fresh certainty locked into place within her as she took in the details of her surroundings. She could not fix what was broken inside herself through self-help. She could not fix what was broken between herself and John through earnestness or well-meaning effort. She’d tried.

  She’d failed miserably.

  Three years ago she’d stepped to the helm and taken hold of the ship’s wheel of her life because it had no longer seemed safe to trust wholly in God. Since then, she’d attempted nothing larger than what her own human abilities could accomplish.

  From this vantage point, however, she could see that her broken engagement hadn’t been an oversight on God’s part. He hadn’t fallen down on the job of running her life and accidentally let pain devour her.

  That season of grief and dashed dreams, the season when she’d declared God to be the most unworthy of her trust, was actually the season when He’d been the very most worthy of her trust. He’d known that Harrison was not the man for her. Through her broken engagement, He’d been safeguarding her. But she hadn’t had the eyes to see it at the time. So, in her fear, she’d made God small.

  She couldn’t continue managing five aspects of her life while delegating two to God. She couldn’t continue managing even two aspects of her life while delegating five to God. It couldn’t be Christ’s will plus her will. It had to be Christ alone.

  Either He was the one at the helm, steering the ship’s wheel of her life, or she was.

  Terror gathered, shaking and icy in her midsection. She wanted to draw back and protect herself from this precipice she’d come to because . . . what if He didn’t take her where she wanted to go? What if the future God had for her didn’t include John? Not a single fiber of her wanted that outcome. But if that was what happened . . .

  Then Christ alone would be enough.

  What if she never married?

  Then Christ alone would be enough.

  What if something terrible happened to one of her family members? Or her village went bankrupt? Or she was handed a diagnosis that rocked her the way John’s diagnosis had rocked him?

  Then. Christ. Alone. Would be enough.

  When she was scared or disappointed or racked with sorrow—that’s exactly when He would be the most trustworthy. In faith, she’d need to hold on to that truth regardless of what her eyes could see.

  Nora dug her hands into the grass and pebbles, then bent her head. “You are trustworthy,” she whispered unevenly. “You are trustworthy.” She said it again and again, letting the chorus seep into her quavering heart and hungry soul. “I trust you with everything. My whole life. I want your will, Lord. Not mine. Just . . .” Her voice broke. “Just Christ alone. That’s what I choose. You’re enough.”

  She prayed as hard as she’d ever prayed. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she humbled herself before the King of the Universe, God on His throne. He was not small at all, the way she’d tried to make Him. He was huge. The biggest thing there was.

  She confessed her weaknesses and pleaded for His forgiveness. She thanked Him for His goodness. And she begged Him to fight for John.

  “Remind John who he is. Remind him what his true identity is in you. Love John. Rescue John. You’re the only one who can.”

  Letter from Sherry to John:

  John,

  Since we met the other day, my heart has been lighter in some ways than it has been since the day the nurse carried you out of my hospital room. In other ways, my heart has been heavy because I know the things I told you about Brian Raymond were very difficult for you to hear.

  As you know, I’m no stranger to very difficult things. I can tell you unequivocally that there is joy and love and family and a future on the far side of difficult things. But, perhaps even more applicable to you in this moment, there is also peace, through the Lord’s provision, in the midst of difficult things. And that’s the sweetest peace there is.

  You see, we so often long for a change in our circumstances. What’s ultimately of more value is God’s ability to strengthen us with power through His Spirit, so that we’ll be able to deal with the circumstances He doesn’t change. We can deal with them, John, if we have His supernatural power on our side.

  I want you to know that I never regretted my decision to carry you and give birth to you. I’ve always been certain, ever since the day you were born, that I got that part right.

  As I write this, I’m filled with gratitude to God because He led me to make the choices that, in turn, led you into the future He had for you. You were His son far more than you were ever my son, and God the Father was looking out for you every step of the way.

  It’s clear to me that God placed you in the earthly family He meant for you to have. Now that I’m the age that I am and have experienced a few decades of motherhood, I’m sorry that I wasn’t the one who raised you. I’m sorry for all I missed, for all the things you and I didn’t experience together. Yet I acknowledge that the role of mother was not the role God had for me concerning you. I’m honored that He saw fit to give me the small part in your life that He gave me, and I’m amazed by the outstanding things He’s done through you. I’m full of expectation for the things He’s yet to do.

  I’d like for us to stay in contact, but only if that’s all right with you.

  Sincerely,

  Sherry

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  Two days after Nora’s visit to John’s house, her sisters, Grandma, Valentina, and Zander arrived at the Bookish Cottage bearing a pot of clam chowder, sourdough bread, and sympathy.

  In no time they had the chowder bubbling on Nora’s stove and the bread in the oven. Delicious smells and happy conversation threaded through the air while Nora leaned against her table, watching them and wondering whether she was up for the company of cheerful people.

  Her heartfelt prayer the day before yesterday had been a turning point. But already God was showing her that her prayer was a starting line, not a finish line. She’d given the situation with John to God—she’d given everything to God—but that
didn’t mean her thorniest emotions had been swept away. She continued to wrestle with sorrow and doubt. Her old patterns still beckoned. Take control! Do something to repair your romance with John, they kept insisting. But those weren’t God’s voices. Those were her worries talking. All she could hear God saying so far was Trust me.

  She wasn’t accustomed to trusting. This situation with John was going to require not just a daily surrendering, but maybe an hourly surrendering. Maybe a minute-by-minute surrendering.

  There was peace to be found in surrendering. There was. But the Holy Spirit’s peace, at this particular point in her life, was a hard-earned peace accompanied by tears.

  “I told the children’s minister that I’d teach sixth grade,” Grandma said to Valentina and Nora in a resigned tone. Despite the August evening beyond the walls of the cottage, she’d swathed herself in Old Musty. “No one else stepped forward because no one else wants to teach sixth-grade Sunday school. I don’t want to teach it either.” Dramatic sigh. “I, however, understand the meaning of duty. Too few understand the meaning of duty anymore.”

  Nora could always count on Grandma, at least, not to be cheerful.

  “Children that age and I have never gotten along,” Grandma said.

  “Good, miss,” Valentina replied.

  Grandma’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Nora’s face. “You look tired.”

  “Yes!” Valentina exclaimed. “So pretty.”

  Willow captured Nora by the wrist. “Excuse us for a moment. I just remembered that I need to ask Nora and Britt about something.” She grabbed Britt’s wrist, too, and led them both into Nora’s bedroom, then closed the door behind them. She wrapped Nora in a hug that smelled like a very expensive floral arrangement. “How are you doing?”

  “Pretty well.” Nora took a seat on her bed.

  Willow settled into the room’s one chair. Britt sat cross-legged on the floor with her back against the wall.

  “When you visited John, did you say you were sorry, like you’d been wanting to say?” Willow asked.

  “I did, but he said I had nothing to be sorry about . . . which made it really hard to apologize fully, because we didn’t agree on the premise.”

  Willow scrunched her nose. “Men. They’re so strange.”

  “He said he wants to be alone,” Nora informed them.

  Her sisters let that sink in.

  “How did he look?” Britt asked.

  “Sexy. Um, did I just say that out loud? I meant to say distraught. He looked sexy distraught.”

  “Well,” Willow said, “none of us have ever had to deal with a secret like the one he’s having to deal with about his birth parents. Who are we to judge how he handles it? More time alone might be what he needs.”

  “Nah,” Britt said. “He’s sexy distraught, remember? He could be sinking into depression.”

  “I think it’s more constructive to look on the bright side,” Willow said.

  “What are you going to do?” Britt asked Nora.

  Nora knotted her hands in her lap. “Pray. And pray some more.”

  “Is it too late to choose the cute British guy?” Britt asked.

  “Britt!” Willow scolded.

  Nora considered her younger sister. “I don’t want the cute British guy. I want John.”

  “Part of your frustration this last week,” Willow stated reasonably, “has been about your inability to say to John the things you wanted to say. Even though you saw him the other day, it sounds to me like you were still unable to say those things.”

  “True.”

  “What about writing him a letter, then? Would that help? You can collect all your thoughts and articulate everything you want to communicate. He can read it when he’s ready to read it. And when he reads it, it might make a difference. But even if it doesn’t, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you said what you needed to say.”

  Nora exhaled gradually. For the first time since her prayer the day before yesterday, she sensed a yes deep within. The idea of a letter felt immediately right.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Britt said.

  Zander opened the door and peered at them from the threshold, one hand on the knob. “Plotting world takeover?”

  “If so,” Willow responded, “the only thing we agree on so far is that men are strange.”

  “Not all men are strange,” Zander replied. “Only the ones who can fell dragons. They’re not normal.” He looked to Britt. “Do you want me to take the bread out of the oven or does it need more time?”

  “You can take it out now. Thank you.”

  Willow regarded Britt with confusion. “I’ve said twice now that men are strange. You haven’t said amen either of those times, which is weird.”

  “I’m not feeling as dismissive of the unfairer sex as I often do.” Britt smiled. “I met someone yesterday.”

  Nora tensed. So did Zander.

  Was it necessary for Britt to meet her next crush at this catastrophic moment in Nora’s own love life? She didn’t know if she could hold up her “I’m so happy for you” end of the conversation each time Britt mentioned her fantastic new man.

  “Who is this person?” Willow asked.

  “Let’s just say that he’s handsome and charming and that I’m excited about our date tomorrow. Though I’m certain he’ll drive me crazy a few months down the road, and I’ll be forced to send him packing, at which time I’ll be firmly back in the men-are-strange camp.”

  Zander’s face whitened. Mouth set grimly, he made his way in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Even if you will be forced to send him packing in a few months, he sounds nice. . . .” Nora tried.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be excited about him,” Britt told her.

  “I don’t? You’ll give me a pass today?”

  “Yes. Today, I’ll give you a pass.”

  John did not enjoy dropping bombshells on his mom and dad. He’d done so months ago when he’d told them about his diagnosis. Now, he’d just finished telling them about Sherry and Brian Raymond. Another bombshell.

  They were both regarding him with a mix of shock and sympathy.

  He’d arrived early at his parents’ house for his family’s scheduled Saturday lunch. He’d arrived so early that the table was only halfway set and his sister and her husband weren’t expected to arrive for another half an hour.

  The three of them—he, his mom, and his dad—were sitting in the sunken den at the back of the house he’d grown up in. Vacuum tracks marked the room’s beige carpeting. His mom kept the house tidy and updated. Always had.

  He could hear the tick of the wall-mounted kitchen clock and smell homemade lasagna. He knew the sounds, smells, and objects of this house very, very well. This was home.

  “We were never told about any of that,” his mom said in response to the bombshell about Sherry and Brian.

  “I know.”

  His dad cleared his throat. John’s father talked easily about every subject except feelings—his own or other people’s. Whenever he had to address anything emotional, he became so awkward it was like he had a marble in his mouth. “I’m sorry you had to find out something like that, son. I . . .” More throat clearing. “I wish your search for these . . . people would’ve ended better.”

  “I do, too,” his mom said.

  “I don’t want either of you to worry about this. I told you I’d found Sherry’s address and planned to send her a letter, so I wanted to let you know what happened. That’s all.”

  John’s mom and dad had tried for three years to have a child of their own before a doctor had informed them that it would be impossible. He was well aware that they hadn’t had an opportunity to have a biological child of their own, just like he hadn’t had an opportunity to be raised by people he was genetically connected to. They’d all experienced loss. And they’d all experienced gain when they’d been given to each other.

  “Are you all right? About this?” his mom asked.

&n
bsp; Since his meeting with Sherry and Nora at The Grapevine, he’d been falling down a black, endless cave. No eyesight to rely on. No Nora. No goodness of his own to hold on to. Then, yesterday, he’d received a letter from Sherry. He’d reread it over and over. Her words were like a branch sticking out of the wall of the cave. He’d grabbed the branch, and it had slowed his fall. Was he all right, though? He debated how to answer and decided on the truth. “No. Not yet.”

  His mom leaned forward. “John, don’t let what happened between Sherry and Brian determine how you feel about yourself. Okay?”

  He remained silent.

  “You’re in Christ, so you’re a new creation. The old has gone. The new is here. The old has gone, honey.”

  He held her gaze. The kitchen clock ticked.

  “I remember when you were literally a new creation. We saw you for the first time when you were five days old.” She tipped her head and smiled affectionately. “I wish we knew someone with a newborn.” She turned to his dad. “Who do we know who has a newborn grandbaby? Marcy?”

  “I don’t think Marcy’s newborn grandbaby will be interested in joining us for lasagna,” his dad said dryly.

  “Anyway.” His mom focused again on John. “I wish I had a newborn here to show you. I wish you could look into the face of a five-day-old baby. If you could, you’d see how helpless and tiny and innocent they are. They’re all those things, aren’t they, Ray?”

  “All those things.”

  “But especially innocent. Whatever Brian Raymond did, you were innocent of it, John. You’re a man now, but you’re as much a new creation today as you were when you were young. You know that already. Of course you know that, but I feel compelled to say it. And here’s another thing I feel compelled to say, even though I’ve said it a hundred times.”

  John waited, guilty and hopeful and uncertain.

  “We prayed for you.” His mom looked directly at him. “You’re God’s answer to our prayer, John. You’re our son, and we couldn’t love you more than we do.”