by Chris Fabry
“I know,” she said with as much compassion as she could muster. She spurted some more foot powder in a shoe and set it down.
“This is not easy for him either,” Cynthia said.
The words struck a nerve. “Well, I’m sorry, but he’s making it hard not just on you but everybody around you.”
“So you’re saying you’re not going to help. Is that it?”
“No, I’m not saying we won’t help. We’re still talking about it, okay?”
Elizabeth heard a noise behind her and turned to see Tony leafing through the mail on the kitchen counter. Seeing him there while Cynthia was on the line sent her spirits crashing. He already thought she spent every minute on the phone with her sister. He had to walk in at just this moment.
“Listen, Tony just got home. I need to call you later.”
“All right, Sis. Thanks for talking. Love you.”
“I love you too,” Elizabeth said.
Tony studied each letter like it was a draft notice. She hung up and took a breath and tried to engage with him. Something safe. Like work, perhaps.
“How was your trip?”
Head down, scowling at the mail. “It was good. I take it that was your sister.”
“Yep. It was.”
“Darren getting a job?”
“Not yet.”
“‘Not yet’ as in he’s trying? Or ‘not yet’ as in he’s still sittin’ on the couch playing video games?”
How quickly the tide of conversation ran onto the beach of conflict. “Tony, what he does is not Cynthia’s fault. She just needs one month’s rent and a car payment. I think we should at least do that.”
Tony’s face hardened. “Cynthia married a loser. Okay? That was her choice when everybody told her not to. It is her fault.”
Elizabeth stood and faced him. He approached from the kitchen—the power in her voice finally calling him from his corner. Like two fighters ready to begin the bout, they sized each other up.
“Tony, she cannot control him. She’s got a job, but it’s not enough. Listen, I’m not asking for five thousand dollars anymore. I’m asking for one month’s rent and a car payment.”
“And next month you’ll be askin’ for the same thing, Liz. So the answer is still no.” Tony turned his head, scowling again. “And what is that smell in here?”
Elizabeth looked away, half in frustration and half from embarrassment. She felt like a little girl again. Back in her house with her father criticizing her. Tony had the same tone of voice her dad had when she needed new clothes or brought home a bad grade.
“I’m putting powder in my shoes,” she said.
He glanced at the line of shoes in front of the couch. She thought he might apologize or console her. Tell her it was all right or that it wasn’t her fault or that she didn’t have to do that for his sake.
Tony just looked at the shoes like they were dead fish and said, “Well, can’t you do that outside?”
Defeated, deflated, and crushed, she said, “Yes.” Then she thought of Cynthia. She thought of her voice on the phone and how lonely and sad she sounded. She would give it one more try with him.
“Tony, if you won’t do it for her, do it for me.”
It was an open invitation for him to express some semblance of love. It was her being vulnerable—like a deer running into a meadow with a big red target on its side, ready for the kill.
Tony’s face grew even harder. “No.”
And with that, he turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts and her shoes. She knew she and Tony were far apart. She knew there wasn’t much hope for their relationship. It had been so long since he had lovingly touched her or said anything positive. At that moment, with her eyes watering and her heart breaking, she realized there was nothing she could do to bring down that wall. No amount of parading around it and shouting would bring it down. No amount of holding up a staff would part the waters of their flooded relationship.
She picked up as many shoes as she could and carried them to the back door and tossed them onto the deck. She made another trip for the rest, slammed the door behind her, and stood on the deck staring into the distance, arms folded. She was tired of the battle, weary of the war. She was tired of seeing Danielle live under the weight of all this. There had to be another way. There had to be something better for all three of them.
Miss Clara
Over the years people discovered Clara was a prayer warrior. They would slip her a piece of paper with someone’s name scrawled on it or whisper something about a family member during the offertory. Clara felt honored when that happened. But the practice also saddened her because she knew some thought she had a special “in” with God. There was nothing she did in her prayer closet that others couldn’t do. There was no answer to prayer she snatched from God’s hand because she was so crafty. The power she had was available to all.
The question had come up in one of her Friday gatherings with her girlfriends. They were down to four regular members of a club that had never officially been formed. Cecilia Jones, Eula Pennington, and Tressa Gower were women who had crossed Clara’s path years earlier and had stuck by her—and she them—through several decades. They had been through the deaths of spouses, children, and pets, as well as a divorce, several miscarriages, and two lawsuits. All four of the women were believers, though sometimes there seemed to be a little antagonism at how sure Clara was about everything she believed.
“Do you think there’s more power in lots of people praying about something?” Cecilia said to the group. She looked out the corner of her eye at Clara as if baiting her to jump into the fray first.
This was how one of the group started a free-for-all—she just threw out a question or an idea and watched the others respond. Cecilia was particularly good about goading Clara, but on this one, Clara held back.
“I think the more people who pray about something, the more chance God has of hearing,” Tressa said. “What was that book a few years ago, had all those angels fighting in it? You read what was going on with people and then what happened with the angels when people started praying?”
Tressa said the title of the book and Cecilia remembered the author. All of them nodded in recognition.
“I think it’s like that,” Tressa continued. “The more you pray, the more you get other people to pray, it just piles up on a scale somewhere in heaven. And God listens. The persistent widow—she kept knocking at the door of the judge. Remember that parable?”
Eula Pennington put her coffee mug down. “I don’t think God can be moved like that.” She said the word God with an extra “duh” on the end, as if it were more reverent to add another syllable to the Almighty’s name. “It’s not how many times you pray something or how many people you get praying, it’s whether or not you’re asking something that’s in God’s will.”
Clara nodded at that and the ladies around the table seemed to agree. But Cecilia wasn’t finished. “So does that mean there’s no reason for a prayer chain? If a whole congregation prays about something, it’s no different from one person praying?”
“‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much,’” Eula said. She was a King James adherent, though she tolerated the RSV and NASB.
“So that means if you’re holy enough, God will hear your prayers? Is that it?” Cecilia said.
“Nobody is holy but God,” Eula said. “The rest of us are sinners standing in the need of prayer.”
“You got that right,” Tressa said.
Cecilia leaned forward. “Clara, you’re being awful quiet.”
Clara took a sip of coffee. “Having lots of people pray about something doesn’t force God to listen or act. God knows everything. Prayer is not informing Him because He already knows what we need and why we’re crying out.”
“So why pray at all?” Cecilia said.
Clara held up a hand. “Now you asked me to answer you and I’m trying to do that.”
; Cecilia smiled and sat back, also raising a hand as if the floor was Clara’s.
“God does hear what we pray. You don’t need a megaphone or a million people to get His attention. But the point of prayer is not to get what we want. Prayer changes the person who prays. You take the parent who prays that a child will get on the straight and narrow. You know I’ve been there with Clyde. We’ve all been heartsick about something or other regarding our kids. But what I’ve found is this. Whenever I was worried about Clyde, God was doing something in me. He wanted to turn my heart around as much if not more so than my son’s. God helped me trust Him in greater ways than I ever thought possible because of that boy and what he dragged me through.”
“And he dragged you through a lot,” Tressa said.
“Mmm-hmmm,” Eula agreed.
“So what about my question?” Cecilia said, dissatisfied with the answer.
“There’s not more power in a lot of people praying because the power comes from God and not the people. But what happens when many pray for the same thing is an opportunity for God’s glory. Everything comes back to the glory of God. Everything in history, the purpose of our lives, is the glory of God. Every breath we take.”
“But isn’t it selfish of God to want glory?” Cecilia said. “That’s the opposite of humility.”
Clara could tell her friend was poking her now, prodding her to get to something below the surface. “Let me tell you something. Is it wrong for the person who deserves it to get credit? God made everything. He fashioned the little baby in its mother’s womb and set the stars in place. He put a plan in motion to redeem us, to showcase His love and goodness and mercy on the cross so that all glory would go to the One to whom it belongs. Glory that goes to anybody or anything else is a sham. And you put an e on that and it becomes a shame. That’s what the world has come to by giving glory to people who can catch a ball or twist on a stage.”
Cecilia smiled and Clara knew this was her intent, to get her involved enough to come up with what the group called a “Clara-ism.”
“So, Clara, tell us what happens when a group begins to pray about the same thing,” Cecilia said.
“Well, first of all, more people know about the need. More people get involved in bringing a person or a situation before God. He doesn’t need to be reminded because He knows everything. But He wants us to participate in people’s lives and the things going on around us. He wants us to partner with Him in His plan to draw people to Himself. So the end result of a lot of people praying about the same thing is increased glory to God. That’s the way it works. When we pray, we participate in what God is doing. He gets the glory, and we get the privilege of walking with Him, and in that process we are changed. And guess what happens from that change? He gets the glory.”
“How do you figure that?” Eula said.
“Philippians 2. Paul talks about having the same mind that Jesus had. He didn’t have to come here and give up His life. He didn’t have to be obedient and die on a cross. But He humbled Himself. And look at what happens at the end of that passage. God raises him up to the place of highest honor and gives Him the name above every other name. Every knee is going to bow, every tongue will declare that Jesus Christ is Lord—now get this—to the glory of God the Father. The whole point of the work of Jesus, the whole reason for His sinless life, the reason for the miracles and raising Him from the dead was the glory of God.”
“Praise Jesus!” Tressa said.
“That’s good,” Eula said.
“You know it,” Cecilia said.
“Wrap your heart around that the next time you go through a struggle,” Clara said. “The goal of prayer is not to change God’s mind about what you want. The goal of prayer is to change your own heart, to want what He wants, to the glory of God.”
CHAPTER 7
Tony was headed to the gym anyway, so he took Michael’s invitation to meet him at the workout room. Michael climbed on the stationary bike while Tony did pull-ups. It felt good to work up a sweat and try to forget the conflict at home. To build muscle, he knew he needed to push himself, to feel the burn and the pain. Too bad his marriage hadn’t been like that. There was plenty of pain but little building.
Their conversation turned to work and Tony revealed what had happened the day before. Not to brag, but to bring Michael up to speed.
“You got another bonus? Man, I went into the wrong line of work.”
Tony spoke through his reps. “I couldn’t have been a paramedic.”
“You got that right, bro.”
“And you’re too calm to be a salesman.”
Michael laughed. “Yeah, but could you imagine if I got a bonus every time I saved somebody’s life? Check it out. Heimlich, two hundred dollars. CPR? Four hundred. And I’d get a thousand if they’re ugly.”
Tony laughed as he moved over to the rack of dumbbells. He loved Michael’s dry humor and the stories about the people he encountered as an EMT.
“Remember that one lady who had swallowed garlic and she choked and I had to give her mouth-to-mouth? That should have been a Hawaiian vacation.”
Tony began curling twenty-five-pound weights. “I couldn’t have done it.”
“Yeah, you could do it. You’re not going to let somebody just die in front of you while you eat your salad.”
“I don’t do CPR, Mike. I’d just call 911.”
“That’s just cold. You’d just let somebody die? What if it was your wife?”
Tony put the weights on his thighs and held them there. What if Elizabeth were choking and needed help? What if she needed CPR? She would probably tell me I wasn’t pushing on her chest right, he thought.
Michael stopped pedaling and got a sad look on his face. “Hold on, bro, what’s that?”
“What’s what?” Tony said, continuing his routine.
“What’s up with you and Liz?”
Tony strained through another set of reps. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? Look at you getting all tight. You got extra veins popping out that weren’t even there before. Dude, what’s going on with your marriage?”
Tony didn’t like sharing the hard stuff with anybody, especially someone like Michael, who was pretty much perfect. But he was so close to the falls with Elizabeth, he knew he would have to explain sooner or later, so he let the water carry him over.
“Mike, I’m just tired of her, okay? All right, I said it. I don’t need her nagging me all the time. I’m just tired of her junk.”
Michael was fully focused now. The stationary bike had stopped. “Her junk? Dude, you married her, junk and all. It’s not like some sort of buffet where you get to pick and choose what you want. You get all of her.” He paused and let the next sentence sink in. “And you’d better not have somebody on the side.”
Tony let the weights stretch his arms out. How in the world did Michael come up with that? Was he following him around? Was it that clear?
“So you’re trying to do CPR on my personal life now?” It was defensive, but Tony had to at least put up a good front. What was he supposed to say—I am looking for someone?
Michael resumed his workout. “Yeah, I’m a paramedic. But I’m also a Christian. Which means I help people . . . while I’m helping people.”
“Mike, we’ve been friends a long time, but some things are none of your business.”
“True, and since we’ve been friends a long time, I’m not going to just watch your marriage die. So if it’s bleeding, I’m not gonna keep eating my salad.”
Tony dropped the weights and stood straight, grabbing his gym bag. He looked at Michael with a sly smile and with a little sarcasm said, “I’ll see you in church.”
Michael called after him as he walked away, “Need to see the church in you, bro.”
Tony kept walking, not wanting to respond. He didn’t need Michael’s guilt. He hit the door and walked through the atrium of the community center, passing the receptionist at the front. She was one of Elizabeth’s friends. What was h
er name? He nodded at her and felt coldness from her as he passed. He wondered what Elizabeth had said to her about him, about their marriage.
As he got in the car and drove away, he thought of several comebacks for Michael. Questions that could push him to the edge of his belief in God. The Almighty had created marriage to be happy and vibrant. Wasn’t that what He wanted for His children? Well, Tony wasn’t happy and neither was Elizabeth. In fact, Tony was one of the major reasons Elizabeth wasn’t happy at all. And she was the main reason he heard fingernails on the blackboard of life when he walked into the house. The loving thing, the kind thing would be for the two of them to go their separate ways. It would be hard, but in the end, it would lead to happiness.
What about Danielle? Michael’s voice said in his head.
She wouldn’t understand. She was too young to get it. But Tony would be in her life, on weekends, at special events. Birthdays and graduations. He might be an even better dad from a distance than he was sleeping in the same house. And he would finally be out from under all the weight of obligation. Obligation to listen to the nagging and feel like a jerk. That’s how Elizabeth treated him. Instead of respecting him and being grateful for what he’d provided, how hard he worked, she only looked at him as a glass half-full. He would be happy living apart from them and that would spill over to Danielle, so she would be better off in the end.
The loving thing to do here was to make a decision. Elizabeth wanted him to be the leader in the home, so that’s what he’d do. Just like in the gym, short-term pain led to long-term gain. They would endure the questions from family and friends and move forward on the journey to a happy life.
As Tony hit the garage door opener, he once again thought of Veronica Drake from Holcomb. Maybe he should get back there sooner than planned to go over some details of their deal. Maybe have dinner. Maybe stay overnight. After all, he thought, it was never too early to think about your own happiness.