“That’s right,” Florence said. “That’s the way it works.” She turned to go.
“Wait! Don’t you have something for me?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said. “I almost forgot! Never miss the chance to make someone feel better. Nothing combats the conspiracy like kindness. It’s really the heart of Christianity. It muffles the drums of war, soothes the worried mind, strengthens the feeblest knees, and restores our faith in the human race. Yes, if you want to change people, you’ve got to start by changing their conditions. And Sky, if you see Ron and Nancy, tell them how proud of them I am, will you?”
Nancy was Florence’s baby, the youngest of her four children. I hadn’t seen her since Ray’s funeral, but the mention of her name made me think how much she looked like Florence.
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
Florence put both hands on my cheeks and kissed me good-bye.
“Scout,” she said, “when you were little, you were always tagging along behind, but looking at you now, I can see that somewhere along the way you got out ahead. You’re leading the way. It’s up to you now. So don’t let us down on this.”
Never miss the chance to make someone else’s life better.
I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but before I could, she turned and got into the car and drove away. It felt like maybe she was talking about Ben; then again, maybe it was just me. He’d been on my mind since I got here, and sooner or later, I was going to have to unload my thoughts on someone—but it didn’t feel quite right with Florence. I ate the second piece of silk pie, said a prayer thanking God that he’d put Florence in my life, and went off to bed with a full belly and a soul full of questions.
6
priorities
The key is not to prioritize what’s on your schedule, but to schedule your priorities.
Stephen R. Covey
The next morning, I got up early and walked down to the lake. The wind had kicked up, and the sound of the waves lapping against the aluminum boat lulled me into the memory of other peaceful days. I remembered being here as a kid, or at least someplace that looked like this. My parents rented a cottage for a month, and it seemed like each day was better than the last. Every morning I’d wake up and go fishing or swimming or sailing or exploring. At the time I didn’t realize how special it was.
My dad worked three of the four weeks, driving the two-hour commute on weekends and also on Wednesday night. When he was gone, I was in charge—at least that’s what he’d tell me every time he left—and I took every opportunity to rub my sister’s nose in it.
I was the oldest boy, the firstborn son, and those were more chauvinistic days. Ben was happy to tag along behind. He looked up to me, and there was never any doubt in his mind that I was in charge.
I guess that’s why when the tragedy fell on Ben, some of it fell on me too. We both carry scars from that day. His are physical and mine are emotional, and even now when I think about it, my first instinct is to run away and hide. A part of me has been running away from that day ever since, but no matter how hard I try, I’ve never really been able to hide. The memory dogs my tracks like a bloodhound.
I must have sat there on that dock, lost in thought, for several hours. I was thinking about what it would be like to stay here or to go home and feeling torn between the two.
With the blowing wind, I barely heard the voice behind me. “You missed breakfast, so I packed us a little lunch.”
When I turned around, a slender brunette in her thirties stood on the shore.
“Ahbee asked me to spend some time with you today,” she said. “My name is Ru-ah, but you can call me Rae.”
Rae had chestnut hair highlighted by blonde streaks, and her freckles spoke to her love of the sun. Her hair fell to her shoulders and then swept up and back as if the wind had just blown it off her face. Rae was wearing a sleeveless black blouse that buttoned up the front in a V, a khaki pencil skirt, and open-toed Dr. Scholl’s sandals that clomped as she walked out to meet me on the dock. Her earrings and her eyes were pale green, and both seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Even in those sandals, she seemed to dance as she walked.
She brushed up beside me, and for a moment I felt a little flushed and awkward. There was something earthy and yet innocent about her, and I wondered if she knew just how beautiful she was.
“Come on,” she said, motioning with her head. “Let’s you and I take a little walk.”
We went down the same two-track that Roz and I had driven the other night, but in the daylight I noticed that it was lined with cottages, big and small, in a variety of colors, all kept neat and tidy. “Who lives in these?” I asked.
“Different people at different times,” Rae replied.
There was something very familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“May I ask you a question?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?” she responded.
I was beginning to get frustrated with the mystery and double-talk. “No, really,” I said. “I want to know.”
“I think you already know.”
“Humor me,” I said.
“All right. I am who you think I am. The children of Israel called me Ru-ah, the breath, the wind, the one who hovered over the chaos before time began. Josh’s disciples called me the Pneuma, the Spirit, the unseen force, the one he sent to be your constant companion. The prophets called me Wisdom, the inspiration for your best thoughts and your deepest passion, and they were all right. When you feel something but don’t see anything—particularly something calming, comforting, inspiring, or loving—it’s me . . . it’s always me. I am your constant companion. I am the peace of mind that Joshua left behind.”
As she spoke I began to see the family resemblance. The crinkle in her nose when she smiled, the twinkle in her eye, the sound of her laugh—it was all so much like Ahbee.
“There is so much more to the business of life and death than you allow yourself to believe,” she continued. “So much more than you can see, or touch, or taste, or hear. Yet, for some reason, you all seem to buy into the conspiracy that Christianity can be reduced to creeds and confessions and the questions and answers in the catechism. You want a handful of easily understood words. But words are insufficient. Can you see that?”
Before I could answer, Rae went on. “Perhaps the best thing I can do is reduce it to one word. If you want it in words, then I am ‘Love.’ And tell me, if you can, who can describe such a thing? If you need more of an explanation, I will try, but like I warned you, it will take a lot of words. Poets and musicians have put pen to paper for as long as words have been written, and none of them have done it justice. Sometimes little flashes of truth dash across the page, but even then they can only know in part, not the whole.
There is so much more to life than we can see, or touch, or taste, or hear.
“Love, as they say, is a mystery, and I am the love of God that’s whispered in every beat of your heart; the love that speaks in the soundless silence of immortal, invisible things that are forever happening all around you; the love that’s muffled in the rustling leaves of the trees and hidden in the cool breeze that blows off the lake in the early morning. I am all around you, and yet deep within you.”
“You’re getting a little deep there, aren’t you, Rae?” I said. “I’m not sure I really understood much of what you just said. Is there a way you could come right out and say it in simple terms?”
“Simple isn’t always as simple as it sounds,” she said. “In the ancient words of faith, truth was tied up in a neat and tidy bundle, so that you could carry it around with you wherever you went, and I am a part of that. You all say it—‘I believe in the Holy Spirit’—but you never stop and let the words sink in. You can know what you believe in, but who you believe in will always be somewhat of a mystery.
“Now here is the secret to understanding,” Rae continued. “The mor
e you understand what you believe, the more it should affect the way you live your life, and the more it affects the way you live, the more you’ll understand the mystery of who I am. Does that make sense? Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asked.
I looked up, but before I could answer, Rae went on. “No, of course you don’t. It’s the handicap of humanity, the price tag of sin, the downfall of Adam and those who follow after him. In your desire to understand both good and evil, you have become so tainted by evil that you can no longer totally understand good. But in spite of that, God loves you. It is what you confess in your creeds. The love of God, his Holy Spirit, is your constant companion. I am with you always, and knowing that should give you great comfort and drastically affect the way you live.
The more we understand what we believe, the more it should affect the way we live.
“Unfortunately, it all too often doesn’t. Instead of resting in that, you quickly move on to the rest—‘the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting’—and these things also can too easily become part of the conspiracy because they’re shrouded in mystery. Like everyone else, you desperately want eternal life, but for some reason, you choose each day to waste the life you have. You fill the days of this life with things that won’t matter much in the next.”
“There you go again,” I said. “I don’t get it. You’ve got to give me something a little more concrete. An example of some kind.”
“Okay, take gold, for example,” Rae said. “When John wrote that the streets of heaven were paved in gold, he didn’t mean that it was there for the taking, but for the leaving—that it would be as worthless as the dirt on your shoes. The only thing that has value here is love. That’s the currency of heaven. That’s the pearl of great price. Even though it costs you nothing, that’s the world’s most priceless treasure: God’s love for you, your love for God, and your love for each other.
“Knowing and understanding that, if you want to invest in something eternal, you need to invest your life in people. That’s what you were created to do: to love God and to love each other. And when you fail to do that, there is this restless spirit deep down in your soul, and that restlessness is me. I refuse to let you settle for anything less.
“Oh, at times, like when you look at the face of a newborn baby, when you dance with your wife on your fiftieth anniversary, when you gather around the table at Thanksgiving and get too choked up to pray—at times like that you’re not far from it, not far from the kingdom. But for the most part, you’re just too busy to listen to the whispered hush of the Holy Spirit, and so the love of God slips through your fingers like sand.”
For a few moments we walked along in silence. The only sounds were my feet sloshing through the puddles in the path and a bullfrog somewhere off in the distance. When he fell silent, I turned and looked at Rae with a wrinkled brow.
“Does that help you?” Rae finally asked.
Too often we devalue the things that matter most and inflate the things that matter least.
“Some,” I said. “I didn’t get it all, but some. So what you’re saying is that I’ve let things get turned around in my life? I’ve devalued the things that matter most and inflated the things that matter least?”
“You understand more than you realize. And the guilt,” she continued. “There is a point when you have to let go of the guilt, Scout. It wasn’t really your fault anyway, and in time, I hope you can come to see that.”
I wanted to walk and talk some more because I wondered if Rae was talking about what I thought she was talking about. But Rae motioned to the lodge and said, “That’s enough for one day. Besides, there’s someone waiting for you.”
I had been so caught up in our conversation that I didn’t realize we had turned back. Evidently we had headed back toward the cottage sometime during our walk. That’s when I saw it. There were several puddles in the road, and I had been trying to walk around them, but Rae never altered her step. And here’s the strange thing: I noticed that she was walking on the puddles, not in them. It was as if for the briefest of moments the water was frozen under her feet.
“That’s a pretty neat trick,” I said, pointing toward the puddle.
“I learned that from Josh,” she said.
“I should have known,” I said, and we kept walking. The sun began to sink over the sand dune to the west, and knowing how things worked around here, I looked up the driveway to see who might have come to visit.
In the driveway sat a white ’77 Volkswagen Rabbit Wolfsburg Edition with a red scotch plaid interior. I recognized it immediately. I spent ten years in the car business before going back to grad school, and I remembered selling it. There was nothing all that special about the car, but there was something very special about the woman who drove it.
“Mom?” I shouted, running toward her open arms.
“Sky!” she whispered, and I burst into tears.
There’s something powerful about hearing your mother say your name, and when she wrapped her arms around me, I felt like a little boy again. Her long, dangling earrings brushed against my neck as I held her, and I caught a faint whisper of her Chanel No. 5 perfume. This was what I was most homesick for, and for the first time in a long time, my heart was home again.
“This is your house, isn’t it, Mom? I knew it as soon as I saw it. It’s so much like that cottage we rented when I was a kid that every room floods my mind with warm memories.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Sky,” she said. “But this is the guest cottage. It’s here for people like you. My place isn’t quite finished yet; in fact, we just finalized the blueprints. I’m excited to watch them start construction, but I’m in no hurry. Right now I’m staying with Herb and Gerry, and that’s nice. It’s giving us a chance to catch up.”
That’s when I realized that what made me feel at home was being with her again.
———
She was born Audrey Rae to John and Esther Jacobs, and because of her loving heart and generous spirit, we gave our daughter Kelly her middle name. I was one of the lucky ones in life. My mom and dad had always loved me unconditionally, and she had proven it again and again. Growing up, I’d disappointed her more times than I’d care to count.
Once she was mad at me about something (probably for hitting my sister), and she sent me to my room.
“Don’t come out until you’re ready to apologize,” she said as I slammed my bedroom door. I knew the drill—this was not the first time I’d been sent to my room, and I also knew that if I came out too quickly, the apology wouldn’t be accepted.
“You better go back there and think about what you’ve done, mister,” she’d say, and her tone let me know that I’d be there for a while.
Having the attention span of a Labrador puppy at the time, I decided to use my jackknife to carefully cut my way through the left lower edge of the screen in my bedroom and then sneak outside to play. About an hour later, I jumped up, grabbed the outside sill of my bedroom window, pulled myself up and in, and folded the screen back as close to normal as I could. Then I walked out into the living room, apologized, and went back outside to play.
The next week, she was washing windows, and she discovered that the screen had been cut. Thinking that her son would never do anything that stupid, she naturally assumed that someone was trying to get into the house, not out. She worried all afternoon about the screen-cutting bandit until my dad came home and heard what happened.
Dad knew my dark soul much better than my mom. He took me into the bedroom and talked to me about the importance of being honest. After several denials, I finally admitted the truth, and he made me go apologize to my mother.
There’s something awful about disappointing your mother, and for me, the worst part was that she cried. Well, when she cried, I cried, and a few minutes later, she was holding me and I kept repeating, “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry.”
She said, “I f
orgive you, Sky, I forgive you!”
The last few years of Mom’s life had been difficult. She had osteoporosis, diabetes, and complications from sixty-some years of cigarettes, and it had robbed her of the joy of life. She lost feeling in her feet, was tethered to an oxygen bottle, and took a regimen of pills morning, noon, and night. She could no longer do the things she’d always done, and when anyone else tried to do them for her, it made her feel useless.
People who are used to giving sometimes have a hard time receiving.
Mom was a giver, not a taker, and being forced to be on the receiving end of things was a bitter pill for her to swallow. People who are used to giving sometimes have a hard time receiving. At times she’d take her frustration out on those she loved, and in the last few years of her life, I didn’t visit as often as she would have liked. I let the busyness of my life reduce our relationship to phone calls and cards. For some reason I found it easier to say “I love you” with a pen than in person. I’d see her on holidays and stop by for a few minutes when I was in town, but not like I used to. She never complained, but I knew it bothered her.
———
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said as we held each other in the driveway. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” she asked, with a puzzled look on her face.
“For everything. For the way I let you down, for all the times I made you worry or broke your heart. But mostly for not coming to see you as much as I should have,” I said, taking a long, deep breath.
“Nonsense! You came when you could. You had your girls to look after and your practice, and I know how much time you spend looking out for Ben these days. So don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about! We were always connected at the heart.”
As always, hearing her say that I was forgiven made me feel better. God always stands at the end of the driveway of heaven ready to welcome the prodigals home, and Mom stood right beside him. She always said God’s not about guilt or blame; that’s who we are, not who he is.
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