A Test of Faith

by Karen Ball

  But what came wasn’t a punch. It was a slow smile, easing its way across Trista’s face. “So, you haven’t gone all Goody Two-shoes on us, huh?”

  Faith didn’t have to fake the snort. It rushed out of her, a mixture of relief and self-denigration.

  Goody Two-shoes? Hardly.

  She’d thought she was. Thought she could be like Sarah. Now she knew better. She wasn’t anything like Sarah. Not a bit.

  Trista reached out to link her arm with Faith’s. “Glad to hear it.” Her gaze bored into Faith, as though she was trying to read her soul. “Dustin said you were … being weird.”

  Faith fell into step with Trista, heading for the exit. “Yeah, well, not anymore.” Something deep inside her ached as she said the words. For one horrifying moment Faith thought she would start bawling right there, but she tossed her head and forced herself to keep walking.

  Away from her locker.

  Away from the book it hid.

  And no matter how much that ache inside tugged at her, crying out for her to turn around, to stop, she refused to give in.

  She was done with that book. Done with Sarah and all her talk about God. It had sounded good at camp, but this wasn’t camp. It was real life.

  And in real life, what you needed wasn’t God.

  It was friends. The right kind of friends. Friends who kept you from getting hurt. And from doing stupid things.

  Like thinking you could change.

  Anne leaned in the doorway of the living room.

  “You remember tonight is my Bible study night?”

  Jared lowered the paper and winked. “I remember.” He put on a sad puppy dog face. “Tonight is the night you abandon me.”

  “Poor baby.” Anne crooned her insincerity. “It’s terrible how I make you order in pizza once a week.”

  “Nope.” Jared snapped the paper. “Tonight’s going to be Chinese.”

  “Yum. Save me an egg roll. And save Faith some sweet-and-sour chicken.” But Anne didn’t have time to talk longer. She and Faith were going to be late if they didn’t hurry. She went to tap on Faith’s door. “Faith?”

  No response.

  She tapped again. “Faith? Come on, sweetie.”

  “She’s gone, Annie.”

  Anne turned a questioning look to Jared. “Gone?” The sympathetic regret on his features made her heart plummet. “Gone.” She looked down at the floor. “When?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago.”

  Well, maybe she was going to meet Anne—

  “She said she and Trista were going to a movie.”

  Ah.

  Jared lay his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, hon.”

  The hurt crawling through her was enough to make her want to stay home, but she was taking the refreshments. With a quick nod to Jared, she gathered her things and hurried out the door.

  Chattering women’s voices, reminding Anne of an aviary full of birds at feeding time, filled Marge Clark’s living room.

  Normally, she joined in the Bible study’s conversations. Tonight … she didn’t have the heart. Or the energy.

  Actually, she was exhausted.

  All evening something had been nudging her to ask the women for prayer. To tell them what was happening with Faith, to seek their counsel and guidance. But every time she tried to open her mouth, the words caught in her throat.

  What would they think of her?

  Many of them knew, of course, that there had been problems. Anne had asked for prayer a few times over the last few years. No specifics, of course, just, “Please pray for my family. We’re having a little trouble with Faith.”

  A little trouble. Talk about putting a spin on something!

  Marge Clark and her sister-in-law, Anita, had never been fooled. They’d known Anne for nearly twenty years. They’d watched Faith grow from infancy. Their children had gone to Sunday school together, played together, had birthday parties together. They’d cornered Anne, asking her what was really going on. And she told them. It had been such a relief to tell someone.

  So why couldn’t she do that tonight?

  Because they’ve prayed for us already. They had to be sick of hearing about Anne’s problems, listening to her litany of misery. So Anne sat through the study, pushing down the urge when it popped up again. And again. And again.

  Now, thankfully, the Bible study was over. While the others gathered their things, talking away as they readied to leave, Anne slipped into the kitchen to wash coffee mugs. Let the gang clear out, then she’d grab her cookie plate and go home.

  She heard the front door close and seized the hand towel. Time to make her escape. But suddenly she was flanked on one side by Marge, and on the other by Anita. The two women stood there, arms crossed, pinning Anne with insistent looks.

  “Okay, Anne. Time’s up. Spill.”

  She felt like a prison escapee caught with a shovel in the tunnel! She should have known she couldn’t keep her pain from these two. She folded and hung up the hand towel.

  Anita shooed her hands away. “For heaven’s sake, forget the towel! What’s up?”

  No more stalling. Okay, Lord. You win. “It’s Faith.”

  Marge nodded. “Well, we figured that. So what happened?”

  “First—” Anita took Anne’s arm and ushered her toward the living room—“let’s get comfortable.” She studied Anne’s face as they sat. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”

  Anne settled in the middle of the couch; Anita and Marge sat on either side of her. Grabbing one of the soft, decorative pillows, Anne hugged it to her.

  Marge eyed the pillow. “I have one of the kid’s old security blankets in a trunk, if you’d like it.”

  “Hush!” Anita patted Anne’s arm. “Ignore her. Now, start talking.”

  The laughter at the two women’s teasing died, and Anne finally gave in. She told them everything. All the struggles. Her battle with the diabetes. Her fatigue. Her hurt when she found out Faith had accepted Christ and not told her. Her jealousy. How God confronted her, revealing her own failures and weaknesses. Her hope after the wonderful talk with Faith.

  And then, tonight.

  “I wish I understood what was going on in her mind. One minute she seems to be back on the right track, then boom! She does something like this.” Anne gripped the pillow. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Maybe it’s not about you.”

  Anne frowned at Anita’s soft words. But Marge was nodding. “I think that’s true. I think it’s more about Faith herself than about you, Anne.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Anita took Anne’s hand. “I’ve known Faith all her life. And I’d be willing to bet she’s feeling some of the same things you are. Confused. Rejected. Even like she does everything wrong.”

  “Insecure,” Marge added, and Anne sat back.

  Insecure? Faith? “But she’s so confident! Faith isn’t afraid of anything.”

  “Actually—” Anita’s words came out slow and thoughtful—“I get the sense she’s afraid of lots of things. Especially not being liked.”

  Her daughter? The social butterfly? Not liked? “By whom?”

  “By anyone,” Marge said, “and everyone. The kids at school. The teachers. The cool crowd.”

  “You. And Jared.”

  Marge built on Anita’s comments. “Maybe even God.”

  Anne let their words roll around in her mind and heart. Let them penetrate deep, testing them. And like the beam of a flashlight cutting through the night, understanding dawned.

  They were right. And that realization brought a wave of regret and sorrow crashing down on her. Tears sprang to her eyes, overflowing. Anita grabbed a tissue and handed it to her.

  “So what do I do?” Anne crumpled the tissue in her hand. “I’ve told Faith how much I love her, but if she doesn’t believe me, what can I do?”

  “You go ahead and cry.” Anita handed her another tissue. “And then we fix what’s wrong.”


  Anne blew her nose. “How on earth do we do that?”

  Marge patted her arm, her lips lifting in a small, warm smile. “You know, Anne, you’re a wise lady most of the time. But when it comes to your daughter, you seem to forget the basics.”

  The basics? Anne looked from one woman to the other, then her eyes widened.

  Oh.

  The basics.

  She shook her head. What a fool she could be sometimes. “We pray.”

  “See there?” Anita looked around Anne to grin at Marge. “I told you she was smarter than she looked.”

  Anne lifted the pillow and delivered a light, albeit much-deserved, swat to the back of Anita’s head.

  The women laughed, and Anne gripped their hands. “Thank you.”

  They smiled.

  “That’s what friends are for, Anne.”

  Marge’s words sunk deep into her heart. That’s exactly what friends were for. And she would take extra time tonight thanking God for these two friends in particular.

  And for not letting her escape as she’d planned. He really did know best, after all.

  Among

  Thorns

  “Other seed fell among thorns that shot up and choked out the tender blades so that it produced no grain.… The thorny ground represents those who hear and accept the Good News, but all too quickly the message is crowded out by the cares of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for nice things, so no crop is produced.”

  MARK 4:7, 18–19

  seventeen

  “God … plants his footsteps in the

  sea and rides upon the storm.”

  WILLIAM COWPER

  “WOULD YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU MORON?”

  The kid in front of Trista scrambled to comply.

  “Freshmen. What a waste of space.”

  Faith laughed as they made their way down the steps, heading for the buses. “Hey, they gotta be someplace.”

  “So long as it’s not around me.” Trista tossed her hair back, gave a smug smile, and planted one hand on her hip. “That particular place is reserved only for the most deserving.”

  “Hmm.” Faith had seen Trista’s most deserving, and she wasn’t impressed. Why was it Trista always gravitated toward losers?

  “So we going to your place tonight?”

  Faith shrugged, falling into the line forming at the bus stop. “I don’t know. My mom’s being a pain about you coming over all the time.”

  “So tell her to take a pill.”

  Faith snorted. “Believe me, I have. But—oh crud!”

  “What?” Trista pulled a bottle of nail polish from her purse and started touching up her nails.

  “I left my jacket in my locker.”

  Trista shrugged. “So? It’s an ugly jacket.”

  Faith made a face at her. “It’s not ugly, and it’s got my keys in it. Save me a seat, okay?” Without waiting for Trista’s response, she made a dash back down the sidewalk, up the concrete stairs, and into the school.

  In her rush, she had to work her locker combination three times. When she finally pulled her locker open, it was with a muffled obscenity.

  “Faith?”

  She hesitated, her hand on her jacket, and closed her eyes. Wonderful. Just what she needed. Winnie the Saint to catch her swearing. She’d probably run to tell Faith’s mom what a slug Faith was.

  She grabbed her jacket and slammed the locker. Spinning on her heel, she made to push past Winnie as though she hadn’t heard her speak. But Winnie’s hand shot out and grabbed Faith’s arm, stopping her cold. Faith looked down at Winnie’s hand, then up into her face. “What are you doing?”

  “Actually, that’s what I was wondering. What are you doing?”

  She looked down at Winnie’s hand again. “Waiting for you to get your hand off me?” The sarcasm was back in full force now, more honed than ever.

  Winnie’s hand slid away. “I wanted to talk with you for a minute, okay?”

  “Fine.” Faith cast a glance to the ceiling. “Whatever.” She put on her best say-what-you-gotta-say-and-make-it-fast face.

  Winnie didn’t seem to notice. She studied Faith for a moment. “You’ve really changed.”

  Another shrug. “People change, Win. That’s life.”

  She gave a slow nod. “You ever think about what you’re doing?”

  Faith narrowed her eyes. What was this about? “Meaning?”

  “The way you treat some of the kids, the way you talk about your mom—”

  Faith crossed her arms. “You got a point, Winola?”

  She’d expected Winnie to back off, to recoil from the force in her tone. But the other girl didn’t budge. She met her glare with an expression Faith couldn’t quite understand.

  Compassion. It touched Winnie’s features, reaching out to Faith with an offer of cooling water on a hot, scorching day.

  “I want to help you, Faith.”

  She stepped back. “Help me what? Miss my bus? I don’t have time for this—”

  “For me, you mean.”

  Faith stopped. She met Winnie’s gaze, and images flitted through her mind—Winnie in grade school on the playground … Winnie laughing and teasing her … Winnie encouraging her when Trista hurt her feelings…

  “You don’t have time for me. Not anymore.”

  An unfamiliar emotion twisted in Faith’s gut. She bit her lip and looked away. “Look, Win—”

  “No, it’s okay. I understand.”

  Faith looked back at her—and she had the oddest feeling Winnie did understand. Everything.

  “You’re hanging out with Trista, and that’s your choice.”

  “Listen, just because you don’t like Trista—”

  Winnie held up a hand, halting the words, leaving them crowded on the tip of Faith’s tongue. “This isn’t about Trista and me. It’s about you. You came back from the summer … different. Happy. You found what really mattered.”

  Faith swallowed hard. Don’t let her see she’s getting to you. “What you think mattered. Not me.”

  This time it was Winnie who shrugged. “I’m telling you what I saw. And it was good. Like you were finding out who you really are instead of who Trista says you should be.”

  “Lay off Trista. Good night, Win. What makes you think you need to fix everything and everyone? Trista’s my friend. I like her. As she is.”

  Winnie glanced down, then sighed and met Faith’s gaze. “Fair enough. I won’t say anything else about her. I wanted you to know I’m still here. I care about you. And if you ever need to talk, well … I’m here.”

  Faith stood there, staring. She tried to say something, but her usually glib tongue couldn’t find any words.

  Winnie smiled, and though it seemed kind of sad, it was clearly sincere. “Take care of yourself. Thanks for being my friend for so many years.” With that, she turned and walked away, shoulders straight, head held high.

  Two words came to Faith’s mind, words she’d never used in her life, words her mother used … words that suddenly made sense.

  Class act.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Faith made her way to the bus stop, slipping into line behind Trista. The boy behind her started to protest, but one glare from Trista shut him up.

  “Thanks for being my friend for so many years…”

  Faith gripped her jacket. Why would Winnie say that?

  “What did she want?”

  Faith started. “Who?”

  “Winnie the Wimp.” Trista smirked. “I saw her talking to you. Talk about a total loser—”

  Trista went on, ragging on Winnie, her words caustic and crass. But Faith wasn’t listening, not really. Not to Trista. No, the voice she heard was entirely different.

  “Thanks for being my friend for so many years … Thanks for being my friend for so many years…”

  But what got to Faith wasn’t what Winnie said. It was the way she said it. There’d been no resentment, no anger.

  No, Faith heard only one thing in Winnie�
�s tone as she spoke those words, one thing that made no sense whatsoever.

  One thing that shook her to the core.

  Love.

  “Hey, hon. If you need me, I’ll be in my shop.”

  Anne looked up from the sink full of dishes she was washing, stretching her aching back. Jared saw the movement and pressed his warm palm to the base of her spine.

  “Hurting again?”

  “Always.”

  “Did you talk with the doctor about it?”

  Anne plopped her hand in the fluffy soapsuds. “He said it’s the extra weight. It makes me stand wrong, and that makes my back hurt.”

  Jared slid his arms around her. “I’m sorry, hon. I wish I could help.”

  She leaned back against him, batting her eyes at him. “You could always take over washing dishes.”

  He chuckled and gave her a peck on the tip of her nose. “Keep dreamin’, Annie. Keep dreamin’.”

  “Fine, leave me in my misery.” She infused her tone with as much woe-is-me as she could muster. “I slave all day, working at the junior high, making sure kids get a good education, and then I come home and slave all night …” She glanced at him to see if it was working.

  No such luck.

  He just stood there, pretending he was playing a violin.

  She flicked soapsuds at him. “You’re all heart, Bennett. You said you’re going to work in the shop?”

  “For a while.” He grinned. “I’ve got a slave driver of a wife who expects me to fix stuff around this place.”

  She shooed him away, smiling as he closed the kitchen door behind him. No sooner had he left than the front door slammed.

  Faith was home. Oh, joy. And only a half hour late.

  Anne steeled herself, hating that she felt the need to do so with her own daughter. Ever since the night a couple of months ago when Faith left rather than attend Bible study with Anne, she’d grown increasingly hostile. Anne wasn’t sure why.

  She had spent hours talking with Jared about it. Had talked with Susan, who also worked at the junior high now and had years of experience dealing with problem kids. Had prayed with Marge and Anita, asking God for wisdom. Always, the answer was the same.

  “A soft answer turns away wrath.”