by Neta Jackson
Michelle met her group at the door of one of the larger rooms, giving each one a warm hug before they settled into the circle of comfy chairs. She let them chat with each other a few moments, knowing the group had bonded pretty tight during the six sessions they’d spent together so far. After an opening prayer, she asked, “How many of you wrote letters this week?” Four of the five girls raised their hands. Michelle smiled. “Remember, these letters aren’t necessarily for mailing—you can decide what to do with them later.”
“Well, I couldn’t mail mine anyway.” Ellie Baker, a dental technician, pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse. “’Cause I wrote to my baby.”
Murmurs and sad smiles went around the circle.
“Would you like to read it to us?” Michelle asked gently.
Ellie shook her head shyly. “It’s just between me and Baby. But I asked forgiveness for not having the courage to bring her into the world . . . or him. I didn’t know the sex, it was too early in the pregnancy. But it felt more personal to use ‘her.’ I imagined my little girl in the arms of Jesus, and they both forgave me.” Ellie’s eyes teared up and Michelle passed her the box of tissues. Maria Gonzales, the girl sitting next to her, scooted her chair closer and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Hang onto that letter,” Michelle encouraged. “You might want to use it at our memorial service at the end of our sessions.” She looked around. “Anyone else want to share their letter?”
Maria had written a letter to her boyfriend, who’d threatened to disappear if she had the baby—and then disappeared anyway after her abortion. Denise Martin, who’d had an abortion fifteen years ago as a teenager, wrote a letter to her former church, wishing they had modeled Christ’s forgiveness and restoration toward people like her who’d messed up. “I couldn’t bear the rejection and gossip that got dumped on anyone who made a mistake,” she wrote. “A secret abortion seemed the only way to remain in good standing.”
LaVeta Gates addressed her letter “to other young women,” encouraging them that they weren’t alone, that there were people like the ones at Lifeline Care Center who would walk through a crisis pregnancy with them—before and after the baby was born.
“What about you, Linda?” Michelle asked the last young woman.
Linda Chen, a twenty-something from Taiwan, just shook her head. “It is too hard. I am still too much angry—but I don’t know who I’m angry at. Myself, I guess. It is all my fault. If my parents knew . . .” More tears, more tissues.
Several of the girls gathered around and prayed for Linda. Lifeline didn’t require that women had to be Christians to be in the group, but all knew that LCC was a Christian ministry and Michelle had told them the post-abortion support group would use Scripture and talk about God. If they were okay with that, they were welcome to participate. She’d seen most of them begin or renew seeds of faith as they experienced the love of God.
But not all. Linda couldn’t seem to get beyond anger and self-hatred.
Before the young women left, Michelle told them to begin thinking of some creative expression they could present at a memorial service for their aborted babies in a few weeks. “Could be a poem, something you make, some kind of memorial or remembrance . . . just be thinking about it. If you get an idea, you can get started.”
Michelle felt wrung out after the girls left. She wished she could just go home, but Bernice poked her head in the door and said, “Your appointment is here.”
Michelle met her new client at the front desk. A plain girl, mousy-colored hair long and shapeless, black skirt, socks with sandals, glasses. Looked as if she grew up in a small town and hadn’t adjusted to urban life. “Hannah? I’m Michelle Jasper. I’m so glad to meet you. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk privately, okay?”
She ushered the girl—maybe nineteen? twenty?—to one of the smaller rooms. Today what she needed to do was just listen to Hannah’s story . . . but she was afraid she already knew the gist of it. Sheltered girl moves to the city, gets swept off her feet by some cad who sweet-talks her into bed because she’s never had a boyfriend, no guy has ever paid attention to her, and she believes him when he says she’s so special, he loves her, and if she loves him she’ll “prove it.” Gets pregnant, then gets an abortion because she can’t face her family. Now overcome by guilt.
Michelle’s heart melted as she sat down across from the nervous young woman. No son of mine will ever, ever treat a woman that way—black or white! Come to think of it, Tavis and Tabitha were thirteen now. High time for the mother-daughter, father-son talks. Maybe past time. And wouldn’t hurt to have “the talk” with Destin again too.
But Hannah’s story was worse than she thought.
Chapter 11
Slamming the car door as she got in, Michelle headed for the nearest fast-food drive-through. She’d driven several blocks before realizing her foot was heavy on the gas. Better slow down or she’d end up with another ticket—wouldn’t that be a fine mess. She turned in at the first Golden Arches she saw, even though she didn’t feel hungry. In fact, her stomach was in knots after listening to Hannah’s story, but she probably ought to eat something. It’d be another couple of hours before she got home.
Waiting for her grilled chicken sandwich and mango smoothie at the drive-through window, Michelle hit the steering wheel with her fist. People like Hannah’s so-called uncle—Hannah’s mother’s cousin to be exact—should be locked up for life . . . or branded with a big R on the forehead.
R for Rapist.
Hannah had twisted a tissue into a hundred pieces as her story came out bit by bit. “Uncle Ned” had always teased Hannah that she was his favorite, which gradually became more sexual. He’d molested Hannah from age ten on and finally raped her at fifteen. Pregnant and horrified, she’d had a secret abortion. The family was very religious and would never believe sweet Uncle Ned could do such a thing. None of her family knew to this day what had happened.
That was five years ago. Hannah’s grades went down, she barely graduated high school. Didn’t even apply for college. Her parents threw up their hands. She was such a disappointment to them. Hannah finally moved out, moved away from the small Indiana town where she’d grown up, got a job as a waitress in Chicago. But she felt frozen. Afraid. Had a hard time making friends. Saw the Lifeline Care Center ad on a bus, the one that said, “There’s hope after abortion . . .”
O God, that girl needs your healing in a big way, and I hardly know how to—
“Here ya go, miss.” The window clerk with the microphone clamped on his head handed her a paper bag and the smoothie, which Michelle stuck in a cup holder. Maybe she’d eat it later. Should she go home? No, she’d just have to turn around and drive back to the Near West Side for her two o’clock meeting with Jeffrey and his mom. She’d find a parking space on their block where she could sit and make some phone calls. Maybe Norma would be home and they could talk about women’s ministry.
But first she ought to check in with Jared. He didn’t pick up the first time, so she tapped his number again. This time he answered. “Michelle?” She could hear lots of commotion in the background. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just wanted to know if you and the twins got to see Destin run at the meet.”
“Yeah, yeah. He called about eleven thirty, said his event would start about twelve. We got here just as he was lining up. He did real good, came in fourth out of ten schools. He won’t go to state, but . . . maybe that’s just as well.”
“Fourth? That’s amazing for the 800 meter! So glad you and the twins were there to see him run.”
“His coach has him down for the 4-by-2 relay too, but that’s not for another hour. I really can’t stay that long, so I’m getting ready to leave, soon as the kids get back here with some hot dogs and pop . . . oh, here they are. Gotta go. You good?”
Not really. But now wasn’t the time to talk about her new client at Lifeline. “I’ll see you at home. What time do you think the workda
y will be over?”
“By suppertime, hopefully. But who knows. I’ll call you.”
Michelle shut her phone and looked at her watch. One thirty . . . half an hour to go. Might as well eat her lunch. She sucked on the smoothie, then opened the bag and took out the chicken sandwich. But after a few bites, she wrapped it up again. Maybe she’d be hungry after her meeting.
* * *
The Altima wasn’t as convenient for loading and unloading groceries as the minivan, but a couple more trips ought to do it. Michelle hefted a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper from the front seat, stuck it under one arm, hooked a few plastic grocery bags with her other hand, and headed into the house.
At least the meeting with Jeffrey Coleman and Ray Stevens had gone well. In fact, the Family Friend volunteer had agreed to come over tonight and tomorrow night to “hang out” with Jeffrey while his mom went to work. Ha. They’d all avoided the word babysit like the plague. She still wanted to meet Brianna’s sister upstairs to see about covering other times, but they’d made progress.
When she came back out for the last of the groceries she heard, “Hellooo, Sister Michelle!” Estelle Bentley was waving at her from her front steps across the street. “Where are those strapping young men you’re raising? They should be carrying those groceries for you!”
“Not home right now!” she called back, and grabbed the last three plastic grocery bags from the trunk.
“Come join us!” Estelle beckoned again. “I’ve got iced tea!”
“Us,” Michelle realized, was Mrs. Krakowski, sitting in a folding lawn chair on the tiny front stoop, and Estelle, who was sitting on the top step leaning against the white iron grillwork of the railing.
Iced tea sounded good. The day had turned fairly warm, somewhere in the low seventies. But she needed to get the frozen stuff put away. “Give me a few minutes!”
Five minutes later she walked across the street and down the sidewalk to the two-flat and greeted the two women. “Sit! Sit!” Estelle said, pouring a large tumbler of iced tea from a picnic jug and handing it to her.
Michelle sank down on the steps against the other railing and took a good drink. “Mmm. Just sweet enough. Thanks.”
“Everything all right at your house? DaShawn was lookin’ for Tavis, kept ringin’ your doorbell, but came back sayin’ nobody’s home.”
Michelle rolled her eyes. “Oh, it’s one of those Saturdays. Destin had a track meet at Lane Tech. Jared took the twins to a workday at the church. And I volunteer at Lifeline Care Center most Saturday mornings. Also had a client I had to see this afternoon, which made me late getting to the grocery store—and you know what crowds are like this time of day. But . . . hopefully that’s it. I’m done in.”
“Well, take a load off. It’s such a pleasant day, I persuaded Miss Mattie here to come sit outside with me—right, Miss Mattie?” Estelle looked up at the elderly woman, and then chuckled softly. Michelle followed her gaze and smiled too. “Miss Mattie” had nodded off, her chin on her chest.
They sat quietly on the stoop for a few minutes—the first time all day Michelle had slowed down. Sparrows and finches flitted between trees, chirping and trilling. Any traffic noise on the main streets—Ridge Avenue to the east, Touhy to the south—sounded muted and far away. A slight breeze caressed her skin, and stray clouds floated lazily overhead. Now if they had a porch swing, she could do this more often, invite Estelle to come sit on her porch . . .
“So tell me about Lifeline.” Estelle interrupted her daydream. “That’s the crisis pregnancy center where you volunteer, right?”
Michelle nodded. “Though some women come in who’ve had abortions. That’s what I do, facilitate a post-abortion support group. Usually a nine-week process. Some of the stories are heartbreaking . . . like a girl I met today.” She cast a quick glance at the dozing Mrs. K. Wasn’t sure she should say more around the old lady.
“I can only imagine.” Estelle heaved a big sigh. “Sure wish some of the girls who end up at Manna House would make use of those resources. Mercy me, some of them havin’ babies left an’ right, most of ’em with different daddies. Then they end up homeless with the kids in foster care or farmed out to Grandma or Auntie . . . or they’re using abortion as birth control, Lord help us. Don’t get me wrong. All kinds of reasons people end up homeless, some through no fault of their own.” She chuckled. “I was homeless once myself, don’t ya know. Still, we got a couple girls now—”
Estelle suddenly slapped her knee and laughed, which made Mattie Krakowski jump. “What?” she mumbled.
Estelle didn’t seem to notice. “Sister Michelle, there you sit like God just dropped you into my lap, tellin’ me you volunteer at Lifeline. An’ we have girls who need the kind of resources Lifeline offers. It’s not enough to hand them a brochure. What I’m thinkin’ is . . . would you be willin’ to come talk to our young ladies sometime? Sooner the better, far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, I . . .” She was already so busy. Should she add something else? Yet letting homeless women at the shelter know they have positive, life-affirming options in a crisis pregnancy fit hand-in-glove with the kind of work she did every day. “Let me think about it, Estelle. We’re going away for Memorial Day weekend, but maybe after that I could find a time.”
* * *
By the time Jared and the kids arrived home for supper, Michelle had laid out all the makings for tacos. Supper felt a little crazy with everyone reaching for favorite ingredients and talking all at once. Destin crowed about the track meet, excited that Lane Tech had qualified to go to state finals, and Jared ticked off all the work that got done that day at Northside Baptist. “Gotta say Tavis and Tabby did their share too.”
“Yeah,” Tabby moaned, mouth full of taco, “’cept when Deacon Jones made me take the little kids into one of the Sunday school rooms and play games with them. Woulda rather helped paint or somethin’.”
“Still, that was a big help, young lady. The Winthrop kids were tearing around with no supervision. Next time we’ll have to provide more childcare—”
“Or just tell people to leave the little kids at home!” Tabby pouted.
“Well, I’m proud of all of you,” Michelle said, uncovering the lemon meringue pie she’d picked up at Baker’s Square—Jared’s favorite. “The good news is, next weekend is Memorial Day weekend and your dad and I agree we should do something as a family. So . . . how about driving to Fort Wayne to visit Bibi and Babu for the holiday? We haven’t been there for a while, but I seem to remember somebody—somebodies, I mean—begging to try out that laser tag place, Lazer X or something, last time we visited your grandparents.”
The table erupted in a three-way chorus of cheers and “Awriiight!” and Tabby bounced in her chair. “An’ Bibi told me that next time we came, she’d take us to that chocolate factory place, ’cause they give you free chocolate if you take a tour.”
Michelle eyed Jared to see if he approved. He ought to, since going to her parents meant free lodging and meals—which meant they could spend some money on activities for the kids. He shrugged and nodded. “Sounds fine to me. Just so everybody knows we gotta be back on Monday in time for me to get to work by two. I don’t actually have the holiday off.”
So it was settled. As soon as she called her parents and asked them if it was okay.
* * *
Michelle never did get a chance to call Norma and brainstorm ideas for the women’s ministry summer events, and found herself dreading their committee meeting after worship the next morning. She was falling down on the job. She should have a recommendation to present to the committee and she didn’t.
“Aw, Mom, you don’t have a meeting after church today too!” Destin complained. “Church was already longer than usual an’ I’m hungry!”
True. Today was Pentecost Sunday, fifty days after Easter—which she’d totally forgotten—and besides several special selections by the choir, receiving some new members into the church, and a report on the workday yesterd
ay by the deacons, Pastor Q had preached longer than usual about the power of the Holy Spirit available to us. Michelle had actually taken notes about the ways that power has been used and abused and—for many Christians—simply ignored or explained away.
Maybe the women’s ministry should do a study on the Holy Spirit this summer.
“Sorry, Destin. I’ll try to keep it short.” She hurried away.
“Sister Michelle!” Shareese Watson caught her at the door to the lounge where they met. “Did you get my voicemail Friday? I really wanted to talk to you before today, because I have a great idea—”
Michelle held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Shareese. I did see that you called, but it’s been a really hectic weekend. Is this about the book club idea? Because I don’t think that’s going to work, not if it means adding another night to everyone’s week.” There. She’d said it.
Shareese nodded eagerly. “I know. That’s why I called. Because my girlfriend told me about this really great video series they’re doing at her church about listening when God speaks, something like that. Here, she gave me this.” The young woman dug in her big bag and pulled out a flyer. “It’s by Tony Evans’s daughter—my girlfriend says she’s really good. It’s based on a book she’s written, but I don’t think everybody has to buy the book in order to do the video series. That’s why I thought it might work for our monthly women’s meetings.”
Michelle took the flyer. Discerning the Voice of God—Leader Kit. Contained DVDs for seven group sessions, plus discussion questions and interactive exercises. Michelle nodded slowly. “Well, it does look interesting. But not sure we’re looking for something that would go for seven months.”
Shareese shrugged. “Well, maybe we could just do the first three sessions of the study during the summer—that would take care of June, July, and August. In the fall we could decide if we wanted to continue or do something else. So . . . what do you think?”