Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Meg played the message twice, then deleted it. Becca sounded happy. Buoyant. Meg was still holding out hope that Simon would do something to disappoint her, to upset her, to make her see what an utterly worthless human being he was. “Becca made it back safe to London,” she informed Hannah. Whatever “safe” meant. As far as Meg was concerned, Becca had never been in more danger.

  “I was thinking of her this morning,” Hannah said, stirring the porridge, “and a passage came to mind, maybe one you could pray with. It’s the one where the parents are bringing their children to Jesus for a blessing. Might be a good image to think about, just placing her on his lap whenever she comes to mind.”

  Startled by the suggestion, Meg asked, “Did I tell you about the mural at my church?”

  “I don’t think so. Not that I remember, anyway.”

  Meg hadn’t visited that particular part of the building in years. Maybe they had painted over it. “There was this big, life-size wall mural of Jesus surrounded by little children, with him holding a child on his lap—except where the child’s face would be, there was a mirror. When Becca was little, she’d go down there for Sunday school and lean back and forth in front of it until she could see herself.” Meg could still picture Becca’s reflection, her mischievous little face with the large brown eyes and pixie haircut beaming from Jesus’ lap. Once Meg was back at church, she would head downstairs to see if the painting was still there.

  Hannah had frequently reminded Meg that while Becca might not be interested in hearing anything Meg wanted to say about life or faith—while Becca had made it perfectly clear she didn’t want to hear Meg lecture or “impose her religion”—Becca had no defense against Meg’s prayers. So, yes. Meg would practice praying with imagination for Becca, placing her right onto the lap of Jesus. She would imagine Jesus taking Becca in his arms, resting his hands on her head, holding her face against his chest.

  Meg reached for her Bible on the coffee table. “Do you know where that story is?” she asked.

  “Mark 10,” Hannah said. “I read it this morning.”

  Meg read the text from Mark’s Gospel a few times, imagining all the parents pressing in, noisily and aggressively vying for position in line, nudging their children toward Jesus. Meg pressed forward too, clutching Becca’s hand. But then, just when Meg was approaching the front of the crowd, Becca—maybe six or seven years old—plopped down on the dirt, an obstinate pout on her face, and refused to move. Embarrassed, Meg glanced around at the other parents. Cooperative, happy children were bouncing on Jesus’ lap, racing around him in circles, climbing on him from behind, tickling him, mashing their muddy little hands over his eyes in a game of peekaboo. He played with them, laughing.

  “Look!” Meg knelt down so she was face-to-face with her daughter. “Look at all those kids playing with him. Don’t you want to go see him?”

  Becca shook her head, set her jaw, and clenched her eyes shut. She was too big to carry, and if Meg tried to drag her, she’d cause a scene.

  No. No. This was not what she wanted to imagine. She had to get Becca to Jesus! Maybe if she imagined Becca as a toddler, she could carry her and set her on Jesus’ lap.

  She read the text and tried again.

  Mothers and fathers walked hand-in-hand with little children, swinging their arms, hoisting them off the ground. Daughters rode piggy­back on daddies’ shoulders. Mommies wiped runny noses and smoothed tousled hair. Meg had to weave and duck her way around all the grownups to get close enough to see Jesus.

  There he was, in the middle of the crowd, resting his rugged carpenter’s hands gently on little heads, cupping their faces, offering a word of blessing to them. The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face shine upon you. . . . Bless you, little one. Bless you, little lamb. Bless you.

  Meg looked around for her mother, but she was not there. Her mother had not brought her to see Jesus. Meg had come on her own. Alone.

  She closed her Bible. It wasn’t what she had expected—or wanted—to see.

  Mara

  Mara swerved to avoid another pothole, her black SUV nearly clipping a silver Mercedes that had turned into the oncoming lane. “Sorry!” she mouthed at the other driver, who blasted her horn and flailed her arm. “Oh, cool it, lady,” Mara muttered. “You’re fine.”

  In the passenger seat Kevin snickered.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He flailed his arms and pointed with his angular chin toward the retreating Mercedes. “Drama queen,” he said.

  Rich drama queen. The coifed hair, the clothes, the jewelry. Even in a moment’s passing, Mara could always tell the women who came from privilege and wealth. She preferred hanging out with the people at Crossroads.

  “I’m proud of you, Kev,” she said. “Don’t know if I already told you that or not. But I’m proud of you. I know the kids love having you play with them. You’ve made a difference, you know? A big difference. Like Jeremy said. Some of them will remember you years from now.”

  Kevin had returned his attention to the cell phone in his lap, rapidly communicating something to someone with his thumbs. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  Much as she wanted to engage him in further conversation, she wasn’t going to push her luck.

  Miss Jada was standing near the door when they entered. “You just missed your friend,” she said, “the tall, pretty one, looks like a model. Can’t remember her name.”

  “Charissa.”

  “Yeah, Charissa. She dropped off a whole bunch of winter clothes. Coats, boots, some kids’ books too. You tell her again when you see her just how grateful we are.”

  “I will.”

  Kevin hung his coat on a wall hook and greeted Miss Jada politely before hustling down the hallway toward a group of children waiting for him outside the gym. “Has the guy with the shorts and sandals been back?” Mara asked.

  “Nah, haven’t seen him.” Miss Jada accompanied Mara to the kitchen, the fragrance of fresh-baked bread wafting toward them. “And what’s this I hear about you? Tom left?”

  “Yep. Took a job promotion in Cleveland and served me with papers just before Christmas.”

  Miss Jada shook her head slowly. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah . . . well, no big surprise—the divorce, I mean, not the move. No love lost between us, that’s for sure.”

  “Sorry to hear that too.”

  Heat rose to Mara’s face. Miss Jada had never met Tom. That’s why she’d feel sorry about a divorce. If the two of them had ever cherished each other, ever loved or respected one another, there might be a marriage to mourn. But they had only ever used each other to get what they wanted. It had been a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

  “Hard on kids, no matter what the circumstances,” Miss Jada said. “Your boy Kevin, he’s done good work here. Didn’t know he was going through all that. I’m very sorry for all of you.”

  Mara was tempted to dish out the whole scoop on Tom, how he was a selfish, egotistical bully who had made life miserable for her for years, how she was relieved he was gone, and how she only regretted the financial hardship she would have to endure because of it.

  Miss Jada eyed her as if she were reading her thoughts. “Just you be careful,” she said, resting her hand on Mara’s shoulder. “Watch out for that root of bitterness. Gets tangled up in everything, strangles the life out of you.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Mara, I’ve worked with all kinds. Believe me, I’ve seen it all. I have. The con men, the abusers, the addicts. Don’t think I haven’t served them here. But every single one of them is loved by God”—she waved her hand to keep Mara from interrupting—“and you need to remember that. That doesn’t mean you brush aside their sin—no, no! You name it. Cost Jesus his life, his blood—no bigger price to pay. But oh, honey, don’t let your own heart turn hard. Don’t let your husband take that too. You pray for him. You pray hard. Not for God to punish him, but to rescue and save him, you hear?”

 
Yes, she heard. And she didn’t like what she heard. Didn’t like it at all.

  Sometime during the middle of the night, Mara was awakened from sleep by the sound of breathing in her bedroom. Expecting to find the dog panting on the floor, she opened her eyes and instead saw a bulky figure hovering beside Tom’s side of the bed. Holy—

  Arms thrashing, she scrambled for the light switch, knocking her glass of water off her nightstand. “Brian! What the—? You scared me to death!”

  Brian, who had jumped backwards, spun on his heels and strode from the room.

  “Brian!”

  The door to his bedroom slammed shut.

  Oh, God.

  The surge of adrenaline had caused her skin to prickle with cold, her palms to go clammy. She couldn’t catch her breath. Menacing. That was the only word she could think of to describe his presence beside the bed. Menacing. Like his father. Just like his father.

  Oh, God.

  In her memory’s eye she saw Tom, hulking, shirtless, backlit in the hallway. She had pretended to be asleep that night—one of many nights she had pretended—but that night Tom had insisted on taking what he wanted and taking it roughly, pinning her to the bed, taunting her with his “mooing” noises as he had his way with her (“Fat Cow! You do what I say, you hear? What I want!”), and she’d let him. (What was the use of struggling against him? A husband could do what he pleased, couldn’t he? And didn’t she deserve it for how she’d trapped him with Kevin? How she’d contrived to make him marry her by getting pregnant?) Nine months later Brian was born.

  She had forgotten. How could she have forgotten that? Blocked. Stuffed. Buried.

  Oh, God.

  Despite her best efforts to slow her heartbeat with deep, rhythmic breaths, Mara couldn’t get herself calmed down.

  God, help.

  She rolled out of bed, tiptoed across the carpet, and quietly closed and locked her bedroom door.

  Charissa

  The annual nod to the magi’s Bethlehem visit had never struck Charissa as much more than a quaint story little children learned in Sunday school: wise men with their lavish gifts, following a star to find the child born King of the Jews. But as she listened to the Reverend Hildenberg’s sermon about the gifts of worship the Gentiles brought to Jesus—gold, to honor a king; frankincense, to offer in sacrifice; myrrh, to embalm the dead—her hand rested on her abdomen. Mary, the ponderer, must have wondered what the gifts to her child meant, especially in light of the words Simeon had spoken to her in the temple when Jesus was only weeks old: And a sword will pierce your own soul too. Not exactly the words a mother of a newborn wants to hear. Or the gifts a mother wants to receive. Though Charissa tried to concentrate on the rest of the sermon, her thoughts drifted toward their own child being knit together in the dark. And what would this child become?

  God had already worked through this child to pierce Charissa’s heart, had already used this child to bring light to dark places within her—places of resistance and self-centeredness where she needed to learn to die to herself and to her deeply cherished plans. But though she had reached a place of peace about her pregnancy and longing for this child, tension with John had escalated over the weekend.

  “His mother is driving me absolutely crazy,” she had told Mara on the phone Friday night. “If I’d known that taking their financial help would awaken some kind of control monster in her, I never would have done it. John doesn’t stand up to her, so she just keeps on going, giving her advice—to him, not to me. Though I’m sure she expects him to relay messages.”

  Her mother-in-law had no right—absolutely no right to interfere with their lives, no right to tell Charissa how she should manage her life, her career. Furniture advice? Fine. She could smile and nod and pretend to appreciate the input and then decorate their house the way they wanted. But start meddling with what to do once the baby was born, and Charissa seethed. Since John wouldn’t let her confront his mother, she had spent the weekend venting her anger and frustration on him.

  Everything pushed her buttons: a bare toilet paper roll in the bathroom, fast food bags in the car, an empty pop can on the counter. How long did it take to replace toilet paper, throw out a stinking bag of grease, or toss a can into recycling? You think my mother’s a control freak? John had shot back. Take a look in the mirror.

  She knew. Okay? She knew. He was sandwiched between two of them. But she still wished he would tell his mother to back off.

  When the service ended and the organist finished playing the postlude, she and John walked down the center sanctuary aisle and waited in line to greet the Reverend Hildenberg. Charissa had been shaking his hand after worship ever since she could toddle down the aisle in her patent leather Mary Jane shoes. “Charissa,” he said warmly, taking her hand in both of his, “how are you? Good Christmas?”

  “Great, thanks.”

  He pumped John’s hand. “Good to see you, John. Are you well?”

  “Doing great. Everything’s great.”

  “Glad to hear it. Greet your parents for me, Charissa, will you? I need to get down to Florida for a vacation, do some golfing with your dad.”

  “I’m sure he’d love that.” The two men had been golfing buddies for years, her father having served multiple terms as chairman of the board of elders. My right hand man, the Reverend often said.

  Charissa moved forward so the smiling people behind her could greet the minister, then followed John past the crowds of fellowshiping coffee drinkers in the narthex and through the exit doors to their car. “Do you want to get lunch?” she asked.

  “Tim and I are gonna grab a bite to eat, then head to Home Depot.”

  Okaaay. She wondered if John had disclosed their recent round of marital stress to his best friend. Probably. And that meant that Tim’s wife, Jenn, would also know about it.

  “I hope you’re not buying a lot of stuff before we move in,” she said. “It’s my house too. I get a say in all the things your mother has opinions about.”

  “Then show some interest,” John retorted. “Pretend you care about paint colors and cabinets and all the other stuff I feel like I’m being left alone to decide.”

  “We’re not even in the house yet, John. A little early to be buying paint and cabinets.”

  “You could at least look at colors, at wood stains.”

  “Fine. You and Tim have your little outing and then bring me some samples.”

  “Fine.”

  He dropped her off at the door and peeled out of the parking space, snow spurting from the rear tires. She kicked the front step of the building with her boot.

  Fine.

  Once inside she was assaulted by the stench emanating from their neighbors’ apartment. Whatever they were cooking smelled like the inside of John’s sneakers after he played football.

  Great.

  And John had the car.

  She stormed upstairs, slammed the door behind her, and glared at the clutter and chaos of boxes, the contents of half-emptied cupboards and packing tape and newspapers and bubble wrap strewn everywhere. She removed her boots and socks and, with the full weight of her bare feet on the floor, began stomping on the bubbles. But the carpet muffled the sound, so she moved the sheet into the kitchen onto the linoleum. There. Much. Better. With a bit of an echo. She wondered if anyone else purchased bubble wrap not for packing but for stress relief. A few of the bubbles proved particularly resistant in their buoyancy. She stomped harder. Pop-pop-pop. Pop!

  A knock on the door.

  She kept tromping.

  Louder knocking.

  She pressed her heel firmly down again—Pop!—before marching to the door to squint through the peephole. Standing in the hallway, scowling, was one of the vexing neighbors from downstairs, the woman who chronically complained about Charissa’s frequent vacuuming, not just to Charissa and John but to apartment management.

  “Do you mind?” the woman exclaimed as soon as Charissa unlatched the door. “My husband’s trying to sleep, a
nd we’re getting lots of noise through the ceiling. Like pounding.” She glowered over Charissa’s shoulder, her eyes landing on some boxes. “Ohhh—are you moving out?” she asked, her tone becoming unmistakably hopeful. The feeling was mutual.

  “Next month,” Charissa said.

  “Well, watch the noise, okay? He’s working a night shift right now and sleeps during the day.”

  Not my problem, Charissa thought. “I’m on a tight schedule,” she said, “and I’ll need to be packing and cleaning whenever I can find the time.” Maybe she would find something that needed hammering.

  Just as the neighbor opened her mouth to argue, Charissa’s cell phone rang. Perfect timing. “I’ve got to go,” she said, and shut the door. Good riddance. Before answering the phone, she stomped on the remaining bubbles in a particular quadrant. “Hey, Mara!”

  “Did I get you at a bad time?”

  “No—good time. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a favor. Would you have any time—I know you’re busy with your move and school and everything—but would you, like, have any time to go shopping with me? I’d call Hannah or Meg, but they’re still out at the lake, and I don’t want to bother anyone but—” The tone of Mara’s voice indicated this was no frivolous “girls’ day out” request.

  “I don’t go back to school until the nineteenth,” Charissa said, “so I’ve got some time. What do you need to go shopping for?”

  Mara hesitated. “I need to buy a new bed.”

  Maybe Tom had taken some of the big pieces of furniture with him when he moved out, leaving Mara to sleep on the couch. Charissa had never met Tom, but from what she’d heard about him, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been vindictive. “Ummm, sure. We can go shopping together. When do you want to go?”

  “Any chance you’re free, like, today?”