Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Charissa surveyed the mess. She could resume packing later, maybe in a better mood. “If you can pick me up, I’m free any time. John’s got the car.”

  Mara thanked her—profusely—and said she would be there in half an hour.

  “Miss Jada wanted me to thank you again for everything you brought to Crossroads,” Mara said as they drove to a discount mattress store. “The winter clothes, all the books. She said how grateful they are, and I know how true that is. They’re always pretty lean after Christmas.”

  “Glad to help.” After making her first visit ever to a Goodwill store, Charissa had discovered why some of her friends refused to pay full price for anything. Treasure hunting, Emily called it. Charissa could treasure hunt with a purpose. If Crossroads was in regular need, buying secondhand clothes and toys was an easy way to make a contribution.

  Mara cut her speed, the underbody scraper on the snowplow ahead of them grinding on the asphalt, creating amber sparks like fireworks on the road. As they crossed into the adjacent lane, the plow spewed sludge. Mara pressed the wiper lever.

  Charissa stared at the windshield. “So did Tom take some of your furniture when he moved out?”

  “Nope, he left all the big stuff. Generous, huh?”

  Maybe Mara just wanted a fresh start. If you had shared a bed for years with someone who decided he didn’t want to be married to you anymore then maybe—

  Mara wiped her brow. “You know how we’ve all been talking the past few months about God bringing things into the light—hard stuff, right? Stuff we buried, crap we didn’t want to think about, and then it all gets flushed to the surface and you think, I didn’t want to see that again. But if you keep ignoring it, it’ll just keep getting stronger . . .”

  Charissa nodded. Mara had been confronting many painful things from her past over the last few months, like the experiences of rejection the Spirit of God had brought to remembrance to be healed, redeemed.

  “Well, all this stress with Tom has kicked up lots more crap from the past, things I buried deep, real deep. Ugly stuff. Stuff I can’t believe I forgot.”

  Hannah was better equipped for conversations like these. Much better equipped. They really needed to schedule their first spiritual formation group meeting. Soon. She would call Hannah after she got back to the apartment, find out when she was leaving for Oregon, and book something on the calendar, maybe even before she left. Hopefully, Meg would be feeling better in the next couple of days.

  Charissa shifted in her seat.

  “Something happened last night that pushed a major, major button in me,” Mara said, “like this gut fear that had me almost hyperventilating—took me a while to get myself calmed down afterward—and I realized it was because of something that happened years ago, when Kevin was a toddler.”

  As Mara narrated the story of how Brian was conceived, Charissa listened with burgeoning outrage and incredulity, not at the truth of Mara’s words—Charissa had no doubt regarding her trustworthiness—but at Mara’s having forgotten. Charissa could have recounted in vivid detail every slight, every moment of disrespect she had ever experienced from anyone, extending back into her early childhood. She could have recounted every argument she’d ever had with John as if it had happened yesterday. But Mara had forgotten this? The violence? The dehumanizing contempt and malice with which Tom had treated her, as if she were property?

  “He raped you, Mara!”

  “Oh, no—I mean, what he did was wrong, but—”

  “No, listen!” She pivoted toward Mara. “There are laws against that. My dad’s an attorney—I’ve picked up a few things from him over the years—and what Tom did is classified as ‘marital rape.’ I’m not sure if there’s a statute of limitations or anything on it, but I can find out from my dad, call him tonight and ask if Michigan law—”

  Mara’s eyes widened. “No. Please. I—no. I just want to get a new bed, redecorate or something, and move on. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Sorry.”

  “Mara—”

  Mara shook her head. “I’ll talk to my counselor, work it through. But please don’t mention it to your dad. Just keep me in prayer.”

  “This is important, Mara. This is really, really important. You were sexually assaulted! Promise me you’ll call your counselor. Right away.”

  Mara did not reply. But when Charissa suggested buying new bedding to go with the new mattress, Mara said she should probably buy some new curtains too. To give her room an entirely different look.

  Neither one of them mentioned Tom’s name again all afternoon.

  three

  Hannah

  The same few measures again. And again. Hannah wondered if Meg ever lost patience with her young piano students. Though Hannah had only been listening from Meg’s kitchen table for a few hours, she was ready to buy noise-canceling headphones. “That was better that time,” Meg said, her soprano voice still raspy. “But let me hear you count the beats out loud.”

  Hannah flipped a page in the notebook she had assembled. Charissa had emailed her a variety of prayer exercises that Katherine and her daughter, Sarah, had developed and then shared with other groups. Please take a look at them, Charissa wrote, and select some we can practice together. I’d love for us to meet Friday night, if Meg is well.

  Apart from a persistent cough, Meg seemed to be feeling better. The time away at the cottage had given her a change of scenery, a chance to draw in her sketchbook, and an opportunity to take a few walks along the beach, thoroughly bundled against the cold. Now that she had eased back into her daily teaching routine, Meg spent less time ruminating on Becca. At least out loud.

  “Great counting!” Meg said. “I think one more time, and you’ve got it. Good job, Jess!”

  Hannah smoothed the page: a prayer exercise with John 1:35-39. Jesus turns, looks at you, and asks, “What are you looking for?” With what tone of voice do you hear him asking the question? How do you answer his question? More penetrating questions on the handout, but they had already pondered that text at New Hope. Hannah turned the page: Luke 5:1-5. Deliberately leave the text in tension. If you know the end of the story, try to set the ending aside. Imagine you are Simon Peter. How do you feel when Jesus commands you to go out into the deep water and lower your nets? That might be an interesting text to explore together. Another page turn. “Psalm 131: A Prayer of Rest.” Hannah skimmed the exercise.

  There. She had found it. A good place for them to begin.

  Meditation on Psalm 131

  A Prayer of Rest

  * * *

  Begin with a brief time of silence, quieting yourself in the presence of God. Then read Psalm 131 aloud several times, with a few moments of silence between each reading.

  O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me. But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me. O Israel, hope in the LORD from this time forth and forevermore.

  For Personal Reflection (45-60 minutes)

  What things occupy (or preoccupy) your thoughts? What lofty things do you need to offer to God in order to be calmed and quieted?

  Consider the imagery of the “weaned child.” What is the difference between a nursing child and a weaned child (for Hebrew children, typically between three and four years old)? What is a weaned child seeking from her mother? How does this image speak to you about God’s invitations to your soul?

  Describe the peace or fretfulness in your own soul by choosing an image to complete this thought: My soul is like a [fill in the blank] within me.

  Imagine yourself as a small child, seated on the lap of God. Feel the warmth of God’s embrace; hear the whisper of God’s voice quieting any turbulence within you; listen to an assurance of God’s love and presence. What is your response?

  Spend some time quieting and calming your soul, resting in silent communion with the One who loves you and who is commit
ted to your well-being.

  For Group Reflection (45-60 minutes)

  What most stood out for you in the time of personal reflection?

  How can the group pray for you?

  Conclude by inserting your own names into the call to hope: “O [name], hope in the LORD from this time forth and forevermore.” Pray for your fellow travelers to hope in the Lord from this time forth and forevermore.

  Meg

  Friday, January 9

  7 p.m.

  1. Becca. God, please take all my worries and concerns for her. I offer my longings for You to rescue her, to reveal Your love to her, to save her. I feel like I’m constantly offering my worries to You, and sometimes I’m calmed and quieted. I can’t think of any “lofty things” that preoccupy me. My thoughts aren’t very sophisticated, I guess.

  2. A nursing child needs food. Nourishment. I loved breastfeeding Becca, loved the closeness of that time together. But when Becca was a “weaned child,” she didn’t sit still very often. Sometimes if I had a book, she would sit on my lap for a little while, but I can’t remember many times when she was content to sit and be held. When she was really tired maybe. Or when she was hurt or sad. Then she let me hold her. So a weaned child is seeking comfort? Presence. Just wanting to be with her mom without really needing anything. I think most of the time I come to You when I need things, Lord. Like help or strength or peace. But I don’t think I come to You that often just to be with You because I enjoy being with You. I’m sorry. Show me what it means to sit still with You, to be content to sit with You in quiet without needing You to do anything for me, except be with me.

  3. My soul is like a

  Meg’s hand hovered above the page of her notebook.

  My soul is like . . .

  What was her soul like? She searched for words, images, a picture to describe what her soul felt like. Then her throat ached. She saw.

  My soul is like a neglected child. Like a child wanting desperately to crawl up on a mother’s lap but being shooed away. Like a child trying to soothe herself because there was no grownup to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. No embrace. No comfort. No quieting with love.

  Not sure which would be more disruptive—leaving the room or crying in front of them—Meg grabbed a wad of tissues and tried to calm and quiet her soul.

  “Sorry,” Meg said when they began their time of group discussion. “Hope I didn’t distract the rest of you. Couldn’t quite pull myself together.”

  Mara handed her another Kleenex. “You’re not alone,” she said. “Tough stuff to think about. Number four pretty much wrecked me. But you go first, Meg. Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Meg wiped her eyes. “No, it’s okay. It’s just been hitting me hard the past week, how I was pretty much left to fend for myself when I was little, even when I was sick. And I’m not blaming my mother for that. She had a lot to manage after my dad died, and she was constantly battling Rachel about everything. But she definitely wasn’t touchy-feely, nothing warm or nurturing about her.”

  Meg tried to take a deep breath, but her chest was still constricted, and a fit of coughing seized her. As she pivoted away from the table to avoid spewing germs, her eyes landed on an antique rocking chair in the parlor. She couldn’t remember a single occasion when her mother had rocked her in that chair. Or in any chair, for that matter. In fact, Meg couldn’t remember ever sitting on her mother’s lap or being embraced by her. Ever.

  “So,” Hannah said once Meg turned toward them again, “without a personal reference point with your mom, are you able to pray with that image at all, or does it just feel inaccessible?”

  No, Meg thought. Not inaccessible. Not if she changed the gender and pictured Jesus embracing her. She told Mara and Charissa about the mural at her church. “I was praying at the lake with that story about Jesus blessing the children, trying to imagine taking Becca to Jesus and setting her on his lap, but I got stuck because I couldn’t get Becca to cooperate with me, and then when I tried again to pray, I saw myself as a little girl, lost in the crowd and alone, no one there to take me to Jesus.”

  As a prayerful silence descended, Meg glanced again toward the chair in the parlor. And remembered.

  Mrs. Anderson had rocked her in that chair.

  Usually, Meg went next door to the Andersons’ house whenever Mother worked late or when she had to be out of town. But on that occasion, for whatever reason, Mrs. Anderson had been in Meg’s house, and Meg had huddled against her, listening to her read stories from a children’s Bible with colorful pictures. Mrs. Anderson had held her. Mrs. Anderson had taken her to Jesus.

  Thank God for Mrs. Anderson.

  The antique grandfather clock struck the top of the hour in the foyer, the resonant chimes echoing after the last gong. Meg wiped her nose. Charissa stared at her hands. Hannah closed her eyes. Mara shifted in her chair and asked, “Have you ever written a letter to your mom?”

  Meg was so startled by the question, her sip of water went down the wrong way, and she was overcome by another coughing spasm. She shook her head once she caught her breath.

  “I was just thinking about how you wrote those letters a few months ago to Jim and your dad,” Mara said, “how you told us it was a way to let go. And I was thinking about how good it was for me when I wrote some forgiveness letters to people I’ll never see again. Gave me a chance to dump some of the junk I was carrying. To be honest about the pain they caused me.” Mara gave a half shrug. “Just a thought.”

  A good thought. Meg was confident of that. But not a thought she felt ready to engage any time soon.

  “I’m sorry, Meg,” Hannah said after Mara and Charissa went home. “If I’d been thinking about some of what you’ve been processing lately, I would have chosen a different text.”

  Meg gave her a wry smile. “And protect me from the Holy Spirit zeroing in on what I need to see? He would have found a way around you, Hannah. Guarantee it.”

  Hannah laughed. “Right! You’re right. There I go with my overly responsible pastor control-thing again.” She rinsed out their coffee mugs at the sink. “It was probably a subconscious pull toward that text for me, with all my thoughts about seeing my parents.”

  “You ready?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t know. . . . They think I’m just coming out for a fun, relaxing visit, and here I am, going out there with an agenda. I’ll be honest: if I come back here without having the conversations I’m hoping for, I’m going to be really, really disappointed.”

  “Well, I think you’re brave,” Meg said. “Look at me—not even ready to have a one-sided conversation by writing a letter to someone who can’t talk back.” Meg measured out her cough syrup and swallowed the dose with one grimacing gulp and a shudder.

  One week. She would give herself one week, and then she’d make herself write down all the things she had never had the courage to say out loud. She would be brave like Hannah. Like Mara. “I think I’ll head up to bed,” Meg said. “Do you mind? I’m completely spent.”

  “No, I’m not far behind you. Just a bit more packing to do.”

  Meg switched off the light above the kitchen table. “I’ll be praying for you while you’re out there, Hannah, for wisdom to know what to say and when to say it.”

  “Thanks.” Hannah wiped down the counter and draped the damp rag over the faucet. “I’m not sure whether to talk to both my parents about what happened and why it was hard for me, or just to my dad. I don’t know if my mom can handle that kind of conversation or not. And I don’t want to lay a burden of guilt on my parents by bringing it all up—that’s the last thing I want to do. But I also want to give God an opportunity to bring them healing and freedom too, by talking about what happened. Guess I need to keep praying and trust that God is at work to do something new, whatever that is.”

  Yes, Meg thought as she trudged upstairs to her room a few minutes later. Sounded like a good way forward. Not just for Hannah and her parents, but for all of them.
>
  Mara

  Mara placed her Bible and notebook on her nightstand and removed her favorite flannel pajamas from her dresser. With the furniture rearranged and vibrant paisley curtains brightening the windows (Tom would hate them—absolutely hate them), she felt like she had taken a significant step toward reclaiming her bedroom. Some fresh paint and a few new throw pillows, along with some artwork for the walls, would complete the makeover. But she’d wait a few weeks before she went shopping again, let the dust settle.

  As she readied herself for bed, she wondered how long it would be before she got an irate phone call from Tom. She had hoped the mattress would be delivered while the boys were at school. Instead, the truck had pulled into the driveway while they were packing to spend the weekend with their dad. Mara had made a point of communicating to the delivery guys how grateful she was for a mattress that would, the salesman insisted, “help alleviate lumbar pain”—a pain she emphasized by arching her back and grimacing when the boys passed her in the hallway. Though neither one of them had commented to her about the new mattress, they were bound to tell Tom. She was surprised her cell phone hadn’t already rung.

  Bailey trotted into the room and plopped down at her feet, wagging his tail. She stared at him a hard second. “What?”

  He spun in a circle and barked.

  “Don’t even think about jumping up on my new bed.”

  She had planned to insist that Brian take Bailey with them for the weekend so Tom would have the hassle of keeping a dog at a hotel. But that wasn’t fair to a little creature that hadn’t asked to be a pawn in a hostile game. Besides. Brian had become even more antagonistic toward her ever since the middle of the night incident (“What did you think I was doing, you freak? I was only looking for my dog!”), and she didn’t want to throw more fuel on the fire. Of course, she had now set a precedent for all their weekends away: Tom would never have to worry about taking care of the dog, and Brian would assume he could go anywhere and leave Bailey with her. Tom had accomplished what he intended: be Brian’s hero while saddling Mara with more work. She had done exactly what her counselor, Dawn, had cautioned her for years not to do: enable them to disregard her as a person and treat her as a servant.