Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  While they drove to the airport, Hannah described the prayer exercise with the psalm. “I’ve got lots of memories of being held by my mother,” she said, “lots of happy memories of being nurtured by both my mom and my dad when I was little. So that image of God isn’t hard for me—at least, not in terms of imagining being at rest in God’s embrace. It’s just hard for me to practice resting there.”

  He nodded. “Such a beautiful image for prayer. Good choice.”

  She hoped so. Meg had insisted it was a meaningful exercise for her—even though it evoked strong emotions—but Mara and Charissa had shared little. Another good reason to rotate choosing the text: taking turns would prevent Hannah from trying to figure out which exercises might most benefit them.

  “It struck me last night,” she said, “how so much in my life, in my family, shifted after my brother was born. That’s when I was given more and more responsibility for keeping things going at home whenever Dad was out of town.”

  “How old were you?”

  “About ten.”

  “Not even old enough to babysit.”

  “No. But I remember my dad leaving on trips and saying that he was counting on me to watch over Mom and Joey while he was away. It was like I became the one who had to hold my mom, like I was the one being asked to be the grownup, and that she was the child who needed to be cared for and protected. And I was like a little girl sitting in a rocking chair with an adult on my lap, crushing me.”

  He exhaled with a prolonged breath. “That’s big, Shep.”

  “I know.”

  And how was she supposed to communicate that to her father without making him feel guilty? Hey, Dad, what you asked me to do—to watch over Mom and Joey while you were away, to try to be parent and head of the household when I was still a little girl—that burden crushed me. The weight of responsibility impacted me in ways I’m only just beginning to understand.

  “I’m not sure what I should say to them,” Hannah said. “I mean, is it even worth saying now, when I see how God has been working to heal me and set me free, is this something I even need to say to my dad? Or do I try to draw him out into conversation about what it was like for him when Mom had her nervous breakdown?” That would seem way out of left field, wouldn’t it? Hey, Dad, I know we’ve never talked about this before—I know you’re not someone who ever shares your feelings—but tell me what it was like for you twenty-five years ago when Mom overdosed on sleeping pills. What was it like to be married to someone suffering from mental illness?

  Nathan was quiet a moment and then asked, “What do you need from your dad?”

  Good question. What did she need? An apology? Understanding? Openness and vulnerability? Her father had never journeyed there before with her, and it was highly unlikely that she would be able to guide him there now.

  And what did she need from her mother? An apology for being emotionally unavailable when Hannah was a teenager? A conversation about how her depression had impacted the family? An “I’m sorry for never talking about this with you, for never telling you it wasn’t your fault”? Is that what Hannah wanted and needed?

  “I don’t know what I want, what I need, Nate.” She laced her fingers together and stared out the window, the sun a white orb in the pewter sky, casting elongated shadows on the snow. “When I first told our family secret to Meg and then to you, I had such a sense of freedom and release, as if a burden I’d been shouldering for years was lifted off of me. You and I talked about it, how the weight of my overdeveloped sense of responsibility had become such a familiar part of me that I didn’t even know I carried it. I don’t want to lay a burden of guilt and responsibility on my parents. I cast my burden on God. He’s the one who removed it. He’s the one who can handle it. I don’t want to grab it back from him and say, Oh, wait a minute—my parents need to carry it awhile so they know what it was like for me.”

  Her parents wouldn’t know how to handle that kind of burden. So was it enough to name it to others and to God? Enough to let others walk with her as she processed how to let it all go and receive God’s gift of freedom? But what about giving God the opportunity to redeem the pain? What about breaking the pattern of shame and hiding by talking about their secrets? What about that?

  Nathan cupped one hand around her ear, his palm brushing against the gold stud. “Just take it slow, Shep. You’ve had time to process and pray it through, whereas it’s not even on their radar. Just watch for the openings and leave the rest up to God.”

  Right, she thought as they approached the airport terminal. So much easier said than done.

  “Hannah Shepley!”

  Startled at the voice, Hannah spun around at the table near the airport gift shop, where she and Nathan were lingering over coffee before she passed through the security checkpoint. Smiling at her was a well-dressed, thirtysomething woman she recognized, but she had no name to put with the face. Hannah quickly released Nathan’s hand.

  “You look great, Hannah! Great to see you!”

  “Great to see you too!” Whoever you are. C’mon, brain. Think. The woman’s gaze fell to Nathan’s left hand, still resting on the table. She was obviously waiting for an introduction. Or an explanation. Awkward.

  “What are you doing in Kingsbury?” the woman asked. “I thought you were staying at the Johnsons’ cottage.”

  Okay. So it was someone from Westminster. That narrowed it down to about eight hundred people. “Yes, they’re over in Lake Haven. But I’m flying out to see my parents in Oregon for a few days.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. So you’re enjoying your sabbatical?” Another appraising glance toward Nathan while she spoke the words. Increasingly awkward. For so many reasons.

  “It’s been wonderful,” Hannah said. “A real gift.”

  “That’s great! I know that’s what Pastor Steve and the elders were hoping for.”

  There. Elder Bill De Graaf. This was Sally De Graaf-Haan, Bill’s daughter. Hannah had only known Sally for the past fifteen years, had only officiated at her wedding, had only baptized her children. Seriously. Something had happened to her memory after the hysterectomy. Her recall ought to be better than this, even if it was a face out of context.

  Nathan rose halfway from the table and extended his hand. “Nathan Allen,” he said, in what Hannah knew was an attempt to rescue her from further embarrassment.

  “Sorry! Nathan, this is Sally De Graaf-Haan. From Westminster.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Sally said. A pregnant pause. Hannah could tell she was waiting for details about this man, details that would no doubt be widely circulated around the congregation as soon as Sally returned to Chicago.

  Hannah silently muttered a word she wasn’t accustomed to saying. Mentally muttered it several times, in fact.

  She hadn’t even told Nancy about Nathan yet. She hadn’t wanted anyone from Westminster to know she was in a relationship with someone in Kingsbury. She wasn’t ready for the fishbowl scrutiny, for the inevitable conjecture about her personal life.

  So which was better? Supplying details, or letting Sally construe her own narrative about the man she’d seen holding Pastor Hannah’s hand at the airport?

  And why did she so easily revert to junior high? Pathetic.

  Hannah patted Nathan’s arm. “Nathan’s an old friend from seminary,” she said, voice carefully modulated to casual. Maybe Sally would think she had interrupted them praying together. “It’s great to see you, Sally,” Hannah went on, aware of Nathan’s penetrating stare. “Please greet your family for me. I so appreciate everything Steve and the elders did, making this sabbatical possible. I’ll come back all refreshed and ready to go in June!”

  With a parting “Nice to see you, nice to meet you,” Sally shifted her carry-on bag to her opposite shoulder and headed to the other concourse. Good. Hannah wouldn’t run into her again while she waited for her flight at the gate.

  Nathan leaned back in his chair, balancing o
n the rear legs, and grinned at her.

  “What?” She took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee.

  “Oh, your face, Shep! Priceless. Almost kissed you right in front of her.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “If she’d stayed a bit longer, I could have mentioned the trip we’re taking together to the Holy Land in May.” He leaned forward and quietly sang, “Let’s give them something to talk about . . . ”

  She laughed and pushed his shoulder. “Stop. You know how churches are.”

  “Secret’s out now,” he said, eyes twinkling. “The jig is up, Shep. No turning back.” He took both her hands in his, the expression on his face becoming more serious.

  No turning back.

  “Listen,” he said, “I know we’ve been avoiding the topic of the future and what happens in June, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it, a lot about us.” Her pulse quickened. “I love you, Hannah.”

  She stared at him, breathless, dizzy after that particular step—leap—forward.

  “I love you even more than I loved you years ago,” he said. “And I want you to know that, not to put any pressure on you about what happens next, but just so you know my heart. I love you, and I’m committed to you. To us. Whatever that means.” His hands felt cold in hers. “Would you—would you spend some time while you’re away, thinking about what that might mean? Praying about what it might mean?”

  In the midst of the many travelers bustling around them, all Hannah saw was Nathan’s face, his eyes brimming with the same intensity of emotion that had terrified her when she was twenty-three. All she heard was his voice, trembling with a question—not The Question—but a prelude, a cautious probing of whether or not the two of them shared a desire. A longing. A love.

  “Yes,” she said. “And—”

  No turning back.

  “I love you too.”

  The kiss he had refrained from offering in front of Sally he now gave with a tenderness that took her breath away. If Sally or anyone else from Westminster had seen Pastor Hannah and her old friend in that moment, they would have had something—plenty—to talk about.

  four

  Charissa

  Charissa kicked at the snow and ice lodged between the rear tire and fender of their car, feeling pleasure when the entire form yielded to her boot and sloughed off in a single piece. She strode to the passenger side and kicked that tire too, but the ice was stubborn and chipped away only in small bits. Far less satisfactory. She glanced at the cars parked alongside theirs and resisted the urge to kick at the accumulated muddy slush. As a little girl she had once kicked the slush-jammed fender of someone else’s car in a Meijer parking lot, setting off an alarm. Her mother chastised her roundly for that, grabbed her by the wrist, and hurried her into the store before anyone figured out what she had done.

  “What is it about you and kicking tires?” John asked as he unlocked the driver’s side.

  “I don’t like gunk.”

  Come to think of it, she’d had the same reaction to watching glaciers calve in Alaska when her parents took her on a cruise years ago. She had watched with particular delight when a portion of the glacier darkened by muddy sediment had suddenly given way with a roll like thunder, crashing into the bay and leaving behind a pristine bluish white surface.

  If only the spiritual life were like that.

  Instead, she kept chipping away, making slow progress in the journey toward Christlikeness. And meanwhile, there was always more gunk piling up. Or maybe she was more aware of the gunk that had built up after years of not paying attention.

  What she longed for was one well-positioned kick to cause a large chunk of accumulated sludge to slough away.

  Purge. That was the word. She was feeling a need to be purged.

  Maybe the impulse was strong because she had spent so much time purging the apartment the past week. She had attacked the kitchen with ferocious energy, confronting the mass of paper (how in the world had they ended up on so many mailing lists?) as well as the procreation of plastic containers with no matching lids.

  “We’re sticking to our list, okay?” she said as they headed to the store. Much as she didn’t want to waste an hour of her time shopping for storage containers and cleaning supplies, she didn’t trust John not to come home with bags of merchandise that would further clutter their already chaotic space. “We don’t need to buy anything for the house today. Or the baby.”

  She had just managed to prod John past the infant supply aisles when she saw a profile she recognized. A tall stately man with thick white hair was reading the label on a box of granola. “Reverend Hildenberg!” she exclaimed. Had she ever seen him without a suit and tie or a minister’s robe? It was like running into one of her teachers at the grocery store when she was a child and then being shocked that Mrs. Vos or Miss Ellison or Mr. Garcia had a real life that included shopping for bread and toilet paper.

  “Charissa, John—nice to see you!” Same hearty handshake he always gave at the door after worship. “You doing well?”

  “Yes,” Charissa replied for both of them. She gestured toward their shopping cart. “Just getting some things ready for our big move.”

  “I heard about that from your dad when I talked to him last week. Great news about the house. And a baby too! Congratulations! Had to tease him about being a grandfather, though. I don’t think he’s ready.”

  Charissa gave a friendly laugh. “No, I think he’s in some denial about being that old.”

  “Well, he’ll come around eventually. Once you hold that baby in your arms for the first time, everything changes.” He rested his hand on Charissa’s shoulder. “Hard to believe it was that long ago I held you, Charissa, when I spoke God’s promises over you.” He chuckled. “I don’t feel old until I see the kids and grandkids of people I married.”

  They chatted awhile, Charissa inquiring after his youngest daughter, who was pursuing her doctorate at Oxford. After a few minutes of silent listening, John excused himself and disappeared with the shopping cart. “What’s up with you?” Charissa asked when she found him in the frozen food aisle.

  He opened the freezer door and tossed two pepperoni pizzas into the cart. “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  He closed the door and stared at the shelves. “What did you say you learned from Dr. Allen about paying attention to stuff that bugged you?”

  Learn to linger with what provokes you, Dr. Allen was fond of saying. She answered, “That you can learn a lot about where the Spirit is moving by paying attention to things that provoke you.”

  “Okay. So I’m provoked. And I’m paying attention.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Charissa watched John’s reflection in the glass. “When you feel like sharing what’s provoking you, let me know.” She yanked open the adjoining freezer door and plucked three bags of frozen broccoli from the shelf.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fine. It bugs me that the only conversation I ever have with the pastor of our church has to do with your family.”

  “That’s not true. He always asks how you’re doing.”

  “Right. Every week at the door, the perfunctory, ‘How’s it going, John?’ and I say, ‘Great,’ and then it’s on to whatever’s going on with your dad and golf or Florida or whatever.” He flung some frozen garlic breadsticks into the cart. “What would happen if some Sunday I said, ‘Actually, I’ve had a rough week’?”

  Charissa hesitated. That wasn’t how the pastor greeting line at church worked. “You could set up an appointment any time to meet with him, John. Just call the church.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “You could. Nothing stopping you.”

  “And go in there and start talking about all the stress we’ve been through the past few months with the baby and the house and school and now between you and my mom? Like I said, Yeah. Right.”

  John, who had attended church with Charissa ever since they
got engaged, had never expressed any kind of resentment toward her pastor, and she didn’t like his tone. She hoped Reverend Hildenberg wasn’t in an adjacent aisle, listening. She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “I’m not the one who brought it up.”

  Typically the affable, easygoing one in their relationship, John had been peevish and defensive ever since their visit to his parents’ house at Christmas. She wondered what else his mother had said to him, what other comments and opinions he may have chosen to withhold from her. Maybe that’s why he wanted to talk to a pastor.

  Did she really want him talking to her pastor?

  The Reverend Hildenberg had been the Goodman family’s pastor for decades. In fact, Charissa’s paternal grandfather had served on the search committee that brought him to the church almost forty years ago. Her paternal grandmother had babysat the Hildenberg children when they were young. And the Reverend Hildenberg had married Charissa’s parents, just as he had married Charissa and John.

  He had even led the premarital counseling sessions. Even though it had felt awkward to have her childhood minister talk to them about sexual intimacy in marriage, Charissa couldn’t have imagined anyone else presiding. Seated beside John on the two-seater couch in the Reverend’s office, where nothing much had changed since she was a child, Charissa, whenever the minister had asked them delicate questions, avoided eye contact either by staring at the beige carpet (a vast improvement over the blue shag carpet on which she’d stood to recite the Apostle’s Creed as a third-grader) or by raising her gaze from the carpet to the gap between the minister’s black sock and the hem of his charcoal gray trousers, where a pale patch of hairless skin became visible whenever he crossed one leg over the other.

  Awkward as those conversations had been, how much more awkward would it be for John to disclose their marital stress to a man who had always held Charissa in the highest esteem?

  Maybe John could find someone else to talk to. Someone who didn’t know her or her family.