Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  All my love,

  Meg

  Charissa

  Charissa sat beside John in worship at Emily’s church, hands folded in her lap. Dr. Allen and Hannah sat several rows ahead of them, his arm draped around her shoulder. She hadn’t known Dr. Allen attended Emily’s church. She wondered if they knew each other.

  The pastor, Neil Brooks, who, in his casual clothes could have been mistaken for any layperson in the congregation, was a decent enough preacher—not eloquent and scholarly like Reverend Hildenberg, but straightforward and biblical. She could tell John liked him. He was nodding and taking notes, giving quiet verbal assent whenever Pastor Neil made a particularly insightful observation about the text from Ephesians. And when Neil told vulnerable stories from his own life and faith, John sat forward in his seat, spellbound. Reverend Hildenberg never told personal stories. He kept his sermons to the text, weaving in current events or examples from literature if they served his point.

  “That sermon was amazing,” John said after the benediction and closing praise chorus, a song that repeated the same refrain over and over again. Remove the references to Jesus, and the lyrics might have been mistaken for a top forty love song on the radio.

  Charissa glanced toward the back door of the sanctuary, but the pastor was not standing there to greet worshipers on their way out. Instead, he lingered at the front beneath the large wooden cross, praying for those who went forward with needs, alongside identified elders who were anointing people with oil.

  “What did you think?” John asked, his voice eager and expectant.

  “Yeah, okay.” She picked up her purse from beneath the non-pew chair.

  “Okay?”

  “Good, John. It was good. Just not what I’m used to.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it a bad thing.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I said it was different from what I’m used to.” The stained glass, the hymnals, the responsive readings and prayers, the robed choir singing anthems from the balcony, the robed preacher in an elevated, engraved wooden pulpit—her lifetime of worship at First Church had shaped her more than she realized. She had a feeling she and John would have a difficult time agreeing about where to attend.

  “Charissa!” She spun around at Hannah’s voice and returned her embrace. “I didn’t know you worshiped here!”

  “We don’t,” Charissa said. “I mean, we’re visiting today. I didn’t know this was Dr. Allen’s church.”

  “That small-world West Michigan thing,” Hannah said, smiling.

  John leaned in and gave her a hug. “Congratulations!”

  Hannah held out her left hand, her small diamond in its plain gold setting catching the light. “I still can’t believe it, still seems too good to be true. And I don’t know if we’d be together without your wife.” She turned toward Charissa. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for disobeying my direct order not to tell your professor you’d met me.”

  Charissa laughed and reached out to shake Dr. Allen’s hand as he joined their circle. “How was your first week of teaching?” he asked.

  As far as content was concerned, Charissa was confident she had given her students gold. For a few of them, however, her wisdom was like the proverbial pearls cast before swine. “I’d forgotten how squirrelly freshmen can be.”

  “They can be a challenge,” he said, “that’s for sure. If there’s any help I can offer you, let me know.”

  Don’t let those kids intimidate you, her father’s voice said. Take every possible opportunity to demonstrate your authority.

  They were getting a pop quiz on Tuesday.

  “Are you going to stay for spiritual formation?” Dr. Allen asked.

  “We hadn’t—”

  “Sure!” John exclaimed.

  “Great!” Dr. Allen said. “We’ve been studying and praying with the Sermon on the Mount for the past few weeks, but you’ll be able to join in, no problem.”

  “It’s good,” said Hannah. “Like open heart surgery without anesthetic sometimes, but good.”

  Charissa smiled wryly. Sounded like a conversation or class with Dr. Allen.

  Before she could reply, John took her hand and said, “Point us in the right direction, and we’ll be there.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” Emily said when she saw Charissa standing near the refreshments table in the downstairs classroom. “You should have told me you were coming! I didn’t know you guys were church-shopping.”

  Charissa hated that phrase. She had no desire to become a vulgar consumer of religious commodities. “We’re just exploring,” she said, glancing around the room at the tables arranged for small group discussion. She hoped she wouldn’t be expected to share anything personal around those tables. She had her own small group where she could share intimate details about her life with God; she didn’t need another. Which reminded her: it was her turn to choose an exercise for Friday. She had forgotten. Between teaching and classes and the house closing just eight days away—

  “You look good,” Emily said, her gaze dropping to Charissa’s waistline. “I can’t believe you’re still not wearing maternity clothes.”

  Charissa tugged at her skirt. “Elastic waistbands are my friends. That, and big bulky sweaters.”

  “Well, for me too,” Emily said, motioning to her own oversized fisherman’s sweater that did little to disguise her extra pounds. “But if I were pregnant, I’d want to show it.”

  Yet another difference between them.

  “Hey, Em,” John said as he approached, coffee mug in hand. “Long time no see.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  “Yeah, it’s been way too long. Congratulations on everything, the house, the baby . . .”

  Charissa pretended her bootlaces needed tying. Ever since elementary school Emily had measured her own progress in life against Charissa’s, making it difficult for Charissa to speak freely about the gifts and blessings without Emily feeling deficient. As adults, the stakes were higher than book report grades and dates to homecoming dances. Emily was the one who had always dreamed of having a house, a husband, and five kids, while Charissa had only ever spoken about being a teacher. And now, even that dream had materialized sooner than expected, right at a time in her life when she had been trying to make peace with the detour of pregnancy and motherhood.

  God’s mysterious ways.

  In order to short-circuit an account of Emily’s latest episode of dating disasters, Charissa changed the subject. “Thanks again for passing along your notebook to our group.”

  “I’m glad you’re using it,” Emily said. “Which prayer exercises have you done?”

  “One of the psalms—the one about the weaned child—and then I wasn’t able to go last time.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without my group,” Emily said. “I need that regular time together, just praying with the Word. It’s always amazing what comes to light when you give God time and space, isn’t it?”

  Yes, Charissa thought. And she had given God precious little time lately with so many other pressing concerns. She followed Emily to a table near the front of the room, not sure if she would be comforted or confronted by that Word.

  Confronted, probably. She took her place beside John and braced herself for a well-positioned, purgative kick from the Spirit of God.

  “Remember,” the facilitator said as they prepared to study the text from the Sermon on the Mount, “what we’re looking at together is the invitation to the cruciform life, to consider the places where we are being pressed into the likeness of Christ as we embrace the call to die to self. This is the narrow way.” Charissa fidgeted in her chair and avoided eye contact with John. “Cruciformity” was not a word she’d heard before, even though she had been challenged over the past few months to embrace such a call. What a long road still stretched ahead of her.

  The leader read Matthew 5:38-42 a couple of times, inviting the group to “listen with the ears of the heart.” Just like Katheri
ne Rhodes had done at the New Hope Center. Slowly, with space for silent prayer. Charissa sat with her eyes closed, listening for a word or phrase that caught her attention and invited pondering.

  You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.

  You have heard that it was said . . . but I say. That’s what rang in Charissa’s ears each time she listened to the passage. Those words weren’t merely in this section, she remembered, but were woven throughout Jesus’ whole sermon. Again and again Jesus referenced what had been taught, embraced, and believed as wisdom and righteousness, only to turn it all upside down. The topsy-turvy kingdom, someone at their table commented when they entered a time of discussion. Enough to leave a careful, rule-following Pharisee dizzy and disoriented by the upheaval.

  You have heard it said . . .

  Charissa had internalized many religious instructions about what was most important in leading a “faithful” and morally upright life. She had spent years ticking the appropriate boxes of her spiritual life without much thought about dying to self by extending herself in love for others.

  But I say to you . . .

  That’s the Voice that had been unsettling her the past few months. But I say to you . . .

  Truth was, she rarely inconvenienced herself by going an extra mile for the people closest to her, let alone for anyone who actually opposed her. Maybe she should start regularly practicing cruciformity by trying to extend herself in greater love for John. Do this for me, won’t you? he’d said again that morning when she nearly reneged on her pledge to worship with him. Please. When she suggested they visit Emily’s church instead of Tim’s, she had no inkling John would like it so much.

  For the next forty-five minutes John interacted with people around the table as if they were old friends, and he came to life as he offered what he noticed about Jesus’ call. “Is that the kind of thing you did at New Hope?” he asked when they drove home. “Read the Bible slowly like that and then talk about it?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “And that’s the kind of thing you do in your Sensible Shoes group? Have honest conversations about your life with God?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I’m looking for, Riss,” he said as he boosted the windshield defroster. “That’s what I want.”

  She suspected she might not be back at First Church again any time soon.

  Hannah

  After being engaged less than a week, Hannah was tempted to scrap the whole idea of a wedding with family and friends and take Nathan up on his suggestion they get married in the Holy Land. I’m sorry, Meg had said when Hannah returned from worship. I wasn’t thinking when I told Mara how excited I am about being your maid of honor. And I think it’s pushed all kinds of rejection buttons for her.

  Hannah’s hour on the phone with Mara Sunday afternoon did little to soothe her hurt feelings and reassure her that yes, Hannah had intended to invite her to be a bridesmaid, along with Charissa, and just hadn’t had the opportunity to ask her yet. And no, she wasn’t just asking her because she felt sorry for her.

  Honestly. How could middle-aged women so quickly revert to being ten years old?

  And Mara wasn’t the only one upset by Hannah’s choice. You mean you’re not going to have Sadie as your maid of honor? her mother had asked, incredulous. Though Hannah was fond of her sister-in-law, the two of them had little personal connection with one another. But what about Joey? He’s going to be a groomsman, isn’t he?

  Hannah hadn’t even thought about including Joe. Nathan had his own friends to invite to stand beside him, and she hadn’t planned on asking him to accommodate her brother. “I’ll do whatever you want,” Nathan said on the phone that night.

  Hannah fiddled with her ring. “We haven’t even set a date yet, and I’m already exhausted.”

  “Well, my offer still stands. Skip all the drama. Just you, me, and Jake, with Katherine to do the service. Think about it. We’ll be in Cana on day five.”

  Hannah laughed. “You’ve thought this through, huh?”

  “Just sayin.’”

  “My mom would be devastated. She gave up hope years ago that I’d ever be married, and now I can’t take a wedding away from her. Maybe we can have my nieces be the flower girls. That’s a way to include Joe and Sadie without adding to the wedding party.”

  A wedding party for a wedding that didn’t have a date. And the clock was tick-tick-ticking away on her sabbatical, toward her return to Chicago, and she still hadn’t figured out what to do long-term at Westminster.

  Help, Lord.

  Help.

  Sunday, February 1

  10:30 p.m.

  Ever since I got off the phone with Nate, I’ve been thinking about the verses we looked at in spiritual formation after worship this morning: Matthew 5:38-42. It’s a tough passage for me to ponder, given everything I’ve been trying to process the past few months about not being a messianic pastor, about not taking on too much responsibility for others, about weaving in rhythms of rest and operating with boundaries. And then I get confronted with Jesus saying, “Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.”

  What do I do with that, Lord? It feels like that’s the way I spent 15 years in ministry: giving away my shirt as well as my coat, going not just the extra mile but the mile beyond that and the mile beyond that until I was so exhausted I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

  I asked Nate about it, and in typical Nate fashion, he replied with a question: “Why did you do all those things?”

  A few months ago I would have had an easy answer: to be faithful for God. But I’ve been thinking about his question for the past hour. And the honest answer I come up with is that I did it because I was afraid—back to those core fears of not being a faithful enough servant, of not pleasing God, of something going wrong if I wasn’t always “on duty” and being responsible. I don’t actually think I gave out of love and compassion. I hate admitting that. If I’m honest, I think I gave sacrificially, not because I was dying to myself in order to keep company with Jesus but because I wanted the people at Westminster to notice and affirm my sacrifices.

  Ugh, Lord.

  It comes back to the same theme again: serving out of fear or offering out of love. And if I am increasingly converted to abundance, then every­thing I offer others comes from a different place. I can joyfully give away a cloak, knowing I’ll have what I need. Or I can joyfully walk an extra mile, refreshed because I’m being constantly filled myself.

  Paradigm shift. Same actions, but flowing from a different source and motivation. And that changes everything.

  Lord, keep showing me what it means to keep in step with you. I’ll have so much to share with Katherine when I see her on Friday.

  I know one thing about the wedding, whenever it is. I told Nate I want to be barefoot for the ceremony as an image of standing on holy ground, offering our yes to one another and to God. Into your hands, Lord—all the plans and people and preparations and pondering.

  Hineni. Here I am.

  Mara

  Mara gnawed on her fingernail while she waited to check out with a cart full of groceries.

  Chosen. Favored. Graced. Pregnant with the Son of God. A Christ-bearer to the world. How could she travel so far in understanding and viewing herself as “the one Jesus loves” only to be tossed into a fit of insecure jealousy over not being chosen as Hannah’s maid of honor?

  She had become nine years old again on the phone with Meg, trying not to cry at her school desk when she realized she was the only girl in the class who hadn’t been invited to Kristie Van Buren’s birthday
party.

  A trigger, Dawn would call it, a trigger linked to a lifetime of rejection. And it would take a long time to practice living into a different narrative, Dawn would say.

  She reached for a checkout lane divider and started unloading frozen food onto the conveyor belt.

  Hannah had every right to choose whoever she wanted, and if she had picked Meg over any of her friends in Chicago, then she and Meg had forged a special kind of bond that Mara couldn’t compete against. She ought to be happy that Hannah had asked her to participate at all.

  Jesus, help.

  She would have a lot to talk to Dawn about.

  “How’re you doing today?” the clerk chirped.

  “Good. How about you?”

  “Fine—thanks for asking.” She weighed a bunch of bananas and punched in some numbers on the keypad. “Find everything you wanted?”

  Mara chuckled. “That and more.” She watched the items roll by. No matter how hard she tried to stick to her list, she always ended up with impulse buys.

  “Paper or plastic?” the teenage bag boy asked.

  “Plastic’s fine.” Mara removed her wallet and a paper-clipped stack of coupons from her purse, determined to ignore the audible sigh from the woman in line behind her.

  The clerk scanned each coupon. “Total is one hundred eighty-six dollars and eighty-one cents.”

  Mara slid her Visa card through the reader. She hoped she hadn’t forced Hannah into choosing her. Despite Hannah’s insistence other­­wise, maybe she felt guilt-tripped into it. Maybe she was just being nice, making sure Mara didn’t feel left out. Like the way Mara had viewed Jesus for so long, thinking he chose her to follow because she was the leftover one standing there. She had worked hard to shift her thinking about that.