Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Oh, God.

  She closed the door behind her and knelt beside the hearth.

  She was home.

  Dear Jesus,

  I thought that maybe if I tried writing to You from inside my old house that maybe I would be able to start processing all the words and feelings that are jumbled inside me. I haven’t been able to pray much the past few days. Unless You count my tears, which I guess You do.

  I’ve been looking at some of the lament psalms Pastor Dave gave me. I never knew there were so many words in the psalms that perfectly match my heart right now. Here’s my prayer from Psalm 6: “Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am languishing; O LORD, heal me, for my bones are shaking with terror. My soul also is struck with terror, while You, O LORD—how long?” That’s what it feels like, like I’m languishing and shaking and terrified, and I don’t even know how to finish a thought all the way through. Like David. I wonder what he was going to write after “while You, O LORD.” What would I write? I think I would write, “My soul also is struck with terror, while You, O Lord, seem far away.” And when I hear the question “How long?” I hear it differently now. Not how long do I have to wait for You, but how long do I have? How many days left? Will You heal me, Lord? Will You come to my rescue and make me well?

  I’m terrified. My soul is struck with terror. And I am “weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.” That’s exactly what’s happening. I don’t know if You will deliver me according to Your steadfast love. I don’t know. And I’m so frightened, Lord. I’ve never been brave. Ever. And I don’t know how to be brave now.

  Katherine once suggested I pray with Isaiah 43 and put my own name in there. Maybe I need to start practicing that again. Maybe I need to try to memorize it. I’ve never been good at memorizing Bible verses.

  “But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Meg, he who formed you, O Meg: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.”

  Sometimes I feel like I can’t get my breath, like I’m drowning. Physically and spiritually. So please help me trust that You are with me when I pass through the waters. I know chemotherapy is terrible—that it will be like fire consuming and burning my body. So help me trust that You are with me when I walk through that fire, too.

  “I’ve got you, Meggie. Keep coming.” That’s what I remember my dad saying on the beach when I was little and scared. That’s what I need to hear from You, Lord. That You’ve got me. That I’m safe. That You’re with me. No matter what. Please. I’m begging You. Don’t let go. Please. Because I’m as scared and shell-shocked tonight as I was the night I came home to this house without Jim.

  I just read my last letter to You. The Serenity Prayer. I said that if hardship was a pathway to knowing You better, then I wanted to see how all of the pain with Becca and Rachel could make me more like You. I had no idea what was going to hit me. Now the “living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time” takes on a whole new meaning. I can hardly breathe right now.

  Jesus, help me live that prayer. Make me brave. Please. Nothing can separate me from Your love. Help me believe it. Please.

  All my love,

  Your Meggie

  Meg finished writing in her notebook, wiped her eyes, and closed her Bible. She still had time to take some photos before Charissa and John returned. If only she had a way to record the sounds! Her bare feet squeaking on the kitchen linoleum, the thud of a cabinet closing, the creak of the bedroom floor, the sounds transported her twenty-one years and tricked her into thinking that Jim would appear at any moment and call out her name.

  When the front door opened, Meg was standing at the kitchen sink, staring at a snow-covered backyard, where the arbor Jim had built for her on their first wedding anniversary remained. In the light of a swollen moon, she could see the trellis and the bench where they had often sat together. She wondered whether the roses he planted still bloomed.

  “How are you doing?” John asked gently.

  She turned to face him. He was young. So young. And yet older than Jim when he died. “The cabinets still have the same contact paper we put in.”

  “Seriously?” Charissa replied, nose scrunched.

  Meg laughed—the first time she had laughed in several days—and pressed her fist against her chest to try to ward off another coughing spell. “Kinda gross, huh?”

  “Wanna take some with you?” John asked.

  “Maybe a little bit.”

  John removed a pocket knife from his jeans, opened one of the cabinets, and sliced a strip for her.

  “Thank you.” Meg tucked it into her purse. “Strange, the memories that come flooding back.” She gestured out the window. “I can’t wait to see what flowers still bloom out there, whether there are roses on the arbor.” Then it hit her with fresh force: the uncertainty of whether she would live to see another summer.

  Charissa extended her arms and enfolded Meg in a gift of tender communion louder than words.

  Mara

  Mara tugged on a hangnail. Why hadn’t it occurred to her to bring a housewarming gift? Hannah brought flowers; Meg brought a plaque with some Bible verses on it. Even with everything else going on in her life, Meg had remembered to bring a gift.

  Not that Mara had money to buy a gift right now. But after everything Charissa and John had done to help her out with groceries—they had probably also helped contribute funds to open a checking account—the least she could have done was make a card. She was a sucky friend.

  “I thought we could start here and read some Scripture,” Hannah said, motioning toward the fireplace, “and then we can move into each room and offer prayers for God’s peace to rest here. Does that sound okay?”

  They all nodded. “And we’re going to pray together for Meg too,” Charissa said, “after we’re done walking through the house.”

  Mara listened as Hannah began with a blessing Pastor Jeff often said at the end of a worship service: The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

  Yes, Lord, Mara prayed silently. And please don’t let bad things happen to them like what happened to Meg and Jim.

  She wondered if any of the others were thinking about that as they prayed for God’s protection and peace. These were the kinds of things that Mara would never understand. Ever.

  Like when they stopped to pray in the second bedroom, the room that would be the baby’s room, and they ended up praying for Charissa’s pregnancy and for the baby to be well and whole, and Meg’s eyes were streaming with tears—Mara opened her own eyes during the prayer and saw—and she guessed what Meg was thinking in that moment, that she and Jim had also prayed during their pregnancy and had expected to bring their baby home to that same room but never had the chance because terrible accidents happened in this world and joy could be turned into the worst possible nightmare in a split second no matter how hard you prayed or how much you trusted God or how convinced you were about the love of God.

  And she would never understand that. Ever.

  How in the world was Meg able to walk with them and pray? Mara suspected that if she were in Meg’s shoes, she would be sucking all the oxygen out of the room with her own hyperventilating wail, making everything about herself and her own pain.

  Hannah looked like she was on the verge of tears too. How did pastors do it? How did they constantly go back and forth between everyone’s highs and lows? And what about when they were the ones experiencing the pain? Then what? How did they handle that? Keep it to themselves, she supposed. Buck up and deal with it because everyone was counting on them to be the strong ones, to have the kind of faith that inspired everyone else to trust God too.

  Half an hour la
ter they gathered around Meg to pray for healing. Mara stood behind her, both hands resting lightly on Meg’s gaunt shoulders, her tears falling hot and briny upon her lips. When it was her turn to speak, she stammered her faith, relying on Hannah to pray the confident, mountain-moving prayers that would save their friend.

  Charissa

  Nothing was going as planned. Nothing. Why was she surprised? Charissa stood in the middle of their new dining area Saturday morning, her T-shirt splotched with butter yellow paint. “Why would you even try to pull up the carpet without checking with me first?”

  John shrugged. “Meg said the floors were in good shape when they moved out.”

  “That was twenty years ago! I swear, John. You’re as impulsive as a little kid. And now we’ve got a huge mess.”

  “It’s not that bad.” He bent down to touch a damaged floorboard. “You’re the one who wanted to be able to move furniture in this weekend. I didn’t want to put it on top of the carpet and then have to move it again.”

  She rinsed off the paint roller in the kitchen sink and cracked open another window for ventilation, even though it was only twenty degrees outside. “Well, we’re not going to be able to move in any furniture now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” John said. “It’ll fit in the baby’s room or garage until we get the floors refinished in here.”

  “And what’s that going to cost?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll phone Dad and find out.”

  “I don’t want them giving any more money, John. They’ve done enough.”

  “I’m not asking them for money. I’m asking for his advice on how to sand down a floor and stain it.”

  First-World problems. She knew that. But she was still irritated. “Mara said her son Jeremy is looking for jobs. Maybe he’d be willing to do it. We’ve got enough to deal with, trying to paint and move.” Hands on her hips, she kicked at the roll of carpet John had pulled up. At least they didn’t have to be out of the apartment until the end of the month. That bought them some time.

  John reached for her hand. “Sorry, hon. I should have asked first. You’re right—I did my gung-ho thing. But this will be beautiful when it’s repaired. Look at it.”

  He was right: the hardwood floor would be much better than the worn shag carpet. “Just don’t make any more unilateral decisions, okay? I know you. I’m going to come in someday and find all the kitchen cabinets torn out.” Not that she would mind having that particular remodeling project completed sooner rather than later. Hearing Meg talk about Jim installing those cupboards made Charissa eager for a fresh start.

  She shouldn’t feel that way. She shouldn’t. But having Meg in the house for the blessing service had been even more difficult than Charissa had imagined. A shadow of grief had fallen over every room—not solely because of Jim’s life cut tragically short but because of Meg’s life potentially ebbing away. Yes, Charissa had spoken her prayers aloud for Meg, trying to follow Hannah’s lead. She had joined the others in asking God to heal her. But she hoped her own lack of faith wouldn’t cause God to withhold his blessing. She didn’t really know how prayer worked. But after the group left, she felt like she needed to purge the house again. Painting all of the rooms as quickly as possible seemed the easiest way to do it. A fresh start. The house desperately needed a fresh start.

  “Have you got Jeremy’s number?” John asked.

  She reached into her purse and handed him the slip of paper with Mara’s writing. They had received some money at closing to put toward the cost of house repairs. Might as well use it to help a friend’s son.

  Charissa was painting in the family room early that evening when a pickup truck with a loud muffler rumbled into the driveway. Looking out the front window, she saw a tall black man striding toward the porch. She thought about ducking beneath the windowsill to avoid being seen, but that was ridiculous. There were no blinds or curtains on the windows, and with the light shining all around her, she would have been conspicuous from the driveway as she painted the wall. She called for John. “There’s someone at the door!” John emerged from the bathroom, rubbing damp hands on his jeans. “We’re not buying anything,” she said, voice lowered so the man would not hear. Maybe they should price security systems.

  John opened the front door. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” said the man.

  There was an awkward pause as John waited to hear what he wanted.

  “You called about a job?” the man said.

  Charissa stared at the back of John’s head. What job?

  “I’m Jeremy Payne . . . Mara’s son.”

  “Jeremy!” John exclaimed. “Sure! Sorry—come in!”

  “I know I’m early, but I had another estimate not far from here and—”

  “No—it’s fine.”

  While Jeremy scraped off his boots on the front mat, John retreated a few steps and cast Charissa a puzzled look. Charissa shrugged. Mara had never mentioned having a biracial son. Though Charissa had seen a few pictures of Madeleine, she had assumed that all the distinct ethnic features had come from Jeremy’s wife. She set her brush down on the drop cloth. Best not to mention her obtuseness to Mara.

  “Jeremy, hi! I’m Charissa! Welcome!” Did her genial tone sound overcompensating?

  Jeremy stared at her like he could read minds. Or maybe Mara had told him about their initial friction in the sacred journey group, about how Charissa had been judgmental and condemning toward her. Maybe she looked exactly as he expected, a privileged, pampered—

  “Mom’s told me a lot about you,” he said, mouth widening into a warm, gap-toothed grin.

  “Oh, no!” Charissa laughed, hoping she sounded at ease.

  “No, it’s good! All good. Glad to meet you guys. Thanks for the call.” He took off his boots, his big toe visible through a frayed sock, and scanned the room with a practiced, sweeping, appraising gaze. “My wife would love this place. What is it? Like early 1920s?”

  “1924,” John said.

  Jeremy whistled. “Gonna be beautiful when you’re done with it.” He stooped to rub the floor. “What are you thinking? Repair and refinish?”

  “Whatever you think,” John said. “I haven’t done floors before. And I shouldn’t have pulled up the carpet without checking first. My bad.”

  “Yeah. Abby would be ticked if I did that.”

  “See?” Charissa nudged John in the ribs. “It’s not just me.”

  While Charissa resumed her painting, John helped Jeremy measure the room, the two of them chatting like old chums about remodeling projects and work and life with a baby. By the time Jeremy gave his estimate (“Way lower than I thought, dude,” John said, “are you sure?”), John had already invited Jeremy to meet up for a beer some night. “And you and Abby should come to church with us sometime,” John said. “It’s a great church.”

  He wasn’t talking about First Church. He was talking about Emily’s church. Dr. Allen’s church. Listening to him effuse to Jeremy about every­thing inspiring and wonderful about Wayfarer Church, Charissa knew it was now undeniably “John’s church.”

  “I think my mom’s hoping we’ll start going with her,” Jeremy said. “But I don’t know if that’s gonna work. Abby wants to find our own church—not that she doesn’t love my mom. But we need some space to explore, figure out what we believe without feeling pressured, you know? My mom can be a bit . . .”

  Charissa placed her brush in the tray and stretched, hands on her lower back, waiting for him to find an adjective. Months ago, when she first met Mara, she could have supplied plenty.

  “She means well,” Jeremy said. “She does. Heart of gold. Would help anyone, any time.” He paused, his hazel eyes becoming impossibly green under the overhead light as he fixed them on Charissa. “Mom told me what you did for her. Thank you.”

  She was going to say, Don’t mention it. It’s not a big deal. But from Jeremy’s tone of voice and facial expression, it was clearly a very big deal that someone had taken th
e time to love and care for his mother. What a lucky woman to have a son who adored her. “You’re welcome,” she said, feeling her face flush with heat. Good thing her olive complexion didn’t color with emotion. “We were glad to do it.”

  While John discussed project details with Jeremy, Charissa tried to recall anything Mara had disclosed about his story. Evidently, she hadn’t paid close enough attention. All she remembered was that Jeremy was an illegitimate son and that he and Mara had lived at Crossroads awhile when he was little. And now he was a husband and father and construction worker who needed to pick up some extra jobs. Maybe she and John could hire him for some other work that needed to be done. That might help ease his mother’s stress.

  “I can start work tomorrow afternoon,” Jeremy was saying, “shouldn’t take too long, not much to repair. But you’ll need to stay off the floors for a few days until it dries.”

  A few days? She gave John a reproving glance.

  “It’s okay,” John answered. “We can use the kitchen door for moving in boxes. And we’ll wait on the furniture until next weekend. It’ll be okay.”

  Charissa had hoped to be sleeping in the house by the end of the week, even if the bed was surrounded by boxes. “Okay,” she conceded.

  Jeremy cracked his knuckles. “I’d like to find a way to thank you for what you did for my mom, so how about if you pay for the materials, and I’ll do the labor for free?”

  “No way, man,” John said. “Thanks for the generous offer, but no way.”

  “Then pick another job. Mom doesn’t need to know about it.” He glanced around the ceiling at the blue painting tape. “How about if I help you get some painting done? We can get a second coat on here in no time.”