I think that’s what I’m saying, Lord.
I’m not ready to let go of the hem of your garment yet. I’m ready to knock on your door until my knuckles are bloodied and bruised. I will lift up my voice and shout for your mercy until you finally turn around and say, What do you want me to do for you?
And I say, heal my beloved friend. My sister. For love’s sake. Please.
Charissa
Ever since getting Mara’s phone call about Meg’s prognosis, Charissa had been unable to complete any work on her lecture revision. While John and Jeremy labored together at the house, Charissa sat at the apartment alone, thumbing through Emily’s prayer notebook, searching for something to give her comfort. My soul is like a confused child, she wrote in her journal, trying to make sense of things that are too great and lofty for me. Help.
Her eyes landed on a particular exercise as she flipped pages. Meditation on Psalm 90:12: Memento Mori, Remember Your Death. “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
With a knot in her throat, Charissa read the instructions for reflection and prayer: Imagine you have been given only a few weeks to live. How would you live your remaining days? Write an honest eulogy for yourself. What sort of person have you become? What do you want to be said about you when you die? What changes can you make with the Spirit’s help? Where is Jesus inviting you to die to yourself in order to live in him?
At the bottom of the page was a verse for meditation: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20).
Charissa decided she would use the lecture notes that had been provided for her. They were sufficient. But she would give her students a different writing assignment. Dr. Gardiner had said the essay themes were at her discretion. She would use her discretion.
She opened a new document titled “If I only had forty days,” and began to type.
“But the syllabus says we’re supposed to write an analysis of ‘The Road Not Taken.’” Ben DeWitt, one of her more conscientious students, had probably already started writing his paper, due Thursday. That would account for his annoyed tone.
“Feel free to incorporate insights from Frost’s poem into this piece,” Charissa replied, trying to ignore the baby pressing on her bladder. She glanced at the wall clock: another forty-five minutes. Maybe she would have the students huddle into small groups for conversation. “I think you can weave themes from there into your own reflection piece.”
“So are we supposed to use the poem or not?” Justin called out from his customary seat in the back corner. She had given up telling him to get his feet off the desk.
“You may use the poem if you wish. But I want your focus to be on the choices we make about how to use the time we’re given and how an awareness of our mortality impacts those choices. Imagine it: You’ve been given forty days to live. What does it mean to ‘number our days’ as the psalmist says and live them fully? It doesn’t need to be a long essay, just a thousand words. I’m interested in how you develop the theme, how you use details to support your position, whatever it is.”
Justin would likely write some shallow, entertaining, hedonistic piece. Unfortunately, he wrote well, and he was getting better grades in the class than she expected—or desired.
“Develop your ideas by describing why you’re making that choice,” she said, “what it would take to do it, who would be involved—that sort of thing. Also reflect on whether this exercise makes you question your choices in the past or maybe reconsider your choices for the future. Be thoughtful about this.”
Prayerful. That was the word she wanted to say but didn’t. She wasn’t sure why.
“What would you write about?” she asked John on their way to the apartment to pick up more boxes that night.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d do anything different. Quit my job, maybe, to have more time with you. Make lots of phone calls, visit people I love, that sort of thing. What about you?”
“I don’t know.” Forty days wouldn’t be nearly enough time to make the mark on the world she always thought she’d make. And she wasn’t content with obscurity, much as she hated the pride lurking behind that discontent. “I’ve been thinking about it, about what people would say at my funeral, and I don’t think I like it.”
“What do you mean?”
“What would they say, John? That I got good grades? That I was someone with a lot of potential for high achievement? It sounds so empty. But that’s what I’ve lived my life for. For honor and recognition. For my own glory. And forty days wouldn’t be long enough to change that. Not nearly long enough.”
Her mind wandered to her mother-in-law, who was the sort of person people praised for her love of her family and community, for the ways she invested herself in trying to make a difference in others’ lives. For all her faults, Judi Sinclair wasn’t selfish. Charissa admired her for that. She did. The more she saw her own selfishness, the more she admired the generosity and altruism of others. Maybe Judi’s meddling about the house and baby and future plans arose more from her desire to show love than take control. Maybe.
Charissa picked up her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” John asked.
“Your mom.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I just realized I haven’t talked to her since we closed on the house. And I want to personally thank her.”
“She might start in on you about your plans after the baby’s born,” John warned.
“I know. But I think I can thank her for that too.”
His eyebrows arched higher.
“Not everybody has options,” Charissa said. “Like Jeremy and Abby.” Jeremy and Abby had both expressed heartache over Abby having to return to work. “Even if we make choices different from what your mom’s hoping for, at least we have the freedom to make a choice, right? And I’m grateful for that. I should tell her.”
Because life was too short to hold a grudge.
Far too short.
ten
Meg
By Tuesday afternoon Meg had begun to fret over Becca’s safety. Maybe she hadn’t returned the “Please call me” emails or phone calls or texts because something was dreadfully wrong. “You would have gotten a message from one of her friends,” Hannah reassured her. “Or from the school. Or Rachel.”
Hannah was right. If something had happened to Becca, Meg would have heard by now.
She stared at the IV port in her hand. When had her skin become like crepe paper? She felt as fragile as a butterfly’s wing.
“You’re going to have to give her the news in an email, Meg. Or leave it in a voicemail. I know it’s not what you wanted, but she hasn’t left you any other options.”
Right, Meg thought. The only other option would be a text, and she couldn’t imagine a worse way to deliver such news.
“Unless . . .” Hannah paused. “How about if I try? She won’t recognize my number. Maybe she’ll pick up.”
Meg winced.
“Sorry! That sounded bad.”
“No, you’re right,” Meg said. “It’s worth a try. Thank you.” She stared at the hospital tray table, mentally placing Becca on Jesus’ lap before reciting her number.
Hannah sat forward in the vinyl chair, elbows on her knees, phone pressed to her ear. It’s ringing, she mouthed. Meg tugged at her hospital gown. She couldn’t decide if she was hot or cold. “May I speak with Becca Crane please?”
Someone had answered. Oh, God.
“Hi, Becca”—Hannah sat back in the chair so Meg could see her face while she talked—“my name is Hannah Shepley, and I’m a friend of your mom’s, and I’m calling because . . . No, that’s not it”—her voice crescendoed slightly—“no . . . that’s not why . . .” Hannah knitted her brow together and turned slightly away from Meg. “I’m calling because your mom has been trying to reach you. She�
��s very sick and—” Hannah stopped abruptly, her lips pursed. Usually, Hannah had firm control over her facial expressions. Not now. “Do you want me to give you the details, Becca, or do you want me to pass the phone to your mom?”
Meg tightened her grip on Katherine’s wooden cross as another chasm of silence opened and threatened to swallow her whole. Jesus. Please.
With her free hand, Hannah grasped the back of her neck. “Your mom has cancer, Becca. A very aggressive form of cancer.” More silence. And then, “Okay. Hold on.” She stood and handed the phone to Meg.
Meg tried to speak but couldn’t find her voice.
“Mom?”
“Becca . . .” Two syllables. That’s all she could manage.
“Mom, are you there?”
Meg choked back tears, forgetting that Becca couldn’t see her bobbing head. She gave the phone back to Hannah and pressed the cross against her chest, watching the IV tubes pump fluid into her body.
“Becca, it’s Hannah again. Your mom’s trying to talk to you, but she’s having trouble getting the words out, so I’m going to give you some details, and then you can call your mom back in a little while on her phone, okay?”
Meg listened to Hannah narrate some other woman’s story: aggressive cancer, too advanced for chemotherapy, doctors saying three to four months to live. Hannah was the pastor now, soothing a girl who had evidently disintegrated into hysterics four thousand miles away.
Emmanuel.
You are with us.
“Tell you what,” Hannah was saying, “you keep my number, and you call me anytime, okay? Anytime. I know your mom really wants to talk to you, Becca. She’s doing okay right now—she is. They’ve got her stable, and they’re taking really good care of her. Really good care. And they think she’ll be able to go home in a couple of days. . . . No, I know. We can figure all that out, okay? I know. . . . Okay.”
Meg reached for the phone again.
“Here, I’ll put your mom on for just a minute, all right?”
Meg took as deep a breath as she could. “I love you, Becca. I love you so much.”
“Mom?” Becca was sobbing, gulping big breaths of air. “Mom, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—I didn’t know, Mom—”
If only she could calm and quiet her weeping child against her breast. Instead, they wept their salty tears together, the vast ocean between them shrinking as they poured their grief into a common cup of sorrow and regret.
Hannah
When an unfamiliar number appeared on Hannah’s caller ID, she and Nathan were sitting in the hospital lounge, drinking chai tea he had brought from Starbucks. As soon as Hannah answered the phone, a woman identifying herself as Rachel Fowler asked if this was a bleeping joke. Lung cancer? Her sister had never smoked a day in her life. How could her sister have lung cancer?
Hannah said she didn’t know. But no, it wasn’t a joke. She wished it were. She desperately wished it were all a big mistake.
One more parting gift from their mother, Rachel said. It had to be their mother’s fault. There was no other explanation. All the years of secondhand smoke—maybe she should go in for some kind of scan, make sure she didn’t have it too.
Hannah said that might be a good idea.
If Rachel asked how her sister was doing—if she expressed any regret or sorrow at all—Hannah couldn’t remember after she hung up the phone. She promised to keep Rachel updated with details, and yes, she thought Meg would appreciate a visit once she was home from the hospital. “That’s it,” she said to Nathan. “That’s all she said.”
Nathan shook his head slowly. “Families,” he murmured.
She also filled him in about her phone call with Becca, how she had barely been able to keep control of her anger in front of Meg. She put you up to calling me? Becca had exclaimed. I told her, I’m not talking. I can’t believe she’d try to trick me by getting a friend to call!
Meanwhile in the background a man’s accented voice had commanded, Hang up the phone, Rebecca. Just hang up the phone.
Hannah had been afraid Becca was going to obey and hang up before she could give her the news.
“You think she’ll come visit?” Nathan asked.
“She wants to. As soon as possible.”
He set his cup down on a magazine-covered end table and clasped her hands in his, fiddling with her engagement ring. “No school will tell her she can’t. Family emergency.”
“I know. I told her we’d figure it out. She and Meg probably talked about it after I left the room, but I didn’t ask. Meg’s totally exhausted. And Becca has my number. I told her to call anytime.”
“Tough, tough road, Shep. For everybody.” He kissed her ring finger, leaving his lips pressed against her skin. She rested her face against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heartbeat in her head.
He pulled her closer.
Imagine you are at the end of your life, the discernment exercise instructions read. When you look back at this particular moment in time, what decision do you wish you had made? She had been pondering that question all day.
“Nate?”
“Hmmm?”
“What if we didn’t wait? To get married, I mean.”
He leaned back in his seat so he could look her square in the eye. But he didn’t respond.
“I mean, I’ve been thinking about how we know what we want, right? We want to be together. We believe God has brought us together. So why wait with a long engagement? Why not get married right away?” She struggled to read the expression in his eyes.
“Are you thinking this because of Meg?” he asked. “Because you’re hoping she can be in the wedding or—”
“No, not just that, though I want her to stand with us—I know how much it means to her. To me. But more than that. It’s not the wedding, Nate. It’s our life together. This is about starting our life together.”
“But what about Westminster? Did you already talk to Steve?”
“No.” Maybe Nate didn’t want to be married that quickly. Maybe he intended for them to wait a few years until Jake was older. “Forget it,” she said. “Bad idea.” She laced her fingers together and stared at her lap.
“No, Hannah.” He lifted her chin in his hand and kissed her. “No. It’s a great idea! I’m just surprised. I had no idea you were even considering that possibility. None at all. This is really what you want?”
“I want to be with you,” she said. “That’s all I know right now. And I don’t have a clue what that will mean for Chicago—maybe I could cut my hours to part time or something, commute back and forth for a while. I don’t know. But I don’t want to wait any longer than we have to. I want to be your wife.”
He enfolded her in his arms again. “I love you, Hannah,” he whispered. “More than you can possibly know. And you’ve made me the happiest man in the world. In the whole entire world.”
The two of them remained in the hospital lounge, talking about possibilities and praying about their next steps until visiting hours finished. Then Hannah returned to Meg’s room, quietly made up her couch with a blanket and pillow, and pressed her lips to the forehead of her sleeping friend, whose left hand gripped a wooden cross to her chest.
Tuesday, February 10
9 p.m.
I didn’t expect to cross another threshold tonight, but it suddenly became so clear. Lord, if I’ve run ahead of you, I’m sorry. But I keep thinking about standing before you someday, talking about this particular moment in time, and I am convinced that the best offering I can give you right now is my wholehearted Yes to the gifts of love you have given me. And you have given me life with Nate. I am my best self when I am with him. He reveals your heart to me. And if we believe you have called us to be one, then why wait any longer?
Nate’s going to talk with Jake tonight and make sure Jake is okay with us moving ahead quickly. I don’t want a fancy wedding. I think everything could be planned within the next couple of weeks. I told Nate we should count on the Holy Land trip being our hone
ymoon, but he said he wants to plan something else for us, even if it’s something local. Jake is going to be away in Florida with friends over spring break, so that might be a good window to celebrate together.
Nate and I talked a lot about “chronos” and “kairos” time tonight. We don’t have any control over chronos—time ticks away. But the clock set on Meg’s life has given me fresh eyes to see the kairos moments, the opportunities to live life to the full, to be totally awake to the presence of God and to the invitations God is giving moment by moment, to glimpse the bushes burning in the midst of our ordinary, daily routines and to pay attention, to take off our shoes and worship because the Most High is near. That’s how I want to live each day, Lord. Barefoot on holy ground. Because every square inch of ground here is holy if we have eyes to see. So give us eyes to see and hearts that respond. And tonight I say again, Hineni. Here I am.
I haven’t given up hope that you will do what the doctors say is impossible. I haven’t given up hope that Meg has more chronos than they believe. But whether we have decades or years or months or weeks or days or hours, help us live in kairos time, celebrating your good and generous gifts in the midst of the sorrow and confusion and suffering and pain. Show me how to be alongside my friend as she walks through the valley of the shadow. Shepherd us gently. And draw near to Becca, too. Do something extraordinary, Lord. Please.
I have a lot of phone calls to make tomorrow. I know people will be surprised, especially people in Chicago. Lord, please show me what you want regarding ministry there. Show me how to be faithful with everything you ask me to do. You have my Yes, Lord. And soon Nate and I will stand barefoot before you in the presence of people we love, and we’ll offer our Yes to you and to one another. On holy ground.
“You’re not doing this just because of me, are you?” Meg asked the next morning after Hannah told her the news.
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