Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  No one can replace our Hannah! her father’s voice said. No one has a better work ethic than Hannah.

  He was wrong.

  “Hannah?”

  “Mm-hmm?” She wasn’t going to cry on the phone. Was not.

  “Here’s what I don’t want,” Steve said. “I don’t want you coming back here just because you feel obligated. That won’t serve anyone well. When we gave you the sabbatical, we gave it as a gift.”

  She stared at the lobby fountain, where a little girl tossed in a coin and then reached for another from her mom, hand open, face expectant. Hannah steadied herself with a quiet breath. “I always planned to come back, Steve. I planned to come back and work out the fruit of what God has been doing in me—the Lord has been doing so much in me—and I’d planned to come back after being pruned and to practice working out all the new rhythms of my life with God, to help others glimpse his love in new ways. That’s what I was planning, Steve. That’s what I planned.”

  “I know,” he said. “And that’s a good end to a good story. But is it your story, Hannah?”

  Her gaze shifted toward the elevator bay, where Mara and Charissa stood together, arms linked, waiting to go up to Meg’s room. They obviously hadn’t seen Hannah in her secluded corner. As she watched the elevator doors close behind them, she knew. She knew the answer to Steve’s question.

  “My life is here,” she said, clutching her ring finger. “It’s here.”

  Thursday, February 12

  7 a.m.

  I didn’t sleep well. Much as I know I made the right decision—that this is the decision these months have been leading me toward—I still feel sick to my stomach every time I imagine writing a resignation letter.

  Steve said he’ll talk to the elders about the process, but he doesn’t think they’ll object to me ending the sabbatical early, that perhaps the church can pay my salary and benefits for another month and then call it done. He assures me there will be no hard feelings—that he has no hard feelings about anything, that he’s delighted by what the Lord has opened for me and that he wishes me all the very best. Even said he hoped I’d let them host a wedding shower or reception as a way to celebrate our new life together and to thank me for everything I’ve given them over the years.

  When I said I felt guilty about all the money the church had invested in my resting, he said to consider it six months of unused vacation time, accrued over fifteen years. I guess that’s one way to look at it. Guess I don’t feel quite as guilty if I think of it that way.

  But I didn’t expect it all to come to an end so suddenly. I thought we would find a way to transition slowly. Steve’s right. I’ve never been one to move quickly. Except when I fled from Nate years ago. I’m much more comfortable with slowness. I’ve always taken very careful, prudent steps.

  And now I’m gripped with fear. What if no opportunities for ministry open in Kingsbury? What if my days as a pastor are over? Then what?

  I can’t take it back now. I can’t call Steve and say, “Wait—I’ve changed my mind.” Because that would mean changing my mind about Nate. And I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.

  Maybe what I wanted was for Steve to say, “You know what? You’re so valuable to us that we’ll do absolutely everything we can to make this work. You want to work part time? No problem. We just want you to stay.”

  That’s not what he said. And if I’m honest, I have to admit it’s a big blow to my ego. It has me second-guessing how valuable I was in the first place. I thought I’d reached a place of rest, knowing I wasn’t indispensable in ministry. But now that I see how replaceable I actually am, it stings. And I find myself wondering, did they want me to return? Or were they hoping I wouldn’t? How long was it before someone suggested that Heather could easily take over and—it hurts to voice this—be even more fruitful in ministry than I was? I’m seeing how much my pride is wrapped up in all of this, and I don’t like it.

  It just hit me. Selling my house. For the past six months I’ve lived as a guest in Nancy’s cottage. In Meg’s house. Suddenly, I have a longing to drive to Chicago and be in my house. But the intern is in my house. And in my office. And I will be moving into Nate’s house. And I’ll never have my own space again.

  God, help. I write those words and realize that I’m going to have to die many deaths in order to live into this next phase of life. I’m going to need to die as a single woman in order to live as a married one. That sounds so selfish and melodramatic when I name it. But it’s true. And I’m the one who pushed things ahead. What was I thinking?

  Help, Lord. Help.

  I just looked again at Wesley’s prayer of surrender. “I am no longer my own, but thine.” I am no longer my own. I’m not just saying that to you, Lord—I’ve promised to say it to Nate now, too. I am no longer my own. But yours. And his. I haven’t even begun to see the depth of what it means to say that I am not my own, that I belong to someone else. God, help.

  Another line strikes me, too: “I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.” Disposal. Can I really yield all things to your disposal? My call, my ministry, my house, my things, and trust you to give me everything I need if you dispose of everything I’ve had?

  God, help. I want to freely and heartily yield all things. I do. But my soul is divided.

  So I guess that’s what I offer you. My fear and my desire. Take, Lord. Receive. And help me receive and release all things with open hands. Please. “Thou art mine, and I am thine.” Let me find my rest and joy and peace there. And return me to the rest and joy and peace of offering that same vow to Nate.

  I feel like I’ve leapt off a cliff into the unknown, and there’s no going back. I’m in freefall right now, waiting for a parachute to open. Hoping the parachute opens. Hoping this is a tandem jump.

  Help me trust you, Lord. Please.

  Mara

  Having discovered the pleasure of being outside before snowblowers disturbed the muffled silence and before footprints sullied new-fallen snow, Mara rose early to take Bailey for his walk. Flashlight in hand, cell phone and plastic bags in her coat pocket, she traipsed behind him as he tugged on the leash, dragging her through the cul-de-sac, down the main access road through their subdivision, and into the park, where empty swings creaked on chains rattled by the wind and a tetherball clinked against a pole. She had pushed her boys on those swings. She had sat on that particular bench, watching them compete and argue about who could swing higher, who could punch the ball harder and faster. She had frequently yelled at Kevin to be careful—not to knock Brian in the head.

  She batted the ball around the pole while Bailey sniffed around a bush. She hadn’t slept well. The more Mara thought about Kevin’s news, the angrier she became. Did Tom really think the boys wouldn’t tell her about having dinner with a girlfriend and her kids? Did he think he had that kind of control over them, to keep them silent, or did he want Mara to find out? Kevin hadn’t actually said whether Tom had commanded him to keep a secret. Tom was clearly up to something.

  What was he trying to pull, introducing their boys to a girlfriend when their divorce wasn’t even final? And how dare he play financial games with her—financial games that could impact their sons—while he fooled around with a woman with three kids and a fourth on the way? And whose kid was it, anyway? If Kevin said Tiffany “looked pregnant,” then she was at least a few months along, which meant that if it was Tom’s baby, he’d been with her a while. Not that that would come as any shock. She had always assumed he had women on the side but had never caught him.

  She’d stayed up way too late doing online legal research. Though Michigan was a “no-fault divorce” state, one of the websites claimed that fault could be considered in the granting of alimony and the division of property, “if the behavior led to the destruction of the marriage” or if the conduct had been “egregious under the circumstances.” Tom had done many “egregious” things, but nothing she could prove. And she couldn’t honestly claim t
hat this bimbo—whoever she was—had led to the breakdown of their marriage. Still, if she could somehow use it against Tom, if she could find a way to punish him, to make sure she and the boys would be financially secure—even comfortable—then she’d do it. She’d take him down. And he’d regret ever messing with her.

  She struck the ball harder and faster, watching it coil around the pole, ducking her head out of the way until the rope was completely wound up. Then she watched the captive, suspended ball slowly unwind again. “C’mon, Bailey,” she said, tugging on the leash. Maybe she should use the boys’ punching bag in the basement for therapy.

  If only she didn’t have to wait another two weeks to see Dawn! How was she going to keep track of everything she needed to talk about? For starters, she should probably write things down, much as she disliked journaling.

  She trailed Bailey up the hill. Now that she thought about it, Brian had been very quiet the past few days. No arguing, no door slamming, no interaction at all. Even if she tried to talk to him and squeeze out information about how he felt about his father and the girlfriend, it wouldn’t work. Brian never confided in her, not even when he was a little boy. Well, he had once, when he was in kindergarten or first grade. He had a crush on a little girl named Zoe, and when he told Mara he wanted to marry her, Mara laughed and said little boys couldn’t marry little girls. And come to think of it, had she ever seen him cry again after that? He thought she was laughing at him, making fun of him. And he never told her anything about crushes on little girls again. Or about anything else, really.

  Dawn would remind her to forgive herself and pray for him. Katherine would remind her to keep watch for God to appear in the middle of the crap of her family life. Except Katherine wouldn’t say “crap.”

  How quickly she forgot everything she’d pondered about Jesus being born in the middle of a mess, about Jesus being born in her, about being chosen and loved and favored to bear Christ. She suffered from menopause brain fog when it came to remembering important insights about her life with God. She really needed to write things down. Like Meg. Like Hannah. She didn’t think Charissa was much of a journaler either, but Charissa was young and smart and could remember things.

  And thinking of writing—Bailey stopped walking, finally finding a suitable place to do his business—she really needed to write that letter to Tess and get it over with. She still wasn’t sure she would mail it when she was done, but she needed to write it so she could move on. Bailey kicked up his legs, marking his territory in the snow. Mara stooped and picked up the poop with the bag; Bailey wagged his tail at her. At least somebody appreciated her cleaning up messes. “C’mon, little dog,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  With the boys still in bed—yet another snow day—Mara made herself a cup of hot chocolate without marshmallows, tore a piece of paper off a yellow legal pad, and began to write.

  Dear Tess,

  Thirty years ago I stole something precious away from you. I was so in love with your husband and so in love with our baby that I never thought about what I took away from you. You had every right to be angry when you found out. And I want you to know I’m sorry for what I did. I can’t say I’m sorry about what came from it. My son Jeremy is one of the best gifts in my life, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything. But even though God redeemed what I did, what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you. Please forgive me.

  Sincerely,

  Mara

  She read the letter four times, folded the paper into thirds, and sealed it in an envelope. What did she have to lose? Maybe it was cowardly not to sign her last name or list her return address. But she didn’t know how Tess would respond. And like Miss Jada said, you had to be careful and safe about these kinds of things. So she would send it off and leave the rest up to God. And hopefully, it would be a gift to Tess.

  She stared at the legal pad again. Dump the junk, a voice said in her head. Dump the junk.

  Fine. She’d dump it.

  Tom,

  I hate you. I loathe and despise you. If I could figure out a worse word, I’d use it. I hate what you did to me. You raped me. You stole a child from me. I hate you. This is me telling you where to go. I want you to suffer. I want you to pay for everything you’ve done. If I could do something to destroy you, I would. I hope that everything you’ve done comes back to bite you. Everything.

  Mara

  One of the boys stirred upstairs. She leaned forward and fed the paper into the shredder beside her desk, taking pleasure in watching the words disappear with a grinding whir. Maybe this was just as therapeutic as a punching bag. She ripped off another sheet from the pad.

  Tom,

  I wish I had never married you. I was a fool to try to trap you. A stupid fool to get pregnant so that you would marry me and rescue me and Jeremy. I regret it.

  Kevin trundled down the stairs yawning, his red hair sticking straight up. “Hey, Kev,” she said, flipping the paper over on her desk. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

  Bailey trotted over to him. Kevin knelt and patted his chest. Bailey jumped up, paws on each of Kevin’s stooped shoulders, and licked his face. “Nah, I got it.”

  While Kevin rummaged around in the kitchen for cereal, Mara turned the letter over and read it again. If she hadn’t—

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to Crossroads today?”

  “Yeah, to help with lunch. Why?”

  “Scottie says his mom already talked to Miss Jada, and he’s going there today to do some of his hours and wondered if I wanted to come too. I could show him around and stuff.”

  “You’d have to come with me at eleven. I can’t be running back and forth.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Okay? “And I’m gonna need help with the driveway.”

  “It’s Brian’s turn.”

  She sighed. “Work it out with him, then.”

  “Why can’t you tell him?” Kevin said, a whine in his voice.

  He had a point. She needed to stop being afraid of Brian’s anger. That’s what Dawn would probably say. Fine. She would give him another hour to sleep and then wake him up. When Kevin disappeared to the kitchen, she stared at the paper again. Another one for the shredder; another sheet from the pad.

  Tom,

  I wish I had never married you. I was a fool to try to trap you by getting pregnant with Kevin. But even though I regret what I did, I don’t regret Kevin. I love my son. I am grateful for his life. I am glad God redeemed what I did. I am glad God forgave me. I forgive myself.

  I don’t forgive you.

  Mara

  She listened to the whir of the shredder again. At least she saw her own resistance. Dawn and Katherine would both say that was progress. Probably enough progress for a day.

  Charissa

  Charissa sat behind a desk in an empty classroom, poring over the “If I only had forty days” essays students had submitted online. Predictably, Justin Caldwell had written about blowing all his money on a sports car and driving friends to Las Vegas for one last hurrah. But the hedonist wrote with flair; she had to give him that. Many of his classmates’ essays, though containing honest, thoughtful, even heartrending content about myriad sorrows and regrets, were barely passable with regard to basic grammar. She would have to take them back to Strunk and White again. And what should she do about Ben DeWitt? He had entirely disregarded her instructions, choosing instead to submit an excellent analysis of Frost’s poem, along with an explanatory note: he had followed the instructions on the syllabus and had completed his paper early. He didn’t have time to rewrite it.

  Punk kid.

  “Mrs. Sinclair?”

  Charissa looked up into the tentative face of a student who had never spoken in class. “Hi, Sidney.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, come on in. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m really sorry, but I need to ask for an extension on my essay.”

&n
bsp; Charissa, in all her years of schooling, had never once asked for an extension on a deadline. These freshmen would have to learn the hard way, how to budget their time and create margin for unforeseen circumstances. She didn’t have much tolerance for—

  “My mom called yesterday to tell me that she has breast cancer, and I was up all night crying, and my roommate said I should talk to you about turning in my paper late, and I’m really sorry it’s not done, but I’m really freaked out about my mom, and I keep thinking about that ‘if we only have forty days’ thing, because now, what if it’s real, you know? And it’s just me and my mom—she doesn’t have anyone with her right now—and my roommate says I should just fly home and be with her, but I’m not sure what to do and—”

  Somewhere in London a girl not much older than Sidney was probably feeling just as frantic. “I’m so sorry, Sidney.” Charissa reached into her purse and offered her student a pack of tissues. “Don’t worry about your paper, all right? Just figure out how to get home. What can I do to help?”

  Not much, it seemed. Except listen. Empathize. Encourage. Pray.

  “Am I allowed to give you a hug?” Sidney asked when Charissa finished praying for her. Sidney dampened Charissa’s shoulder with her tears and exited the room as the rest of the class straggled in.

  Straightening her lecture notes on the podium, Charissa took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

  Meg

  February had never appeared so dazzling to Meg, the snow-flecked grasses shimmering in the sunlight and the arcing purple branches of wild black raspberry intertwined like a lattice border around a grove of white birch trees. The frozen puddles near the hospital exit had been airbrushed with delicate strokes, like etched antique glass. She stooped to press the surface lightly, the water swishing beneath, and gave God thanks for that particular glimpse of beauty.