Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Happy as she was to hear that Jeremy and Abby and Madeleine had worshiped with Charissa and John, she couldn’t help feeling a sting of rejection about her own church. It’s not that we don’t like it, Mom, Jeremy had said, but we want a place to explore what we believe without feeling like we’re disappointing you or anything. That’s all. She’d had visions of worshiping beside Jeremy and Abby. She’d imagined taking Madeleine to Sunday school and children’s programs. Still, she ought to be grateful they wanted to go to church. Maybe their faith would be awakened. She would email Ellen and tell her to keep praying for their family.

  “If you could help put the kitchen together,” Charissa said, “that would be great. Don’t bother with anything in the pantry—I’m pretty fussy about organizing that stuff—but I’ve got notes on the counter for where everything goes. And the boxes are already in there.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks, Mara.”

  “No problem. Glad to help.”

  With the rooms freshly painted in bright colors and the cabinets updated, the house already looked different from a week ago. But as Mara put away pots and pans and organized utensils and appliances, she couldn’t help thinking about Meg working in this same space years ago, cooking meals with Jim, washing dishes, putting dishes away. She wondered if Charissa would think about that, especially if Meg—

  “Hey, Mom!”

  “Jeremy! I didn’t know you were coming to help!”

  He embraced her. “Just for a little while. I promised Abby I’d take care of Maddie this afternoon so she can go out with some friends.”

  “I would have done that for you. You know I’m looking for any excuse to be with that baby.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty cute. Even when she keeps us up all night.”

  “It’ll pass.”

  “That’s what they keep telling us.”

  She motioned to the cabinets. “It looks amazing in here, Jeremy.”

  He beamed. “You like it?”

  “I can’t believe you got everything done so fast.”

  “Well, I didn’t have any other work to do, so . . .”

  She couldn’t worry about him finding work. She couldn’t worry about how they would make ends meet. She couldn’t. But she did.

  He read her thoughts and touched her cheek. “We’ll be okay, Mom. Don’t worry.” He leaned against the refrigerator. “So, any more info on the girlfriend?”

  “Nope. Nothing.” She had tried to wangle more information out of Kevin, but either he didn’t know anything else or he wasn’t willing to share what he knew. “They’ll be with him again next weekend. It’ll be interesting to hear what happens, if Kevin will keep narcing on him.”

  “Hope so,” Jeremy said. “Nothing would make me happier than seeing Tom go down. I’d love it if someone made his life hell. Can I pray for that?”

  She was going to say, Yes! Please do! But something caught in her spirit. Watch out for that root of bitterness, Miss Jada had said more than once. You pray for him. Pray hard. Not for God to punish him, but to rescue and save him, you hear?

  She heard. She didn’t like it, but she heard. “I don’t think God will answer that prayer, honey,” she said quietly. But there was another one she was fairly certain Jesus would put his name on. She just wasn’t sure she could ask him to do it.

  “Bummer,” Jeremy said before dashing into the other room to help steady a mattress that was about to topple over.

  Yeah, Mara thought as she put the forks away. Bummer.

  Meg

  The sales clerk at the bridal boutique only had to bring three dresses for Hannah to try on before she found the one that spoke to her: a simple A-line gown with lace cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. “You look like a princess,” Meg said, leaning forward in the chair outside the dressing room.

  Hannah twirled this way and that in front of multiple mirrors. “Do you really like it?”

  “It’s you, Hannah. It’s perfect for you. So elegant.”

  “This feels way too easy,” Hannah said, grinning. “Sold.”

  The sales clerk nodded. “And what about bridesmaids’ gowns?”

  Hannah gestured toward several racks. “I want you to pick whatever you want, Meg. And I’m buying it for you.”

  “Hannah—no! Of course you’re not.”

  “I am. It’s my gift to you.”

  “But you don’t have to—”

  “Uh-uh-uh—no arguing! Pick one.”

  Meg rose slowly. “What shade of blue?” she asked, shuffling toward the rack.

  “Whatever you like. I’m not fussy.”

  While Hannah changed out of her gown, Meg thumbed through dozens of different styles, finally landing on a sky blue chiffon. A memory stirred as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers and held it up to her shoulders. The dress. The most beautiful gown she’d ever seen. The one she’d saved for months to buy. The dress she had imagined wearing to the Valentine’s Day dance with Jim when they were fifteen. The dress she hadn’t bought because Mother hadn’t approved.

  “Oh! That’s pretty!” Hannah said when she emerged wearing her jeans and sweatshirt again. “Try it on!”

  “I don’t know . . . the neckline . . .” She had lost too much weight the past few weeks. She didn’t have the figure for that dress.

  “Please try it.”

  Meg found it in a smaller size and disappeared into the dressing room. As she stripped off her multiple layers of clothing, she avoided looking in the mirror at a body that had wasted away. The tears scalded her skin as she pulled the gown over her head.

  “How does it look?” Hannah called.

  Meg swished back the curtain.

  Hannah beamed at her in the mirror and touched a curl of her blonde hair. “You look beautiful,” she said. “The color is perfect on you. Just perfect. Do you like it?”

  Meg bit her lip and nodded. Jim would have loved the dress. He would have loved her in it.

  “You look like you’re ready for a wedding,” Hannah said.

  As Meg stared at her reflection, she heard a still small whisper from the Lover of her soul: Will you, beloved?

  Yes, she replied. I will.

  When Meg returned home, she hung her gown in her closet and sat down at her desk to write the words she’d never been able to say.

  Dear Mother,

  I’ve put off writing this letter for too long, and I’m running out of time. I want to say that I forgive you, Mother. For everything. I forgive you for the love you withheld. I forgive you for being cold and distant, for being critical and condemning. I forgive you for not finding ways to love me as I longed to be loved. I release you. What you were unable to give me, God has given to me in abundance. I was not left abandoned. He has made His presence known to me in so many ways, through so many people, and I’m so grateful. No matter what happens, I have been healed. I have been loved.

  Rachel says my lung cancer is your fault. The air I breathed as a child was toxic. Maybe that’s true. I forgive you for that, too.

  I have no assurance about where your heart was with God. I hope you found peace. I hope you offered your yes to Jesus. I hope we will embrace like we never embraced here. I hope I will see you again.

  I loved you, Mama.

  Meg

  With a rattling breath, Meg crossed the hallway and slid the letter under her mother’s bedroom door, a door she had closed months ago after writing a goodbye letter to her father. She couldn’t bear the sight of their bed, not after learning from Loretta Anderson the details about her father’s death. As she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on the framed pencil sketch she’d hung on the door as a reminder of God’s care. Now she needed that reminder more than ever. She removed the picture of the Good Shepherd and carried it to her own room, where she placed it on her nightstand.

  The late afternoon sun lit the tops of the denuded trees, their bare branches like delicate bronze filigree on a mother-of-pearl sky. Meg glanced into the neighbors’ back
yard. She had planned to send a picture of the blooming cherry tree to Loretta in the spring. But maybe the tree’s vulnerability, with all visible signs of life concealed within, was the image worth capturing. Especially now.

  She opened her sketch pad and stood at her window, outlining the bent form of the tree and then shading it with loose, rapid strokes of her pencil. Resilient in hope, she scrawled at the bottom. She would send Loretta the drawing, along with a thank-you letter. Come to think of it, she still needed to call and tell her The News. But not now. She didn’t have the strength to make any more difficult phone calls or write any more emotional letters.

  She was just about to lie down when the doorbell rang, echoing in the foyer. For the past two days Hannah had served as gatekeeper, managing the flow of kindhearted visitors delivering meals and cards. “Can I see Mrs. Crane?” a child’s voice chirped.

  “Mrs. Crane is resting,” Hannah said, “but she’ll be so happy to hear that you stopped by to see her . . . and that you brought something special for her.”

  “I made this for her ’cause my mom said she’s real sick.”

  Chloe. “I’m awake!” Meg called. “Hold on—I’m coming!” She tottered toward the stairs and gripped the railing to steady herself. Chloe stood on the welcome mat, eyes widening when she saw her teacher moving so tentatively. Before Meg reached the bottom step, Chloe, clutching a homemade card and a dripping bouquet of daffodils wrapped with a paper towel and rubber band, raced toward her. Meg buried her face in Chloe’s hair as the little girl threw her arms around her waist.

  “I made you this,” Chloe said, patting the bottom step for Meg to sit down beside her.

  On the front of the card was a drawing of some music notes and a backwards treble clef, along with two stick figures: a girl and a woman holding hands next to a piano. Both were smiling. Meg opened it: I luv you Misus Crayn. You ar my favrit teachr. I luv you. Chloe

  “It’s beautiful, honey. Thank you so much. You’re such a good artist.”

  “I know.” Chloe handed the flowers to Meg and wiped her damp hands on her tights. Meg stroked the golden frills of Jim’s favorite flower. “My mom says you’re real sick.”

  “Pretty sick.”

  “Like where?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Like your head or your stomach or something?”

  Meg pointed to her chest.

  “Like when you were coughing a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “My mom said you might not get better.”

  “Chloe, I think your mom’s waiting for you,” said Hannah.

  Meg signaled that it was okay. “Your mom’s right, Chloe. I might not get better.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Yes. Sometimes. And then I remember that Jesus is with me, and I don’t feel as scared.”

  Chloe nodded like she understood. “Can I play you my songs?”

  “I’d love to hear your songs, sweetheart.”

  Chloe took Meg by the hand and led her to the music room, where Meg placed Chloe’s card with others on top of the piano. Then she sank into the recliner, clutching her flowers to her chest.

  Chloe’s music, even with her imperfect counting, had never sounded so beautiful.

  Charissa

  Charissa and John sat at their dining room table in their new house, feasting on microwave lasagna by candlelight. “We’re home,” John said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Charissa was amazed by how much had been accomplished in a little over a week: floors restored, walls painted, cabinets updated, furniture placed, most large boxes unpacked. Mara had put together the entire kitchen. “Guess the only thing left is painting our baby’s room,” Charissa said. By the end of the week, they would know what color.

  “Want to make a bet on that color?” John asked.

  “Sky blue,” she said.

  “No way, baby. Pink. Bright pink.”

  “You think so, huh?” She was pretty sure it was a boy. A gut feeling. She extended her arm across the table for a handshake. “Okay, you’re on.”

  “What am I going to win?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Here’s how positive I am that it’s a boy. If it’s a girl, I’ll go with you to Pizza Depot and sit in that disgusting restaurant and actually eat a piece.”

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t subject our baby to that.” He was still holding her hand. “But how about this? If it’s a boy, I’ll let you choose the middle name.”

  She leaned forward and tweaked his ear with her free hand. “You’re a funny guy. But no deal. If it’s a boy, it’s Ethan.”

  “I was thinking Matthew,” he said.

  “So we agree on t-h. That’s a start.” She took another small bite of lasagna. Ethan would probably make her pay for it with heartburn later.

  “And what about if it’s a girl?” John asked.

  “It’s not a girl.”

  “Humor me. Give me some names.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Then I’ll give you mine,” he said. “Bethany.”

  She turned it over in her mind. Bethany Sinclair. Not bad. “Any others?”

  “Nope. Just Bethany.”

  “We have a thing for t-h sounds, huh?” she said. “Guess if I’m this set on Ethan, Bethany works for me. But it isn’t going to be a girl.”

  “We’ll see,” John said, and reached for another roll.

  Hannah

  Saturday, February 14

  10 p.m.

  After a really nice day shopping with Meg for gowns and then dinner out with Nate, I just picked up an email from Nancy that has me shaking inside. With everything else going on, I completely forgot to call her and tell her about the engagement and wedding. She heard the news from Steve, and she’s hurt. Deeply hurt. She said she “thought we were friends.” And she reminded me—rightly—that when I was out in Oregon, I lied to her about being in a relationship with someone. Not only that, but I asked her to dispel rumors for me at the church. She feels betrayed. Said how stupid it makes her look. And she’s angry. Really angry.

  I wrote back a few lines to say how sorry I am and that I’ll call her tomorrow. I don’t want to have this conversation by email. But oh, how I dread having it by phone. Lord, help. And forgive me, please. I don’t know how I’m going to make this right by her. I feel sick. After all her generosity in providing a beautiful place for me to stay during my sabbatical, this is how I regard her in return. Selfish, Lord. So selfish. I’m sorry. If only I hadn’t been so interested in preserving my privacy. If only I hadn’t been so juvenile.

  There’s no way through it but through it. Honestly and humbly. I messed up. Nate was his usual incisive self on the phone when I called to tell him. Asked me whether I was more upset about my own faults or her hurt. Chagrin. That’s the word that came to mind as we talked. I’m feeling chagrined. He reminded me—gently—that shock over our own sin is a manifestation of pride, a love of our own excellence. So the invitation is not to be surprised by our faults, but to confess them. Quickly. And receive grace.

  I don’t know if Nancy will be able to offer grace and forgiveness to me. But I’ll seek it, Lord. Thank you for your grace and forgiveness. Please help us be reconciled. I name that my sin has hurt her. I feel sad for that. Very sad. Help.

  Hineni, Lord. Here I am.

  Nathan rose from the table to clear away their lunch dishes after worship. “I’ll get these,” Hannah said as he reached for her plate. It was the first time she had been in his house—soon to be their house—since setting the wedding date, and she had watched Jake carefully during their meal, dissecting every facial expression, every tone of voice, trying to discern if he felt any resentment about her joining their family. She hadn’t perceived any. He was his usual relaxed self, joking with his dad about wearing a tux and talking about their adventure in the Holy Land. “Guess I’m getting my own room there now!” Jake had quipped while they ate. Hannah nearly spit out her water. And then they all laughed.

 
“Hannah’s got to make a phone call which might take a little while,” Nathan said to Jake. “You mind hanging out upstairs or in the basement for a bit?”

  “Sorry, Jake,” Hannah interjected, “don’t mean to ostracize you.”

  “No, it’s okay. Can I play video games?”

  Nathan hesitated, then nodded. “For an hour.”

  Hannah walked over to the sink.

  “Just leave them,” Nathan said. “I’ll load the dishwasher after you’re done.”

  She stared at the stack of plates and cluttered stovetop. His small kitchen didn’t have much counter space. “I’ll feel better if I clean up first,” she said. “Clears my head.”

  He shrugged and opened the dishwasher, which was already crammed with unrinsed plates, bits of food caked onto surfaces. She began scraping their lunch dishes off into the sink. “No garbage disposal,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Oh! Sorry!” She tore a paper towel off the dispenser and started picking the scraps out.

  “Hannah, I’ll get it. Go sit down.”

  He probably didn’t intend to sound like a sergeant giving orders. She kept wiping out the sink.

  “Please, Hannah. I said I’d do it.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” She rinsed off her hands and cast about for a towel.

  He pointed. “That drawer,” he said, reading her thoughts.

  “Thanks.” She removed a ragged towel and made a mental note to bring her own collection from her house. Or buy some new ones.

  “Want me to pray for you before you call her?” Nathan asked.

  Nodding, she draped the towel over the sink. He placed his hand on her shoulder and asked God to guide her thoughts and give her peace. But her stomach was churning when she picked up the phone.

  Nancy pulled no punches, repeating what she had communicated in the email. She was hurt. Angry. Felt betrayed and disappointed. And it wasn’t just her, she said. The whole congregation was shocked. Or at least, the people she had spoken to that morning. They felt betrayed, like Hannah had been dishonest about taking their gift, that it was now clear she had never intended to return there to ministry but had coordinated the sabbatical as a way to meet up again with Nathan after being separated for so many years. “I told them that wasn’t the case,” Nancy said. “Or at least, I didn’t think it was. But for some people, it just seems too big a coincidence.”