Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Hannah was too stunned to respond. In all of her imagining about what rumors could fly, this one had never occurred to her.

  “And I’ve got to tell you, Hannah, I even heard someone suggest—I won’t say who—but someone thought that maybe the out-of-the-blue wedding is because—”

  Don’t say it, Hannah silently commanded. Don’t. Say. It.

  “—you’re pregnant. So I at least tried to squash that one. Hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and told them it was impossible, that you’d had a hysterectomy.”

  Oh, God.

  Nathan, unable to track any of the conversation because of her silence, raised a quizzical eyebrow at her from across the room.

  Throat burning, she shook her head and mimed, Pray for me.

  Sunday, February 15

  7 p.m.

  I did what I needed to do. I asked for Nancy’s forgiveness without trying to offer excuses about why I did what I did. And it was hard. So hard. She never actually said that she accepted my apology or that she forgave me—just that things had changed between us, and she was sorry for that. She said she and Doug will come up to their cottage in March and transition it over to use by their family. I thanked her for her generosity in providing that space for me and invited her to the wedding. I don’t think she’ll come.

  Nate and I talked a long time about it. Actually, most of the time, he just held me while I cried. I have no control over what people say, what they believe about me. But what cuts so deeply right now is that for some of the people at Westminster, my whole sense of integrity has been called into question. All my years of faithfulness and commitment, of pouring myself out—it doesn’t matter. They will believe what they will believe.

  Nate wants to go down with me next month when I clean out my office and meet with a realtor. But given all that’s happened with Nancy and all the rumors swirling around the church, there’s no way I’m going to let them throw us a wedding reception. I don’t even think I could manage a goodbye party.

  All of this feels like one more death, and this one crushes me. I have to let my reputation as a devoted, faithful servant die. It kills me, Lord. This one cuts deep. As deep as anything I’ve ever known.

  I don’t want to surrender my honor to you, Lord. I don’t want to die to how others view me. Help me, Jesus. Not this death. Please.

  Meg

  The more Meg thought about it, the angrier she became about Simon traveling with Becca. It didn’t matter that Becca and Simon understood he was unwelcome at the house or anywhere near her. Simon had managed to steal one more thing away from her: the opportunity to meet Becca at the airport later that afternoon.

  She hated him.

  She folded up her sketch of the stooped cherry tree and placed it in an envelope along with a thank-you letter she’d managed to write to Loretta Anderson that morning. She’d call her with The News after Becca’s visit, and they could cry together on the phone.

  Resilient in suffering, resilient in hope.

  Oh, for that kind of testimony.

  “I can go pick them up,” Hannah said when she entered the kitchen. “He’s staying somewhere near the airport. I can drop him off and then bring Becca here.”

  Meg hated that idea. Becca would want to show him the house. She would want to give him a tour of Kingsbury. She would probably want to have dinner with him. Even after his train left for Chicago in the morning, he would cast his shadow over them with his texts and phone calls until the two of them left together on the red-eye Saturday night.

  It was very selfish of Becca to invite him. Or to agree to his coming if he had invited himself. Especially when Becca knew how she felt about him, when Becca knew how she felt about the two of them being together—and now to rub her nose in it when she had only been given a few months to live? When this might be their last chance to be together and to say goodbye?

  Meg didn’t have the energy to be angry. And she didn’t know how not to be.

  Inhale: Emmanuel.

  Exhale: You are with us.

  And then a fit of coughing that hurt her chest. Help. She took a small sip of water.

  “I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Hannah said, “but I didn’t know what to say when she told me their plans. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Meg replied. “I guess I should be grateful she’s coming and leave it at that.” She wrapped her prayer shawl more tightly around her shoulders and gripped her cross.

  Hannah said, “I moved all of my things out of Becca’s room and into Rachel’s old room. She’s not coming this week, is she?”

  “Not unless she surprises me,” Meg said, “which she has been known to do.” Rachel hadn’t committed to any kind of visit, though she had actually called a couple of times. At this point, Meg was grateful even for small talk with her. “Stay in that room, Hannah. The only other option would be my parents’ room, and I don’t want you to have to be in there.”

  While Hannah headed upstairs to vacuum, Meg tried to decide what to do. If she felt too weak to go to the airport, that would be one thing. But she had actually enjoyed a bit of renewed energy the past few days, and now to be denied the opportunity to greet Becca not because she felt unwell but because she couldn’t stomach seeing Simon seemed particularly cruel.

  She pondered taking two cars to the airport. She would embrace Becca when she emerged from the concourse, coolly greet Simon, and once he had his suitcase, Hannah could whisk him away.

  But then Becca would be resentful, and they would waste precious minutes when every minute counted. And if every minute counted, then she needed to be at the airport.

  “I’m going,” she said when Hannah came back downstairs in search of a dust cloth.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “I don’t think so. But thank you. I think this is something I need to do by myself.”

  “If you change your mind . . .”

  “I know. Thanks, Hannah.” She glanced at the clock. Simon had already stolen hours of emotional energy. She wasn’t going to give him any more.

  They emerged from the concourse holding hands. But as soon as Becca’s large doe eyes met Meg’s, she dropped Simon’s hand and raced toward her mother, halting in her tracks when she drew near enough to be jolted by Meg’s altered appearance. Meg wished she had strength enough to scoop her daughter into her arms. Instead, Becca embraced her as if she were holding a baby bird, newly hatched. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Becca said, arms still barely touching Meg’s shoulders.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Meg replied, stroking Becca’s short, spiky hair. The small gold nose ring had been replaced by a large silver one, and both ears were studded with multiple piercings along the cartilage. “Thanks for coming, honey.”

  Becca let go, visibly uneasy about how to include Simon in the greeting. Simon, whose gray hair now touched the top of his collar—had he set his sights on a ponytail?—stood a few feet away, his tweed coat and leather briefcase slung over his shoulder.

  “Hello, Simon.”

  “Mrs. Crane.”

  “Meg, please.”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Pippa said to tell you hello, that she’s sending you positive energy,” Becca said.

  “That’s very kind of her. Please thank her for me.”

  Becca gently wove her arm through Meg’s. “The food on the plane was rubbish,” she said, “so I told Simon we’d stop somewhere for something. Too bad Kingsbury doesn’t have any good curry. I could really go for some chicken tikka right now. What sounds good to you, Simon?”

  How about room service at the hotel? Meg silently suggested.

  “I quite fancy one of those hamburgers you’ve raved about.”

  “Oh—right! From Bud’s, Mom. Could we stop there on the way to the house?”

  Becca had evidently misinterpreted the airport welcome as an acceptance of Simon’s presence. Meg would quickly d
isabuse them of that notion. “I’m happy to drive there and get food to go before dropping Simon off at his hotel. The Holiday Inn, right?”

  Becca and Simon exchanged pointed glances. “Correct,” Simon said.

  “I hope you enjoy your time in Chicago,” Meg said as she led them to baggage claim. “I checked with the hotel, and they do have a shuttle in the morning to the train station, so you’ll be all set.”

  Simon appeared at a loss for words. Good.

  “I’m going to stay at the hotel with Simon tonight, Mom, after you and I have some time together, and then I’ll come back to the house after he leaves in the morning.”

  It was Meg’s turn to be at a loss for words.

  Hannah

  The front door opened, and Becca entered without luggage, wearing high heel boots, tights, and a short coat over a miniskirt. “I wish you could have just tried to be polite to him, Mom, to carry on some kind of conversation. It was really awkward.”

  Hannah ducked into the laundry room and began opening cupboards and shutting drawers, making a pretense of being occupied with a particular task.

  “I don’t have the energy to argue with you, Becca. You said Simon would be doing his own thing while he’s here. I can’t have you change plans on me like that. It’s not fair. We’ve got a limited amount of time together and—”

  “I know, okay? I know that. We’ll have time, Mom. He’s going to be gone all week.”

  Her boots clicked on the hardwood floor. “Oh, hey,” Becca said when Hannah exited the laundry room.

  “Hey, Becca. Nice to meet you finally.”

  “You too.”

  “Good flight?”

  “Yeah, okay. Just long.” She removed her coat and draped it over the bannister. Meg was still near the front door, trying to unlace her boots. “You okay, Mom?” Becca walked over to Meg and knelt down in front of her. “Here—let me do it. They’re all knotted.”

  Meg leaned against the wall. Becca fiddled with the laces until she loosened them enough for Meg to wiggle her feet out, her hand on Becca’s shoulder for balance.

  “Have you got bags in the car?” Hannah asked. “I’ll bring them in for you.”

  “No,” Becca replied. “I’m staying at the hotel tonight, and then I’ll come here tomorrow.”

  Ahhh. Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears and fiddled with her earrings. “Well, I’m going to stay out of your way, make sure the two of you have time to catch up. But if you need anything—”

  “Thanks, Hannah,” Meg said. “We’ll be okay.”

  Hope so, Hannah thought as she ascended the stairs.

  Tuesday, February 17

  10 p.m.

  Becca left a little while ago for the hotel. I can only imagine how hard it is for Meg to let her go her own way, especially now. She said she doesn’t have the energy to fight against Becca’s desires. Lord, help her. Help them.

  They spent hours together in the music room, talking and looking at the photo albums Meg has been putting together. I’m so glad they have this time. Meg wants to try to do as many fun things as possible this week, as much as her strength allows. I know she’s also hoping Becca will agree to go with her to the cemetery to visit Jim’s grave. So hard. For both of them. Charissa invited Becca to join us on Friday night when we meet at her house for prayer. It would give Becca a chance to see the place where her parents lived. I hope she’ll say yes. I don’t think Meg will come if Becca doesn’t want to be there. She wants to be with her every possible moment, especially before Simon returns on Saturday.

  I spent all afternoon thinking and praying about Nancy and Westminster. I don’t know how to let it go, Lord. I don’t know how to let go of my impulse to call the church and tell them to put out some kind of mass bulletin defending me and my reputation. I’ve composed a dozen letters in my head, and I know you’re not in any single one of them.

  I don’t know how you did it, Jesus. I don’t know how you remained silent when they falsely accused you. I don’t know how you kept from lashing out against them and defending your own integrity. I don’t know how you resisted the temptation to prove who you are. I’ve been reading those scenes again today, and I see with fresh eyes just how much I am not like you. I want to justify myself. I want people to think rightly about me. And yet I’m pretty convinced you’re asking me to pick up this particular cross and follow you to the death of my flesh here. I think you’re asking me to keep company with you in the discipline of silence in the face of false accusations. And this is where I don’t want to die, Lord. I don’t want to be pressed into cruciformity here.

  I just opened to Isaiah 53. Verse 7 jumps out at me: “He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.”

  Help, Lord. Teach me to die.

  Nate said he sees dying to self as a way of dying to the pictures of who we think we’re supposed to be, and of dying to the pictures we want others to have of us. Dying to self doesn’t bring annihilation, he said, but wholeness. I want to believe that, Lord. Give me courage to trust you in this dying.

  He also gave me a great story from the desert fathers about a young man who sought out Abba Macarius for wisdom about how to live his life in Christ. The old man told him to go to the cemetery and curse the dead and throw rocks at them. So he did. When he returned, the old man asked if the dead responded. The young man said no. They’re dead. So Abba Macarius told him to return to the cemetery and praise the dead. So he went and praised the dead for their faithfulness, then went back to Abba Macarius, who asked him if the dead responded. He said no. They’re dead. And then Abba Macarius said, Be like the dead. Take no account of either the scorn of men or their praise.

  I am not there, Lord. I am not dead to my own vanity and ego. Forgive me and set me free.

  It occurs to me as I write all of this that Jesus was mentored by two parents who were also willing to die to the reputation of being righteous and honorable. When Mary offered her yes, she was offering her willingness to be scorned and rejected and shamed. Her yes has a lot to teach me about this kind of dying. Her “Let it be to me according to your will” is the same sort of prayer Jesus offered in the garden. Not my will but yours, Lord.

  So I say hineni. Again. Not because I’m already willing to die this kind of death, but because I want to be willing to die to myself and live to you. Whatever that means. Help me trust you enough to submit to all the ways you are seeking to make me more like Jesus. Especially when everything in me wants to resist his way. Everything.

  Mara

  Mara had just turned the Crock-Pot stew to low heat when the doorbell rang. “Bailey, stop!” she commanded. Bailey stopped racing in circles, sat down, and looked up at her. “Good dog.” She stroked his head, grabbed his collar, and opened the door, still stooped over. “Jeremy!”

  “Hey, Mom.” He had his hands burrowed in his pockets. “Bad timing?”

  “Never bad timing for you, honey. C’mon in!” She picked Bailey up. “Can I get you something to eat? Beef stew tonight.”

  “No, that’s okay. Abby’s expecting me home soon.” He rubbed Bailey’s ear. “Can we sit down a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are the boys?”

  “Basketball practice.”

  Jeremy left his shoes by the front door but kept his coat on as he followed her to the couch.

  “You okay?” Mara asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Why? What happened?” In the ten seconds it took him to answer, Mara decided that he had lost his job entirely, that they were going to have to move away, and that she would not get to see Madeleine more frequently than once a year.

  “I got something in the mail today.” He reached into an inside coat pocket and took out a handwritten envelope addressed to Jeremy Payne.

  They weren’t moving. Thank God.

  “Did you write a letter t
o someone named Tess?” he asked.

  She looked at him, mystified. “Yes, but—”

  “She wrote back.”

  “What? How—” She reached for the envelope.

  He pressed it against his chest. “What did you write to her, Mom?”

  Mara raked her fingers through her hair. “A letter to ask for her forgiveness. I realized I took something precious away from her, and I had never apologized.” She still couldn’t figure out how Jeremy had gotten something from her. “I didn’t give my address,” she said. “I didn’t even write my last name. I just mailed the letter and hoped it would be some kind of gift to her.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “What? Let me see.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

  “I was going to burn it and never mention it, but Abby said you needed to know about it. She thought it was important for you to see it.” He was still clutching the envelope.

  “But I don’t understand how Tess would have tracked down—”

  “Kingsbury postmark and an Internet search. She knew my name.”

  A wave of nausea swept over her. “Jeremy, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for you to get involved. I was just trying to make amends, you know? Like one of those Twelve Steps you talk about.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He handed her the letter. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  She wiped the beads of sweat off her brow and removed a single sheet of white lined paper filled with the scrawl of an elderly woman’s hand. “Whore” was the mildest term Tess used. Every name Mara had ever been called, every accusation she had ever heard in her own head—none of it compared to what spewed from the page. She felt filthy even reading it. She would never be forgiven, Tess wrote. Mara could rot in hell. And as for her bastard son, she hoped he rotted too.