Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Tess was in the circle too. When Mara stooped in front of her, Tess yanked her foot away and started shouting accusations and obscenities at her. “She won’t wash my feet!” Tess screamed. “That filthy woman isn’t touching me!” As she continued to scream, Jesus stepped in front of Mara and knelt on the floor. But before he could reach for Tess’s bare foot, Tess stormed out of the room. Pray for her, Jesus said. Watch and pray.

  And then Mara saw Tom. He sat in the circle, arms crossed against his chest, a gloating sneer on his face. He thrust his foul foot out in front of her and waited for her to kneel. She looked at Jesus. “Not him,” she said. “Please not him. Don’t make me.”

  Jesus touched her chin and gazed at her tenderly. He would not force her. Love never bullied or coerced.

  Mara glanced down at her own bare feet, cleansed, shining, beautiful. Do you understand what I have done for you? She had an inkling, a growing and deepening comprehension. And such great love—such great love called forth a response, freely given.

  While the others wrote in their journals, Mara tore a blank page from her notebook and composed one more letter.

  Tom,

  I do not want to turn into a mean, bitter, hate-filled woman like Tess. Miss Jada is right. Bitterness chokes all the life out of you. I won’t give you the satisfaction of choking the life out of me. You will not choke Jesus’ life out of me. No matter what you do to try to control me or harm me, I will not give you that kind of satisfaction.

  So I forgive you, Tom. I break your power over me. This is me, knowing who I am—chosen, loved, and forgiven—doing what was done for me. Jesus loves you. I turn you over to whatever that love looks like.

  Signed,

  Mara, the one Jesus loves

  P.S. I forgive you for forcing Brian from me. I pray that someday he will know that he is also chosen and loved. God, help me.

  Rising from her seat, she crumpled the paper in her fist and tossed it into the dancing flames.

  Hannah

  Friday, February 20

  7:30 p.m.

  I’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes, trying to focus on the questions rather than on the grief I feel. What a brave text for Meg to choose. I have a feeling we’ll all remember this night together.

  I stare at the basin and the pitcher, and I know whose feet I’m being called to wash. Everything in me resists. I want to fight. To punish. I want her to lose.

  But you wash Laura’s feet, Lord. So I die to myself again and say I will also wash her feet. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what kind of love you’re asking us to show her. Does it mean giving up our trip to the Holy Land? Is that what it means to offer the other cheek, to give the cloak, to walk the extra mile? I don’t know. What does love look like for Jake? What does it look like to advocate for him? To be his defenders? I guess Nate and I will need to have a different conversation about this. Show us, Lord. Show us what it means to kneel and wash Laura’s feet. Because we know who we are and where we’re going. And only the ones who are confident in your love can keep company with you in this.

  I’ve been thinking again, what does dying to self mean? It means not my will but yours be done. It means not my power but yours. Not my kingdom but yours. It means being taken where I do not want to go. It means choosing love over comfort and preservation of the ego. It means saying an ongoing yes to you, to your love. It means here I am. Let it be to me according to your word. Hineni.

  I take the towel from your hand and kneel. Reluctantly.

  Meg

  It was beautiful, so beautiful to sit barefoot in that circle and ponder the love of Jesus. It was beautiful, so beautiful to hear how the others glimpsed his invitation to offer forgiveness and grace to people who had wounded them and made life difficult. It was beautiful, so beautiful to watch Charissa kneel before Mara and tenderly wash her feet, affirming Jesus’ love for her. And it was beautiful, so beautiful to offer her own feet to Mara and then to dip Hannah’s feet into the basin and wash them, their tears mingled with the water.

  So beautiful.

  “I’ll be praying for you, Meg,” Hannah said after Mara and Charissa went home. “I think you’re very brave.”

  Meg didn’t feel brave. But after imagining herself with Jesus in the upper room—after watching him wash Judas’s feet—she knew who was sitting in her circle, waiting. Meg knocked on Becca’s door.

  “Simon, can I ring you later?” she heard Becca say, her voice lilting. “Okay. Cheers!” Then she called, “Come in!”

  Meg entered and sat beside her on the bed.

  “How was your group?” Becca asked, setting her phone aside.

  “Very good.”

  “Cool.”

  Inhale: Emmanuel.

  Exhale: You are with us.

  “What time does Simon’s train get in tomorrow?” Meg asked.

  Becca picked at some blue fingernail polish that had begun to chip. “About eleven.”

  “I’m sure you’re anxious to see him.”

  Becca looked up but did not reply.

  “Becca, I just wanted to say, I understand if you want to spend time with him tomorrow, to take him around Kingsbury and show him places that are important to you. It’s okay with me. We’ve had so many wonderful moments together this week, and I’m so grateful and—” She reached for her daughter’s hand. “If you’d like to invite Simon to have dinner with us tomorrow night, he would be welcome.”

  Becca looked like she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Well . . . think about it, talk it over with him.” Meg kissed her forehead. “I love you, Becca.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  Meg went to bed with her prayer shawl and wooden cross, expecting to hear Becca on the phone with Simon again. But all she heard was the sound of the wind moaning through the trees.

  On the side of the road lay a deer, its neck contorted, its soft brown eyes open. Meg looked away. She always looked away whenever she saw a dead deer. She couldn’t bear the sadness. But then a voice said, “Look!” So she turned her head and looked. And the deer blinked and rose up and stared at her, and if deer could laugh, then this deer laughed before leaping toward the woods. Meg followed, and as she ran she became like the deer, leaping on legs that were fast and strong until she came to a clearing. Jim was there, and his hand was extended to her, and his face was lit up like the sun, and he spoke her name, and she called out to him and ran for him, arms outstretched, and she had almost touched his fingers when—

  She awoke to sunlight on her face and her daughter beside her bed.

  “Mom?”

  Meg wiped her eyes.

  “You were having a bad dream.”

  “Was I?”

  “I heard you crying. You said Dad’s name.”

  “I dream about him sometimes.” Meg propped herself up on her elbows. The dreams about Jim had become more frequent. He was close. Very close. Like a veil was being lifted.

  Becca sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”

  Meg nodded.

  “I’ll go with you,” Becca said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll go with you. To put flowers on Dad’s grave. I’ll go with you.”

  “Becca, you don’t have to—”

  “I know. I don’t want to. But I think I need to.”

  Meg shut her eyes. Jesus.

  “Maybe we can go before we pick up Simon?” Becca asked.

  Meg nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  February was yielding its icy grip, the snow melting into puddles, the margins of dormant grass widening alongside the roads. Meg could measure snow melt by the visibility of garden statuary poking up like concrete stems in front yards: the top of a birdbath, the docile face of a bunny with long ears, an angel’s wings. Though there would no doubt be more snowfall during March, winter had lost its momentum. Spring would begin its steady advance, like the troops arriving on the beaches of Normandy. There would be more skirmishes, bu
t the battle was won.

  Soon the robins would return, and the mourning doves would coo their nesting songs. She and Jim had loved listening to the sound of doves in their yard. “Do you remember hearing doves at the house?” Meg asked.

  “What?” said Becca, her eyes on the road.

  “Doves at the house. You remember hearing them?”

  “I guess.”

  “We loved listening to the mourning doves. Such a beautiful, haunting sound.”

  “You and Dad?”

  “Yes. We’d sit outside in our arbor in the spring and listen. And one day, we heard this cooing, louder and louder, and we tried to figure out where it was coming from, wondered if it was in the nearby trees, and then it flew and landed right on top of the arbor, and we didn’t dare breathe—we just sat there, listening, close enough to see its body rise and fall. And suddenly, another dove swooped in, and the two of them touched their beaks and nuzzled their necks like lovers. And there we sat. Right at the trysting place. It was this holy moment. We both felt it.”

  “How long did they stay?”

  “Not long.” Meg stared at a bouquet of daffodils on her lap. She and Jim had shared the privilege of watching the lover summon the beloved. Once the beloved arrived, there was silence. No need for cooing. Just shared silence, and then the whistle of their wings as the pair disappeared together beyond the telephone wire.

  “It was special because our wedding verses were from the Song of Solomon,” Meg said. “I can’t remember all of it. But it was something like, ‘Arise, my love, my beautiful one and come away with me . . . ’ And then something about doves. I’ll have to look it up later.” Though she and Jim had read those verses together on every anniversary, she had avoided reading that particular book of the Bible ever since his death.

  As they rounded a corner, Meg directed Becca to turn left into the wooded cemetery. “There,” she said, pointing, “up that hill, right by the oak tree. It was just small when your dad died. Look at it now.”

  “Is your dad buried here too?” Becca asked.

  “No. There’s a Fowler plot in another cemetery.” A plot her mother had wanted nothing to do with. Mother had been very specific in her will: no open casket, no religious service. Just a memorial at the funeral home last spring after her body was cremated. Rachel didn’t even attend. If I can’t spit in the coffin, what’s the point?

  Meg had followed her mother’s instructions to the letter, disposing of her ashes in the woods near their house. Becca, who had not been at all squeamish about opening the urn and touching the sharp bone fragments amidst the gravelly remains, had dug a small hole in the damp, spongy earth and then used her hands to bury the ashes. It doesn’t feel right to pour Gran out, she’d said. After mingling the soil with the dust, Becca read something from Kahlil Gibran, words Meg had not comprehended despite Becca’s commentary about why they were profound. Meg had offered her own silent prayers.

  “Did Aunt Rachel talk to you about the records we found in the attic?”

  Becca nodded. “She doesn’t believe he committed suicide.”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “You think he did?”

  “The insurance company thought so. And Mrs. Anderson—you remember her from next door?—she told me what she remembered about that day. So, yes. I believe your grandfather was very troubled, very discouraged. That he couldn’t see a way forward. That he lost hope.”

  A few other cars wound down the hillside, a stately procession of mourners, their grief now contained within the bounds of their vehicles. Meg remembered Jim’s procession: work colleagues who gave up a November afternoon to pay their respects; high school and college friends, most of whom Meg had deliberately lost touch with after the funeral; students from the youth small group Jim mentored at the church where they’d gotten married, a church she fled shortly after the accident because she couldn’t bear their sympathy and the relentless reminders of life together. The pastor said he understood. He’d lost a child to leukemia, and his wife couldn’t bring herself to attend church either.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Meg said, reaching to stroke Becca’s hair.

  Becca turned off the ignition and did not reply.

  With her scarf wound tightly around her neck and her coat zipped all the way up, Meg stepped out of the car into snow that was still several inches deep on the shaded hillside. Once the snow melted, the recent losses would be easier to identify, the ground displaying the surgical wounds of having been lacerated and stitched back into place, the headstones, some newly chiseled and others weatherworn, testifying to the work of the seasons to soften the stark gouges of grief. Soon—

  No. This was not about her. This was about Jim. She removed the wreath Mara had brought on Christmas Day—how long ago that seemed!—and replaced it with defiant daffodils.

  Becca stared at the headstone, silent. Beloved husband and father. Did she wonder why the father she had never met had been described as “beloved”? Meg answered the unasked question, saying, “They seemed like the right words.”

  She wished she had put a cross or a Bible verse on Jim’s grave. She could have put a reference to his favorite passage from Philippians 3, his “life verses,” he called them. Press on, Jim often said. I press on.

  “Mom?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  Meg had become so preoccupied with her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed Becca’s heaving shoulders. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry . . .”

  She should never have suggested they make the trip. It was very selfish to have Becca come and see the place where—

  “Mom, I don’t want to lose you.” With a gasping sob, Becca collapsed to her knees beneath the branches of the oak tree.

  It doesn’t have to be the end, Meg wanted to say as she knelt beside her daughter, the snow dampening her jeans. If you would only believe.

  Only believe.

  Meg rocked her gently, eyes fixed on the tender green shoots poking up through the snow beside Jim’s grave. Spring was on the move. Hope would not be disappointed. Death would not have the final word. Resurrection, thank God, was inevitable.

  She clutched her daughter more tightly to her breast and prayed.

  fourteen

  Hannah

  Ever since Pastor Dave mobilized the prayer team at Kingsbury Community Church, Meg’s fridge and freezer had been well stocked with delicious meals. But on Saturday, while Becca took Simon on a tour of Kingsbury, Meg insisted on cooking her daughter’s favorite dinner and dessert: parmesan crusted chicken and a key lime pie.

  “Kingsbury’s nothing compared to London, I know,” Becca said when they gathered around the table early that evening. “But at least Simon got to see where I grew up.”

  Simon took a silent bite of mashed potatoes.

  “What did you think of Chicago?” Hannah asked, seeking a conversation starter.

  Simon shrugged. “Rather a mediocre city. And the wind and snow! Dismal.”

  Tempting as it was, Hannah decided not to argue with him by defending her hometown. Not worth it.

  “Did you try the pizza?” Becca asked. “I love Chicago deep-dish.”

  Simon said, “Hard to see what the fuss is about. People say, Oh! Wait until you taste American food! I say keep it.”

  Meg poured herself another glass of water.

  Hannah crunched on a salad crouton.

  “The chicken is delicious, Mom,” Becca said, her knife clicking on her plate as she cut another piece. “Thank you so much for making it.”

  Simon arched his eyebrows. “I wasn’t suggesting that your mother’s food was inadequate, merely that I don’t understand the fuss over American cuisine in general.”

  Meg took a slow sip from her glass and coughed against her shoulder.

  While Becca attempted to find topics that might include everyone at the table, Simon only engaged in discussion about himself, his favorite subjects being his bitterness over publi
shers who “couldn’t appreciate his talent” and his expectation that he would land a contract after he returned from Paris in the fall.

  Hannah wondered if Simon would get out of himself long enough to support Becca when she needed it. Not likely.

  “Becca, can I help you pack?” Meg asked when they finished the meal.

  “I’m already—” Becca began, then caught herself. “Sure,” she said. “I still have a bit more to do upstairs.” She pushed her chair back from the table.

  “I’ll get the dishes cleaned up,” Hannah said. “You two take your time.” She motioned toward Simon’s plate, his piece of key lime pie rejected after a single bite. “Are you finished?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. Without another word, he donned his coat and slipped out to the back porch to smoke another cigarette. From the kitchen window Hannah watched him puff slowly into the frosty air, the embers flickering in the darkness.

  Meg had done it. She had hospitably welcomed him into her home. She had sacrificed the intimacy of a mother-daughter last meal in order to show Becca the depth of her love. Hannah hoped Becca would someday remember and understand.

  She swept her hands through the sudsy water, replaying the memory of their group prayer time and her phone conversation with Nathan afterward. He hadn’t embraced the idea of washing Laura’s feet. “That’s the last thing I want to do for her,” he’d said, a resentful edge to his voice. “The very last thing.” Hannah didn’t push it. At least she’d raised the question of what love might look like. Part of her was happy he’d resisted. A larger part than she wanted to admit.

  She had just put away the last of the dishes when she heard footsteps on the stairs and the thump of a suitcase. “Hannah, can you take a few pictures of Mom and me?”

  Hannah tried to clear the lump in her throat before speaking. “Sure.”

  “Where’s Simon?” Becca asked as she handed over her phone.

  Hannah motioned outside. He’d probably finished off several cigarettes by now. And Meg was the one with lung cancer. Life didn’t make sense. No sense at all. She pressed her lips together.