Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  "I know you are. But I need to know you're okay."

  "Oh . . ." I don't know what to say to that. "Sorry. Like I said, I've been busy."

  I expect anger, or at least agitation, from him, but instead, he laughs. "Well, it's good to know you're alive and well."

  "Oh, yeah, well, that I am. How about you?" I get up from my desk and walk to the kitchen where I bend, reach for Sam's food dish, and take it into the pantry and fill it while Jason talks.

  Before we hang up, Jason says, "How about dinner tomorrow night?"

  "Sounds great." I'd intended to say no, but, oh, he is charming. "And hey, Jason, sorry I . . . I don't mean to . . . You know?"

  "I know, Andee. I'll see you tomorrow."

  With that, he hangs up. No reprimands. No hurt feelings. "He's a pushover," I say to Sam. "No backbone whatsoever." But even as I say it, I know it isn't true. I've seen Jason stand up for what's important to him. But he doesn't demand his own way. Instead he offers something else . . .

  "What is it?" I ask Sam. He flicks his tail, takes the last piece of food from his dish, and then saunters away. "You're a big help."

  Jason does seem to know. Sometimes he seems to know more about me than I know about myself.

  And he accepts me.

  Why?

  "Because, Andee, he is a pushover."

  From the living room, Sam mews his agreement to my reasoning. I walk out to where he's sprawled on the sofa and scratch him behind the ears.

  "Oh well, who cares right? He's good for a free meal." I look back toward my office and the remaining piles on my desk. But instead of going back to work, I sigh, and sit down next to Sam. I reach over and heft him onto my lap, where he settles in and kneads my legs with his paws.

  "Well, look at you." Sam closes his eyes and begins to purr. "You're all the man I need." I bury my hand in Sam's fur and question the agitation I feel regarding Jason. My work provides ample agitation for my life. I don't need more.

  I think about my meeting in Napa with Bill and, as I have so many times since we talked, I consider the perfect solution for his financial situation.

  Well, almost perfect.

  I'm not employed by Azul. I'm just a friend. An acquaintance of Bill's. That's all. I won't accept any payment from Azul and, therefore, I'm not ethically bound in any way. I consider the details again.

  And again, I hesitate.

  I consider the pros and cons of the plan and realize there is one thing, or person rather, standing in the way.

  I lift Sam off my lap, go back to my desk, and pick up the phone. I dial Jason's number and wait. The call goes to voicemail. Perfect.

  "Hey, it's Andee. Listen, about dinner tomorrow, I think we'll have to hold off a few more days. I'm buried and taking off tomorrow night was wishful thinking. I'll give you a call at the end of the week."

  I hang up the phone satisfied. "Keep your eyes on the goal, Andee." Love, or even infatuation, isn't part of my master plan. It's time to take a step back and refocus. I reach for the mouse and wait as the screen lights up on my desk. There is work to be done. I open my in-box and scan the contents. I have e-mails from some of the top executives in the country, along with those of smaller companies that I've handpicked to work with for various reasons, including an e-mail from Brigitte. I open it and read:

  Andee,

  We are moving forward on your suggestion to take Domaine de la Bouvier public. Research is underway and a decision will be forthcoming soon. I'd like to schedule another meeting for next week. Thursday, 2:00 p.m., at the Bouvier offices. Will that work for you?

  On a personal note, I'd also like to invite you to join me for dinner at our home that evening. It will be an intimate party of friends including the mayor and a few other interesting locals you might enjoy.

  Regards,

  Brigitte Bouvier

  President—Domaine de la Bouvier.

  I check my calendar and hit reply.

  Brigitte,

  Thursday, 2:00 p.m., at the Bouvier offices is fine. And I'll look forward to dinner at your home that evening. Thank you for your kind invitation.

  A. Bell

  Brigitte's invitation didn't mention Jason as my date for dinner. Did she mean to exclude him? Is she sending a veiled message? Perhaps it was just an oversight. I'll wait and see. But I have no intention of mentioning the dinner to Jason. I'll follow Brigitte's lead.

  I look again through the list of waiting e-mails and see I've received another post from www.iluminar.me. I subscribed to the blog, but now I press delete before reading the entry. Let the rest of the city follow her little drama, I'm not interested in her brand of spirituality.

  Been there.

  Done that.

  Then I notice I have an e-mail from lightseeker@iluminar.me. It looks like a reply to my e-mail regarding her blog. "Ah . . . maybe you want to make a little money after all." I open the e-mail and read:

  Dear Andee,

  Thank you so much for your interest in my blog. I'm aware of the opportunity, through advertisers, for financial gain.

  However, that isn't my purpose for the blog. But again, thank you for your interest.

  The e-mail is, of course, unsigned. I shake my head. "What a fool." I read the note again and then hit reply.

  Lightseeker,

  If you aren't interested in financial gain, what is your purpose?

  A. Bell

  I let my irritation take over. There's no point in engaging her. She's a fool. But then, I open my trash folder and search for the new post I just deleted. Let's see what she's whining about now. I'm just curious, I tell myself.

  I find the post, open it, and begin reading. But just as I begin, the computer pings, letting me know another e-mail has come in. I click on the stamp icon and see that Lightseeker has already responded. This should be interesting.

  Andee,

  What is my purpose? That's a question I'm wrestling with. I don't know the answer. What is your purpose?

  Ha! She's serious? I thought we were talking blogs, but it seems she's moved on to life purposes. What is my purpose? Isn't that obvious? I click reply and begin to type, but then I stop. What am I doing? Who cares? I don't need to respond to her. She's desperate for relationships—that's obvious. "Maybe if you lived somewhere other than cyberspace you'd have real relationships."

  I delete my response and close the mail folder. Then I delete the post I'd begun reading.

  I have more important things to do.

  Spiritual union between two believers is a very real experience although it is not easily explained.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Matthew

  FIVE DIRECTEES TODAY. Cool. Blake is the first on my schedule. I feel his pain—a reminder that leads me to pray for him each day. My last appointment of the day is Jenna Bouvier. I've waited for this one. Holy anticipation is what I call it. I'm curious to see what God's doing with the bubbly heiress. Uh . . . bubbly as in champagne, not as in personality. Though, I'm sure she's bubbly enough.

  Never mind.

  I round the corner to my office. I walk the nine blocks to work. Always. Rain or shine, snow or sleet. Just like the postal service. Although, here in the city, I'd have to say rain or shine, fog or fog. The walk is another ritual. It centers me—gives me time to pray. Out loud. Whereas when I pray out loud on a city bus or cable car, well, people get a little edgy. The walk also burns energy. And man, if there's one thing I need to burn, it's energy.

  My morning walk and talk is my time to pray through my own stuff.

  This morning's walk and talk was all about Tess.

  It often is.

  This is how I prepare to set myself aside and be present—to the Spirit and to the directee sitting across fr
om me. It sharpens my focus. On Him and on the directee.

  Without the walk and talk, dude, it's not pretty.

  I turn the key in the lock of my office and enter what, for many, I know, is a sanctuary of sorts. A safe place, I pray, for my counseling clients. And a place where my directees hang with and hear from their God. I work to keep the environment tranquil, and for me, that's definite work. I stash my piles in the console cabinet that conceals a cluttered desk when its doors are closed. Tess found it for me. She's familiar with my piles.

  Tess also found a couple of overstuffed chairs and a small matching sofa for the room. She put a fountain on a side table to help mute the street noise outside my door. The fountain looks like a pile of rocks and reminds me of the altars the Israelites built in the wilderness reminding them of places where God met their needs.

  Tess may not get what I do or why I do it, but she supports me anyway. Before I added spiritual directing to my counseling practice, Tess and I talked about it a lot. Okay, I talked a lot and she listened a lot. The change didn't make sense to her. She didn't and doesn't understand my relationship with God or why others would seek a companion for their spiritual journey. But, bottom line, she respects my desires and supported the change.

  That's one of the awesome things I thank God for.

  The last block of my morning walk is the time I make a mental shift and think about the schedule of the day and the clients or directees I'll see. Before they each arrive for their appointments, I pray for them.

  I unzip the Windbreaker I wore over my standard work shirt—oxford style. Today's selection is charcoal, the color of my eyes according to Tess. I hook the jacket over the coat rack by the door and then cross the room and open the console, revealing my desk. I pull a chair up to the desk, reach for my Bible, read a passage, and pray through it for Blake before he arrives.

  BY AFTERNOON, I'VE ALREADY seen the Spirit move in miraculous ways. Sure, the Spirit's work is often subtle, sometimes slow, at least in my impatient opinion, and often unrecognizable. But then you'll have a day when, in His perfect timing, all those slow, subtle workings add up to one big bang. Kaboom, baby! All of a sudden, sitting before you, is a miracle.

  It happened with Blake this morning when he recognized, after a gut-wrenching, lifelong search for love, what he longs for most is available. Today, he took the step of faith into the arms of Jesus.

  Man! There are no words for the honor of observing, participating even, in a moment like that. It stayed with me all day and heightened my earlier sense of Holy anticipation as I've prayed for Jenna Bouvier.

  I hear a tap on my office door and then the door cracks open and Jenna pokes her head in.

  "Hey, c'mon in." I have a sign hanging outside the door that says Available on one side and Unavailable on the other side. It lets people know they're welcome to come in when I'm available and to wait otherwise. But the first time around, clients and directees are sometimes hesitant. "Any trouble finding the place?"

  She steps inside the office and the space feels like it shrinks. "No, no problem." She reaches out her hand.

  "Good." I wipe my palms on my slacks and then take her hand and shake it. "Have a seat." I motion to the overstuffed chairs separated by a small cube that acts as a coffee table. On the cube is an unlit candle. I wait to see which chair she'll choose as her own and then I take the one across from her. I reach into the pocket of my shirt for the book of matches I keep there. I strike a match and light the candle. "The flame represents God. I find it's a powerful visual reminder of His presence."

  She nods as she watches the flame flicker.

  "We're not alone here."

  She looks at me and, man, the intensity in her eyes slams into me. I struggle to maintain eye contact with her. What's the deal? Why am I struggling? I hand the issue to God so I can remain present to Jenna.

  I clear my throat. "Typically, I'll begin our sessions with a time of silence. It's a time for prayer, reflection, listening, or what I call soul settling. You may take as much time as you need. You tell me when you're ready to begin. Got it?"

  She nods and her lopsided features do their balancing act as she smiles.

  "Okay. We went through our beliefs, traditions, and the practice of spiritual direction when we met. Do you have any other questions that have come up?"

  "I don't think so. I've looked forward to the time."

  "Me too." I lean forward. "So, let's get started." I watch as she bows her head and closes her eyes. Her features relax and a visible peace settles over her.

  I want to watch her. Hard to explain. It isn't her—it's something more. But out of respect for her, I bow my head and close my eyes too. I spend the time of silence surrendering the session to God.

  After about five minutes, she says, "I'm ready."

  I open my eyes, lift my head, and signal for her to take the lead.

  "Oh, okay." She looks at the floor for a few seconds then looks back at me. "Do you think, I mean, I'm wondering if . . . Does God manifest Himself to us in physical ways?"

  "Give me an example." I scoot back in my chair and relax.

  "Sometimes, when I'm praying, or just"—she looks at the floor again—"just being with God . . ." When she looks back at me her eyebrows are raised—the perfect question mark on her words.

  I nod my understanding.

  "Sometimes, I sense His presence in a physical way. A breeze, for example. I . . . I feel it."

  I see color rise to her cheeks and her gaze, so intense before, is now uncertain—shifting. She is testing the waters. Will I tell her she's crazy or affirm her? So begins the dance. Can I be trusted? She needs to know.

  "Think of the last time you felt that presence. Describe what it felt like." I lean forward again.

  "It felt like"—she closes her eyes—"a cool sea breeze—refreshing, rejuvenating. It felt like a caress." She opens her eyes and looks at me, her last words coming out in a whisper. "Like . . . a kiss."

  "And what did you feel?"

  "I felt . . . total peace. And love. Complete love."

  "Can you hang with that feeling?

  "Hang with it?"

  "You know, rest in it. Stay with that feeling for a few minutes."

  "I can try."

  "Good. Bask in it if you can."

  We sit silent for a few minutes. Jenna stares at the flame flickering between us and I see its reflection in her eyes. But more than that, I see Him reflected in her. I break the silence. "How does that feeling of complete love compare to other experiences you've had with God?"

  She thinks for a minute. "Yes."

  "Yes?"

  She smiles. "Yes, God manifests Himself to us in physical ways. Sometimes, anyway. My experiences with God, when I'm focused on Him rather than myself, are marked by that sense of a deep and abiding love. Complete love."

  I don't say anything. I let her sit with her realization for a minute. And I sit with mine: My journey with Jenna, I know, is as much for my benefit as it is for hers. Though I don't know why yet. It happens sometimes with a directee—although I try to set myself aside and focus on them—the Spirit nudges me in the midst of a session and says, Pay attention, buddy, I have something for you, too, in this relationship.

  "So . . . do you experience God like that? Have you felt His presence that way?"

  "A tangible experience?"

  She nods.

  I shake my head. "Nah . . ." I recognize the wistfulness behind my answer. How cool would it be to see and feel God like that? "But that doesn't make your experience any less real."

  "But why . . . ?"

  "But why . . . what?" I see the blush creep up her neck to her cheeks again.

  "Why do I"—she looks down, uncertain again—"experience Him that way?"

  "Because that's how He's chosen to re
veal Himself to you. Cool, huh?"

  "Yes." She leans back in her chair and her shoulders slump a little. "I just wish I could rest in His love all the time. Keep that confidence, you know?"

  "What blows it for you?"

  "Circumstances, I think."

  "Would you like to explain or share an example?"

  She shifts in her seat and then shrugs. Her face becomes blank—unreadable. I won't press her. She'll share more when she's ready.

  "Circumstances shouldn't matter. I should be content in all things—like Paul. Thriving in less than ideal conditions."

  I hold back. This is the hardest part of spiritual direction for me. Paying attention to the rhythms, allowing silence when I sense the need for it. Not talking when I very much want to talk. But I wait.

  "Like the park."

  When she doesn't explain, I dig a little. "The park?"

  "Golden Gate. Critics said nothing could thrive there. The conditions wouldn't support growth. The battering wind, the sand dunes, rock outcroppings. But they were wrong."

  "So despite your circumstances or living conditions, you're determined to thrive."

  "I didn't mention my living conditions."

  "No, you didn't." But those words were not my own either.

  "I'm just saying that the Bible tells us to be content in all circumstances, to give thanks for all things, and that God will cause all things to work together for good for those that love Him and are called according to His purpose. Right? So despite circumstances, or conditions, people, like the park, can be content and thrive when they're in relationship with God."

  "You find encouragement in the metaphor of the park then?"

  I see her shoulders relax again. "Yes."

  "What is God saying to you through the metaphor?"

  "Just what I said. Be content in all circumstances . . . or as you said, conditions."

  "Did all the vegetation planted in the park thrive?" I try to avoid leading questions, but this one is out of my mouth before I can catch it.

  Her chin juts forward and her answer is quick. "Only the vegetation with the strength to endure."