I know all that, but it’s a very tricky line. I’ve spent the past fifteen years thriving on being needed. And this sabbatical is all about learning who I am when I don’t have a role and a title, when I’m not hiding behind my busyness and productivity for God. But how am I supposed to be alongside Mara to help? I called her this morning, just to check in, and she said everything was fine.
What does it look like to be her friend, not her pastor? What does it look like to try to help her without taking on responsibility for her life and her decisions? “Responsive to” instead of “responsible for,” Nate said. Responsive to the Spirit and responsive to her needs in ways that express God’s love and care for her. He also said that might look very different from what I’m accustomed to offering people. Ouch. He can be so direct and incisive. I can’t do a whole lot of hiding from him, even if I wanted to. That’s a huge shift in me. I don’t really want to hide. At least, not at the moment.
I remember the sacred journey session when Katherine invited us to meditate on Genesis 3 and God’s cry to Adam and Eve in the garden, “Where are you?” I can look back in these journal pages and see—wow. Was that really only three weeks ago? Seems so much longer. A lifetime. I was hiding. Really hiding. And I didn’t want to stop hiding. That’s where I was. Now, here I am, seeing more and more about how the fear of being known kept me trapped behind the mask. God has already done so much to set me free. He’s already shown me so much about his desire to love me and for me to rest in his love. He’s been teaching me that the flowers are for me, the Lover’s gift to the beloved. And there’s so much more for him to reveal and do. I want to keep finding ways to say yes to the Spirit’s work.
Katherine often says that it’s a gift when light comes and exposes what’s really lurking there in the dark. The light doesn’t change what’s already there, it just reveals it. And then we’ve got a choice. What will we do with what the light reveals? Ignore it or try to stuff it because we’re afraid of being overwhelmed? Try to fix and manage it ourselves? Or keep taking small steps toward life and freedom through the power of the Spirit, even when it’s painful? I know how to stuff, ignore, fix, and manage. I’m a master at that. Now I’m trying to yield to a different way, to put down the mask and walk in the light.
A text came to mind while I was writing, and I just turned to it to read a couple of times. Isaiah 9:2-4: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.”
It makes me think about the yokes God is longing to break in my life. He certainly has been shining light on some things that have held me captive. But what burdens do I still carry on my shoulders that he is trying to remove and carry for me? “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. And the government will be upon HIS shoulders.”
I’ve spent years carrying the weight of the world on MY shoulders. I’ve spent a lifetime being overly responsible, overly vigilant. And I still don’t quite know who I am or what to do when the running of the world doesn’t depend on my faithfulness or hard work. Help, Lord. Teach me to rest. Not just physically, but spiritually. Keep showing me what that means. Let me leave the government of everything on your shoulders and trust that you have everything under control. See? It always comes back to control. And I’m only able to give up control if I trust in your goodness, grace, love, and power.
Help me receive you in a new way, Lord. Help me be open to truly welcoming you in all your fullness in my life. For unto us a child is born. Unto ME a child is born. And his name is Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Help me trust you to be each of those names, for me and for all of us. Please.
Hannah happened to look up just as a tall, slender woman with long dark hair passed by with a lunch tray. “Charissa!”
“Hannah! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m meeting Nathan for lunch.” Dr. Allen. Maybe she should refer to him as Dr. Allen when she was on campus. She motioned to the ottoman. “Do you have time to sit?”
“Just a few minutes. I’ve got to get back to the library.”
Hannah observed Charissa’s monochromatic food: a single scoop of cottage cheese, a few packages of Saltine crackers, some clear broth. “You feeling okay?” she asked, motioning to the tray.
Charissa shrugged. “Don’t know why it’s called ‘morning sickness.’ Some days it’s all day.”
“I’m told it gets better after a while.”
“I hope so.” She unwrapped a package of Saltines.
“Meg called this morning. She got there safely.”
“That’s good.”
Hannah reached for her now lukewarm chai. “I’ve decided I’m going to stay at her house a few days every week so I don’t have to drive back and forth to the lake so often.”
“Good idea.”
“She said I should decorate, maybe have a decorating party or something. I invited Mara to come over this weekend. You’d be welcome to join us, if you feel up to it.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
Strange, the difference even in twenty-four hours. Charissa had seemed relaxed at the airport, engaged in conversation, willing to disclose a bit about some of her struggles and longings and how she sensed the Holy Spirit at work within her. Now the defenses were up again. Or maybe it was the nausea. Or stress. Hard to tell with Charissa.
“Is there anything specific I can pray for you?” Hannah asked.
Charissa was chewing very small bites very slowly. “School stuff, baby stuff, and now house stuff.” Hannah listened as Charissa told her about the unexpected gift of a down payment, the three-bedroom house John had found, and the offer they’d submitted early that morning. “We’re just waiting to hear if it’s been accepted.”
“That’s so exciting!” Hannah exclaimed. But Charissa did not look excited. Her tone, her expression, everything about her was flat. One would think that with all the extravagant gifts that had been lavished upon her, she might be a little more enthusiastic—
Charissa stood up.
A little more grateful—
Hannah also rose.
And a little less controlled.
“I’ve got to go,” Charissa said.
If Charissa hadn’t been holding her tray, Hannah might have given her a hug. Instead, she placed her hand on her shoulder and said, “Keep us posted, okay? And I’ll be praying for you.”
With a word of thanks, Charissa excused herself and wove her way through a crowd of students, her statuesque figure making it easy for Hannah to track her until she exited the building. That girl had absolutely everything going for her: intelligence, beauty, a husband who adored her, a baby on the way, and now a house where they would raise their family. But Hannah wasn’t jealous. Was not, was not, was . . .
Was.
She was.
She still was.
She bit the inside of her cheek and put her journal away.
Meg
Not long after Meg arrived at the hotel, Becca called to say she had a study group that needed to meet for a few hours to prepare for some upcoming exams.
Oh.
No tea.
“How about dinner?” Becca suggested. “There’s a really good Indian restaurant not too far from where you are. I can come by the hotel and get you.”
Meg had been picturing slightly pink roast beef in gravy with buttery mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding for dinner. Good thing she had brought antacids with her. “Sounds good, honey. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
“Six, maybe? But you should still go have tea, Mom. You’ll love it.”
Tea by herself wasn’t what she had dreamed about, but she
had already eaten all the granola bars she’d packed for the flight. Her stomach rumbling, Meg entered the low-ceilinged dining room and sat down at a table for two near a stone hearth lit with a gas fire.
A rosy-cheeked young woman handed Meg a menu. “Here for tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Meg read the single page of fancy script.
Traditional Afternoon Tea. A selection of freshly prepared finger sandwiches. Warm scones with clotted cream and preserves. A variety of homemade pastries and biscuits. Your choice of teas.
All this for one person? Meg cast a sidelong glance at the elderly couple in the corner, the only other guests in the room. One pot, two cups, one three-tiered plate of sandwiches and other goodies.
“Tea just for one, please,” Meg said when the waitress returned.
“What kind of tea?”
Meg skimmed the descriptions of half a dozen varieties. Assam. Darjeeling. Lapsang-Something. “Earl Grey, please.”
A middle-aged woman entered and sat down by herself with a book. Good. At least Meg wouldn’t be the only one reading. She removed the Bible she’d tucked into her purse and opened it in her lap to Isaiah 43: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”
Thank you, Lord, for being with me, for getting me here safely, for the ways you helped me through the kindness of strangers—even a stranger I was ready to dismiss as strange. Thank you for being with me when I felt overwhelmed and afraid. Thank you.
Maybe later, if she wasn’t too exhausted, she would sit with her notebook and pray through the examen, taking time to remember not only how she’d been aware of God’s presence during her trip, but also the moments when she’d been blinded by her anxiety. Katherine had encouraged her to keep a daily journal, not just of sightseeing but of spiritual insight. “A travelogue of how God is with you and how you are with God,” Katherine had said.
God with her. That was a perfect Advent theme for meditation. How was Jesus revealing himself as Emmanuel?
The choir had processed into the sanctuary on Sunday singing one of her favorite hymns. “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.”
Meg had always loved the haunting melody, full of longing for the coming of the One who would rescue, save, and redeem.
O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom me from my captivity.
The waitress returned with plates of triangle-cut sandwiches, scones, and two small jam pots, one with thick cream, the other with strawberry preserves. “Milk and sugar with your tea?”
“Milk, please.”
Meg watched her pour the milk into the teacup, then the tea, the amber liquid becoming the soothing color of toffee. Maybe it was a gift to have a few hours to relax before seeing Becca. A few hours to let the stress and strain of the trip melt away. Time to slow down and quiet her spirit.
Inhale.
Exhale.
O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom me from my captivity.
Even from the captivity to preconceived notions about how things should be. Now that was a growing edge: letting go of expectations and learning to go with the flow a little more. Meg almost laughed out loud at that thought. Becca wouldn’t recognize a mother who was able to go with the flow.
She took a bite of cucumber sandwich and immediately set it down again. The cucumbers were thin and flimsy, the white bread slathered with too much butter. Maybe the notion of cucumber sandwiches was preferable to the reality. Like candy corn. Every autumn she bought a bag of candy corn and those little orange pumpkins, forgetting she couldn’t stand the taste of them. Same with eggnog. Annual amnesia prompted her to buy it because she liked the idea of liking eggnog, liked the festive notion of drinking a cup of eggnog with friends. Every year she poured it down the sink after tasting it again.
She rinsed her mouth with a sip of tea before sampling the soggy-looking egg salad. Too much mayonnaise. And she’d never liked tuna.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the sandwiches and move on to the scones. Forty-six years old and she still couldn’t get her mother’s “Clean your plate!” mantra out of her head. She stared at the wedges, wishing she had a large glass of water to wash it all down. But the other patrons didn’t have water on their tables. Was it impolite to ask for it? She took another sip of tea. If only she had a paper napkin! She could surreptitiously wrap up the sandwiches and conceal them in her purse until she could throw them away.
She looked in her bag for a tissue. Nothing. Not even a tiny cocktail napkin from the airplane. Unable to bear the thought of offending anyone, she steeled herself and took a brave bite of tuna salad. For diplomacy’s sake.
Jolted awake by her Vivaldi ringtone, Meg let it play a few bars so she wouldn’t sound groggy when she picked up. “Hello?”
“Mom, did I wake you up?”
“No, honey! Just resting.” What time was it? The bedside clock read 21:18. What in the world did that mean?
It was pitch black outside. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep in the chair with her notebook on her lap hours ago. She turned on the lamp and peered at her watch. Already after nine o’clock?
“Sorry!” Becca said. “Ended up having a long study session.”
“Oh, that’s okay. That’s fine. Is the restaurant still open?” Spicy food was exactly what Meg didn’t want before she went to bed.
“Actually, we ended up getting pizza because everyone was hungry. But I can still come over and see you. You want me to bring a sandwich from Tesco’s or something? I can stop there on my way.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She could make it until morning, when she would try a full English breakfast. Minus the baked beans. “How far away are you? Do you want me to call a taxi?”
“No, it’s a short walk.”
“But it’s late. Are you sure it’s safe to—”
“Mom!”
Remarkable, how a single syllable could sound so scolding.
“It’s just the thought of you walking by yourself—”
“It’s not like I stay locked up in my room after dark!”
Becca was tired and stressed. That must be why she sounded so irritable. “No, of course not,” Meg said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
Meg washed her face, brushed her hair, and went downstairs, where she sat in a lounge chair by the front lobby window watching for her. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty-five. Thirty-eight. Forty minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness.
Were the streets of London really a safe place this time of night for a young girl to walk alone? Maybe she had been selfish in wanting Becca to come for a visit this late. She could have arranged to meet her for an early breakfast. What had she been thinking? She hoped Becca wasn’t walking across the park near the hotel. Lord, please. Help.
Five minutes. She would give her five more minutes before she tried her cell phone. Good thing the travel agent had been so thorough in advising her about what kind of phone and international accessories to purchase. She had a feeling she would be making a lot of calls.
She checked her watch.
It’s not like I stay locked up in my room.
Meg hadn’t worried much about Becca’s safety when she was away at her small liberal arts college in rural Michigan. And maybe she hadn’t worried about her being in London because it sounded so quaint. She had been caught up in so many idyllic storybook images of England that she hadn’t thought to worry about whether her daughter was out wandering the streets—or worse, riding the subway—late at night. In London. A big city no doubt riddled with every kind of crime imaginable.
Oh, God.
Even now Becca could be lying in a ditch somewhere after being attacked at knifepoint in a dark and narrow alleyway. She’d be lucky if th
ey only took her purse.
Oh, God.
This was Bloomsbury, wasn’t it? Wasn’t the Bloomsbury neighborhood famous for something? Maybe Bloomsbury was where Jack the Ripper had murdered all those girls. And who was to say there wasn’t some local serial killer currently prowling about? Meg had never paid attention to news from London.
Oh, God.
She should have picked up a newspaper at the airport and read every last word about what was happening in the city.
She looked at her watch again. Two more minutes and then she’d call 911, or whatever the British equivalent was. No—first she would call Becca’s cell phone, and if she didn’t answer, then she’d call the police. If she had been kidnapped, they would still have a chance of finding her before she was taken too far away. Was there an Amber Alert system in England? Or maybe the Amber Alert was just for children.
Well, Becca was still a child, a twenty-year-old beautiful girl who even now could be in the grip of some malicious evil, paralyzed by fear, unable to scream for help.
Meg reached for her phone.
If Becca didn’t answer, she wouldn’t be able to tell the authorities what she was wearing, but she’d be able to give a physical description: five-foot-one, large brown eyes, short dark hair, petite like a ballerina, a bit like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina.
Oh, God. Help. Help. Help. Please help.
The front door creaked open. Meg jumped in her chair.
“Hey, Mom!”
“Becca! Thank God!” Meg bolted toward her and embraced her tightly. Too tightly, evidently.
Becca recoiled.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Meg said, reaching to touch Becca’s cheek with an icy hand. “I just got so worried when you didn’t get here!”
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