“Yeah, but I’m not perfect.”
“Right,” Katherine said. “Right. None of us are. That’s what grace is about. But like Mary, you’ve received a very special calling from God. Like Mary, you’ve been chosen to be the dwelling place of the Most High. By God’s grace. God’s favor. Christ is being formed in you.”
Mara stopped concentrating on her nails and furrowed her eyebrows. “You mean I’m pregnant?” she asked. She began to giggle, and the giggles billowed into more uproarious laughter that made Katherine laugh too. “Ooooh, that’s a good one! I can just imagine telling Tom that. Pregnant with the Son of God. That’s a good one. A really good one.”
She was tracking right along with the story. Beautiful. “See? You sound like you’re right in the midst of Mary’s story, wondering, ‘How can this be?’” Katherine glanced down at the page. “Listen to the next bit: Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’”
Mara interrupted, still chuckling. “Except I’m asking, How can this be, since I’m so messed up?”
“Yes!” Katherine exclaimed. “That’s a wonderful connection to make. We all have ‘How can it be?’ questions when it comes to God’s grace being poured out in our lives. ‘How can it be, since I’m . . . ’ and then we fill in the blank with whatever we think is going to make it impossible for God to do what he says he’s going to do in us and for us and through us.”
“Yeah . . . well . . .” Mara looked down at her feet. “I’ve got lots of things I fill in the blank with. A whole long list of reasons why something may be true for somebody else but not for me, you know? Why is it still so hard for me to believe that God would choose to live in someone like me? It’s like some part of me still thinks I should be rejected because of all the mistakes I’ve made and the mess I’ve gotten myself into.”
Katherine nodded slowly. “It takes a long time to believe the good news of God’s favor, doesn’t it? Especially if we’ve lived a lifetime with rejection and condemnation and shame and lies.”
“Yeah. A really long time.” Mara sighed. “My pastor says the longest distance in the world is the eighteen inches between our heads and our hearts, and that it’s only the Holy Spirit who can get what we know to move from here to here.” She pointed first to her forehead, then to her chest.
“Exactly,” Katherine said. “It’s only by the Spirit’s power. And, in fact, that’s the very next verse. You just gave the exact same answer the angel gives to the ‘How can this be?’ question. ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.’”
Mara leaned forward and pointed to the Bible. “Can I see that a sec?”
Katherine handed it to her.
“I remember Meg telling me about how you gave her a Bible verse once—I don’t remember where it was from—and you told her she could put her own name into it. Like God was speaking to her. And it really, really helped her.” Mara was gazing at Katherine with an expression of childlike trust. “Am I allowed to do that with a verse like this? Put my own name in there? Like in the ‘Do not be afraid’ part?”
Thank you, Lord. “That’s a beautiful way to pray with this text.”
Mara was quiet a long time, staring at the page. “I don’t think I could have just said yes like Mary did. I put lots of ‘buts’ after my yes. Like I don’t really trust God to do what’s good for me. Know what I mean?”
Katherine nodded. Yes, she knew what Mara meant. “Just stay with the ‘Don’t be afraid’ part,” Katherine said. “Just focus on God’s grace being poured out on you. Focus on him choosing you as his dwelling place. On being pregnant with the Son of God. That’s plenty to ponder right now.”
Mara looked like she was thinking hard. “I’d like to be able to say, ‘Do whatever you want with me, Lord.’ Maybe someday.”
When Mara left her office ten minutes later, Katherine removed her boots and worshiped.
four
Charissa
John trailed the home inspector from room to room on Thursday afternoon while Charissa decided to wait in the kitchen. She had offered to come to the inspection as a way of extending an olive branch to John, who still wasn’t convinced she was enthusiastic about the house. “I am excited,” she’d insisted multiple times over the past twenty-four hours. “I’m just under a lot of pressure right now. I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on.”
An awful lot going on.
She proffered an indulgent smile to the realtor, who was under the mistaken impression that Charissa would appreciate small talk. No, Charissa didn’t mind the snow. Yes, she was looking forward to being out of the apartment and into a house. Yes, she had lived in Kingsbury all her life. No, she hadn’t gone to Kingsbury High School. To Kingsbury Christian. No, she didn’t know someone named Joel DeVries. Or Caleb VanderWaal. No, John had grown up in Traverse City, and they met in college. At Kingsbury. No, they weren’t having a big family gathering at Christmas, just going to see his parents for a few days. Her parents had moved to Florida. No, not near Disney World. Yes, it was a nice place to visit.
Thankfully, John hadn’t let it slip that they were expecting their first child. She could only imagine the intrusive questions if this woman knew that information.
Charissa eyed the clock on the microwave.
Yes, the rooms were very spacious. With lots of sunlight. No, she didn’t need to take any measurements for furniture. Or window treatments.
The realtor glanced down at Charissa’s foot. She hadn’t realized she was tapping it.
John appeared in the doorway. “All set?” Charissa asked.
“No. It’s going to be a while.”
She scrunched her toes.
“You want to just go and then come back to get me? I’ll call you.”
Great idea. She paused just long enough to intimate her hesitation at leaving him alone to the task. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ll call you.”
With a thank-you and a kiss good-bye, she hustled out the door before the realtor could provide any good reason for her to stay. At this point in the semester, even an hour in her library cubicle would be better than nothing.
When Charissa returned to the house ninety minutes later, John was on the front porch, hands in his pockets, talking with the inspector. The expression on his face indicated all was not well. “What’s wrong?” Charissa asked after he slumped into the front seat of the car.
“Where do you want me to start?”
John proceeded with a litany of problems as they drove through the neighborhood. Furnace. Roof. Cracks in the foundation. Evidence of termite damage.
“And, to quote the inspector,” he said, “a ‘mold infestation.’”
Charissa arched her eyebrows. “I’m not moving into a house with mold.”
“I know that. The sellers would have to get everything fixed first.”
“I’m not moving into a house where there’s been mold, John.”
“Okay. I’m just saying—they’d have to fix it. We could negotiate with them.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“People do it all the time. They’re going to have to get it fixed before they can sell it.”
“Well, they can fix it and sell it to someone else. What were they trying to do? Cover everything up with new carpet and a fresh coat of paint?”
John pressed both palms to his forehead. “Shoulda known it was too good to be true,” he said with a sigh.
She stared at the traffic light, the clinging icicles glowing red. Some things just weren’t meant to be. “We’ll find something else,” she said.
He turned and faced her. “You’re not even a little bit disappointed?”
She glanced into the rearview mirror and shrugged. “There are lots of houses to look at, now that your parents are helping. We’ll find something.”
He crossed his arms against his chest and mumbled, “Shoul
da known.”
Meg
Over the past two days Meg had become, if not an expert, at least semi-confident about riding the Underground by herself. Determined not to squander the opportunity to explore London’s unique treasures, she managed to follow the Tube’s colored grid to join the horde of tourists for the changing of the guard pageantry at Buckingham Palace; she attended an evensong service at the majestic Westminster Abbey; and she spent hours marveling over the vast and eclectic collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum. On Friday afternoon, not long after Meg finished having tea by herself in the hotel dining room, her cell phone rang. “Hey, Mom! A group of us is going ice skating at the Tower of London. Want to come?”
Meg had anticipated spending the evening with Becca, just the two of them. “Oh . . . I don’t know . . .”
“It’ll be fun! And you’ll get to see the Tower. I hear it’s awesome at night.”
With a bit more persuasion, Meg yielded. Evidently, if she was going to see her daughter, she would need to practice being flexible. “It should be really easy to get there,” Becca said, “but I’ll give you Pippa’s number, just in case you need to reach me. I left my phone at a friend’s place.”
One thing was for sure, Meg thought as she inserted her ticket into the turnstile at Russell Square later that evening: navigating disappointment was proving to be far more challenging than finding her way along the streets of London.
When she arrived at the Tower, Becca and her friends were already skating. Even in the ghostly bluish light, Meg recognized the boisterous Pippa, who waved to her just before she lost her balance and fell, giggling, with exaggerated clumsiness. “Duncan! Help!” Pippa called, her hand outstretched. A lanky young man skated over and pulled her to her feet. It could have been Meg’s imagination, but Pippa seemed deliberately unsteady as she made her way around the rink, clinging to him.
Becca glided over to the perimeter and pointed out some other friends circling the ice: Avery, Nicole, Amy. “You’re going to skate with us, right?”
The last time Meg had skated was at the Kingsbury Ice Center for a Valentine’s Day date with Jim when they were sixteen. Limbs flailing, she felt like a spindly-legged fawn. But Jim was patient and good-humored, and with his arm wrapped securely around her waist, Meg managed to stay upright. “I think I’ll just people-watch,” Meg said.
“Oh, come on,” Becca said. “At least try it!”
Reluctantly, Meg rented a pair of skates, then stutter-stepped and shuffled around the perimeter, gripping the top of the wall with one hand while using her free arm to try to balance herself. Younger, bolder beginners frequently passed her. Just when she was ready to quit, Becca skated over to help.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Becca asked, threading her arm through Meg’s to steady her. “I think we’re skating right on top of the old moat.”
Meg momentarily glanced away from her feet. It was all very picturesque: the strands of white lights reflecting on the ice, the medieval towers aglow, the skyscrapers lit up across the Thames. “It’s wonderful, honey.” How ironic that the grim and gray Tower, once a solemn, macabre place of torture and execution, had been transformed into a venue for frivolity. Anne Boleyn would be shocked.
Directing her imagination away from all the grisly events that had unfolded nearby, Meg loosened her grip on the wall and leaned into Becca as they inched forward. “I didn’t know you were such a good skater,” Meg said.
“Well, I ought to be after all the lessons Gran paid for.”
“Your grandmother paid for lessons?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember?”
Meg thumbed through her mental files, unable to recall any occasion when her mother had offered to pay for something. She had always insisted that Meg be financially independent, which was why Meg had worked multiple jobs to make ends meet over the years, everything from elementary school music teacher and special needs’ classroom aide to house cleaner and secretary and piano teacher when school district budget cuts eliminated her positions.
“Are you sure?” Meg asked. “I don’t remember ice skating lessons.”
“Yeah, during my freshman year. She thought it would be something fun to add to my dance classes.”
Fun? Her mother had encouraged fun? Supported and financed fun?
“I guess I didn’t know about that.”
The next voice she heard in her head was her older sister Rachel’s: Yeah, well mothers don’t know everything.
True, Meg thought, but Becca had always been the type of daughter who was quick and eager to confide. How many nights had they spent together, sitting cross-legged on Becca’s bed, discussing Chad Harris, whom Becca had adored since the third grade? Or how many times had Meg held her while she sobbed over Josh Samuels, who dated her six months during her senior year in high school, only to gain access to her friend Lauren? Or what about their long conversations about her friends who were experimenting with alcohol and sex and Becca’s anguish over their choices?
Even when Becca was away at college and Rachel insisted she’d be “having her flings,” Meg knew differently. While her peers might be getting drunk at fraternity house parties and hooking up in one-night stands—did they still call them that?—Becca would be at the library or in the dance studio. That’s who her daughter was.
Is, Meg corrected herself. That’s who she is. Even with a nose ring.
Becca jostled Meg’s arm. “You can loosen up, Mom. Trust me! I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you fall.”
Trust me. Those two words found a resting place in Meg’s spirit and quieted her while they circled the ice.
Trust Me. I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you fall.
Hannah
Mara entered Meg’s house with a pizza Friday evening looking weary but declaring that the week had been quiet. “The boys were all psyched up about their hunting trip,” she said to Hannah. “I hate that they go every year, but it’s Tom’s deal with them. I don’t have veto power. Over anything.”
Hannah, in a deliberate effort to practice a new spiritual discipline, decided not to press for details while they ate or try to manipulate Mara into further conversation about life at home. Instead, she let her rave about decorating Meg’s house. “This place is going to look amazing when we’re through! Absolutely amazing. And I can’t wait to meet your Nathan!”
Nathan had planned a full day of fun for them on Saturday, beginning with an outing to a Christmas tree farm and ending with him cooking dinner. Hannah was looking forward to the day together. “Celebration” and “community”: two increasingly important words for her.
Mara took another slice of pizza from the box on the counter and sat down. “I’ve got something important to tell you,” she said, twiddling her long strand of multi-colored beads.
Ahhhh . . . here we go, thought Hannah. She leaned forward on her elbows, hands pressed together. She could make sure Mara got to a safe place. Meg’s house, maybe. That could be a temporary solution until they figured out some longer-term strategies.
Mara cleared her throat and said, “I’m pregnant.”
Hannah had years of practice perfecting a pastoral poker face. Even with all that practice, however, she wasn’t sure she had complete control over her facial expression. She waited a moment and then asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Pretty sure.”
“And Tom—”
“Haven’t told him yet.”
“But aren’t you—”
“Fifty and menopausal. Yep. Impossible, right?”
Oh, Lord. How in the world? This would complicate everything. Absolutely everything.
“And it’s not Tom’s baby.” Mara took a sip of water, and Hannah was horrified to see what looked like a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. How in the world could she think this was funny?
Hannah directed all her effort into sounding concerned rather than condemning. “So . . . do you know whose baby it is?”
“Yep.” Mara still had
the glass near her lips. “Katherine says I’m pregnant with the Son of God.”
Pregnant with . . . ?
As comprehension dawned, Hannah exhaled a full lung’s breath, then reached across the table to rap Mara’s shoulder. Mara snorted her laughter, which made Hannah chuckle. “Ah, Reverend, you shoulda seen your face! I could just hear those pastor gears grinding!”
“They were grinding, all right,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “Talk about a relief! You had me going. You really had me going.”
Mara grasped her hand. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. Can I just tell you how good it feels to have girlfriends I can play with and tease? My whole life . . .” Her eyes brimmed with emotion. “My whole life, I was the one being teased. I was the butt of all the jokes. The one everyone left out. Having you guys in my life . . . It’s huge for me. Really huge. Thank you. You guys are gifts to me.”
“And you’re a gift to us,” Hannah said. “To me.” With Mara’s hand still in hers, she said, “So, tell me about being pregnant.”
Saturday, December 6
7 a.m.
Mara’s still asleep. Gives me some time to process and pray through some things. I have a feeling the Holy Spirit is trying to catch my attention by pressing on some wounded places. “Learn to linger with what provokes you,” Nate often says. It’s so provoking, but it’s true. The Holy Spirit hovers there.
So here goes.
I’m surrounded by pregnancy images. First with Charissa, then with Mara sharing last night about her time with Katherine in spiritual direction. She’s pondering what it means to be chosen and graced and favored to bear Christ like Mary, to be “pregnant with the Son of God.” Katherine invited her to think about being God’s dwelling place. “Like a womb where Jesus is being formed,” Mara said. “Not just a place where Jesus has to be born because there’s no room somewhere else. But a place God chooses. Like I’m a special place for God.”
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