Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  She patted the silky head of the golden retriever nuzzling her knee.

  “Go on, Chaucer!” Nathan pointed to the adjacent family room. “Go lie down.” He reached into a jar on the kitchen counter and tossed the dog a rawhide strip. Chaucer caught it and trotted into the other room. Hannah brushed some dog hair from her black jeans. “You want some coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Tea?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  He sat down across from her and reached for her hands. “What can I do for you?”

  Hannah shook her head slowly. “Remind me again that I’m not here as a pastor. For Mara or for Meg.”

  In reply, Nathan squeezed her hand.

  “If you were me, what advice would you give Mara? As a friend.”

  “Well, first of all, I’d advise not giving her advice. You don’t know all the details.”

  Right. She should have predicted that answer. “Okay, so how would you be alongside her if you were me? What would you do?”

  He shrugged slightly. “Pray. Listen. Invite her to keep watch for how God is with her in the midst of this.” He paused. “Keep watch with her.”

  “You sound like Katherine.”

  “Yes, well, I guess she’s rubbed off on me over the years.”

  Hannah leaned back in her chair. “Things were already volatile with Tom. Who knows what this will do.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Like Mara, she wondered how long Tom had been planning this. Maybe this was why he’d been in town the past week; he was wrapping things up in the Kingsbury office.

  Nathan motioned for her to stay seated, then disappeared to the family room. When he returned, he was flipping through the pages of a well-read leather Bible. “I was praying with John 1 this morning,” he said, sitting down at the table again. “I’ve been dwelling on the first few verses all Advent, just trying to take to heart the wonder of it.” He sat in silence for a moment, reading the page.

  Hannah had led plenty of Bible studies on the Prologue of John’s gospel and had preached from that text several times during her fifteen years at Westminster. Though she had frequently plumbed it for its rich theological depth and insight, she’d never sat and pondered it in prayer.

  “I used to recite these verses from memory during our Christmas Eve service,” Nathan said. “We’d get to the end of the service, just before midnight, and they’d turn off all the lights in the sanctuary, and I’d come out onto the stage holding a candle, speaking the words. And people would talk about it being the highlight of their Christmas worship every year.

  “The first time I did it, I meant it. The Word was doing things in me while I delivered it. I had such a sense of the Spirit of God with me as I spoke it into the darkness. And then, after that first year, it became more of a performance. I worked hard at getting inflections just right, so that people would be deeply moved. And impressed. And then one year I decided not to do it, and you would have thought the Grinch had just stolen Christmas.”

  Hannah chuckled. She knew all about congregational attachment to certain practices and traditions. They’d had their own conflicts at Westminster about similar sorts of things over the years, plenty of them. In fact, they were probably having some this Advent as well. Lord, bless them. Bless the staff. Bless your people.

  Nathan had his hand on the page as he looked at her. “I avoided reading this passage for a long time,” he said. “It was linked in my memory to my ministry, to the ways I lost my soul trying to be everything for every­­one else while neglecting my own life with God. These were the words I performed for the people of God, the words they wanted me to perform. To move them. Entertain them. But Katherine suggested I read them again. So I’ve been pondering a few words or phrases every day, asking God to remove all the layers of ego that got enmeshed with it. And you know what struck me today?” He looked down at the page again. “Starting at verse 6. ‘There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.’” He placed both hands on the page and pressed it. “Maybe if I had really taken to heart what John the Baptist modeled, ministry would have been different. Maybe I would have spent less time trying to be the Light and more time pointing people to it. Inviting them to watch for it dawning in the darkness. Encouraging them to trust its coming.” He paused. “I guess that’s how I’d be looking to be alongside Meg and Mara.”

  Hannah nodded slowly. That was good. Really good. Maybe she would join him in meditating on that passage. There were deep things to ponder, even in those few verses.

  Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a textbook. “Dad?”

  Nathan turned around. “Yeah, bud?”

  “Do you know anything about quadratic equations?”

  “I’ll be up in a little while.”

  “But—”

  “In a little while, Jake.” It was a firmer tone than Hannah had heard him use before, and it surprised her.

  Jake’s shoulders sagged as he left the room and trudged upstairs.

  “I should go. He needs you.”

  “He’s okay.”

  “Nate, really. He’s already been very generous to share you with me tonight. On very short notice.” She rose from her chair. “Really. I’ve got to get going anyway. It’s late.”

  “Stay put,” he said. “Please. I’ll go up and help him for a bit and then—”

  Hannah touched his lips with her index finger. “He needs his dad.”

  Chaucer reappeared in the doorway, a soggy bit of rawhide dangling out of the corner of his drooling mouth. He deposited his treat in front of Nathan and thumped his tail expectantly.

  Hannah called good-bye to Jake, who reappeared on the stairs with his algebra textbook. “Thanks for sharing your dad with me.”

  “Sure.”

  “And thanks for dinner,” she said, turning toward Nathan. “And for conversation. You always give me good things to think about. Not easy, but good. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Next time we’ll have something more exciting than spaghetti.” He retrieved her coat from the hall closet and held it for her as she slipped each arm into the sleeves. “I’ll be praying for you, Hannah. For all of you. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’m here for you. Remember that. We can keep watch for the light together.”

  As she drove away, she found herself praying that he would also remember to be there for Jake. She had a feeling there was more light coming, for both of them. And some of it might hurt their eyes.

  Monday, December 8

  11 p.m.

  I’ve been reading John 1 for the past hour, amazed I never saw this before. Nate mentioned verses 6-9 about John the Baptist testifying to the Light, but not being the Light. Talk about a precise diagnosis of what was unhealthy for me in ministry for 15 years. My words declared that Jesus was the Light, but my life declared that I was. No wonder I wore myself out. I wasn’t living as God’s beloved. I was living as his substitute. Lord, forgive me.

  After thinking about those verses awhile, I read on through verse 20. Here’s what caught me: “This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, ‘I am not the Messiah.’”

  I am not the Messiah.

  Words to live by. And a good follow-up to my insights from Isaiah 9 about the government being upon HIS shoulders, not upon mine.

  So, as a practice of detaching from my over-developed sense of responsibility, need to be needed, self-importance, and pride, here’s a long-overdue resignation letter, Lord.

  I hereby resign as your deputy. By declaring that I am resigning as your deputy, I am declaring that (1) you have not appointed me to act in your place as God of the universe, (2) I
am not your surrogate with power to act when you seem absent, and (3) I am never as important to your kingdom coming as I have often imagined myself to be.

  Forgive me. I confess, I do not deny but confess freely, that I am not the Messiah.

  I’m most tempted to intervene and try to manage your world when I least trust that you are actively engaging with your people to bring about your good plans and purposes.

  Forgive me.

  I attempt to take your place when I see others suffering and don’t know what to do to help. When I stop believing that you are a good and loving God for others, I’m tempted to jump in and rescue, to become a codependent pastor. I still want you to be the God who fixes pain. Someday, you say. Someday you will make all things well. But in the meantime, help me trust that you are mindful of your people and the burdens of sorrow that each one is carrying right now.

  Help me testify to the Light, Lord, without trying to be the Light for others. Please be no less than who you are for Meg. For Mara. For the ones they love and long for. And help me not to step beyond the good and gracious boundaries you have set for me as their friend and sister in Christ. Teach me. Deliver me. Help me to love them well.

  And here’s the other space I don’t know how to live in—day-to-day equilibrium with Nate. It’s one thing to enjoy his hospitality at Thanksgiving or have a fun play day together. But sharing an unplanned meal with the two of them on a school night feels more intimate and intrusive. I just can’t shake the concern that I’m disrupting their rhythm of life together, no matter how much Nate insists otherwise. It’s been just the two of them together for years now, and I don’t want Jake to become jealous or resentful about the time his dad spends with me. And we’ve been spending a lot of time together.

  I love Nate’s passion and commitment and single-minded focus, but it was his single-mindedness about ministry that contributed to the breakdown of his marriage years ago. He once said he was grateful Jake only remembered him being a loving and attentive father. I can see where his single-minded devotion to me could easily compete with his attention to Jake.

  Help, Lord. This is hard for me, especially since I love being with him. I don’t know how to do this well. Show me how to live in this space, Lord. Please.

  seven

  Meg

  On Tuesday morning Meg awoke early and went to the hotel dining room for breakfast. Claire greeted her after she sat down at a corner table near the lit fireplace. “Hiya. Feeling better?”

  “A little.” Meg hoped her puffy eyes wouldn’t betray too much.

  “Full breakfast today?”

  “Just tea and toast, please.”

  The dining room was more crowded than usual, bustling with some American tourists. Meg eavesdropped on their itinerary for the day: a bus trip around the city for an overview of historic landmarks, a tour of Churchill’s War Rooms, a West End show. “I need to find some better shoes,” one woman said. “I’ve got blisters from all that walking around yesterday.”

  A walk.

  Maybe that would help clear her head so she could pray about her next steps. She had spent all day yesterday cooped up in her hotel room. A change of scenery might work wonders for her. When Claire returned with her tea and toast, Meg asked what she would recommend.

  “Russell Square is lovely. Or if you haven’t been to Kensington or Hyde Park, they’re quite good.” She poured milk into Meg’s china cup, then added the tea. “Or if you fancy a walking tour, we’ve got leaflets in the lobby. My mum thinks the walks are brilliant—all sorts of different ones to choose from.”

  That actually sounded appealing. She didn’t need to make any immediate decisions. Why not put on her sensible shoes and explore the city on foot? “Could I please change my mind and get a full breakfast?”

  Claire smiled. “No worries at all.”

  “The allure of London,” the guide said, “is that you can scratch its surface, uncover the hidden courtyards and crooked alleyways, and discover that voices from the past are still whispering to those who desire to listen.”

  What Meg discovered as she walked and listened was the London she’d hoped to find. She only wished Becca had been with her to hear the guide recite entire paragraphs from Charles Dickens near the Gatehouse at Lincoln’s Inn, or lines from Shakespeare outside the replica of the Globe Theatre. She would have loved it. Or, at least, Meg thought she would have loved it. As they crossed modern roads to enter the narrow backstreets of bygone eras, two thousand years of history came to life through vivid and engaging storytelling. Though she hadn’t intended to do so, Meg went on both a morning and afternoon walk, then arrived back at the hotel just in time for tea.

  To her surprise, Becca was sitting in the lobby, looking agitated. “You didn’t answer your phone,” she said, an undisguised reproach in her voice.

  Meg reached into her purse. No phone. “I’m sorry, I must have left it in my room.” She had been so thoroughly engrossed by the tours, she hadn’t even noticed.

  “I’ve been trying to call all day. Where have you been?”

  “Walking.”

  “Walking? Walking where?”

  “All over the city. I went on a couple of guided walks.”

  “Well, I thought something had happened to you. Next time take your phone.”

  Meg bit her tongue to keep from saying something unedited and unkind. She supposed it was a positive sign that Becca had been trying to reach her and that she was concerned enough to come to the hotel. Then again, maybe she had come just to make sure Meg had booked a flight home. “I was planning to have tea in the dining room,” Meg said. “Would you like to join me?”

  Becca rose from the sofa, her hands fidgeting. “I’m having dinner with Simon.”

  Meg removed her coat and scarf. “Okay.” Pathetic as that sounded, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Becca looked like she wasn’t sure what to say, either. “But maybe I have time.”

  Since any expression of pleasure might be regarded as manipulative, Meg said, “Okay,” and followed Becca into the dining room. Becca chose the same table where Meg sat for breakfast, right beside the fire.

  Claire was clearing plates from an adjacent table and greeted Meg with a broad smile. “Is this your daughter?” Meg nodded. “I could tell. You have the same eyes.” Claire handed each of them a menu, then set napkins and silverware on the table. “Did you take your walk?”

  “Two of them, actually. Thank you for the suggestion! It was a perfect way to spend the day.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I was worried when I saw you yesterday. You looked really unwell.” Meg watched the corner of Becca’s mouth twitch slightly.

  “You were very kind,” Meg said. “I won’t forget it.”

  “No trouble. Just let me know when you’ve selected your tea.”

  “Do you know what you’d like?” Meg asked, once Claire disappeared to the kitchen.

  Becca’s face was hidden behind the menu. “Earl Grey, I guess.”

  It seemed a ridiculous thing to have to wonder about, but Meg went ahead and asked. “Is it all right if we share a pot?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Inhale. Help, Lord.

  Exhale. Please.

  Meg stared at the fire burning cheerfully, like a whole lot of Advent hope candles dancing together. “So . . . how was your day?” She wasn’t sure what else to ask.

  “You mean apart from worrying that something had happened to you?” Becca still wasn’t looking at her.

  “I’m sorry about that. I guess it didn’t occur to me that you’d be trying to reach me.”

  “Nice. Thanks for the guilt trip.”

  “Becca. Please. I just meant that I didn’t think I’d hear from you today, after our conversation last night.”

  “Yeah . . . about that . . .” She set her menu down. “Can we just talk about all of this without it turning into something ugly?”

  “I’d like that. Very much.”

&nb
sp; Help, Lord.

  Help us.

  Becca planted her elbows on the table. “I’ve been thinking about it all day today. You know how you always said you wanted me to have wings, right?”

  Meg nodded. It was true. She had never wanted Becca to be bound by the same sorts of fears that had bound her. She had wanted Becca to be free to take flight in beautiful ways.

  “Well, you don’t get to say that and then try to control where those wings take me. I get to live my own life, make my own choices. Sorry if those choices upset you, but I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  “No, I know you’re not.”

  “I still want us to be close, Mom. I do.” Becca reached across the table and placed her hand upon Meg’s. Meg blinked back tears. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. That was wrong. But I need to be able to live my own life without worrying about whether or not you approve. Simon’s part of my life, and I’m not going to be ashamed of him. Of us. There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of. I’m really happy.”

  Becca had set her chin to communicate her firm resolve. Jim had possessed the same determined tilt. Meg had forgotten that about him. “You look just like your dad right now.” The words were out of Meg’s mouth before she even realized what she was saying.

  “Is that a bad thing?” Becca asked, without any edge in her voice.

  “No, not a bad thing. It just means I know you won’t be changing your mind. Your dad used to get the exact same look on his face whenever he made a decision about something, and I knew there would be no arguing with him.”

  This was the moment she had been waiting for, with the perfect opportunity for a smooth segue.

  Emmanuel.

  You are with me.

  “I’ve been thinking about your dad a lot the past few months,” Meg said. “It’s been hard. But healing. I wanted to say—” Meg cut herself off when Claire reappeared to take their tea request.

  “Did you decide what you’d like?” Claire asked.