Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Hannah listened and prayed while Mara vented her anger and devised ways to punish Tom. No point trying to shut her down. She needed to spew her rage somewhere. Maybe once she cooled down a bit she would be able to offer some of her resentment and fear to God in prayer. Lord, show me how to be alongside her, to point her to the Light without trying to be the Light.

  “You know what my counselor said last week?” Mara said, arms still crossed. “‘Poor Tom.’ Poor Tom! Poor Tom, my foot!”

  Hannah waited a moment and then asked, “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “No clue. And get this. You know what she wants me to do? Stand in front of a mirror and say to myself, ‘I’m the one Jesus loves. He’s chosen me.’ Stupid, huh?”

  “I don’t think that’s stupid at all,” Hannah said. She had once led a retreat group in a similar exercise. “I think it’s a great idea, especially with everything going on right now. Sounds like a good, simple way to keep remembering that you’re loved and chosen—not rejected—and that God will never abandon you, no matter what.”

  “Yeah, well . . . lemme tell you. It’s pretty hard to believe you’re chosen and loved when life is so crappy.”

  Help her believe it, Lord. Help her know your love in the midst of all the rejection and fear.

  “And I’ll tell you something else that’s crappy.” Mara reached forward and turned down the fan. “Jeremy told me this morning that Abby’s mother is planning to come up here from Ohio for a couple of weeks in January right after the baby’s born. I bet she’ll stay at their apartment. Sleep on the couch. Be able to help in the middle of the night and bond with the baby. She’ll get a head start on me. She’ll have money to buy the baby anything. And what will I have to offer?”

  Time. Attention. Love.

  Hannah decided to keep those words to herself. For now.

  Tuesday, December 16

  11:30 a.m.

  Just dropped Mara off at her house, and now I’m sitting in the student center waiting for Nate. He said he’s got some important things to talk about while Jake isn’t around, so we’re going to have lunch together. The place is much quieter today. Sounds like many of the students have already finished final exams and have gone home for Christmas break. I don’t know if Charissa has finished or not. Hope she’s doing okay.

  I had something push my buttons last night that I still need to process. I deactivated my Facebook account when I left Chicago—too big a temptation for me to stay connected with people from the church. But last night I logged on, just to scroll through and see what’s happening. Shouldn’t have done it. Heather had posted pictures of decorating my house for Christmas, and it really upset me, seeing her look so happy in it. It’s crazy, because I’m grateful she’s housesitting for me while I’m away. And then I got even more stirred up because there were all kinds of posts on her wall, thanking her for the outstanding intern work she’s doing at the church. I sat there feeling incredibly jealous and resentful. Happy as I am to be here right now, I still hate the feeling that I’ve been so easily and thoroughly replaced. Why can’t I be grateful that the church is being blessed through her ministry? Help, Lord.

  I deactivated the account again. I don’t know how it all works, but hopefully no one saw that I was temporarily online. I also hope I’ll resist any future temptation to go on there again. Clearly not good for my soul right now.

  I sat in the car listening to Mara talk about everything that’s being taken away from her—and I can’t blame her. I can only imagine how frightening it is and how threatened she feels. It’s a huge upheaval. But as I listened to her talk about how angry she is about everything Tom’s getting and how jealous she is of Abby’s mom, I realized just how easy it is for me to revert to a scarcity model, too. Like there’s only a certain amount of love and affection and affirmation to go around and that I have to compete against others for it. And then it’s so easy to transfer that scarcity model onto God, like his love is a pie being cut into slices and you have to worry about whether the slices are equal or whether there will be enough for everyone.

  I remember hearing someone say that instead of thinking about a pie being cut into slices, think about a beach on a warm, sunny day. My soaking up the warmth and sunlight doesn’t take away anything from anyone else on the beach. And someone else basking in the warmth and sunlight doesn’t take away anything from me. God’s love isn’t limited. Infinite is infinite. When will I really believe that?

  I think it was Augustine who said that God loves each one of us as if there were only one of us. We’re all the beloved, infinitely and lavishly and unconditionally loved. You have flowers for each of us, Lord. Beautiful flowers for each one of us. Help me celebrate and treasure the flowers you give me without worrying that there won’t be enough for someone else. And help me celebrate and give thanks for the flowers you give to others, without feeling jealous and resentful. Convert me completely to your abundance, Lord. It’s easy for me to talk about it, harder for me to live it.

  Hannah watched Nathan stride past several students who called out his name, with only the slightest nod and wave in return. When he reached her, he pecked her cheek and said, “Mind if we go somewhere else? We’re not going to have much privacy here, and I’m really not in the mood for interruptions.”

  “Sure. Everything okay?”

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Clearly everything was not okay. She packed up her Bible and journal, then put on her coat. He did not assist her with her sleeves or hold the door open for her on their way outside. Once outside, he marched so quickly toward the trail around the pond, she had to scurry to keep up with him. “Nate, stop! Please.” She grabbed his arm. “What’s going on?”

  He turned to face her, his breath steaming in the cold air. “I just got a phone call that’s made me so angry, I could—I don’t even know what.” He kicked at a chunk of snow, which careened a good distance across the frozen pond.

  “Is Jake okay?”

  “Oh—he will be. I’ll make sure of that.”

  He stooped to make a snowball, then hurled it with a force that startled her. As he stooped to make a second, Hannah touched his shoulder. “Nathan.” He crouched down and stared across the pond. She waited.

  “I got an email from Laura yesterday.”

  A quick intake of breath.

  “She’s pregnant.”

  A fist to the gut.

  “She’s moving back to Michigan with her husband.”

  Buzzing in her ears.

  “She wants to start exercising her visitation rights. And she just called to say that if I don’t cooperate by encouraging her relationship with Jake, she intends to open up legal proceedings again.” He formed another snowball and launched it toward a tree. It hit its mark and disintegrated, sending a squirrel scampering for cover.

  Hannah stared at the snow-splattered trunk. “Can she do that?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah, she could. If she wanted to play hardball. Our visitation agreement was left pretty open to interpretation because she moved overseas. So now she wants to swoop back in and disrupt our whole rhythm of life together. Even had the gall to say she wanted to fly in and visit this Christmas. I told her no way. She can’t do that to him. To us. Not on short notice like that.” He turned to face Hannah. “I’m sorry. I only just got off the phone with her, and I’m all worked up. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He scuffed his boot at the snow again, more mildly this time.

  Hannah wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck and burrowed her fingers into her mittens.

  “I’m sorry, Nate.” She was. For so many varied reasons.

  He reached for her hand. “I told Jake last night that I’d gotten an email from her announcing they were moving to Detroit in February and that she wanted to be a part of his life again. And I told him he didn’t have to see her until he felt ready to. And I’ll tell you, I took a significant amount of pleasure in hearing him say that he didn’t want to and that he wasn�
�t sure when he’d be ready. So I emailed a reply, telling her I wasn’t sure how that would all work out. That we’d have to wait and see how Jake felt. And that she’d have to be patient. Hence the phone call from her just now, giving me an earful, insisting she has legal rights.”

  They started walking along the path. “So what did you say to her?”

  “That the two of us can meet in person to discuss it after they move back. And that she’s not to call Jake and badger him about it. That she needs to come through me. Hopefully, she’ll cooperate and we can work something out. Something that’s good for all of us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah said again. “Sorry you and Jake are going to have to go through something hard again.”

  He shook his head. “Look at me, Shep. Look how she’s managed to upset me with a phone call from thousands of miles away. What am I going to be like when she’s less than two hundred miles away? I told Katherine yesterday that I’m terrified of becoming toxic with anger again. I don’t want to go back to that dark place. And I’m trying to preach the same good news to myself that I preach to everyone else, that the Holy Spirit’s work isn’t fragile, that transformation is real, that we really can become more like Christ. And I’m not going to get there by trying harder but by yielding. I know this. I know all of it.”

  “It’s so hard,” Hannah agreed. So very, very hard.

  They walked a slow forty-five-minute loop around the pond, Nathan verbally processing his anger and gradually moving toward the peace that usually characterized him, Hannah trying to contain her own distress while remaining fully present to him in his.

  “Thanks for letting me vent,” he said when they returned to the student center. “I already feel like some of the fear has lifted. Like I can see a bit more clearly now. I don’t like it, but I know God will use it. He always does.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. Hannah wondered if any students were watching. She remained in his embrace a few moments before pulling away.

  “How about letting me treat you to lunch?” he asked, fingering a loose strand of her hair and tucking it behind her left ear. “Are you hungry?”

  She tucked her hair back on the right side as well, hoping he hadn’t heard her stomach growling as they walked around the pond. “No . . . thanks, though. I need to check on the cottage, and I should get on the road.”

  “But we could just eat in the student center if you want.”

  “Rain check, okay? I really need to get going. I hear there’s snow hitting later today.” Once that lake-effect snow machine started churning, driving would become treacherous, with reduced visibility, possibly even white-out conditions.

  “Hannah—” Nathan held her face in his hands. “I feel like you’re shutting down on me.”

  “No, I’m okay. I’ll be back on Friday. And I’ll be praying for you. And for Jake.”

  She did pray. Fervently. All the way to Meg’s to toss clothes into her bag and all the way back to the lakeshore, where skies remained clear all afternoon.

  Mara

  “Coach still says I have to do ten hours of community service,” Kevin said as they drove home from the appointment with the ear, nose, and throat specialist. Thankfully, his nose wasn’t broken.

  “Does he care where you do it?”

  “Nah. Dad said it’s stupid, but Coach won’t let me play again until I do it.”

  Tom had never seen the point of serving anyone other than himself. Or the boys.

  Mara suddenly had an idea. “Well, you could do it at Crossroads. They’re always looking for people to help serve meals.”

  Kevin appeared to be considering this. “Is that where you went on Thanksgiving? With all the homeless people?”

  “Yep. And that’s where I go to play with the kids. You want me to find out if you could serve there?”

  He shrugged. “Are you going again?”

  “Sometime next week. Just don’t have it scheduled yet.”

  He was silent a moment and then said, “Could I go with you?”

  Mara made sure she paused a few seconds before replying so that she wouldn’t freak him out by too enthusiastic a response. Thank God for almost broken noses and coaches who assigned community service! “Sure. I’ll check my calendar and see what will work.”

  She didn’t care that he didn’t say another word all the way home. This was victory enough for a day.

  Meg

  “Hiya, Mrs. Crane!” Pippa waved, arm stretched high above her head, signaling to Meg from their designated meeting place near the base of the London Eye. The towering ferris wheel was much larger than it had appeared from across the river. “Becks isn’t here yet,” Pippa said. “She just texted to say they’re on their way.”

  They. Soon “they” would arrive together and Meg would be face to face with Simon. She suddenly realized she didn’t even know his last name. Help, Lord. She greeted some of the others she had met at the ice skating rink and looked up at the slow-moving glass capsules filled with people walking around to experience the panoramic view. Good thing she had thought to take some Dramamine. “Have you ridden this before?” Meg asked.

  Pippa laughed. “No! I never do any of the tourist things here. But Becks has been wanting to ride, so we all said we’d come. It’ll be good fun.” She looked past Meg. “Here they come!”

  Meg spun around. He was strolling with one arm around Becca’s waist, the other hand holding a cigarette. That explained the smell of smoke in her hair.

  He wasn’t at all what Meg had imagined. She had imagined someone tall and dark haired, an older, dashing version of Becca’s other crushes over the years. Simon, however, was a short middle-aged man in a tweed overcoat, a fedora atop his graying hair. Maybe Becca was enamored with his intellect.

  He ground out his cigarette with his shoe and leaned in to whisper something in Becca’s ear. She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. He looked old enough to be her father. He was old enough to be her father.

  Help, Lord.

  Maybe the Dramamine would also relieve nausea and lightheadedness not associated with motion sickness.

  “Simon, this is my mum.” She was speaking with an accent.

  Meg bristled.

  “Mrs. Crane, what a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  His smile was cool, his handshake limp, his baritone voice theatrical, his tone patronizing. Or was it mocking? At least Meg had wrapped a scarf around her neck. Maybe he wouldn’t see her face flush with the emotion she was determined not to voice. She commanded herself to smile politely but did not speak. She wasn’t going to lie and say she was pleased to meet him.

  Becca handed her a ticket. “I was going to buy—” Meg protested.

  “Simon’s treating us,” Becca said.

  That seemed a deliberately manipulative and controlling calculation. “Oh, no—please.” She reached into her purse to pull out her British currency.

  “Mom. Don’t. Simon’s already taken care of it.”

  No point objecting and creating a scene. She mustered strength enough to look him in the face and say, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She didn’t like the smirk in his eyes. Didn’t like it at all.

  Meg tried to distract herself with the view as they ascended high above the Thames, the illuminated Parliament buildings reflecting on the river, the city lights twinkling, the miniature cars crossing bridges. It was something straight off a postcard.

  But oh! the capsule revolved so slowly, and Simon’s hands were all over Becca as they stood entwined by the glass. All over her.

  “Look, Mom,” Becca said. “There’s St. Paul’s.” Meg followed her pointing finger to the dome and recalled the soaring voices of the boys’ choir, like angels singing their glorias. How distant all that seemed now. “My mother went to hear the boys’ choir there,” Becca explained to Simon. “And you said they were great, didn’t you, Mom?”

  “Beautiful,” Meg said.

 
“Mum’s a musician,” Becca said.

  Meg stiffened on the bench.

  Simon cast a half-glance over his shoulder. “Is that so?”

  “No—I’m not really a—”

  “She’s a music teacher,” Becca interjected. “Or, she was when I was little. She still teaches piano.”

  Simon whispered his reply in Becca’s ear, his roaming hands continuing to fondle her.

  Stomach acid rose into Meg’s throat.

  What was he trying to prove? Did he take perverse pleasure in flaunting his influence over her daughter, or was he simply a heartless narcissist?

  “Simon’s working on a novel,” Becca said. “Tell her, Simon.”

  If he replied, Meg did not hear him.

  “It takes place in Paris,” Becca continued. “About a group of philosophers. And an unsolved murder, right?”

  “Don’t give away all my secrets, Rebecca.” His voice dripped with affectation.

  They had passed the midpoint of their rotation, and they were on their way down.

  Down, down, down.

  December 16

  Prayer of examen:

  Lord, please give me the courage to review today with You. Please.

  I’ll start with the positive. When was I aware of Your presence?

  You enabled me to survive half an hour in an enclosed space with him. I didn’t burst into tears. I didn’t make a fool of myself. I didn’t say anything I would later regret. You helped me. Thank You. At least Becca didn’t push me when I said I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to join them at the pub afterward. She said she’d call tomorrow so we can figure out what to do for “fun.”

  She better not be thinking I’m doing anything with Simon. I’m done. I did my part. I agreed to meet him. I want nothing more to do with him. Ever. Everything rings false about him. And when she’s with him, she’s false, too. He’s a bad influence, Lord. A terrible influence. Please wake Becca up and turn her to You. Please turn her away from Simon. Please do something. Rescue her! Please show me what to do. Help me. I feel like I’m going to drown.