Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Maybe I should spend some time praying with my imagination, like Katherine taught us. Maybe that would help me. I was reading Isaiah 11 this morning, and it has lots of beautiful, peaceful images in it. Maybe I’ll try praying with that. Guide my imagination, Lord, and help me see You bring Your kingdom. Please.

  Meg closed her notebook, opened her Bible, and read Isaiah 11:1-9 several times:

  A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,

  and a branch shall grow out of his roots.

  The spirit of the LORD shall rest on him,

  the spirit of wisdom and understanding,

  the spirit of counsel and might,

  the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the LORD.

  His delight shall be in the fear of the LORD.

  He shall not judge by what his eyes see,

  or decide by what his ears hear;

  but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,

  and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;

  he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,

  and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.

  Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist,

  and faithfulness the belt around his loins.

  The wolf shall live with the lamb,

  the leopard shall lie down with the kid,

  the calf and the lion and the fatling together,

  and a little child shall lead them.

  The cow and the bear shall graze,

  their young shall lie down together;

  and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.

  The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,

  and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.

  They will not hurt or destroy

  on all my holy mountain;

  for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD

  as the waters cover the sea.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine a little lamb. She had pictured herself as a lamb once before, lost and alone and frightened and exhausted and bleating for its mother while the wolves howled and prowled nearby. The Shepherd arrived, whistling in the dark. He gathered the lamb into his arms and spoke words of comfort that quieted Meg. She was safe. She was his. He was with her. Don’t be afraid. You are mine.

  This time she imagined a little lamb on a hillside. A wolf was circling, drool dripping from vicious fangs. Meg looked to her right. The Shepherd was there, reclining on the grass, his eyes closed, his face to the sun. He didn’t seem to see or hear the wolf. The lamb turned, and Meg gasped to see Becca’s face on its woolly body. She tried desperately to rouse the Shepherd, but he did not stir. So she grabbed the rod from the ground beside him, leapt to her feet, and raced toward the wolf, flailing the stick in the air. The wolf hunched forward, baring its teeth. Meg struck it once on the head, and it ran away, yelping in pain. She turned, but the lamb was gone. Now there was a toddler crawling on the grass, reaching for a slithering black snake emerging from a hole in the ground. “NO!” Meg screamed. She took the rod again, bashed the snake, and grabbed the child, who was gurgling and clapping her hands like it was all a delightful game. Meg cast a pleading glance toward the Shepherd, who was now sitting upright, watching.

  “Kill it!” Meg shouted. The serpent had risen up again, poised to strike, and it had Simon’s face. “Kill it!” Meg shouted. “Please!” She was weeping, begging, and now she was surrounded by every sort of predator, all closing in. “Jesus! Please! Do something to help!”

  The Shepherd reached out a calloused, scarred hand. “My darling girl,” he said gently. “Put down the rod and trust me.”

  ten

  Hannah

  Hannah sat beside the picture window at the cottage on Wednesday morning, knees tucked to her chest and a fleece blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A quiet surf lapped the shoreline beneath a rose and lavender sky; seagulls scuttled and scavenged along the beach; bronze grasses waved from snow-covered sand dunes.

  She breathed deeply. She would finish her tea, go for a walk along the beach, and then get ready to see Nathan at one o’clock.

  She had called him the night before to apologize for her abrupt departure: She was sorry. She shouldn’t have left like that. She should have admitted she was upset and needed a bit of time and space to process why. That would have been better than reverting to her old M.O. of fleeing. But the emergency shut-off valve inside her was deeply ingrained.

  He knew that, he said. But he had thought they were getting beyond the mask, that she trusted him enough to be honest about what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

  She did trust him, she insisted. She did. She just didn’t trust herself. She didn’t trust what she might say when she was all stirred up. She should have said that much. She was sorry. Very sorry. “Please forgive me.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Hannah. Forgive me. Forgive me for only thinking about myself and just dumping everything on you without thinking about how it might impact you. I’m sorry. Really sorry. I want to walk together in this. I need us to walk together, Hannah. I . . .”

  His voice trailed off into pregnant silence.

  “You what?” she asked.

  “I’m just glad you’re here. Really glad you ended up coming here for your sabbatical.” He paused and then said, “Would it be all right if I came to the cottage to see you?”

  She said yes. And now she needed to figure out how much more to say once he arrived. She bundled herself against the cold, took her pinwheel down to the beach, and watched the petals spin in receptivity to the wind.

  “The flowers are for you,” Nathan said when Hannah met him at the door just before one o’clock. He was holding a small box with a picture of a bold red flower on each side. “Amaryllis,” he explained. “I’m told they’ll grow even for brown thumbs like me.”

  “Thank you!” Hannah peered into the box at a single large bulb with straggly roots. Every autumn she planted daffodils and tulips at her house in Chicago. There was something defiant and hopeful about burying dead-looking things in the ground and trusting tender shoots and flowers to emerge at just the right time in the spring. Not only once, but again and again. Yearly declarations of resurrection. “I’ve never grown an amaryllis before,” she said.

  “Well, the instructions and everything you need are in the kit. I remember you told me once that you and Meg had talked about the metaphor of flowers blooming in winter. This seemed like the perfect visual for that. So I got one for myself too. As a reminder.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with his handwriting on it. “And these are carol lyrics to go with the flower.” He cleared his throat dramatically and flourished the paper. “Do you prefer a poetry recitation or a serenade?”

  She laughed and motioned for him to hand her his coat. “Come in first. And then you can sing for me.”

  She sat; he stood and sang the first stanza with his lovely tenor voice. “Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung. It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter, when half spent was the night.”

  “Not exactly a rose,” he said, motioning to the bulb box on her lap. “But I figured it was a good image of a ‘floweret bright, amid the cold of winter.’ Maybe you can add this one to your collection of carol lyrics to pray with.”

  “I will. Thank you. That’s been a really good spiritual discipline for me.” She folded the paper back into thirds and set it on the coffee table.

  He positioned himself on the sofa, cross-legged and facing her. “Thanks for letting me come see you.”

  “I’m glad you offered to come. And I’m really sorry about yesterday.”

  “We already apologized to one another,” he said. “And we already forgave each other. Remember? We don’t need to rehash it. You know me, Hannah. I like to be direct. So if you’re not ready to talk about how you’re feeling about Laura, we don’t have to. I’m not
here to push you. Just wanted to offer a listening ear. Like you offered me yesterday.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. I guess part of my reluctance to talk about it is because her coming back is hard enough on you and Jake without me adding my layers of pain and baggage to it.” She paused. “And I’ve got a lot of layers and baggage, Nate.”

  He reached for her hand. “You carried mine yesterday. In all of its ugliness. I’d like to help carry yours.”

  Wednesday, December 17

  3:30 p.m.

  Nate left about an hour ago so that he could be with Jake after school. We had quite a heart-to-heart. I started by telling him how I sensed a couple of weeks ago that the Holy Spirit was pressing on wounded, unhealed places, that I was suddenly surrounded by images of pregnancy—with Charissa, with Mara. And then when he said that Laura was coming back—not only coming back, but coming back pregnant, something deep within me shut down. He understood. Then I told him about my hysterectomy, and he held me while I cried. I didn’t expect to cry. He just kept stroking my hair and whispering, “I’m here, Hannah. I’m with you.”

  Maybe the deluge of tears was part of the cleansing. I don’t know. I feel exhausted and poured out, but not in a bad way. We didn’t talk about anything that this might mean for us down the road. I think both of us know that’s not a conversation we’re ready for. But we’re walking together. Like Mara said at the airport: sometimes it feels like two steps forward and one step back. Or even two or three steps back. But it’s okay. It’s good to know that this is hard for both of us. We can wrestle with God together. And I want to be alongside him to support and encourage him when Laura comes back. I want him to know I’m with him, even as he’s been with me.

  Before Nate left he told me his idea of tattooing “hineni” above his ankle as a declaration of his desire to surrender himself wholly to God. He’s not saying that lightly, especially with all that’s come up with Laura. “It expresses my longing, not always my reality,” he said. He asked, half joking, if I’d like to get flowers or a “beloved” tattoo. I’m not interested in getting a tattoo, but I am thinking about doing something to physically mark the transition in my life with God over the past couple of months, from seeing myself only as servant to glimpsing myself as the beloved. Nate’s right. All that God is doing to heal me and free me and transform me is worth marking in some way. I’ll have to think about what that might mean.

  I’ve been sitting here ever since he left pondering that word “hineni.” Such a deep word of surrender and trust. Here I am. See me. Behold me. Behold. That’s a great old-fashioned word. It makes me think of Mary’s surrender in Luke 1. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.”

  Am I able to say “Here I am” to God without reservation? Something in me resists. Even after everything God has done for me. I wish it weren’t true, but it is. The news about Laura really brought it home for me. I feel such resentment and envy. Here’s a woman who had an affair, abandoned her marriage and her son, took off to Europe with a new husband, and now gets the gift of another child. It just doesn’t seem fair. And I know, Lord. I know. I don’t really want fairness. I want grace. I say I want to live in your abundance, to celebrate the love you pour out, and then I begrudge your generosity to others. I’m selective about who should get flowers from you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

  Nate seems to be doing better with the situation than I am. He says the anger comes in waves, and he’s not sure what he’ll be like when he’s actually face to face with her in a couple of months. I told him I definitely see the fruit of the Spirit’s work in him—that he can offer his anger to God and not get mired in it. He’s more practiced in that process than I am. And he’s confident that God can use everything to conform us to Christ. Keep teaching me, Lord.

  I’m going to stay here and rest at the cottage until Friday morning, then head to Kingsbury for a spiritual direction appointment with Katherine. Good timing. I’ll have lots to share with her.

  Thank you, Lord, for the gift of flowers that bloom in winter and for light that shines in darkness. And for your patience with me. I’m grateful.

  Mara

  “We’re on our way to the hospital right now, Mom. Abby’s water broke, and the contractions are coming pretty quick. Looks like you might be right after all. This baby’s coming early!”

  Mara tucked the phone under her chin and looked at her watch. Almost four o’clock. The boys could eat frozen pizza for dinner, and she could go to the hospital and wait. Then again, she didn’t want to butt in uninvited. “Is Ellen on her way?” she asked.

  “No, Abby’s folks are in Atlanta for a conference. They’re not due back home until Friday. But Ellen’s going to try to change her flight and come straight here. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Perfect! Mara thought, then immediately scolded herself. Grow up, would you? How childish to worry about who would get there first. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure Abby wishes her mom could be there.” Mara heard Abby cry out in pain.

  “Gotta go!” Jeremy said. “I’ll call you with an update. Love you!”

  “Love you! Tell Abby I’ll be praying!” But Jeremy was already gone.

  Guess she wasn’t going to the hospital.

  She bowed her head at the table and began praying for Abby, Jeremy, and her granddaughter. Please, Lord. Please let everything be okay. Let the baby be well. Let Abby be okay. Be with Jeremy. Be with the doctors and nurses who are taking care of them. Let them all be safe and well and—

  “What’s for dinner?”

  Mara nearly jumped out of her chair. Ever since Brian’s voice had begun to change, he sounded more and more like Tom.

  “Frozen pizza, I think.”

  He began opening cupboards. “We got nothing to eat around here.”

  Just you wait, she thought. If your father gets his way . . .

  “I went to the store today,” she said.

  “We got nothing good to eat around here.” He opened the refrigerator and stood in front of it, frowning at the stocked shelves.

  “Close the fridge. You’re letting all the cold air out.”

  Brian removed a gallon of milk and put it to his lips, gulping straight from the jug.

  “Brian! Pour it into a glass, please.”

  He finished swigging and belched. “Don’t need one. When’s dinner?”

  “I don’t know. An hour, maybe.”

  He returned to the pantry, where he began rifling through bags of chips.

  “If you’re hungry, eat an apple or something.”

  He took a bag of Doritos and disappeared to the basement.

  She put her face in her hands again. God, help. Ever since Tom’s departure on Sunday, Brian had been determined to fill the void with even more defiance. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Tom was coaching him from Cleveland on how to antagonize her. Dawn had suggested that both boys should be in counseling. No way Tom would ever agree to pay for that. She probably wouldn’t be able to afford to keep seeing Dawn herself. Or Katherine.

  She reached into the back of the cupboard where she had stashed some chocolate chip cookies, emptied the milk jug Brian had left on the counter into a glass, and went to the family room to watch Law and Order reruns while waiting for Jeremy to call with an update. She had just sat down on the sofa with the remote control when she noticed the red plastic storage tub tucked beside the Christmas tree. She had never finished decorating. Torn between “Why bother?” and “Might as well,” she flipped on the television, bit into a cookie, and knelt down beside the tree to see what was left. Tinsel, miscellaneous baubles, stockings, a collection of tabletop Santas, and a box marked “Nativity Set.” No point messing with the tinsel, no way she was hanging Tom’s stocking, and she couldn’t be bothered with the Santas. Just more tchotchkes to dust.

  She opened the nativity set box and freed the plastic figures from their tattered tissue paper. The set had been a gift from a volunteer at Crossroad
s House not long after she and Jeremy arrived. Jeremy had insisted on sleeping with the camel and the “pirate” every night for a month. The plastic was chipped, the paint faded, but the wise man still held his treasure box of gold open. Mara placed him near the manger, despite Pastor Jeff insisting every year that the wise men hadn’t been there. “Well, I say you belong,” Mara said aloud. “Babies need presents.”

  Rosie. Miss Rosie. That was the volunteer’s name.

  Crossroads hosted an annual Christmas bazaar with homemade cookies, pies, and donated gifts. While the mothers picked out clothes and toys, the children went into a special room where they “shopped” for their moms. According to Miss Rosie, four-year-old Jeremy had looked carefully at each and every table, inspecting all of the different gift possibilities for Mara. Finally, he chose a pink coffee mug with hearts on it. But when he took it to the table to have it wrapped, he dropped it, and it cracked. Miss Rosie told him not to worry; he could choose another present. So he chose extra-long red tube socks with snowflakes on the heels, “Ho Ho Ho” on the toes, and Santa Claus waving on the calves. Mara still had those socks. She had the mug too, having mended it with Super Glue to use as a pencil holder.

  She wondered how they were doing, wondered how long it might be before Jeremy called again with news. Waiting was one of her least favorite things.