Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Becca poured a spoonful of sugar into her teacup and stirred. “Mom, I need to run something by you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t get mad, okay?”

  Meg listened to the clink, clink, clink of the spoon against the china. “Okay.”

  Becca took a sip of tea and swallowed. “Simon invited me to go to Paris with him.”

  Meg concentrated on her scone.

  “For my birthday.”

  Meg felt her eye begin to twitch.

  “You’re mad. I can tell.”

  Mad? “Mad” didn’t even begin to describe—

  “It’s just that I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris, and Simon always goes there for Christmas, and to be there on my birthday would be so amazing! But I know you were hoping to spend Christmas Eve together, and I don’t want to leave you here by yourself. I know that’s not fair.”

  Not fair?

  How dare Simon even invite her, during her mother’s visit! What was he trying to pull? What kind of man would—

  Becca removed her napkin from her lap and folded it on the table. “Never mind. I told him you’d be upset.”

  No.

  The two of them couldn’t just scheme together and then discuss her without Meg being there to defend herself.

  No.

  And Becca couldn’t just get up and leave without finishing a conversation.

  No.

  No!

  Absolutely not.

  This wasn’t happening.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Meg focused on setting her knife down on her plate with a steady hand.

  “How long would you be away?” the voice that proceeded from her mouth asked.

  Becca perked up, hope renewed. “A couple of days. I mean, Simon’s going to be there through New Year’s, and he invited me to stay the whole time, but I could just go a couple of days and then come back here for the rest of your visit if you want.”

  If you want?

  None of this had anything to do with what Meg wanted.

  None of it.

  She wanted none of it.

  She studied Becca’s sanguine face, her eyes bright, her chin slightly tilted in expectation.

  Becca knew what she wanted. No doubt about it.

  How in the world could Meg oppose those desires without Becca resenting her? What kind of birthday and Christmas celebration could they have together if Becca was only thinking about what she had given up with Simon in order to accommodate her mother?

  Meg put down her rod, not with hope and trust, but with resignation and defeat.

  Simon had already won.

  She saw his face, his mocking, gloating face.

  She despised him.

  “I think maybe . . .” Meg paused to seize control of her voice. “I think maybe it would be best for me to go home.”

  Becca’s eyes narrowed, and she exhaled irritably. “So now you’re going to make me feel guilty?”

  “No,” Meg replied. “No. You’re old enough to make your own decisions about your life. You know how I feel about your relationship with Simon. I don’t like it. I don’t like him. I don’t like the idea of you going to Paris with him. I hate the idea, actually. And I feel sad. Very sad. But I can’t control what you choose to do.”

  Becca looked away from her, arms crossed. For all Meg knew, Becca was the one who had suggested the whole thing to him.

  Emmanuel.

  Come.

  Please.

  Help.

  Trembling within, Meg reached across the table and touched Becca’s chin. Becca turned her face toward her again, a frown creasing her forehead. “I don’t need to approve of your decisions in order to love you, Becca. And I love you with all of my heart.”

  With every piece of her shattered heart.

  from: Katherine Rhodes

  to: Meg Crane

  date: Thursday, December 18 at 7:48 p.m.

  subject: Re: coming home

  Dear Meg,

  I got your email about your change of plans and meeting together next week. I’m in prayer with you right now, carrying your sorrow and disappointment to Jesus. I am also praying for your departure on Monday, that you and Becca will have some tender moments together. You are offering the Lord a costly sacrifice as you lay down your own desires and let her choose her own way. May he meet you here.

  A text comes to mind as I pray for you. Luke 2 begins with the emperor’s declaration that the “world should be registered,” so Joseph and Mary head to Bethlehem to be counted in the census. No doubt Mary wondered if they had ended up in the wrong place, especially when she was forced to lay the King of kings in a feeding trough. But our God is so big that he even uses the decrees of pagan governments to accomplish his purposes, so that the birth of the Savior happens in the very place prophesied about centuries before. God is never taken surprise by inns with no vacancy. What a comfort it must have been to Mary when the shepherds found them and testified that angels had told them exactly where to go and who they would find there.

  You say you wonder if your trip was a mistake, that maybe you ended up in the wrong place and that you might have been better off simply staying here and avoiding the heartache you’ve endured. But it’s impossible to know what the Lord has set into motion by your being there with Becca. In the midst of disappointment, it’s easy for us to punctuate our pain with exclamation points. God, however, is very fond of commas, and our lives are continually unfolding in him, with all the unexpected twists and turns. Courage, dear one. The Lord is with you. May he strengthen you with hope for the next leg of the journey.

  Let’s plan to meet together on Tuesday the 23rd. I’ll hold 1 p.m. open for you, and we’ll watch together for the Light that will never be understood or overcome by darkness.

  Peace to you.

  Katherine

  Charissa

  Charissa rapped her forehead with her knuckles in frustration. “I can’t do this,” she said to John, who was stirring a pot of spaghetti on the stove. “I think I’ll tell Dr. Allen I’ll take an incomplete and work on this stupid paper over Christmas break.”

  “Don’t do that,” John said. “Just think!” He twirled the spoon in the air like it was a magic wand. “You can take some time off with nothing to think about except finding a wonderful house with your wonderful husband where we can live with our no-doubt wonderful child. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  It would be wonderful if she could figure out how to write this blasted integration piece for the paper. She had spent the last few days reviewing her notes from the semester and particularly from the sacred journey retreat. But that had only discouraged her. All those supposed aha moments, and where had it gotten her? She hadn’t even opened a Bible the last several weeks. What kind of a Christian was she, anyway? She’d felt more faithful when she was just ticking all the correct devotional boxes every day with obligatory and lifeless quiet time.

  “I feel like such a hypocrite,” she said. “What am I supposed to write about? It’s not like my spiritual life is anything to imitate.”

  “So write that. Isn’t that what you talked about before? That Dr. Allen wanted you to be honest?”

  “Brutally.”

  “Okay, so pretend you’re writing in a diary or something. Just write about the journey. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just write about what you’ve seen. What you’ve learned along the way. All the ‘two steps forward stuff’ you’ve been talking about. The wrestling. Just write it all down.”

  Just write about the journey.

  Suddenly, the way forward became clear.

  She opened her document again and typed the opening lines from Dante’s Inferno. “In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost. It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was, so that thinking of it re-creates the fear. It is scarcely less bitter than death: but, in order to tell of the good that I found there, I must
tell of the other things I saw there.”

  For the next three and a half hours, Charissa wrote about the things she had seen, the ways her eyes had been opened, the oscillating movement of the steps forward and the steps back, the longing and the fear, the resistance and the yielding, the sin and the grace. So much grace. She typed without editing, eating while she wrote, and finished her paper just after nine o’clock. “Done,” she declared as she pressed the send button.

  John looked up from his reading. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” She shut down her computer, stretched her arms above her head, then rotated her shoulders.

  Thank you, God.

  Maybe the exercise of writing about her journey had been a beneficial one after all, a way of perceiving how some of the pieces fit together in a larger whole. Despite the frustrations and discouragement along the way, she actually had traveled forward since September. Deeper into the knowledge of God. Deeper into the knowledge of herself. Deeper into a dark wood, yes. But there was light. The encouragement of light shining in the midst of the darkness.

  She joined John on the couch. “Want to watch a short movie or something?” she asked.

  “I’ll take the ‘something,’” he replied.

  She ran her fingers through John’s hair and pressed his palm to her abdomen where life was growing by grace. He lifted her T-shirt and kissed her stomach.

  “Let’s celebrate,” she whispered and led him down the hallway by the hand.

  Hannah

  “Did you get the pictures I sent you?” Mara asked Hannah on the phone Friday morning. “Isn’t she the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?”

  Hannah fingered the soil covering the amaryllis bulb in its pot on the windowsill. She had never heard Mara sound so animated. Madeleine’s birth had come at the perfect time to bring joy and encouragement in the midst of darkness. “She’s gorgeous,” Hannah said. “Congratulations, Nana!”

  “Thank you! Thanks so much. I can’t even tell you how amazing it feels. Here I’ve been asking God what can be born in a place like this, and it’s like he’s answered, you know? Not that my life isn’t still full of crap—it is. But there’s hope. I got to spend hours at the hospital with them yesterday, but now that they’re home, I don’t want to butt in, and Abby’s mother is arriving this morning, I think, and I don’t know how long she’s staying—I didn’t want to be rude and ask—but I’m really hoping I’ll get to see them again this weekend.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Mara.”

  “Thanks,” Mara said. “But enough about me. Are you coming back soon?”

  “Today.” Hannah stepped away from the windowsill and moved toward the laundry room, where clean clothes waited to be folded. “I’ve got a spiritual direction appointment with Katherine, and then I’ll head back over to Meg’s. I think I’ll probably stay with her through Christmas. She asked if I would.”

  “Poor Meg. I can’t wait to give her a big hug. I’ll come with you to the airport Monday night.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Charissa called this morning,” Mara went on. “Wanted to invite me out for coffee sometime. And when I told her everything that’s happened the past couple of weeks, she offered to come right over to pray for me. I told her it was okay, that she didn’t need to, but I was so touched that she offered, you know? She’s been completely stressed out, but she really wants to get together after Meg gets home, so I told her I’d check with you and see about scheduling a time. I’m guessing Meg won’t be up to anything right away, with jet lag and everything, but maybe we could all meet for dinner on Tuesday night or lunch on Christmas Eve or something.”

  Hannah began unloading the dryer with one hand. “Yeah, let’s play it by ear, see how Meg feels. I’m glad Charissa called, though.”

  “I know. And when she said how sorry she was about everything with Tom and how she really wanted to support me any way she could . . . Well, you know that’s huge coming from her. God sure has brought us a long way. I think part of me was still afraid she’d judge and condemn me. But she didn’t.” Mara paused. “It’s like I’m surrounded right now by messages that I’m not alone. You know how big that is for me?”

  Mara was right. It was huge. Hannah stopped her one-handed folding and went out to the sofa to sit down. “Can I pray for you right now?” she asked.

  “You bet, girlfriend!”

  Friday, December 19

  2:30 p.m.

  I’m in the New Hope chapel. Just had spiritual direction with Katherine, and I want to record some of what we talked about so that I’ll be sure to remember.

  After talking about all the pregnancy buttons getting pushed lately and how I’ve been praying and processing all that, I told her about “behold” and “hineni” and how I’m struggling to offer that prayer wholeheartedly. “What do you think God will require if you say, ‘Here I am’?” she asked.

  That question opened up a whole conversation about my life with God up until now, that I’ve lived for years expecting that God would always require whatever would be most difficult for me to offer. I’ve said, “Here I am . . . Let it be to me according to your word” and then braced myself for suffering and sacrifice. I haven’t said that prayer with hope or confidence in the love of God.

  Katherine immediately caught the resignation in that offering and my deeply ingrained predisposition to receive only hard things from the hand of God. She talked about how sometimes the sword will pierce our hearts in our surrendering and yielding as it did for Mary. But if we only ever expect pain, our ability to discern God’s way is severely impaired. She said that faithful listening is about listening to God’s love without fear. When we offer ourselves expecting only to suffer as much as possible, we aren’t free to listen in love. I haven’t been free to listen in love. And I can’t expect to be changed overnight. Being totally converted to the lavish love of God, to the abundance of God, to wholehearted trust in God is a slow process. But I’m committed to the journey. And that’s progress forward.

  I guess I can be grateful for the buttons that get pushed. They help me see the areas where God is looking to set me free and make me more like Jesus.

  Katherine suggested I not focus on “behold me” as a prayer right now, but instead focus on beholding Jesus. She said that when we concentrate on beholding the love of God in Christ, the character of God, the trustworthiness of God, then “behold me” becomes a joyful and trusting response to that love. “Don’t start with your ‘Here I am’ to God,” she said. “Start with God’s ‘Here I am’ to you.”

  Words to chew on, Lord, and this is the perfect season for pondering and for treasuring up in my heart, like Mary did. Your incarnation is your ultimate “Here I am.” Help me behold you. Help me remember that you are Lover and I am beloved before I am lover and you are Beloved. It keeps coming back to the image of the flowers. I spent years trying to bring flowers to you, to please you with my offering. I still need to practice receiving flowers from you so that any flowers I offer in return are coming from rest and joy and gratitude rather than anxiety that I haven’t done enough for you. I don’t want to be the exhausted delivery girl any more. I just want to walk with you while you deliver flowers to others. Huge paradigm shift.

  We also talked about physical markers. She laughed when I said I wasn’t interested in getting a tattoo but that I was happy to go with Nate when he gets his. What came to my mind as we talked was a verse from Psalm 40: “Sacrifice and offering you did not desire, but my ears you have pierced.” Even though David is talking about God opening his ears to hear, the language of “piercing” caught my attention. I’ve never had any desire to have my ears pierced. But if piercing them is a spiritual marker instead of a cosmetic decision, I think that could be really meaningful to me. I just looked up the verse and noticed that David goes on to write, “Then I said, ‘Here I am.’”

  It all fits together. I spent years trying to bring sacrifices and offerings the Lord was not requiring of me.
Now that he is opening my ears, I’ll be able to say, “Here I am” in a different way. With hope. With trust. Maybe I’ll get my ears pierced for Christmas.

  You’ve brought me a long way, Lord. And I still have a long way to go. But you’re with me. Thank you that you’re with me. Help me trust your “Here I am.”

  Meg

  “You don’t need to come to the airport with me,” Meg said to Becca on the phone Saturday night. “I can manage.”

  “You don’t want me to come?” Becca’s voice sounded testy. There was no winning with her.

  “No—I didn’t say that. I just said you didn’t have to.”

  “Well, I’m free then, so I’ll ride with you to the airport.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Meg stared out the window at some twinkling lights in the park. She still couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t be in London for Christmas, that she and Becca wouldn’t be together on Christmas Eve. On her birthday. Her twenty-first birthday.

  She hated Simon.

  “What about tomorrow?” Becca asked. “Anything else you want to see on your last day? You haven’t been to Trafalgar Square to see the Christmas tree. We could go there. Or Covent Garden’s really cool. Great market, all decorated.”

  Meg could tell Becca was trying to placate her, just like she’d placated her by going to hear Handel’s Messiah the night before. She’d sat there with a bored expression on her face, texting the entire time. Still, if she was in conciliation mode . . .

  “I’m going to worship in the morning,” Meg said. “How about joining me?”

  Silence.

  “You could choose where. St. Paul’s, Westminster . . .”

  More silence. Then an audible sigh. “It’s just not my thing, Mom.”

  Meg decided to be bold. “What’s not your thing? Church? God? What?”

  “All of it,” Becca replied. “It’s fine that your faith is important to you. But I feel like you’re trying to impose it on me. Or using God to make me feel guilty or something. I’m just not interested.”