Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Lord, bless Laura even more than you’ve already blessed her. Lavish her with your love and bring her to deepening life in you.

  Amen.

  I think.

  I called Mom and Dad and told them I’ll come and visit sometime in January or February. They were so excited. I also went ahead and told them about Nate. Mom cried with joy. She said she remembers me talking about him when I was in seminary, that she thought way back then that we’d get together. I had no idea she’d thought that. I told her not to jump to any conclusions—that it’s too early for that. “But are you happy?” she asked. “I want so much for you to be happy.” I told her I was.

  Then she confessed that she and Dad have been worried about me. They thought the reason I wasn’t joining them for Christmas was because I was suffering from depression over the sabbatical and was isolating myself. She said they knew how important the church was to me, that I’d built my whole life around trying to be faithful in ministry, and they were worried when it was taken away. Given her own bout with debilitating depression years ago, I can only imagine how worried she’s been. I’m glad we were able to clear that part up. And I’m hopeful that we can have some significant and healing conversations about the past when I’m with them.

  I told Dad about the pinwheel, and he remembered giving it to me. He got choked up when I told him that Nate bought me one. Said he already approved of any man who took good care of his favorite girl. And that made me choke up.

  I just looked again at Nate’s note with the stanzas from Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming. Two verses catch my attention:

  Isaiah ’twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;

  With Mary we behold it, the virgin mother kind.

  To show God’s love aright, she bore to men a Savior,

  When half spent was the night.

  And

  This Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,

  Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;

  True Man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,

  And lightens every load.

  Not sure why I didn’t make the connection before. You’re the Flower, Lord! Jesus, you’re the exquisite and beautiful Flower from the Father’s heart to me. To us. The declaration and evidence and revelation of Love. And you invite me to behold you as Mary did. And inhale the sweetness of your fragrance. And watch your light dispelling darkness. And trust your saving work. And say yes to your lightening every load.

  Yes, Lord.

  I say yes.

  Again.

  Charissa

  John hung up his phone and beamed at Charissa, who had been trying to eavesdrop on his conversation with the realtor from a few inches away on the couch. “It’s ours?” she asked.

  “It’s ours,” he said. “If everything goes okay with the inspections, we can close in early February.”

  Charissa wrapped her arms around him. “I have a good feeling about it,” she said. “The house may look tired, but I bet it’s structurally sound.”

  “I hope you’re right,” John said. “I’ll call the inspector first thing tomorrow, see if there’s any chance we can get this done before Christmas.”

  She rose from the couch and retrieved her royal blue pea coat from the closet.

  “Where are you going?” John asked.

  She slipped her arms into the sleeves, then removed his coat from a hanger. “We’re going to see the house,” she said. “We’re going to sit in the driveway, and you’re going to eat that foul-smelling, disgustingly greasy pizza, and we’re going to dream about what it’s going to be like to live there together.” She held his coat out to him. “Unless you’d rather not.”

  He laughed. “How about a compromise? Let’s go out for dinner—your choice—and then we’ll go see the house.”

  She buttoned her coat and looped a scarf around her neck. “Deal.”

  Meg

  from: Meg Crane

  to: Charissa Sinclair

  date: Monday, December 22 at 1:40 a.m.

  subject: Re: a house

  Dear Charissa,

  I just picked up your email with the good news about your offer being accepted. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you love the house. As I said when I sent you the link, it’s a small but cozy place, and Jim and I were so happy there. I’m surprised to hear about shag carpet covering up the hardwood. The floors were in beautiful condition when we lived there. I hope they’re able to be restored. I don’t know if the vintage glass knobs are still on all the doors, but Jim always loved those. And we spent many nights in front of the fireplace together. I’ll be eager to hear how the inspections go. We never had any trouble with any of the things you mentioned about the other house you looked at. Hopefully, all the work to be done will just be cosmetic updates instead of structural problems. I’ll be praying for you.

  Thanks for your prayers for me. See you soon.

  Love,

  Meg

  from: Meg Crane

  to: Hannah Shepley

  date: Monday, December 22 at 2:10 a.m.

  subject: Re: Praying for you

  Dear Hannah,

  Thanks so much for your email and your prayers. I’m packed and ready to come home. Becca insists on riding the subway to the airport with me in the morning. I guess I should be grateful that she wants to come.

  We’ve had some very painful moments together the past few days. I think part of her still wants me to approve of her relationship and the decisions she’s making. She keeps trying to convince me that all of this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. She doesn’t want my advice, so I try not to give it. She’s so excited about Paris that she doesn’t want to talk about much else. And I just don’t know what to make of this version of my daughter. I’ve wanted to blame it all on Simon’s influence. It’s easier than naming Becca’s selfishness and sin.

  I’ve been reading the story of the prodigal son the past few days and thinking about the father letting his son go, then waiting and watching and hoping for his return. It’s so hard to let go and let her choose her own way. What does it mean to let go without giving up? To let go with hope? I don’t know.

  I tried to find a way to talk to Becca about faith, but even that backfired. I feel like such a failure.

  Please pray me home.

  Love,

  Meg

  “Sure you’ve got everything?” Becca asked.

  Meg opened her purse for the umpteenth time to make sure she hadn’t misplaced her passport. “I think so.” She glanced up at the flight departure screen. On time.

  “You want to try to find a place to get coffee or something, or do you just want to go to your gate?”

  For the moment, Meg had the upper hand on her emotions. Prolonging their good-bye over coffee probably wasn’t a wise idea. “Oh, you know me. I’ll feel nervous until I get to the other side of security. I think maybe I ought to just head there.” She looked down, caught a glimpse of her sensible shoes, and bit her lip. All the hopes she’d had for this trip, and here she was.

  Here they were.

  “I guess I’ll see you in May when you come home,” Meg said.

  “Yeah.”

  Meg knew this was the point in the conversation where the polite thing to say would be, I hope you have a great birthday celebration, or, I hope you enjoy your time in Paris, or, I had a fantastic time with you, and I’m so glad I came. Since Meg couldn’t say any of those things honestly—and since Becca wasn’t saying things like, I’m so glad you came, or, I wish you were staying longer—they both endured the awkward pause.

  “I wish you could be happy for me, Mom.” No bitterness, no scolding edge to her voice. Just longing.

  Meg understood the longing.

  She set down her carry-on bag, embraced her daughter with both arms, and stroked the back of her hair.

  Such longing.

  “I love you, Becca,” she said quietly. “And I want wonderful things for you
. I always have. But we disagree about what those things are.”

  Becca remained in Meg’s arms longer than Meg expected. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she heard a faint sniffle.

  “Okay,” Becca said when she pulled away. “Agree to disagree.” She picked up Meg’s bag and slung it over her shoulder. “C’mon,” she said, weaving her free arm through Meg’s. “I’ll walk you there.”

  Mara

  Kevin was silent the entire drive to Crossroads, and Mara couldn’t tell if he was resentful or nervous. Maybe both. “When we go in, I’ll introduce you to Miss Jada. She’ll tell you what they need help with. I don’t know if she’ll ask you to help serve lunch or work in the kitchen or sweep floors or take out trash, but whatever it is, you do it without arguing, okay?”

  “You already said that.”

  “Well, these people are very important to me.” If he was his usual sulky self, she would be mortified. “Treat them with respect. They deserve it.”

  No response.

  “Kevin?”

  “O-kaaay.”

  She found a parking space and turned off the ignition. How could she possibly communicate to him how much this place meant to her? Kevin didn’t know her story, didn’t know she had lived at Crossroads with Jeremy, that she’d come to faith here, that they’d encouraged her and prayed for her and helped her try to find a job that could pay rent. She had never spoken about how the people at Crossroads cared for the two of them like they were family. Kevin wouldn’t understand. As far as he knew, Mara simply liked volunteering here.

  “This must be your son,” Miss Jada said when Mara and Kevin entered the large dining hall. The tables were already set, and Mara could smell fresh bread baking in the ovens.

  “This is Kevin.”

  Thankfully, Kevin politely extended his hand and returned her “Nice to meet you” greeting.

  “You know how to use a knife?” Miss Jada asked. “We need help chopping veggies.”

  Though Kevin had never chopped a carrot in his life, Mara said nothing.

  Miss Jada didn’t wait for him to reply. “Hang your coat up over there, go scrub your hands, then meet me in the kitchen. There’s lots of work to do.”

  Kevin obeyed. He had probably already figured out this was not a woman to contradict.

  For the next two hours Mara watched him from the corner of her eye while she ladled soup into bowls held by grateful hands. Miss Jada kept Kevin bustling, giving crisp orders like a drill sergeant. At one point he happened to be refilling the nearby water coolers when one of the other volunteers congratulated Mara on becoming a grandmother. Mara saw Kevin incline his head slightly, as if trying to hear details. Didn’t matter. She didn’t care if he did tell Tom. Dawn was right: Tom couldn’t take any of the important things away from her unless she let him. And she wasn’t going to let him. No way.

  “You comin’ back this week?” Miss Jada asked Kevin after he finished taking out bags of trash at the end of their shift. “Your mom said you got, what? Ten hours to do?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, we could use some help on Christmas.” Kevin looked shocked. “What? You’d rather be playing with toys?”

  “I-ummm . . .”

  “If you want to play with toys, you can play with the kids here. Lord knows we got plenty of them. Kids. Not toys.” She turned to Mara. “Can you get him here by two?”

  Oh, yeah. She could.

  “You heard Miss Jada,” Mara said when Kevin complained in the car. “That’s when they need help. And you need to put in the hours, not when it’s convenient for you but when it serves them.”

  “Yeah, but Dad said—”

  “Your dad doesn’t get a say in this. We already worked it out. You’re spending Christmas Eve with him and then coming home at noon on Christmas Day. You can take a break from video games and be with some kids that have nothing. You might even enjoy it.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  That was way easier than she’d anticipated. Thank you, Jesus.

  “Are you still gonna make dinner like you always do?” he asked.

  She should have known he would be most concerned about the food. “Honey glazed ham, sweet potato casserole, pies, the works.” She might as well fill him in on the whole plan. “Jeremy and Abby had their baby, and they’re going to join us.”

  Kevin seemed to be contemplating this. “So does that make me, like, an uncle?”

  He and Jeremy had so little contact, she hadn’t even thought about him making that connection. “Yeah. That makes you an uncle.”

  He reclined his seat a bit and nearly knocked her out of hers when he said, “Cool.”

  Teenagers. There was no predicting them.

  Charissa

  After Charissa checked the grade website every twenty minutes for a couple of hours, some of her marks finally posted. C+. She stared at the computer screen, a knot tightening in her stomach. Dr. Gardiner had given her a C+ for the semester.

  “You knew you were going to take a hit,” John said when she phoned him at work.

  “I know. I just didn’t think it would be such a big one.”

  “Charissa . . .”

  “I know! I know. Just let me grieve it. I hate this.”

  She let him get back to work and resumed her brooding. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Why did it matter?

  Sorry, God. Help. Please. Help me let this go.

  Remembering a prayer exercise Katherine Rhodes had taught them, she placed her palms down and attempted to release her grade, her image, her reputation, her years of hard work, her shame and embarrassment, her anger, her resentment, her desire for control, her pettiness, her—

  Her inbox pinged with a new message. She kept her palms down. She should really finish the prayer before she checked her email.

  —her desire for control, her shame, her wanting to be admired. All of it. Take it, Lord. I can’t fix myself.

  Then she placed her palms up to receive. Receive what? Peace? Forgiveness? The supernatural ability to let this go any time soon and move on?

  Very unlikely.

  Help me, God. Amen.

  She clicked open her inbox. Message from Dr. Allen. Subject line: Your Paper.

  Hi Charissa,

  I just finished reading your paper. I appreciate the effort it took for you to complete the assignment and to submit it on time. I also appreciate that you engaged with the process honestly, naming your struggles to integrate all that you have been challenged by this semester and naming some of your resistance. Thank you. Your use of the journey metaphor in the integration portion was a good choice, both in your analysis of the literature and your identification of your own travels through a dark wood this semester. I’ve marked margin notes throughout.

  I am glad to read about your insights regarding your perfectionism, your desire to grow in grace, and your gratitude for the sacred journey group, even as it provoked you. May the Lord continue to direct you in ever deepening ways into his heart.

  Grace and peace to you.

  Dr. Allen

  No grade. Why wasn’t there a grade? She checked the website again. Nothing listed. He was going to make her wait, wasn’t he? Honestly. Sometimes he could be so infuriating.

  She ran her finger along her lower lip, picking at chapped bits of skin. Her inbox pinged again.

  Subject: PS

  Please assign your own grade for your paper no later than 10 p.m. tomorrow so that I can submit grades for the semester. Merry Christmas.

  What in the world?

  She read it again. “Assign your own grade?”

  No doubt, this was some final exercise in spiritual formation. Or some kind of test. But was it for all the students? She texted a classmate, who immediately replied, “Yes. Weird.”

  Yes. Very.

  Hannah

  Hannah fingered the studs in her newly pierced ears, the tiny gold spheres cold to her touch. Though Nathan had joked about patronizing a plac
e called The Anarchist’s Needle, they had gone instead to a sedate shop owned by a friend of one of his graduate students, a woman who, fascinated by the Hebrew letters, catechized him about the meaning behind them, affording him an opportunity to offer a gentle testimony of faith. “You never can tell what will connect with someone,” he commented under his breath as they left the shop. “Lord, draw Liz to yourself.”

  Hannah was offering her amen when her phone rang. “Did I get you at a bad time?” Meg asked.

  “Just leaving a tattoo parlor with Nathan.”

  “What?”

  “Long story,” Hannah said, the metal clicking against her phone. “Where are you?” She could hear a buzz of background noise and assumed Meg was at an airport. Hopefully somewhere in America.

  “Another flight delay. I’m in New York, but it looks like I won’t be getting in now until about nine.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I check the arrival time before I head out. How are you holding up?”

  Meg took too long to reply, and Hannah could imagine her fighting back tears. “Just wish I could click my heels.”

  Hannah reached for Nathan’s hand. “You’re almost there, Meg. We’ll keep praying you home.”

  Hannah craned her neck to see beyond the crowd gathered in the airport terminal. Homemade signs with children’s handwriting broadcast the good news that soldier husbands and daddies were coming home for Christmas. Little ones in pajamas, no doubt up way past bedtime, scampered to and from the windows, inquiring about every plane that touched down. One woman held an infant in her arms, waiting eagerly to make an introduction. Bless her, Lord. Hannah became so riveted by their excitement, so drawn in by the poignancy of their homecomings, that she almost missed Meg emerging from the concourse, her shoulders slumped, her expression vacant.