“It’s strange,” Meg said when they sat down together at the table. “For so long I avoided thinking about the hard things, feeling like it would just overwhelm me with sadness. But as I told stories to Katherine, one after another, I was also seeing God’s presence in ways I’d never seen before. All the ways he has been with me, even when I wasn’t aware of him.” Meg wrapped her hands around her mug. “We talked about how remembering can help us hope. That remembering the ways God’s been with me in the past can help me trust him with the future. And even as upset as I am about Becca—as angry and sad and discouraged as I feel—just knowing there are people praying for her right now, for me right now, just like there were people praying for us back when she was born, makes a difference in how I see things. At least, today it does.”
“One day, one step at a time,” Hannah said. “That’s the only way to do it. Surf the waves of grief and live it one day at a time.” She shook her head slowly. “And I still can’t get over the bit about Katherine being the chaplain when Becca was born. Honestly. I don’t know what it is about West Michigan, but I’ve never lived any place where people’s stories seem to be so connected. Like everybody knows someone who knows someone. Forget six degrees of separation. Around here it seems to be two or three.”
Meg nodded and rose from the table to retrieve the remaining shopping bags from the kitchen counter. Hannah watched her remove frame after frame, a variety of designs and sizes. “All the talk today with Katherine about reframing and remembering got me thinking,” Meg said. “I’ve decided it’s time for me to put up pictures. All around the house. I’m putting up pictures of Jim and me and Becca. And I’m putting up pictures of my dad and Rachel and Mother. Mother would have hated it. Absolutely hated it. But she’s not here. And I need to start living like this is my house—for as long as I decide to stay here. And I want pictures up.”
Hannah concealed her surprise by taking a bite of cookie.
Meg sneezed into her sleeve and kept unpacking. “And I’m going to make a mess in the parlor and the dining room while I sort through boxes of photos. And I might even rearrange some furniture.” She glanced up from her bags. “Want to help?”
Hannah grinned. “To quote Mara, ‘You bet, girlfriend.’”
Charissa
With only an hour left before the deadline to submit her own grade to Dr. Allen, Charissa was still no closer to making a decision, even after spending all day fixating on it while scrubbing the apartment clean.
Her initial impulse when she read his email had been to protect her overall grade, especially in light of Dr. Gardiner’s reckoning. Knowing he was weighting the final paper at forty percent, she calculated the permutations of stellar, humble, and moderately humble grade designations. Truth was, the paper hadn’t been her best work—Dr. Allen had identified some weak components in the literary analysis section in his margin comments—so giving herself anything higher than 97 would be spurious. If she gave herself a 93, she would still receive an A for the course.
But did her paper merit an A-?
If she was ruthlessly honest, a B+, maybe.
She calculated the grade at 89, then 87.
She pulled out her syllabus and studied Dr. Allen’s grade rubric again. If she gave herself anything lower than 89, she would be in the A- category for the course.
She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table and looked at the clock. Forty-five minutes to decide.
John entered the kitchen and took a can of soda from the fridge. “Don’t tell me you’re still fretting over your grade,” he said.
“I’m not fretting.”
“You are. I can tell.”
“I’m just trying to decide what to do. That’s not fretting.”
“If you ask me, you’re trying way too hard to figure this out. Just give yourself what you think is fair for the work you did, and move on.”
“Easy for you to say.” She put her face in her hands.
“Yep. I’m not the one being controlled by wanting to be perfect.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Just sayin.” He walked over to the couch and turned on the television.
Help, God.
She had claimed she wanted to grow in giving up control, hadn’t she? To practice letting go? This just wasn’t how she predicted it would happen.
Ugh.
She knocked several times on her forehead.
She even wanted control over how she gave up control.
Ugh and help.
Help, help, help.
Her phone rang, and she looked at the number. “Hey, Mom! Are you guys home?”
“Just got through baggage claim,” she said. “You sound tired. Are you okay?”
“Just trying to figure out something for Dr. Allen’s class.”
“What has he done now?”
Charissa had said plenty to her mother over the past few months about how provoking and unorthodox Dr. Allen had been. “Nothing,” she replied. “We’re just supposed to grade our own final papers.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be hard. A, of course!”
“It honestly wasn’t the best paper I’ve ever written.”
Her mother laughed. “Even if that’s true, I’m sure it’s better than anything anyone else submitted. And the others aren’t dealing with a pregnancy.”
“Yes, but—”
“Give yourself some grace, Charissa, and move on.”
Give yourself some grace.
Yes, but what exactly did grace look like?
She stared at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes to decide.
Well, well, well.
Nathan took off his glasses, ran both sets of fingers through his hair, and held his hands in place at the back of his neck. He hadn’t seen this one coming. Talk about a work of the Spirit. He read Charissa’s email a second time.
Dr. Allen,
I have wrestled all day with your request. I presume this was your intent for each of us, given your desire for us to see how all things have the potential to form us, either to become more like Christ or to become more egocentric. You’ve taught me to linger with what provokes me, and that whole practice is provoking. And revealing.
Missing my final paper presentation for Dr. Gardiner has revealed in a new way what I’ve heard you call “disordered desires.” I have come to see this semester—and especially in the last week or so—how much I have derived my sense of self from my achievement and from my reputation. I have thrived on honor and recognition from others. I have wanted to be admired and respected, and I’ve strived my whole academic life to maintain my position on a pedestal. I’m beginning to see just how selfish and prideful a pursuit this has been. A socially acceptable form of idolatry.
I keep thinking about what you said last week in your office, that maybe all of this is a gift of grace in my life to free me at a deeper level from my compulsion to be perfect. Maybe I’m beginning to understand what you mean when you speak about perfectionism as captivity.
So, as a declaration of my desire to be free from some of the chains that have bound me, I choose to give myself an 85 on my paper. I think it’s a fair and accurate assessment of the work I submitted to you.
Thanks for the many ways you’ve demonstrated your patience with me. Merry Christmas.
Charissa
Even though Nathan had learned to be pleasantly surprised by aha moments and deepening maturity in his students, Charissa’s trajectory of growth the past few months had been unpredictable. If he had been told when she left his office a week ago that she would reach a place of acceptance bordering on gratitude for failure and imperfect grades, he would have laughed like Sarah over the unlikely birth of Isaac.
Half an hour later, he was still shaking his head in wonder.
Hannah
December 23
10:15 p.m.
Christmas Eve tomorrow. Hard to believe. Nate and Jake are spending the day with family. Nate invited me to come, but I’m not ready to be introduced in that co
ntext. I know he was disappointed, but he said he understood. I also didn’t want to affect Jake’s experience with extended family. He’s got enough to process with everything happening with his mother. He doesn’t need his father’s girlfriend sitting around the table with relatives. Nate insists that Jake is looking forward to spending Christmas Day with me, that he wants a rematch on Scrabble. Jake also wants to teach me how to play something called Settlers of Catan. Sounds like he has a full day planned for us. I’m glad I’ll be able to share that time with them.
I’m looking forward to worship tomorrow night. For the first time in years, I’ll be sitting there just drinking in the wonder and beauty of a Christmas Eve service without being responsible for coordinating any of it. Meg said she doesn’t think she’s ready to manage questions from people at her church who might wonder why she’s home early, so we’ll go together to the 11:00 candlelight service at Nate and Jake’s church. Nate is one of the Scripture readers. After praying with it for the last several weeks, he offered to recite John 1. That’s a really significant step of freedom for him. I’m sure it will be a Spirit-infused offering.
I was worried about Meg being alone on Christmas, but thankfully, she said yes to Mara’s invitation to spend the day there. I knew she wouldn’t agree to coming to Nate’s with me, and Mara is so excited about her meeting Jeremy, Abby, and Madeleine. I’m glad she won’t be alone. We’re having lunch with Mara and Charissa tomorrow. So much has happened since the four of us were together at the airport to pray Meg off a few weeks ago. I already gave Mara a heads-up that Meg is feeling pretty raw about everything and may not want to talk about her trip. Lord, show us how to give each other space, even while we’re together.
Meg and I spent several hours tonight sorting through boxes of photos from the attic. Slow process, but a gift to hear Meg’s stories. We laughed. Cried. Ate pizza in front of the Christmas tree in the parlor. She’s going to start making scrapbooks. She hopes that someday she and Becca will be able to sit together and look at them.
I thought she’d be overwhelmed by looking at pictures of Jim. How young they looked! All the high school, wedding, honeymoon, house pictures. Just seeing how happy the two of them were made me feel so sad at everything she’s lost. But even though some of the pictures and memories made her cry, she said they were grateful tears. Tears that speak to the depth of love they shared. She said she’s actually thinking of going to visit his grave on Christmas. She hasn’t been there in twenty-one years—just couldn’t bear the sorrow of it. I told her I’d go with her if she wants company. We’ll see what she decides.
Meg said how hard it is not to punctuate her heartache over Becca with exclamation points. I like that image. She and Katherine talked about how fond God is of commas, and we live in the tension of grief and hope, not knowing how the story will play out. As I listened to her talk about her despair and her hope, I thought about Jairus pleading with Jesus to come with him and heal his little girl. I thought about his desperation, his mounting anxiety when Jesus paused to heal a hemorrhaging woman along the way. I thought about how the messengers from his household brought the exclamation point news that it was too late. His daughter was dead! There was no point in Jesus coming.
And then there’s the hinge in the story, the “but” that invites hope when circumstances scream despair. “But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’” Do not fear; only believe. Even when it seems crazy. Even when the world scoffs. Only believe. Only do not give up hope. Only trust. Only. Nothing more. Just only. What a hard word “only” is.
I look at the gray trees stripped bare, and it occurs to me that if someone who had only ever lived in a jungle or rainforest came here in winter and saw our trees, they might laugh like the crowd did when Jesus said the little girl was not dead but sleeping. They might scoff and declare with exclamation points that all but the evergreens are dead. But they’re not dead! They’re sleeping! And spring is inevitable! Thank God!
We’ll sing our defiant hope with lots of exclamation points in worship tomorrow night. A stanza from one of my favorite carols comes to mind:
Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
risen with healing in his wings.
Mild, he lays his glory by,
born that man no more may die,
born to raise the sons of earth,
born to give them second birth.
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. And prepare all of us to receive your coming.
Christmas Eve
Meg sighed and placed the phone back on the receiver.
“Still no luck?” Hannah asked.
“No.” She had been trying for hours to reach Becca in Paris to wish her a happy birthday.
“Are you sure you’re still up for lunch? I know everyone would understand if it feels like it’s too much right now.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “If I stay here, I’ll just stew. It’ll be good for me to be out for a couple of hours.” She was going to need to stay engaged with community for support, and today was as good a time as any.
When they arrived at the Corner Nook, Charissa and Mara were already seated near the fireplace, which was decked with evergreen and bows. As soon as Meg walked up to the booth, Mara leapt to her feet and enfolded her in a long, rocking embrace. Charissa waited her turn, then offered a brief hug and a heartfelt, “I’m praying for you.”
“Thanks.” Meg took off her coat. It was a relief that they were already aware, if not of specific details, at least of the gist of her story. She didn’t have the energy to recount it. Besides, she only became more angry and sad whenever she rehearsed the details in her mind. Lord, help.
Katherine had encouraged her to keep pondering what she had seen when she prayed with Isaiah 11. “Your imagination enabled you to see what’s stirring in your soul,” Katherine had told her. “Often our anger comes out from hiding very reluctantly. I’m glad you saw it. As hard as it is. The Lord is with you. Emmanuel. Even here.”
So why couldn’t she trust him?
Lord.
Help.
Why, even now, Becca and Simon were probably nestled up together in some cozy little hotel room—
Stop. Just stop. Her imagination was doing her no favors.
She perused the familiar menu and tried to decide what sounded appetizing. Pumpkin soup, maybe. And a cornbread muffin. And a pot of tea with scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream served on a tiered china plate and shared with her daughter. The way she’d imagined it.
Lord.
Help.
She swallowed hard.
Once they placed their orders, Mara pulled out her phone to show pictures of Madeleine and gushed like any new grandmother would about how perfect she was and how happy Jeremy and Abby were. “They’re coming to church with me tonight—can you believe it? It’s like a Christmas miracle!”
Feeling her eyes sting with tears, Meg cleared her throat slightly. C’mon, she commanded herself. Stop making everything about you. There was no way for Mara to know she was striking a raw nerve. Hannah, however, in a gesture Mara and Charissa would not have seen from the other side of the booth, lightly touched Meg’s hand on the vinyl seat as if to say, “I’m praying for you right now.”
It was tempting—oh, so tempting—to try to redirect conversation. Hannah could only imagine the thoughts running through Meg’s head as she listened to Mara talk about Abby and her mom and the prayers Ellen had been saying for her daughter all these years and how maybe those prayers were being answered in Abby’s willingness to come to church on Christmas Eve—and not only Abby, but Jeremy as well. She could only imagine the thoughts running through Meg’s mind when Mara described the framed Scripture verse from 1 Samuel and how she was now praying even more fervently for
baby Madeleine and her parents. And then, on top of that, there was Mara’s excitement over Kevin serving at Crossroads and what this might mean for him potentially softening toward faith. “Not that I see any signs of that right now,” Mara said, “but who knows, right? In the midst of all the crap that’s going on, I see lots of ways that Jesus is coming and doing new things.”
Tempting as it was to steer conversation away from the convergence of Mara’s joy and Meg’s pain, Hannah resisted, choosing instead to place each of them in God’s capable hands.
“But enough about me,” Mara said. “How did the house inspection go this morning?”
“Really, really well.” Charissa looked at Meg and smiled. “The inspector didn’t find anything major. A few little things we can negotiate for repairs, but it looks like we’ll be closing on February 9.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Meg said. “It’s a wonderful house, and I hope you and John and your little one will be very, very happy there.” She was smiling as she spoke the benediction, and Hannah knew her well enough to perceive that the smile was one of sincere and generous warmth, even if there was pain in the offering.
“Thank you,” Charissa said. “Thank you so much for letting me know about it. You gave us a huge gift.”
From the expression on her face and the softness in her voice, Charissa appeared to understand just how meaningful and significant a gift it had been.
“We wouldn’t have found it without you,” she went on. “We were only searching for three-bedroom houses online.”
Meg nodded. “Jim always said there was plenty of room for an addition in the back.” Her voice cracked. “Room to grow.” She dug around in her bag for a tissue.
“Have you got any pictures of it?” Mara asked.
Charissa hesitated, her eyebrows posing a question to Meg.
“I’d love to see pictures, if you’ve got any,” Meg replied.
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