Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

Charissa set down her sandwich and pulled her phone from her purse. “I took some this morning.” She scrolled through photos until she found what she was looking for. “Here.”

  Mara leaned forward to look. “Oh, it’s so cute! Where is it?”

  “In one of the older neighborhoods in Kingsbury, not far from the university.”

  “And not far from my house,” Meg said. “Just a couple of miles.”

  “That’s great,” said Mara. “You’ll be neighbors! Maybe I’ll need to check out that neighborhood, start thinking about what I can afford. I don’t think there’s any way I’m gonna be able to stay in our house. But we’ll see. Maybe I’ll find the perfect job. Or maybe Tom will decide the boys need to stay put. Not that I’m expecting a miracle.”

  She passed the phone across the table to Meg, who wiped her hands on her napkin before taking it. As soon as she viewed the screen, color rushed to her face. “The arbor is still in the backyard?” she asked, her voice faltering again.

  “Yes,” Charissa said, “in a little garden area next to the garage.”

  Meg whispered something under her breath that might have been a prayer. “Jim built that arbor and planted roses for me on our first wedding anniversary.”

  Hannah placed her hand on Meg’s shoulder. One more step forward. One more step toward healing, toward closure.

  “What color roses?” Charissa asked.

  “Pink,” Meg said. “Beautiful, pink climbing roses with the most wonderful fragrance you can imagine. We’d sit there on the bench after working in the garden and just talk about the day and . . .”

  Hannah listened in amazement as Meg became more animated, not more sorrowful, speaking at length about Jim and their life together. With each picture on Charissa’s phone, Meg had a story to tell. Look! she exclaimed, displaying an image for the others to see. Those were the cupboards Jim installed in the kitchen! And that was the bathroom wallpaper he always hated but never got around to replacing. And the glass doorknobs—they were still there!

  “The realtor said someone had done a skillful remodel with the laundry area,” Charissa commented. “She said it was really unusual for a cottage like this to have such a nice space off the kitchen.”

  “Yes!” Meg said. “That was Jim. We got tired of spending Saturday mornings at the laundromat, so he found a way to do it. It meant giving up a little breakfast nook area, but it was worth it.” She was still holding Charissa’s phone, probably unaware that she had pressed it against her heart.

  “You’ll come see it, won’t you, maybe even before we get our things moved in?” Charissa asked. “Or would that be weird for you?”

  Meg reached across the table and clasped her hand. “I’d love to.”

  Charissa looked at Hannah. “And John and I thought maybe we could all have a time of prayer in the house, like a house blessing before we move in. Maybe you could lead something like that for us? With prayers for Meg too?”

  Hannah felt her throat catch as she realized that she could gladly and gratefully lead them in prayer, not as their pastor—or as someone who needed to be needed or regarded as Pastor—but as their friend. Their sister in Christ. “Yes,” Hannah said. “I’d love to do that.” One more step forward, in freedom as the beloved.

  John whistled softly. “You’re kidding me,” he said after Charissa finished telling him about Meg and the house pictures.

  “It’s like a time capsule,” Charissa said. “Meg told us the only thing that looks different is the carpet somebody put in over the hardwood floors. Everything else is like it’s been frozen in time from the moment Meg moved out. Like she locked the door, and it all shut down behind her.”

  He put his feet up on their coffee table. “So is she going to be okay when we start remodeling everything?”

  Charissa nodded. “She said it all looked very dated and that she loves to paint, if we ever want her help with that. I told her I want her to come see it while it’s empty, to give her a chance to walk through it again.”

  “She can take all the time she needs,” John said.

  Charissa sat down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure how she’d feel, seeing the pictures. But she said several times how happy she was and that she thought maybe it would all become part of God’s healing for her.”

  “Some kind of closure, maybe,” John said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Closure for her, new chapter for us.”

  “A great new chapter.” She kissed him. “If I’ve learned anything the past few months, it’s that God is full of surprises. I might as well give up trying to plan everything out.”

  John pressed his lips against her abdomen and said, “Hear that, baby? Mommy’s learning to give up control!”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Charissa stroked his hair. “Mommy has something else to do with regard to that.” She leaned forward and picked up her phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “My parents.” She dialed their home phone number. Time to bite the bullet and do something she’d been contemplating ever since her conversation with her mother about Dr. Allen’s paper. Time to tell them the truth about how the semester had finished. For her own sake. Time to take a few more steps forward into freedom from shame and fear.

  Jesus, help.

  Her mother picked up on the third ring. “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Hey, Mom,” she said. “Is Daddy there?”

  “He’s sitting right here. You want to talk to him?”

  “Can you have him pick up the other phone? I’ve got something I want to tell both of you.”

  Give yourself some grace, her mother had advised, and move on.

  Time to let them know how she was moving on in grace.

  “You okay?” Hannah asked Meg after she hung up the phone.

  Meg held up two fists. Though she felt like boxing the air in frustration, instead, she slowly opened her hands. “This is me letting go.” She breathed out a long sigh. “Again.”

  Hannah stayed seated at the kitchen table and opened her hands to mirror Meg’s in a silent gesture of solidarity. Meg walked over to the sink and stared at a pot of dirt on the windowsill. Hannah had given her an amaryllis bulb. Flowers in winter. For hope.

  “She’s fine,” Meg said. She poured herself a glass of water for her scratchy throat. “She’s bubbling over about how fantastic Paris is and how it’s the best birthday ever.”

  The sights, the sounds, the romance of all of it. The food, the music, the art. She’d fallen in love with a city, how could she bear to leave? And it was Simon this, Simon that, Simon did this, Simon said that; we this, we that, we did this, then we did that. She was happier, she said, than she’d ever been in her whole entire life. Ever.

  “It sounds mean, doesn’t it, to say that I was hoping she was having a miserable time. Safe, but miserable.”

  Meg had hoped Becca would say it had all been a horrible mistake, that she’d seen Simon for who he really was—a user, a manipulator, a man in a midlife crisis who had left his wife, or perhaps had been left by her, no doubt for good reason—and that she was sorry she had made such a mess of the visit and sorry that her mother had flown home. “I wish I’d never come here with him!” Meg had imagined her saying. But no. Becca had said, “This has been the best gift ever!”

  Hannah shared the silence with her, hands still open and resting on the table, as if she were receiving something. That’s the part she needed to remember, wasn’t it? Not just the letting go, but the receiving with open hands. With open heart. Could a heart that was grieving, fearful, angry, resentful, doubting, and broken also be open? Take what I’ve got, Lord. It’s all I have.

  Katherine’s voice echoed in her head. “Emmanuel. The Lord is with you.”

  Even then.

  Even now.

  Even here.

  Meg opened a cupboard, removed a large white pillar candle, and lit it.

  For hope.

  Mara sat in worship cradling a sl
eeping baby and mouthing the words to Away in a Manger while a little child dressed as Mary knelt beside a wooden cradle in the midst of the mess on the stage and crooned her lisping lullaby. Abby leaned in and whispered something to Jeremy, who smiled and nodded. Maybe they were imagining Madeleine singing someday. Oh, she would be a beautiful little Mary. Absolutely beautiful.

  Mara touched her satiny cheek as tears began to slide down her own.

  “You’ve been chosen,” Katherine had said. “You’ve been chosen to be the dwelling place of the Most High God.”

  Chosen. Graced. Loved. How could it be?

  Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being born in the mess. For being born in me. For being born in the world. Thank you.

  “Greetings, favored one,” the angel had said. “The Lord is with you. Do not be afraid.”

  Yes. Yes.

  Mara closed her eyes.

  And received.

  What a gift, Hannah thought. What a gift to sit in a dimly lit sanctuary on Christmas Eve and hear the Scriptures read. What a gift to sing some of the carols she had been praying with for the past couple of weeks. What a gift to sit beside Nate, Jake, and Meg and behold the love of God together. What a gift to notice and name the light shining into the darkness, to recognize the yokes and burdens being broken, to celebrate Christ’s coming. What a gift to be stretched and enlarged to receive Jesus. What a gift to offer Christ to others.

  What lavish, extravagant, priceless gifts.

  Thank you, Lord. Thank you for guiding us in all our tentative steps forward. For your patience with us when we stumble. And for the gift of walking together. Thank you.

  She rotated the studs in her ears and offered prayers for the ones who came to mind. For Nate and Jake. For her parents. For her brother and sister-in-law and nieces. For Westminster colleagues and the congregation. For Nancy. For Charissa and John, Meg and Becca, Mara and Tom, Brian and Kevin. For Jeremy and his family. For Heather. Even for Simon. And Laura. And yes, Lord. For Laura’s baby.

  Nathan leaned forward to grip his ankle, and Hannah prayed in unison silence with him. Hineni. Lord, bless him as he gives himself to you.

  When the time came for him to speak, Nathan squeezed her hand and rose to take his place on a stool next to the pulpit. As the dim lights yielded to darkness, he struck a match and lit the Christ candle. “In the beginning was the Word,” he declared, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . . .”

  What a gift, Lord.

  What a gift.

  Christmas Day

  Meg locked the front door and surveyed the street, the crisp scent of pine mingling with the wafting, pungent fragrance of a neighbor’s wood-burning fireplace, the light snow swirling around her, not as flakes but as fine dust, glistening like glitter in the sunlight. The neighborhood was still, the hush of the morning broken only by the staccato barking of a dog and the ringing of a child’s laughter. Meg jingled her keys. “Are you sure you have enough time for this, Hannah?”

  “Plenty of time,” Hannah said. She pulled on her new, oversized fuchsia mittens and adjusted her matching knit scarf, with its loose, uneven stitches, a thoughtful gift from her eight-year-old niece.

  “I can’t believe you’re all willing to do this for me,” Meg said, “to take time away from your Christmas plans.” She gripped the railing so she wouldn’t slip on the icy steps.

  “We love you,” Hannah replied. “We’re with you. We want you to know that.”

  When they reached the small, wooded cemetery just after ten o’clock, a black SUV was already parked on the hill near Jim’s grave. Meg bit her lip. She could picture the black hearse and the bowed heads of those who had gathered to mourn beneath that oak tree twenty-one years ago. She could see Mother, Rachel, Mrs. Anderson, and Jim’s grandmother, who had raised him after his own parents were killed by a drunk driver. Grandma Lois had passed away not long after Jim died—of a broken heart, Meg always believed.

  Mara exited her car, bundled up in a long, animal print, faux fur coat and fluffy Russian-style hat with earflaps, carrying a wreath with an oversized, shimmering gold bow. She engulfed Meg in a plush hug. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be allowed to put something on the grave,” Mara said, “but it looks like other people have done it.”

  Meg scanned the hillside, where wreaths and evergreen arrangements, even children’s toys, were visible in the snow. “Thanks for coming,” Meg said. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  Another car wound its way up the hill. “That’ll be Charissa,” Mara said. “I think they’re heading up to Traverse City from here, to spend a few days with John’s parents.” She fluffed the bow on the wreath. “And I’m so glad you’re coming to Crossroads with Kevin and me, Meg. So glad you’ll get to meet my whole family. I know it wasn’t what you were hoping for this year, but—”

  Meg rested her hand on Mara’s shoulder. “But I’m grateful,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  None of it was what Meg had hoped for or predicted.

  None of it.

  And yet . . .

  When Hannah offered to accompany her to the cemetery, she was relieved. It was time. And she didn’t need to weep alone at the grave.

  When Hannah offered to lead a brief time of prayer and remembering and thanksgiving, Meg was deeply moved. She’d been so numb during the funeral service, she had no memory of any words spoken or prayed.

  And when Hannah offered to coordinate a time when the others could join them, when together, as Hannah put it, they could “sing their defiant exclamation points of Christ’s presence and love and victory,” Meg said yes.

  Yes!

  And someday—comma—maybe someday she and Becca would place flowers on the grave together.

  As Charissa parked her car, Meg stooped in the snow beside the headstone, kissed her index finger, and slowly traced Jim’s name. James Michael Crane. Beloved husband and father.

  Inhale: Emmanuel.

  Exhale: You are with me.

  Meg rose, and together they circled the grave, offered their prayers, and sang their hope. And beyond the sound of her friends’ soulful voices, Meg could well imagine the echoes of chorusing angels, singing their glory to God.

  Acknowledgments

  How can we thank God enough for you in return for all the

  joy that we feel before our God because of you?

  1 Thessalonians 3:9

  With gratitude . . .

  For my husband, Jack. What Joseph was for Mary, you have been for me. Thank you. I couldn’t do any of this without you. Thanks for being willing to be “with child” with me again. I love you.

  For our son, David. You were a young teen when Sensible Shoes was born. Now you’re a wonderful young man exploring all of your own creative gifts. I love you. I’m so proud of you.

  For Mom and Dad. You’ve been my steadfast, loyal encouragers, and I’m so grateful. Thank you for all the ways you have poured out your love for me. I love you.

  For my sister, Beth. Your humor, love, insights, and honesty are such priceless gifts in my life. I love you.

  For Redeemer Covenant Church. You have loved us so well, and you make ministry a joy. Thank you. I thank God for you.

  For the original Sensible Shoes Club. Our season of walking together bore such beautiful fruit. I’m so grateful.

  For Mary Peterson, my Elizabeth. Thank you for helping me to perceive the work of God and to rejoice with wonder at all the annunciations. You hold my story with such compassion.

  For Anne Schmidt, my writing friend whose encouragement helped birth this book. We sing our hope with tearful exclamation points. I miss you.

  For Carolyn Watts, Shalini Bennett, Sharon Ruff, Marilyn Hontz, Lisa Samra, and Debra Rienstra, faithful midwives who were with me at crucial moments during the delivery of this book. Thank you for praying, reminding me to breathe, and cheering me on through the weariness of a hard and prolonged labor. You helped me persevere in hope when it felt like two
steps forward and a lot of steps back.

  For Martie Sharp Bradley. You know and love these characters so well. Thank you for the word of benediction that helped me release them into the world again.

  For friends and wise consultants who read early drafts and scenes, helped with research details, and offered feedback. Thank you, Sharla, Anna, Wendy, Mitch, Jennifer, Rebecca, Cherie, Sandi, Catherine, Anne, Eve, Linda Joy, Phil, Julie, and Jan. Your insights and expertise made this a better book. I’m grateful for you.

  For longtime friends who have enriched me in every possible way. Thank you for walking with me. You bring me so much joy.

  For Gretchen, who joyfully and generously spreads the word. You’re an amazing mother-in-love and publicist. Thank you.

  For teachers who challenged, encouraged, and nurtured me along the way. Thanks to Stephen Brescia, who encouraged a shy sixth-grader to find her voice and write; to Art Farr, who gently nudged a fearful adolescent beyond her comfort zone; to Caroline Auburn, who taught a perfectionistic teenager to “let go and let God”; to Barbara Hornbeck, who reminded a driven young woman about the most important things; to Pat Skarda, who was willing to think outside the box with a fervent college student. I thank God for you.

  For the great cloud of witnesses, and especially for Nana. I love you. I miss you. Your lavish gifts keep on giving.

  For special vessels of inspiration along the way. Thank you, Aunt Sally, for a precious gift from Bethlehem. Thank you, Gail and Lois, for implementing the vision of a beautiful Advent mess in our sanctuary. Thank you, Deb, for the story of an amaryllis. Thank you, Eleanor, for giving me a bulb.

  For the stellar team at IVP, and particularly for my gifted editor, Cindy Bunch. Thanks for your encouragement, vision, and wise counsel. Thanks, too, to Lorraine Caulton and Kathryn Chapek, kind advocates in marketing and sales. I’m so grateful for your partnership in ministry and so privileged to be part of the InterVarsity Press family.