Ribbon of Years

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  "It's in the kitchen."

  As Sean followed Miriam, he couldn't help thinking he hadn't seen so much spring in her step in a month of Sundays. He hoped she wasn't getting her hopes up too high, only to have them dashed.

  As soon as he arrived at the kitchen table, Sean was handed the newspaper clipping. Miriam pointed to the photograph. "There. That's my house. I know it is."

  "It does seem remarkably similar."

  "Sean, it isn't similar. It's this house. Luke must be in Philadelphia. This could be his studio. We have to find him before the business closes and he disappears again."

  Sean drew a deep breath, then met Miriam's gaze. "Even if it was taken by Luke, it's possible someone bought his photo and he has nothing to do with this particular business."

  "It's possible." Miriam sat down. Her lips pursed, her expression thoughtful, her eyes staring into space, she combed the fingers of one hand through her short, white hair. Finally, she looked up again. "Years ago, God gave me a promise about Luke: 'Do not fear, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and gather you from the west' I didn't understand at the time, but I believe now is the fulfillment of that promise. God's bringing Luke home."

  "I hope so, Miriam. You know I really do hope so."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  MIRIAM HADN'T MAINTAINED LUKE'S ROOM AS A SHRINE TO HER SON as some mothers might have. In fact, the opposite was true. The bedroom had been used by many others in the past seventeen years. After Sean, other young people had made it their temporary home, some for short periods, some for longer. God had given Miriam a love and concern for youth in crisis, and she'd done what she could wherever and whenever God directed.

  She supposed there were some who thought she'd been desperately trying to fill the vacancy left by her missing son, but she'd known that wasn't the case. God had healed her heart. She had missed Luke; she didn't deny that. But it was separate from her call to serve.

  Oh, what joy she'd found in a life of obedience, in trusting God no matter the circumstances, in clinging tightly to the Savior. How she wished all Christians could discover the same joy. When God said He desired obedience rather than sacrifice, it was for their benefit. How often she'd ignored that truth while pursuing her own headstrong course.

  Such were her thoughts as she stood in the middle of Luke's old room, one week after receiving Sally's letter. There were few traces of Luke in this room now—a few photographs on the wall, his bed and dresser, and the rolltop desk that had been Del's. Most of her son's remaining belongings—those things not given to charity—had been boxed and stored in the attic long ago.

  Will I recognize the man he's become?

  Sean was afraid she'd be disappointed, that the investigator would come up empty-handed, but Miriam knew the photograph belonged to Luke, and she knew she was going to see him again. She hadn't a shred of doubt.

  Does he look even more like Del now that he's completely grown?

  Luke would be thirty-five years old. He might be married, could be a father. He'd obviously continued with his photography. She wondered if he knew contentment in the life he'd chosen. She prayed that he'd been rescued from the bonds of drugs and alcohol.

  She took pleasure in knowing he'd kept that photograph of the house. It meant he didn't hate her. At least she hoped that was what it meant.

  She walked to the window and brushed aside the curtains to look down on the green sweep of lawn. In her mind, she heard the laughter of children at play, remembered the fun gatherings of friends this backyard had seen. Hard as it was to believe, most of those children in her memories had children of their own these days.

  Am I a grandmother like Sally and my other friends?

  Jacob and Elaine were grandparents to ten, all living within a twenty-five-mile radius. Bert Rey, Miriam's onetime beau, had three grandsons and a granddaughter. The Irelands had half a dozen grandchildren, and their first great-grandchild was expected around Christmas.

  Wouldn't it be something if she had grandchildren to meet?

  O God, help me be content no matter what we find. Keep Luke in Your tender care, wherever he is today. Let him know how much I love and miss him. Clear the way for our reconciliation, Jesus.

  She let the curtains fall into place, then turned from the window, her gaze moving around the room.

  I don't expect him to come back here to live. He's made his home elsewhere. He's not a boy any longer. But I would like to get to know him again. I'd like him to understand how much I love him, how much I've always loved him.

  Three hours later, Miriam rode the elevator to the twelfth floor of the office building that housed the law firm of Price, Johnson & Lewis. Her old heart was racing.

  "Wayne's here in my office," Sean had told her over the telephone a short while before. "We'd like to come to your house to talk to you. Say in about an hour?"

  She'd known the waiting would drive her crazy. "If it's all right with you, I'll come there. It won't take me long."

  The receptionist at the front desk greeted her with a smile. "Good afternoon, Ms. Tucker. How are you today?"

  "Fine, thank you, Susan. And you?"

  "Good, thanks."

  "I believe Sean's expecting me."

  "Yes, Mr. Lewis said for you to go right back." Susan pointed toward Sean's office.

  "Thank you."

  The door to the office opened before she reached it. One look at his face, and Miriam's heart plummeted. "What's wrong?" she asked as he reached out to take her hand.

  He drew her inside and closed the door.

  Following Sean's gaze, she turned toward the other man in the room, a fellow who looked to be in his forties—average height, brown hair that was thinning on top, a slight paunch.

  "This is Wayne Scott," Sean said. "The investigator."

  Wayne offered his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tucker."

  After shaking his hand, she looked at Sean. "What is it? What's he found?"

  "Sit down, Miriam."

  O God, please . . .

  With a hand on Miriam's shoulder, Sean gently urged her into a chair; then he pulled a second chair close to hers rather than going around and taking the one behind his desk. It seemed an ominous sign.

  Don't let Luke be dead. Please, Father.

  "Miriam—"

  "Is he dead?"

  Sean shook his head. "No."

  "But?"

  He exchanged a look with Wayne.

  "Tell me the truth, Sean. All of it. I don't want it sugar-coated."

  It was Wayne Scott who answered, "Mrs. Tucker, the photography studio in Philadelphia isn't owned by your son. It belongs to his . . . partner."

  "If they're business partners—"

  "Not his business partner," Sean said, taking one of her hands between both of his.

  She looked at him, confused.

  "His . . . companion." Sean cleared his throat. "Miriam, Luke is living in a homosexual relationship."

  "That can't be." She shook her head. "It's not true. He had girlfriends. He went out on dates. Luke wasn't gay. I would have known. A mother would know such a thing."

  Wayne flipped open a steno pad and glanced at his notes. "When your son first arrived in Philadelphia, he was heavily involved in the drug scene. That was in the mid-seventies. He was using everything." He paused but didn't look up. When he continued, his voice was softer, as if he didn't want Miriam to hear. "He was picked up for male prostitution a couple of times."

  "No," Miriam whispered.

  Now the investigator met her gaze. "It's how a lot of addicts earn money to pay for their drugs, ma'am. When you're strung out, you'll do anything. It's a sad fact of life on the street." He glanced at his notes. "Your son was in drug and alcohol rehab in the spring of 1980 and, from all accounts, has stayed clean and sober ever since." Wayne flipped the notebook closed.

  A heavy silence squeezed the air from the room.

  "What's his name?" Miriam asked at last.

 
; "Whose name?"

  "Luke's . . . friend."

  "Teague," the investigator replied. "Keegan Teague. He's from Pennsylvania. Same age as your son."

  Her chest felt as if it were being crushed beneath some horrid weight.

  "How long have they been together, Mr. Scott?"

  Silently, she marveled at what a normal thing that was to ask in the middle of this nightmare.

  Wayne Scott checked his notes again. "Since '83."

  How am I supposed to react, God? It goes against everything I believe in. What do I say to Mr. Scott and to Sean? This is my son we're talking about. This is Luke.

  "Mrs. Tucker," Wayne continued, "in the past eight years, since he got clean, Luke's done well for himself with his photography. He's made a lot of money. But what impressed me during my investigation was the way people talked about him as a person, about his many kindnesses, the way he's reached out to others and helped in his community."

  Miriam remembered her little boy, the child who had worked beside her in the garden, the one who had run errands for their elderly neighbors.

  Wayne leaned toward her, speaking softly. "One lady called him a real-life hero. Others used words like gentle, integrity, compassionate, humble, intelligent, fun. He cares about others a lot more than he cares about himself."

  Yes, that was the boy she remembered. Not the troubled teen who'd run away from home. If only . . .

  "It didn't seem everybody knew about Luke's . . . lifestyle choice. He kept that pretty quiet." Wayne glanced toward Sean. "Up until this year."

  Sean squeezed Miriam's hand.

  She knew. Somehow she knew what he was going to say even before he said it. She wanted to stop him. She wanted to stop everything. She wanted to place her hand over his mouth and force him to swallow the hateful words.

  "He's dying, Miriam. He's got AIDS."

  Someone screamed, "No!" She supposed it was her own voice, although it sounded otherworldly and far, far away.

  Miriam flung herself at the foot of the Cross. She grabbed for the hem of Christ's robe and held on for all she was worth. Jesus was her anchor in this storm-tossed sea, her only hope as she faced a situation that seemed completely hopeless.

  CONSIDER IT ALL JOY, MY BRETHERN, WHEN YOU ENCOUNTER VARIOUS TRIALS, KNOWING THAT THE TESTING OF YOUR FAITH PRODUCES ENDURANCE. AND LET ENDURANCE HAVE ITS PERFECT RESULT, THAT YOU MAY BE PERFECT AND COMPLETE, LACKING IN NOTHING.

  Joy? I don't feel joy. I feel helpless and lost and crushed. I'm afraid of what's coming. Help my faith produce endurance and have the perfect result. O God. 0 God. How can I lack nothing when I know my child is dying?

  IF YOU LACK WISDOM, BELOVED, ASK ME. I GIVE GENEROUSLY AND WITHOUT REPROACH.

  I need Your wisdom, Lord. I have none of my own. I'm drained. I'm empty. I don't know what to think or to feel. I don't understand.

  BLESSED ARE YOU, MIRIAM, MY BELOVED, WHEN YOU PERSEVERE UNDER TRIAL; FOR ONCE YOU HAVE BEEN APPROVED, YOU WILL RECEIVE THE CROWN OF LIFE, WHICH I, YOUR LORD, HAVE PROMISED TO YOU WHO LOVE ME.

  I do love You, Lord. I do love You.

  Miriam held on. She held to the Cross until it seemed she could feel slivers of wood embedded in her palms. Nothing would make her let go.

  Not even the loss of her only child.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  JUST BEFORE FIVE O'CLOCK ON A STORMY OCTOBER AFTERNOON, Delta Airlines flight #1930 descended through thick, black clouds and landed on the rain-washed runway. From her seat in the first-class cabin, Miriam said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for their safe arrival in Philadelphia.

  Not that her arrival would be a welcomed event.

  Miriam had been told by Luke's companion, Keegan Teague, not to come. She'd been told Luke didn't want to see her.

  She came anyway.

  I WILL BRING YOUR OFFSPRING FROM THE EAST, AND GATHER YOU FROM THE WEST.

  I've been gathered from the west, Lord. Here I am.

  She glanced to her left. Dear Sean. He'd insisted on joining her, wouldn't take no for an answer. She'd tried to convince him that she would be fine on her own, but she was glad he hadn't believed her. She needed his moral support, just as she needed the prayers of her loving church family in Boise.

  Sean offered comfort with a smile.

  The plane came to rest at its gate. The seat-belt sign went dark, the Jetway rolled into place, and the exit door opened. Minutes later, Miriam and Sean walked into the airport terminal.

  An unexpected tremor of dread passed through her, followed by an overwhelming sense of weariness. She must have staggered slightly, for Sean reached to support her with his arm.

  "Miriam, we're waiting until morning to find Luke's house."

  "But—"

  "This isn't up for discussion," he interrupted sternly. "We'll get our luggage, pick up our rental car, and go straight to the hotel. You can get room service to bring your dinner and then get a good night's sleep."

  She nodded, knowing he was right, knowing she couldn't face more than that just yet. As prepared as she'd thought she was to see her son again, she suddenly knew she wasn't prepared at all.

  She was weak and vulnerable and afraid.

  Miriam stared out the rental car window as Sean drove through the Philadelphia suburb. Behind tall trees, now shedding leaves of gold, stately homes proclaimed the affluence of those who lived within.

  "Are you sure we're on the right street?" she asked.

  "I'm sure."

  After a few moments of silence, Miriam said, "Mr. Scott said Luke's done well, but I didn't expect this."

  "It's pretty impressive."

  "What if he won't see me?"

  "Don't give in to fear, Miriam. Let's trust God to work out the details."

  She sighed. "My soul clings to Thee," she whispered, quoting a verse from Psalms that she'd read that morning.

  She envisioned herself, as she had ever since that fateful day in Sean's office, lying prostrate at the foot of the cross, her hands clasped tightly around its base.

  BE STRONG IN ME, BELOVED, AND IN THE STRENGTH OF MY MIGHT. YOU ARE WEARING MY ARMOR, THAT YOU MAY STAND FIRM AGAINST THE SCHEMES OF THE DEVIL.

  She felt like the Israelites preparing to cross the Jordan. They must have worn armor. They must have prepared in many ways for battle. They'd faced something unknown. They'd been told to follow the ark of the covenant, keeping it in view, so they would know the way by which they should go, for they had not passed that way before.

  Neither have I passed this way before, Lord. Show me the way. You're the ark of the new covenant, Jesus. Help me follow You into this unknown land.

  The car slowed.

  "That's it," Sean said. "That cream-colored brick on the right."

  Miriam stared at the two-story house with the ivy-climbing trellises on both ends. The lawn was faultlessly manicured, the landscaping a true work of art. There were two cars parked in the circular driveway—a black Lincoln Town Car and a silver Rolls-Royce.

  All the trappings of success. All the things that money could buy. But none of it could save her son from the disease that ate away at his body.

  O God . . .

  Sean turned into the driveway and followed it to the front door. After cutting the engine, he looked at her. "Ready?"

  She shook her head.

  He gave her an encouraging, albeit sad, smile, then said, "Sure you are. Because you're not alone."

  This time she nodded, then reached for the door handle.

  Sean prayed silently as he walked beside Miriam toward the entrance of the home. He was nervous, afraid both for Miriam and for Luke.

  He'd felt more moments of guilt these past few weeks than he cared to count. After all, he'd played a role in Luke's addiction to drugs. They'd smoked pot together and dropped acid together. Sean hadn't participated in Luke's destruction of Miriam's art studio, but he'd egged him on. And while Luke had continued his downward spiral in the ensuing years, separating himself from the mother who loved him, Sean had
been taken into her home and into her heart. Though the hardness of their hearts had kept Sean's parents from forgiving or forgetting before their deaths in a 1979 traffic accident, Miriam had forgiven him completely. Sean had been loved and cherished, taught new values, and shown a better way.

  Would any of that have happened if Luke had returned to Boise, too? Not likely. God was sovereign, of course, and could have found another person to give Sean the love and guidance he'd needed. But the truth remained: He'd been the beneficiary of Luke's absence for all these years.

  And he felt guilty for it.

  The doorbell was answered by a muscular, broad-shouldered black man.

  "Mr. Teague?" Sean inquired.

  "No. May I help you?"

  Sean's hand alighted on Miriam's shoulder. "We're looking for Luke Tucker. This is his mother."

  The man's eyes widened in surprise as his gaze shot back to Miriam. "His mother? I didn't think Luke had any family."

  "He does," Sean answered.

  "I'm Rick Joyner, Luke's nurse." He held the door open wide. "Come on in."

  Miriam let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, relieved she wouldn't be turned away.

  "Come in," Rick said again. "I'm glad you're here. Luke doesn't have many guests these days."

  Miriam stepped into the entry hall. "Luke isn't expecting us." She swallowed hard. "He may refuse to see me."

  Rick's gaze was filled with understanding and kindness.

  Softly, she added, "I haven't seen or heard from him in over seventeen years."

  "Then maybe we'd better not tell him you're here. We'll just go right up."

  Miriam glanced toward Sean, who nodded.

  "He's having one of his better days," Rick said as he motioned for Miriam and Sean to follow him. "But his appearance will probably shock you. That's why he's cut himself off from his friends. Luke hates being treated like an invalid, even though that's exactly what he is." He glanced over his shoulder. "Try to act as normal as possible."

  Miriam understood what he was doing. He was preparing her for the worst. She could have told him that nothing prepared a mother to see her dying child.