Though Simon complained about gentrification and multinational chains supplanting independent cafés and quirky shops, Becca loved Notting Hill for nevertheless retaining its sizzling energy and bohemian spirit. Not far from the posh Kensington sidewalks where nannies pushed babies in prams, Notting Hill—a place of communal gardens and terraced houses painted in vibrant Mediterranean colors—had long been home to artists and writers, as evidenced by the blue plaques marking houses of the notably famous. George Orwell’s former residence wasn’t far from the basement flat Simon had rented ever since his divorce, and Simon, an aspiring novelist, often said that someday there would be a plaque outside his flat as well. Becca had no doubt that he would one day publish international bestsellers. It was only a matter of time. Simon said she would be in his acknowledgments page as his muse.
Exiting the Tube station, she strolled past bookshops, tourist traps selling Queen Elizabeth bobble heads, and the tandoori restaurant where she and Simon often ordered takeaway curries and kebabs. If he were home, she’d pick up two orders of chicken korma. That’s what they had eaten the night she first accompanied him to his flat.
Her fingers lingered on the wrought-iron gate, remembering the brush of his hand against hers as he opened the latch and invited her to follow him down the stairs. Simon had awakened her that night, awakened her to passion and longings she’d never felt before. Physical intimacy, Becca had discovered, was far more than carnal drive and desire. It was a gateway toward a union of souls, a oneness of being. To use a word she didn’t usually apply to herself, their love was something “spiritual.” There was no other spirituality she needed. She was fulfilled.
Much as it had pained her mother, Becca could never embrace her brand of spirituality. After all, what kind of God allowed daddies to die before they held their baby girls and moms to die before their daughters grew up? Not any sort of God she wanted to know, that was for sure.
“Waiting for you,” she texted to Simon as she undressed in the dark. But there was no reply. At midnight, unable to stay awake any longer, Becca crawled into bed, the strains of Ella Fitzgerald’s song soothing her to sleep.
Hannah
After discussing it in low voices behind a closed bedroom door for half an hour Saturday morning, Nathan finally agreed to Hannah’s proposal: the Allen Boys would keep their Pancake House tradition as father-son connection time, and the three of them would decide on something weekly to enjoy together on Sunday afternoons as part of a family Sabbath practice. “But I want you to suggest something you’ll enjoy, Hannah. Please.”
“Okay.”
“There’s still plenty of snow up north if you want to go snowmobiling.”
Driving a couple of hours each way for an afternoon outing seemed excessive, especially on a day set apart for rest. “Maybe a movie,” she said. “Or a game.”
But when Sunday morning came around, she didn’t even feel like going to church. “A headache,” she said when Nathan eyed her with concern. “Nothing to worry about. But I think I’ll stay home this morning.”
He removed his bathrobe from his closet. “I’ll bring you some Tylenol.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll sleep it off.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
But as soon as she heard the front door close an hour later, she shuffled downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. Truth was, ever since submitting her resignation letter to the church, she had found it difficult to be in worship. Now that she knew she wouldn’t be returning to Westminster—now that she knew her time away was not temporary rest but permanent removal—she felt agitated on Sundays. Wayfarer Church was a good church. Neil Brooks was a gifted preacher, an attentive shepherd. But it was Nathan’s church. Nathan’s house. Nathan’s world. And though he continued to try to make room for her, she still felt like a long-term guest.
The thought had occurred to her that they should explore buying a house together now that she was negotiating a contract with Heather that would take care of the Chicago property. But Nate and Jake were both happy in their house, and she didn’t want them to go through the upheaval of a move. Then again, compared to all the upheaval she had been through lately, maybe the two of them could manage a change of houses quite easily. But if Nate were open to a move, he would have mentioned it. Instead, he had eagerly agreed to a cosmetic makeover of paint, furniture, and curtains. Whatever you want, he had reiterated.
She didn’t know what she wanted. That was part of her problem.
Did she want her old life back? No. She missed her old life, but that didn’t mean she would choose to return to it. She chewed on that thought a moment longer, just to make sure it was true.
Yes, it was true.
Nathan’s old tea kettle whistled, and she removed it from the burner to fix herself a cup of Earl Grey. Maybe if she found pastoral work in Kingsbury, that would ease her grief. But there weren’t any openings for paid staff at Wayfarer. And how would Nathan feel about her searching elsewhere? They hadn’t discussed her plans for ministry. In his mind, she still had sabbatical time left, time she should make the most of.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. The first service would be starting soon at Westminster. She wondered how long it would be before they made an official announcement about Heather taking over as associate pastor. She had listened to the past couple of weeks of Steve’s sermons online—no mention of any changes verbally or in the bulletins—and as of Thursday when she last checked, nothing had been posted on the website. She opened her computer, clicked on the bookmarked page, and selected the “Staff” tab. Senior pastor, Steve Hernandez. Youth pastor, Cory Sheldon. Children’s ministry coordinator, Megan Fields. Seminary intern, Heather Kirk. No associate pastor.
As in, no mention of Hannah at all. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. On Thursday, her photo had been beside her name, her old name. Hannah Shepley, Associate Pastor for Congregational Life. Now the position had been removed. She had been erased. Expunged. Permanently.
The reasonable voice inside her head reminded her that she had resigned a month ago and that it was appropriate for her not to be listed on the website. The reasonable voice inside her head reminded her that the church had shown patience by allowing her to delay clearing out her office until the end of March, when she planned to pack up her house so that Heather could fully move in. But the louder voice protested, I gave you fifteen years, and there’s not even a thank you?
“They offered to throw you a party,” Nathan said when he returned at lunchtime, “and you told them no.”
“Because they were spreading all those crazy rumors about me, about us!” She didn’t care that Jake was hovering in the family room within earshot. She had tried to pretend she was over it. She had tried to convince herself that because she had prayed about surrendering her reputation to Jesus, she had moved on. She had not. If, as Nancy had reported, some people thought she had taken advantage of the church by not returning to serve—or worse, that she had contrived the sabbatical as a ruse to reconnect with an old boyfriend and then had shacked up with him—
“Hey,” Nathan said gently, kneeling beside her, his hand on her knees. “How about if you email Steve and tell him you’d love to have a small reception? They can have it while we’re down there to clean out your house.”
“No.”
“C’mon, I think it would be good for you. For some closure. Let them thank you publicly, pray for you, send you out with their blessing.”
“No.”
“You can’t just slink out the side door, Hannah. There are people there who love you, who are grieving that you’re gone. They need a chance to say goodbye. So do you.”
Her shoulders heaved forward, and Nathan held her as she cried.
She did not have the capacity to pray the examen right now, Hannah confessed as Nathan prepared to light their unity candle that night. He understood. She did not have the energy to journal her reflections about how she was glimpsing God or how s
he was responding to or resisting his invitations. He understood. She was too tired to plumb the depths of her soul and share what she discovered with him. He understood.
There were seasons, Hannah knew, when words did not come, and it was all right that words did not come. There were seasons when faith meant trusting the groans of the Spirit to interpret the depths of longings and sorrows that could not be articulated but only offered. There had been seasons in her life—many of them—when she had been tempted to put too much confidence in her words, when she had been tempted to use her words in a frantic, futile effort to control or manipulate God into acting quickly to fix or solve or rescue. Silence invited deep trust, a different way of knowing and being known. She knew this. And besides. She was tired, too tired for words.
four
Charissa
No matter how hard Charissa tried to flatten and smooth the bulges, her light blue cardigan retained the shape of the hanger. She should have double-checked in the mirror before she left the house. Now she would have to stand in front of her freshmen with protruding horns on her shoulders.
Great.
She wasn’t going to lecture in her shell top. Justin Caldwell and his back row posse would be distracted by her enlarged breasts. Since undertaking the freshman writing section, Charissa had perused the professor ratings site multiple times, and she could guess which students had given her chili peppers for hotness. She was not flattered. She was flattered, however, by the students who ranked her as hard. “Professor Sinclair” was no easy A, several complained. This gratified her. One student had written that the course had “confirmed his desire to write.” But then he’d proceeded to say that Charissa had helped him “hone his grammer skills.” Obviously, he hadn’t put his review through a spellchecker.
She really shouldn’t put much stock in the reviews, she thought as the students straggled into the classroom. She also shouldn’t be Googling her name. But it was a regular habit now, one she had tried unsuccessfully to fast from. Maybe next Lent she would apply more diligence to conquering her vanity.
“I’m returning your first drafts,” she said once she had taken attendance and closed the door. “Phone away, Justin.” She handed him his paper. He kept typing. She stood beside him, waiting, wishing she could snatch the phone out of his hand and bop him on the head with it. “Now.” He shoved it into his backpack.
“For the most part, these were strong first efforts,” she said, returning to the lectern. “However, I noticed that some of you only concentrated on the first paragraph of the article in your analysis. In your revisions, you’ll need to incorporate the entire breadth of Berry’s essay. In other words, make sure you read all of his argument before you attempt to write your interpretation and critique.” Honestly. Did they think she was stupid? That she wouldn’t notice they had only read the first page of the essay? “The other thing that was lacking in most of your reflections is the acknowledgment that he wrote this essay in 1971. So in what ways are his observations about American politics and culture prophetic and timely for our postmodern context? Don’t merely quote from his essay. I don’t want summaries of his salient points. Interpret it. Wrestle with it. Demonstrate you’re thinking critically, and then use the rhetorical skills you’ve been learning to respond with high-quality prose.”
Most of the students were too busy skimming through her margin notes on their papers to be listening. She took a sip from her water bottle and waited for their attention. “Before I divide you into pairs for peer review, I want to offer some thoughts about the revision process in general. Many students, when they undertake editing, consider only the lexical level of the text. They look only at word substitutions, believing their primary task is to choose better words. And while word choice is important to our prose—while strong, precise language enhances our arguments—revising is not simply a matter of using a thesaurus as you rewrite. Think big picture. Think about theme. Think about—”
Not passing out. She was suddenly lightheaded again. She took a longer sip of water. The websites said it was important to stay hydrated, to—
“Think about big picture. Big picture themes and—” She wiped her brow with a hand that was becoming blurry. “Don’t be afraid to cut sections that don’t serve the larger purpose of—” Even if you’re attached to—
Faces spun and swirled. She was grabbing, grasping, staggering, plunging. Down.
If this incident ended up on social media, heads would roll. Charissa wasn’t sure which student had first raced to her aid, but Justin was way too close when she came to, and she didn’t like the smirk on his face when he glanced at his phone before pocketing it. “Are you okay, Ms. Sinclair?” Sidney, one of her favorite students, was kneeling beside her.
Charissa rolled gingerly to her side. She still felt too woozy to stand.
“What can I get you?” Sidney asked.
All around Charissa students were stooped and staring. Thank God she had worn slacks and not a skirt. “I’ll . . . nothing. Nothing.” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and rested her head on her knees. If this fainting drama was going to become a regular game in Bethany’s repertoire, she didn’t want to play. “I’m okay, everyone. Back to your seats.” But she hesitated to rise.
“Can somebody go get someone?” Sidney called out.
“No. No, I’m fine.” Charissa willed herself to stand but then gratefully sat down in the chair Ben dragged forward. She should carry snacks in her bag, almonds or cheese, something with protein. She would be fine once she ate something.
“Ten minute break,” a voice commanded. She looked up to see Nathan Allen enter the classroom, motioning for students to head out. “Back in ten,” he repeated as they exited, chattering. He closed the door behind the last one. “Let me call John for you.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Charissa.”
“He’ll just worry.” She hadn’t landed on her belly, thank God, but her elbow was sore. She must have absorbed the force of the fall on her right elbow. She clutched it against her body.
Nathan eyed her with concern. “I think it’s unwise not to get checked. Make sure you didn’t injure yourself.”
“I’ll be okay. Just another bruise to the ego.” She attempted a wry smile. “No permanent damage done.” Which was more embarrassing: missing her final presentation last semester because she overslept or fainting in front of a room full of students? Though no blame could be assigned to this mishap, it might prompt Dr. Gardiner and the other faculty to question whether she was fit to fulfill her responsibilities. She would need to talk with Dr. Gardiner as soon as possible to preempt decisions being made on her behalf.
“Let me take the rest of your class today,” Nathan said. “I’ve got nothing scheduled for the next hour.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.” She stood up—too fast, apparently—and caught herself before she lost her balance. At a minimum she wasn’t fit to finish her lecture, and it wasn’t fair to the students to place them in peer groups without proper instructions. She gave a defeated sigh. “On second thought, maybe I should head home.”
He reached into his blazer pocket for his cell phone. “I’ll call Hannah. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind coming to pick you up. I don’t think you should drive right now.”
The way she felt at the moment, she wasn’t going to argue.
True to Nathan’s word, Hannah arrived at the university library parking lot half an hour later. “Where to?” she asked as soon as Charissa clicked her seatbelt into place. Belts were increasingly uncomfortable.
“Home, please.”
“You sure you don’t want me to take you to the doctor?”
“I’m sure. I think I just need to eat something and lie down.” The two-pack of oatmeal cookies from the vending machine hadn’t alleviated her lightheadedness. “Thanks, Hannah.”
“No problem.”
If Mara had been the one to chauffeur her home, Charissa might have been peppered with questions
or subjected to well-intentioned pregnancy tips and personal anecdotes. But Hannah was quiet on the drive, and Charissa, who was not adept at small talk, wasn’t sure how to engage her in conversation. Usually, Hannah was the one who guided meaningful interactions. Maybe she was tired. “You feeling okay?” Charissa asked after traveling several blocks in awkward silence. “We missed you in worship on Sunday.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Just a bit of a headache.”
“Nathan was telling us at church about your house. That’s great you don’t have to worry about putting it on the market.”
“Right. Big answer to prayer.”
“When do you have to go down there to pack everything up?”
“Saturday, I think.”
“Well, if you need any help when you get back here unloading boxes or anything, I’ll volunteer John.”
Hannah did not take her eyes off the road. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
When they arrived at the house a few minutes later, Hannah did not turn off the car. “Do you need some help getting inside?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine, thanks. You’re welcome to come in for a minute, Hannah, if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll let you get your rest. Let me know if you need anything else, though, all right?”
“I will,” Charissa said. “See you Friday, then?”
“Friday?”
“For our Sensible Shoes—”
“Oh, right,” Hannah said. “Friday.”
As Charissa carefully ascended the front steps, she added another name to her growing list for prayer: Becca, Mara, Jeremy, Abby. And Hannah Allen.
Becca
In the land of knights and castles, chivalry was dead. With a disdaining glance Becca passed by half a dozen guys who kept their seats on the Tube, not even rising for a mom with two little kids. “Hold on here, sweetheart,” the mother said, placing one child’s chubby hands onto a pole while clutching the younger one. The only people speaking in the carriage were tourists, distinguished by their accents and lack of balance as the train sped out of the station and pitched to the right. Becca had once stood with the same two-fisted grip on the overhead bar. Now she made a point of trying to stand nonchalantly so as not to call attention to herself. Not that Londoners were bothered to pay much attention. She focused on the colorful grid of crisscrossing lines on the maps above the windows and exited when the train screeched into Russell Square station.
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