Hannah set her mug down on the counter. He turned her gently toward him and took her hands in his. “So practice,” he said. “Practice with me. Say one thing you want.”
She hesitated. If she said the words, “I want,” then there ought to be something significant that followed. The coming of the kingdom, for instance. Or being a faithful steward of everything God had entrusted to her. Using the words for lesser things seemed selfish.
“C’mon, Shep. Anything.”
She stared at him a moment. “I’d like . . .”
“Try fast. Unfiltered. I want . . .”
Okay, fine. He wanted direct? She would be direct. “I want to sleep on your side of the bed.”
Nathan laughed. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. It’s yours. We’ll switch tonight. What else?”
When she didn’t reply for several long minutes, he asked, “Are you self-editing right now, or do you really not know what you want?”
“Both.”
“Okay. Say something you’re editing, then.”
Hannah closed her eyes and blurted, “I want a house that’s ours.” She opened her eyes to check his. Inscrutable.
“Say more.”
Since there was no turning back, and since he would continue to ask follow-up questions until he was satisfied she was telling the whole truth, she took a deep breath and said, “I want a house where I feel like I’m not a long-term guest, where I feel like I’m not invading space.”
“You’re not invading—”
“No, listen”—she held up her hand and touched her finger to his lips to keep him from interrupting—“you asked, and I’m telling you the truth, Nate. This is your space. Yours and Jake’s. It’ll always be that. No matter how we redecorate or rearrange, it’s your house. And I don’t know how to fit into it, how to make it mine. Ours.”
The coffee pot stopped gurgling. Upstairs an alarm clock buzzed. Jake would be rising for school soon. She should not have started this conversation. “See? I should’ve kept it to myself.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee. “That’s not what I was thinking.”
“Then say something. What are you thinking?”
“That I wish you felt comfortable talking to me about your heart. I thought we had worked through some of this, that you were being honest with me, that you weren’t hiding behind the ‘everything’s fine’ mask.”
“You knew everything wasn’t fine. I told you I was struggling.”
“I know,” he said. “I know you’ve been struggling over everything with Westminster, with Heather, with Meg. But I didn’t know you were unhappy here.”
She wasn’t unhappy. Did she say she was unhappy? He had asked her to name desires, and she had named one. Now she wished she hadn’t. This was why she didn’t speak her heart, because speaking the truth created too much possibility for conflict. Easier to keep quiet, offer her longings privately to God, and pray for the grace to accept whatever gifts were given rather than trying to orchestrate them for herself. “Forget I said anything. I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“So what were you going to do, continue to feel miserable and displaced and keep it to yourself? That’s no way to do marriage, Hannah.” Footsteps padded upstairs; Jake was on his way down. “We’ll talk about this later,” Nathan said, in a tone that probably was not intended to make her feel like an eight-year-old. Then he greeted Jake with a cheerful, “Hey, bud! How about some eggs?” Without finishing her tea, Hannah tightened the sash on her robe and went upstairs.
He had a point, she thought as she filled the birdfeeders and sorted mail at Meg’s house. But he wasn’t sharing his heart, either. There were obviously things going on with Jake that Nathan had decided not to confide to her. She wasn’t asking him to betray Jake’s trust. But surely there was a way to talk about how he was negotiating his stress as a dad without disclosing private details about his son. How did a husband and wife share their inner lives if that husband wouldn’t talk about his role as a father?
From the kitchen window she watched grateful chickadees swoop toward the feeder. How she wished she and Meg could sit at the table together over a pot of tea. Meg wouldn’t judge her for feeling desolate, for feeling like a stranger to her new life. Meg would listen with compassion and pray for her. Not that Mara and Charissa would be unsympathetic. But Hannah didn’t feel the same sort of connection and intimacy with them as she had felt with Meg. It was that simple. She missed her friend. Desperately.
Funny how Meg’s house, which had felt so oppressive and lonely the first time Hannah entered months ago, had now become one of the few places where she felt like she could listen to her own soul and breathe.
She sat down at Meg’s table, head in her hands. Two weeks. Only two weeks until Good Friday, and she had never felt so unprepared. Usually she was diligent about praying through Lent, reflecting on the ways she was being invited to die to self and live to Christ. Maybe she hadn’t thought much about Good Friday and Easter because she had spent so much time thinking about it when Meg was dying. She had spent hours meditating on the crucifixion and resurrection texts. So why did she avoid them now?
Charissa had asked her to choose the text for reflection tonight. But when she had thumbed through the prayer exercise notebook, nothing grabbed her. It sounded terrible to say, didn’t it, that nothing from Scripture grabbed her attention and invited her in? But it was the truth. She didn’t feel like reading the Word. She didn’t feel like praying. At least she wouldn’t have to participate in the worship services at Westminster. Attend, yes. Under compulsion. But lead? No.
She rubbed her eyes. She was yielding to spiritual dryness without searching for springs. She knew that. But she was too tired to search. That was the truth. Maybe she needed God to pursue her in the barren, weary landscape of her soul.
Part Two
Broken and
Poured Out
As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, my God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
My tears have been my food
day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
PSALM 42:1-3
five
Charissa
With all the deadlines pressing in on her—books to read, papers to write and grade, lectures to revise—Charissa had discovered that offering a few hours of volunteer time at Crossroads on Fridays helped keep her life in perspective. Being surrounded by people who had nothing helped her remain grateful for what she had been given. The intentional practice of serving others had shaped her in ways she couldn’t have anticipated.
“The stir-fry was a big hit,” she told Mara as they set out bowls of salad and pots of soup for the Crossroads guests. “John says I won for the week since neither one of us got sick afterward.” Mara did not reply. “Thanks again for helping me.”
Mara smoothed the edge of the tablecloth. “I told you, you’ll conquer it in no time.”
“I don’t know about that, but if I have a couple of healthy meals in my repertoire, that will be a big improvement.” Charissa looked forward to planting and cooking from her garden. She had been studying seed catalogs the past week and was becoming quite the expert on heirloom tomatoes. Want to become an expert on basketball seeds? John had teased. She did not.
“You feeling better today, Miss Charissa?” Billy asked when he made his way through the line. A regular at the shelter, he had spoken to her a few times about his military service in Vietnam. “I seen you last week. You were out cold.”
“I was,” she said. “But yes, I’m feeling better. Thank you.” Her students, even Justin, who had not posted on social media—she had checked—had made similar inquiries about her yesterday. She ought to let go of the embarrassment and let people express concern and offer opinions, hard as it was. Bethany wasn’t even born yet, and already she w
as offering lessons about giving up control.
“You need to make sure you’re getting enough iron,” Ronni, a single mom of three, commented as she held out her plate for salad. “Doctors said I was anemic. Tell you what, I felt crappy. You tired?”
“Not too bad.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Yes, it was. Now that Charissa had hit the six-month mark, she felt like she was heading into the homestretch. In a few more weeks she would finish the semester, and then she could turn her attention toward preparing for Bethany’s arrival: decorate the room, stock up on diapers, buy newborn clothes and other paraphernalia. John had been researching strollers and cribs and car seats for months now, but she hadn’t yet given him the green light to purchase the larger ticket items. They’d had too many other expenses with remodeling the house.
Not that she was going to complain, she reminded herself as she served the salad. Most of these people didn’t have houses. And she bet most of the moms hadn’t been able to buy anything new for their babies.
“Are you okay?” she asked Mara after the last of the patrons had passed through the line.
Mara shook her head. Normally gregarious with each guest, she had served today without much interaction, even with the regulars. She picked up the empty soup pots and motioned for Charissa to follow her to the kitchen. “Usually it doesn’t bother me,” she said in a low voice. “But today the smell of booze got to me. Every time I smelled it on their breath or saw it in their eyes, it pushed all kinds of fear buttons about Jeremy. I just feel so helpless about everything.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Can I pray for you?” Charissa asked. Mara nodded.
Later that afternoon Charissa received an email from Hannah, apologizing that she hadn’t had a chance to select a text to pray with. She wasn’t even sure she would be able to come to the group, since she was leaving early the next morning for Chicago.
Charissa wished she could call Meg. Meg would have known how to reach out to Hannah and encourage her. Don’t worry about choosing a prayer handout, Charissa wrote back. I’ll find one. Just come. Even if you can only stay a little while, we can still pray for you.
“Did you get ahold of Jeremy?” she asked John when he entered with shopping bags shortly after five o’clock.
“Yeah. He’s home with Madeleine tonight.”
“And?”
“He sounded okay.”
She followed John to the kitchen and started unpacking groceries. Chips. Cookies. Soda. No wonder he’d offered to stop at the store after work. Charissa didn’t buy junk food. “What about going over there?” she asked.
“Just showing up? That’d be weird.”
“How about watching basketball together? It’s Friday. Somebody’s got to be playing, right?”
“Um, you’re cute.” He opened a Pringles canister and poured out a stack. “Michigan State against Kansas, remember?” She stared at him. “Regional semifinal.”
“Okay, then. Offer to take a pizza over there and watch the game with him.”
“Chuck and I are going to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the game with some of his friends.”
Charissa closed the pantry cupboard. She would organize it later. “Take a raincheck with the neighbor, okay? And call Jeremy back. Please.”
While John made his phone call (“Dude! I’ve got a great idea!”), she skimmed the prayer notebook for an exercise from Katherine that would be fruitful to explore together. It didn’t take long to find one.
MEDITATION ON MARK 14:1-11
A Beautiful Thing
Quiet yourself in the presence of God. Then read the text aloud a couple of times and imagine you are with Jesus at Simon’s house in Bethany. Use all of your senses to enter the story and participate in the scene.
It was now two days before the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread. And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to arrest him by stealth and kill him, for they said, “Not during the feast, lest there be an uproar from the people.”
And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”
Then Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, went to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. And when they heard it, they were glad and promised to give him money. And he sought an opportunity to betray him.
For Personal Reflection (45-60 minutes)
1. Begin by picturing yourself as an onlooker in the story. What do you notice about the woman who anoints Jesus? What thoughts and feelings arise within you as you watch her break the jar and anoint him?
2. How do you feel when you hear the disciples criticize her? What do you say about her? Why?
3. Think of a time when you judged someone else for the way they served or worshiped Jesus. What justification did you use for your judgment? What might God say to you about this?
4. Now imagine you are the woman anointing Jesus. What motivates you to pour out your perfume on him? Do you have any hesitation in breaking the jar? Why or why not?
5. How do you feel when you hear the disciples criticizing you and scolding you? How do you respond? Offer what you notice to God in prayer.
6. How do you feel when you hear Jesus defend you and the offering of your gift? How do you respond when he declares that you have done “a beautiful thing”? Offer what you notice to God in prayer.
7. What “beautiful thing” are you being invited to offer in sacrifice and love to Jesus? Do you have any hesitation in offering such a costly gift? Offer your longings, fears, and resistance to God in prayer.
For Group Reflection (45-60 minutes)
1. With whom did you most easily identify in the story—the woman or the critical observers? Why? Share what you noticed about your thoughts and feelings as you imagined yourself participating in the story.
2. What opportunities do you have for offering a costly sacrifice of love to Jesus? How can the group encourage and support you in this offering?
3. Offer a word of encouragement to the person on your left. What “beautiful things” have you seen him or her offer to Jesus? How has this offering inspired you? When you receive a gift of encouragement, take time to savor it before offering a word to the person beside you.
4. Close by silently meditating on the worth of Jesus. What is he worth to you? Pray for an increase in love, devotion, and courage for yourself and for your fellow travelers.
Mara
Each person dealt with sorrow in her own way, Mara reminded herself as she settled onto Charissa’s couch, the prayer exercise on her lap. Hannah, evidently, preferred to deal with struggles by herself, by withdrawing from community. Mara, on the other hand, ran toward community, now that she had community to run toward. Or maybe Hannah preferred the community of a husband, now that she had one. What a lucky woman she was. Mara wouldn’t know what that kind of community was like. “Should we call her and make sure she’s okay?”
Charissa lowered herself into an armchair. “I think maybe we should just leave it for now. It sounds like they’re leaving early in the morning for Chicago.”
Where two or three are gathered . . .
Jesus was with them, even if it was only the two of them. But Mara didn’t like the thought of the Sensible Shoes Club unraveling. If Hannah didn’t value their time together, th
ere was nothing they could do to force her to participate. But when should you let someone walk away, and when should you hunt them down? Mara offered a silent prayer for her friend, then looked at the text. “Want me to read first?” she asked. Charissa nodded and closed her eyes.
That woman sure was lucky to have something beautiful to offer Jesus. The jar looked like a treasure, like it was carved from marble. And when she broke it, the spicy aroma of the perfume filled the whole room and lingered. That woman was gutsy. Mara wasn’t sure she would have had the chutzpah to pour the ointment out on Jesus’ head during a dinner party. But maybe the rules for dinner parties were different back then.
The look in the woman’s eyes caught Mara’s attention as she imagined the scene unfolding, a look that declared the only person in the whole wide world who mattered at that moment was Jesus, and nothing—no one—was going to prevent her from pouring out her precious gift on him. Jesus had an intense look in his eyes too, this look of gratitude and love mixed with sorrow as he gazed at her. They did not break eye contact. Mara would have treasured a moment like that. What a lucky woman. “Blessed” was the better word. What a blessed woman to have a costly gift to offer. A blessed woman to think of offering it. A blessed woman to hear Jesus praise her for the gift and then say that everyone in the whole wide world would hear about it. Blessed. Like a star pupil in a class. Like a favorite child. Blessed.
Mara twirled her bangle bracelets, oblivious to the clicking sound until Charissa looked up from her writing. “Sorry,” Mara mouthed. She crossed one leg over the other, wishing she could rest her bare feet on the coffee table. But Charissa had complained to her about the “punk kids” who put their feet up on desks and disrespected her with phones in the classroom, and Charissa’s glass coffee table didn’t invite smudges from feet. Her new rugs didn’t invite shoes. She would be in for a shocker once they had a baby spitting up or a toddler spilling things. And if Bethany had those rocket poops like Kevin had . . .
An Extra Mile Page 10