“So will your mother come for the birth?”
Charissa flipped another page. “No, not until afterward. John and I are going to keep all the labor and delivery private.”
“You don’t want help while you’re in the hospital? Those first few days can be really difficult.”
“John’s taking time off work.” Charissa shifted position on the couch, her uterus tightening. She had been having quite a few Braxton Hicks contractions the past few days. Maybe she was dehydrated. She had read online that dehydration could increase their frequency. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, rising slowly to her feet once the contraction subsided.
“I’ll get some coffee. Do you have decaf?”
“I don’t think so.” Charissa hadn’t drunk coffee in months, and John usually drank the real stuff.
“Never mind, then. I should have bought some when I went to the store.” She followed Charissa into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water while Charissa removed the bottle of TUMS from the cabinet. Bethany did not like lasagna. She should have insisted on eating a ham sandwich. “Heartburn?” Judi asked. Charissa nodded. “I guess lasagna wasn’t a good choice for dinner. You should have said something.”
You should have accepted my offer of sandwiches, Charissa thought. She chewed two tablets slowly while Bethany kicked and somersaulted. Sorry, baby girl. The two of them would be up all night.
“Don’t feel like you need to keep me company,” Judi said when they returned to the family room. She motioned toward the stack of books. “I know you’re busy.”
Charissa felt a pang in her gut that wasn’t a contraction or acid reflux. Judi’s granting permission to disappear stung. She closed her textbook and placed it on the stack. “It’s okay.” Giving her attention to basketball was neither an admission of guilt nor an apology, but it was nevertheless a declaration of intent to be a more gracious host in the hours that remained. She put her feet up on the coffee table and asked, “What’s the score?”
Mara
Mara picked at some chipped nail polish while she waited outside Dawn’s office for her counseling appointment. Some mothers’ prayers were answered, she told herself, and some mothers’ prayers were not. Like Ellen. Ellen, Mara knew, had been praying for Abby to be awakened to faith, and now Abby had been. At some point over the past week, Abby had crossed a line into wholehearted belief, and she wanted to publicly declare her trust in Jesus Christ. She wanted to publicly repent of her sins, die to herself, and be raised into newness of life, washed clean.
“You’ll be there, Mom, won’t you?” Abby had asked on the phone Sunday afternoon.
Of course Mara would be there. She would give up Easter Sunday at her own church in order to witness Abby’s entry into the body of Christ. She would sit beside Abby’s parents as close to the front row as possible, and she would cry tears of joy. And tears of sorrow. Because her own fervent prayers for her son to awaken to faith and to be well and whole and happy had not been answered. The faith-filled part of her said, “Not yet.” The discouraged part of her declared, “Not ever.”
She reached for a magazine filled with glossy photos of attractive women with attractive families in attractive homes and then changed her mind. Why subject herself to more opportunities for envy and discontent?
Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. It was hard not to question Abby’s timing, hard not to resent her moving forward so quickly when perhaps she could wait and be baptized someday with her husband. Someday. Or no day. There was no guarantee Jeremy would ever turn fully to Christ. So why should Abby wait? In the midst of their financial stress and uncertainty about employment and Jeremy’s relapse—several occasions he deeply regretted, Abby had reported to Mara—the Spirit had worked to draw her to Jesus. That was worth celebrating. Maybe the Spirit would work through Abby’s awakening to draw Jeremy too.
“It’s wonderful Abby is taking that step, isn’t it?” Mara had said to Jeremy on the phone.
“Yeah. Great.”
“But what about Maddie? I forgot to ask Abby what you’re doing about her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, will she be dedicated or baptized or something along with Abby?” Mara wasn’t sure what the infant practices were at Wayfarer Church.
“No.”
Mara had decided to press. “Because . . .”
“Because according to the pastor, both parents need to be able to answer questions about faith, and I’m not going to stand in front of a whole crowd of people and be a hypocrite.”
She admired him for his integrity, even as her heart broke that he was not able to believe. Though the Twelve Steps program had saved his life years ago when he was neck-deep in addictions, Jeremy’s talk about “letting go” and “trusting a Higher Power” evidently lacked the specificity of trusting Jesus Christ as that Power.
Keep praying for him, Abby had said. Of course she would. But given her track record for answered prayers—praying for God to heal Meg, praying for her family life to improve, praying for the Sensible Shoes Club not to fall apart, and the list went on and on—Mara wasn’t sure how much her prayers helped anyone. She kept going, though. What else could she do? She had to keep offering her faith as a beautiful thing to Jesus, broken and small as it was some days.
“Mara?” Dawn was smiling at her from the doorway.
Mara rose. “I’ve got lots to tell you,” she said as she stepped into Dawn’s office. “As usual.”
Charissa
“You’re sure you don’t mind me going?” John asked as he put on his coat.
“Of course not,” Charissa said. “Go.” Somehow he had managed to snag a single ticket to the championship basketball game in Detroit.
“Thanks, Riss. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Just add it to your tab.” He owed her big time for the weekend with his parents, he had insisted multiple times. She was just grateful they had survived the visit without any major damage.
He kissed her. “Hope you and Mara have a good time together, whatever the art thing is.”
Charissa wasn’t sure what to expect at New Hope either. In all of her years of attending church, she had never heard of this kind of Holy Week event. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services, yes. But an experiential prayer journey to the cross? She couldn’t picture it.
When she arrived at the retreat center an hour later, Mara was waiting for her in the lobby. “Thanks for coming,” Mara said, embracing her.
“Sure.” Charissa smoothed her hair and hung up her coat. “Is it just us, or is Hannah coming too?”
“No, she can’t make it, said she had other things going on.”
Charissa needed to remember to pray for her. From the expression on Mara’s face, it seemed they both had drawn the same conclusion about her absence. “And how about you, Mara? Are you doing okay?”
Mara shrugged. “My counselor thinks I am, so that’s encouraging. We keep moving forward, right?”
“Right. Or try to, anyway.”
Progress not perfection, Charissa reminded herself as they walked down the hallway to the chapel where they had gathered for Hannah’s wedding. How different it looked! No longer a place of joyful celebration, it was now a place of somber reflection and quiet reverence, the overhead lighting dim, with candles flickering and casting shadows around the room.
A middle-aged man met them at the entrance doors and handed each of them a small pamphlet. “The Scripture texts are posted at each prayer station,” he said in a whisper, “along with art that illustrates the story and themes.” He opened a brochure to show them. “In here are some prompts for how to pray. You can take this home with you.”
Charissa read the front cover: Welcome to Journey to the Cross. You are invited to accompany Jesus in his sorrow and suffering as he journeys to Golgotha. As you walk and pray, imagine you are watching the scenes unfold. Experience the details as you read and gaze upon the artwork. Though you may be tempted t
o skip past the sorrow of the cross to the joy of Easter morning, our capacity to receive the wonder of the resurrection is enlarged when we take time to ponder the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. May God lead you deeper into the reality of his love as you travel.
She glanced over the man’s shoulder. Inside the chapel about twenty people sat in front of different pieces of art to meditate and pray. “The journey starts in this corner here,” he said, gesturing, “and then you move counterclockwise around the room. Take as much time as you like at each of the eight stations. There’s no rush.”
Murmuring their thanks, they entered the room, where mournful violin music played quietly over the speakers. As Charissa watched, Mara leaned against a wall and, as they had done weeks ago in this same space, removed her shoes.
While Mara took her time, Charissa only paused politely at the first two stations of Pilate questioning Jesus and releasing Barabbas in his place. Not much to capture her attention there. So she moved to the third station, where a long wooden beam several inches thick lay at the foot of a painting of Roman soldiers grabbing a man by his sleeve. Taking an empty seat, she read a single verse on the placard: “They compelled a passer-by, who was coming in from the country, to carry his cross; it was Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus” (Mark 15:21).
Compelled. She didn’t like that word. Here’s a man minding his own business, and suddenly he’s swept against his will into the drama of a stranger’s execution. She opened the brochure to read the guide for prayer:
Imagine you are Simon of Cyrene, journeying toward Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. As you approach the city, you see a procession. A bloodied and bruised man is stumbling under the weight of a cross as Romans lead him toward the place of crucifixion. Crowds shout their accusations about his guilt. You pause to watch.
Suddenly, a rough hand grabs you by the shoulder. “You!” the soldier barks. “Carry his cross!”
What’s going through your mind in this moment? Do you willingly take the cross, or do you try to resist? Why?
Now pick up the wooden beam on the platform. What does it mean for you to walk with Jesus in carrying the cross? What do you want to say to God in prayer?
Charissa watched a rail-thin teenage girl pick up the beam and stagger under the weight of it before setting it down for her mother to lift. The mother was crying. Charissa lowered her gaze. She had never given much thought to Simon of Cyrene’s role in the crucifixion narrative, but since she had bristled upon reading the verse, it seemed like a potentially fruitful place to pause and pray.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself as Simon, tried to imagine what it would feel like to be singled out and snatched from the crowd, coerced into carrying a bloodied crossbeam for a man who had obviously been convicted as a criminal, a man whose flesh hung in shreds on his back, whose eyes were nearly swollen shut, and whose brow was lacerated from thorns pressed into his skull. The crowd jeered at him, but he did not reply. He didn’t look like he could make it much farther. She had heard about the particular agony and cruelty of crucifixion, and even if this man had committed a heinous crime, the punishment was deplorable.
Much as she was moved by his pain, however, she didn’t want to get involved. She tried to offer her excuses, but the Roman soldiers didn’t listen. She didn’t want to carry the cross. She didn’t want other people to think she was the criminal. She didn’t want to participate in the shame, didn’t want to be guilty by association. Every part of her resisted being swept up into the narrative. Every part of her resisted being commanded to walk a mile or two against her will. Why couldn’t she just mind her own business and get on with the purpose of her Passover journey? Let the drama play out according to God’s plan. It had nothing to do with her.
She opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder at the previous station, where Mara knelt on a cushion in front of a cross, looking up and weeping. Slowly, Charissa rose to her feet and returned to that station. Maybe she needed to see that it had everything to do with her. Maybe she needed to try again to enter the Barabbas part of the story.
While Charissa waited for chairs to empty, she read the single verse printed on the placard: “So he released Barabbas for them; and after flogging Jesus, he handed him over to be crucified” (Matthew 27:26). Pilate, looking to save his own skin, had done what was expedient: he gave in to the demands of the crowd. He handed Jesus over to be crucified. And Jesus did nothing to resist the handing over.
As soon as the station cleared, Charissa lowered herself to kneel where Mara had knelt, on a cushion before a life-sized cross. Nailed to the cross were single words painted on strips of wood: pride, vainglory, envy, sloth, anger, lust, greed, gluttony. At the intersection of the beams was a mirror angled forward so that someone kneeling on the cushion could glimpse her own face reflected there. Charissa scooted backward until her face was positioned in the dead center of the mirror.
There. That’s what she had deserved for her sin. That’s where she had belonged. On the cross like the other criminals. But Jesus—Jesus had taken her place, just like he had taken the place of Barabbas. Jesus, the guiltless one, had taken upon himself her sin, her guilt, her shame. He had willingly identified with Charissa, the sinner. All her pride, all her vainglory, all her selfishness and resentment and gluttonous desire for achievement and honor—all of this Jesus had borne for her, without resisting, without complaining, without making anyone understand that he himself was not the guilty one.
Tears wound down her cheeks as she looked up and saw with rinsed eyes the depths of her sin. But more than that—so much more than that—she saw the depths of his love.
The one who has been forgiven much, Jesus said to Simon the Pharisee, loves much. If Charissa—like the ill-repute woman who crashed a dinner party to anoint Jesus—if Charissa could see the depths of her sin and the love that had paid the price for all of it, could she be enlarged to love much in return? The gift, she realized as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, the gift was seeing the enormity of her debt. Self-righteous Pharisees could not perceive the enormity of their debts. But prostitutes who had routinely offered themselves to all the false gods that did not satisfy—honor, achievement, admiration, esteem—prostitutes could perceive the enormity of their debts and receive the enormity of forgiveness. And when Pharisees were converted to seeing themselves as prostitutes, what a gift. What a gift of mercy and grace.
So much grace.
Whispering her gratitude, Charissa returned to Simon of Cyrene’s station and picked up the crossbeam. She wasn’t ready to enthusiastically identify with Jesus in his shame—would she ever run to embrace that manner of suffering?—but she was willing to be made willing. And maybe that was a good enough place to begin. Again.
Mara
Some mothers’ prayers were answered, and some mothers’ prayers were not. Mara wiped her eyes and stared up at a painting of Mary and the other women gathered at the foot of the cross.
Oh, the anguish Mary must have felt watching her son suffer and die. Mara reached for another tissue from the box on the floor and blew her nose as discreetly as possible. The anguish. You have no power to stop his suffering, the prayer notes read, and he is doing nothing to resist it. How did she feel as she imagined the scene unfolding?
Helpless. Utterly crushed by sorrow. And comforted that she was not alone.
Mara made sure they were well out of earshot of any other visitors before asking Charissa what she thought of the experience. “It was powerful,” Charissa said as she retrieved both of their coats from the rack in the lobby. “I’m glad I came.”
Mara slid her arms into her sleeves. “Me too. I’ve never spent much time thinking about Good Friday. Just Easter.” But somehow in the midst of watching the sorrow unfold, Mara had experienced deep and profound consolation. Jesus knew. He understood. And he kept her company in the midst of all the disappointment and despair.
The front door opened, and a gust of wind blew in some crinkle
d brown oak leaves from the sidewalk. Mara stooped to pick one up off the carpet. “Hey,” a familiar voice said. “Am I too late to walk with you?”
“Hannah!” Mara pocketed the leaf and threw her arms around her friend.
“I’m so sorry,” Hannah said when Mara released her from the embrace. “I wasn’t going to come. But I couldn’t ignore the voice telling me I had to be here.” She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, half-moons deep and dark beneath her weary eyes.
Charissa glanced at her watch. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. I wish I could stay longer, but I really should try to get some work done tonight.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” Hannah said, returning her hug. “You go. I wasn’t sure how long you two would be here.”
Mara removed her coat. “I’ll keep you company,” she said. “Come with me.”
Hannah
The last time Hannah had stepped through the New Hope chapel doors she was wearing a wedding gown. She paused at the threshold, remembering the faces turned toward her as she processed down the aisle, the nods and smiles and mouths whispering, “Beautiful,” when she passed by each row, her father keeping in slow step with her, his eyes fixed ahead with tears dampening his cheeks, Mara and Charissa and Becca smiling at her from the front steps, each holding a bouquet of daffodils and a pair of sensible shoes. She saw her nieces toss their white rose petals and felt again her own bare feet treading upon the petals’ softness as she moved closer and closer to Nathan, who, when her father gave her hand to him, pressed his lips to her fingers before turning with her to face the cross.
Dearly beloved . . .
“You okay?” Mara whispered. Hannah nodded. Weeks ago the room had overflowed with exuberant spring blooms and cascading white ribbons; now it was dark and somber, a place of mourning, not rejoicing. Like her own soul. “I’ll sit here in the back and pray,” Mara said, and patted her on the shoulder. “Take your time.”
An Extra Mile Page 16