An Extra Mile

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Or two, Hannah added silently.

  “She says she wants to see Jake as much as possible before the baby’s born. She seems to forget we agreed to take things slow, that it’s important for Jake to set the pace. And Jake wants to take things slow. I think that was hard for her to hear, like maybe she expected him to love his time with her so much that he’d be clamoring for more.”

  Hannah fought back the temptation to be delighted about this. She should long for reconciliation between a mother and her son. She should. But she didn’t. Not yet.

  “Want to eat outside?” Nathan asked after they ordered. “There are some benches down by the pond.”

  “Perfect.”

  On the lawns surrounding the campus center, some students, exulting in a cloudless, sixty-degree day, tossed footballs and Frisbees in short-sleeved shirts while others lay on the grass reading. Hannah and Nathan found an empty bench beside a weeping willow, its branches sweeping the water. “So, don’t keep me in suspense,” Hannah said after they thanked God for their food. “What’s going on?”

  He opened his bag of chips. “Got a call from Neil this morning. The seminary intern, Joel, is down with chicken pox, of all things.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yeah. Poor guy. He was scheduled to preach this Sunday, and Neil desperately needs a Sunday off—he’s exhausted after Lent and Easter—so he was calling to see if I’d be willing to cover for him.”

  “That’s great!” It had been years since Hannah had heard Nate preach. What a gift to be able to listen to him again.

  “Well, I told him I didn’t think I could do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know someone else who would be a wonderful supply preacher, and I think she should take the opportunity.” Hannah stared at him. “So what do you say? Your sabbatical’s not technically over yet, but . . .”

  Preach? At Wayfarer? “Did you mention me to Neil?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He’s going to call and invite you. He thought it was a great idea.”

  She set her sandwich down on her lap. When she said goodbye to Westminster, she’d had no expectation she could be in a pulpit again any time soon.

  “Hope you don’t mind me telling you first,” he said, “but I thought maybe you’d want a bit of time to think about it, pray about it before he calls.”

  “Yes, thank you! I mean, I’m shocked. An opportunity like this wasn’t anywhere on my radar.”

  “Well, I think it needs to be. You’re a pastor, Shep. And I don’t pretend to know what ministry will look like for you in the future, but you can’t be anyone other than who God has created and called you to be. I say it’s time to start looking at possibilities.”

  Tuesday, April 14

  1:15 p.m.

  I’ve been sitting here by the campus pond reading Easter season texts, trying to figure out what to preach. I’ve got sermons I could recycle, but I think the discipline of writing something new would be good for me. I’m a different person today than I was nine months ago, and my preaching—even my preparation for preaching—ought to reflect that.

  It means so much to have Nathan’s wholehearted affirmation of my call, to have him encourage me to explore opportunities, even if that means serving someday with a different congregation. He said we should throw the doors wide open and see what God does. There’s something both liberating and terrifying in that. I don’t trust myself to return to full-time pastoral work. That’s the truth. I don’t trust that all of my compulsions toward busyness and productivity and my addictions to usefulness and affirmation are well and truly dead. But I trust you, Lord. I trust your work in my life. I know your work isn’t fragile. If you say I’m ready to return to preaching—even if only for this Sunday—then I say, Hineni.

  As I think about the process of discernment, it occurs to me that I’m way overdue for spiritual direction. I think I’ve done okay with naming the losses and processing the upheaval of the past few months, hard as it’s been. But I need some help naming what’s rising to new life and identifying what God might be calling me to do. I’ve always been a sunset sort of person, better able to reflect on the past than hope for the future. I think God’s calling me to be a sunrise person as well, to practice that posture of keeping watch for the dawn, like I was praying about on Holy Saturday. To be anticipatory with hope. I’ve practiced watching sunsets as a spiritual discipline in the past, stirred by the imagery of dwindling light. Maybe I need to practice watching in the darkness for the sunrise, waiting for that light to break forth. You call me to keep watch, to wait, to hope. More than watchmen for the morning. More than watchmen for the morning. Thank you for the glimmering light on the horizon. I see it, and I give you thanks.

  Charissa

  When the doorbell rang just before five o’clock, Charissa tried to see who it was without shifting too much on the sofa, but the view to the porch was blocked. Since she wasn’t expecting anyone, she didn’t want to invite whomever it was to simply come in. The screen door creaked on its hinges, and the visitor knocked. “Charissa?”

  Nathan. “Come in!”

  He entered carrying two paper bags. “Sorry! Should have called first.”

  “No, that’s okay.” She overcame the temptation to sit up and greet him properly.

  “How’re you doing?”

  She smoothed her hair and straightened her maternity shirt. “Still here, so that’s good.” If she could keep her attention riveted upon Bethany’s health instead of ruminating on everything she couldn’t do, then the days might pass more fruitfully.

  “I’ve got some food for you and John, one chicken casserole that’s hot and another one you can freeze for later. Okay if I put them in the kitchen?”

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  “Hannah sends her love, says she’ll drop by tomorrow afternoon to see if you need any laundry or cleaning done.”

  Charissa smiled. “She knows me well.”

  “I know she’s happy to help. Just make a list of what you want done, and she’ll do it.” She heard him rustle the bags in the kitchen. “I’ll put the oven on low heat for this until John gets home and put the other one in the freezer. There’s a salad here too.”

  “Great. Thank you so much. He should be home soon.” Thankfully, John had a boss who was sympathetic and made sure he was on his way out the door by five. Not everyone was so fortunate.

  “Can I bring you anything?” Nathan called from the kitchen doorway. “Something to eat? Drink?”

  She hated being waited on hand and foot. So humbling. “Just some water, thanks.” John had filled a couple of pitchers before he left for work, both now empty. She’d tried to consolidate trips to the kitchen and bathroom, but she still wasn’t in the habit of thinking strategically. She wouldn’t tell John how many times she had actually gotten up from the couch that day.

  When Nathan returned to the family room, she invited him to sit down. “So how did my students do?” She had been waiting for a report all afternoon.

  “Pretty well, I think. They were all very concerned about you, wanted to know how you’re doing. I didn’t give many details, just that I would be finishing out the semester for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I used your lecture notes, and that went well. Good material, clearly presented.”

  Truth was, Nathan could teach freshman composition in his sleep. The fact that he was willing to use her content was also a gift of grace. “I’m almost done with the lecture for next week,” she said. “I’ll email you the notes by tomorrow morning.”

  “No rush.”

  “And if they’ve got any questions about the essays due next week, they can email me.”

  “I’ll remind them.”

  “I’m planning to do all the consultations for their final papers by telephone.” No way she could meet with any of them face to face. “I’ll send out a schedule with available time slots starting later this week.”


  “Sounds like you’ve got everything covered.”

  At least he didn’t argue with her and tell her she shouldn’t be trying to write lectures or grade papers or finish up her own coursework for the semester. Maybe he could talk with John and reassure him that being physically inactive did not mean giving up her work. It’s the stress level, Charissa, John insisted. Well, she would be far more stressed if she were doing absolutely nothing but lying around all day.

  Hands clasped together, Nathan tapped his chin, a gesture which usually indicated he was deep in thought. “You’re in a Milton seminar this term, aren’t you?”

  She held up crossed fingers. “He and I are like this. Why?” Maybe she would do one more round of revisions on that paper due next week. It wouldn’t hurt.

  “I was thinking about one of his sonnets today,” Nathan said, “‘When I consider how my light is spent . . . ’”

  Charissa knew that one well. Over the years she had written several papers on it, committing it to memory. When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide, lodg’d with me useless though my soul more bent to serve . . .

  She stopped her silent recitation. He had just used Milton to bust her, and she’d walked right into it. God doth not need either man’s work or his own gifts, the sonnet went on. Who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.

  She smiled wryly. “So you’re in league with John, huh? Conspiring to shut me down completely? Make me give up my work?”

  “No, I would never presume to do that. I just offer it as something to ponder as you rest.”

  She ran the final lines of the sonnet through her mind: Thousands at his bidding speed and post o’re land and ocean without rest. They also serve who only stand and wait. Yes, well, she didn’t like waiting. And the only thing worse than standing around and waiting was lying down and waiting. “You know what?” she said. “You really should make T-shirts.”

  He eyed her quizzically.

  “T-shirts that say, ‘Linger with what provokes you.’”

  He laughed. “Not sure many people would buy it, it’s so provoking.”

  “Exactly.” She turned the whole poem over in her mind. Milton, upon losing his sight, was worried that God would judge him for burying his one talent. He was worried that God would be harsh with him, that God would “exact day labor, light denied.” Would God ask him to do a task and then deny him the means of doing it? Is that the kind of God he served? The voice of Patience—the very voice Charissa struggled to obey—supplied the answer as Milton listened: No. God was not that sort of God.

  And what about her? What drove her to want to disregard her limitations and press through with her commitments as best she could? Love for her work and her students or love of something else? It was the likelihood of “something else” that agitated her, the thought that her desire to finish the semester valiantly, commendably, was not about responding to God’s bidding but to her own ego’s drive.

  The front door opened and John entered. “Hey, Nathan! Wondered whose car that was outside.” He leaned over the couch to kiss Charissa on the forehead.

  “Nathan brought us dinner.”

  “Dude! You’re a star. Thanks.”

  Charissa wondered when Nathan had last been called “dude.” If ever.

  “Can you stay and eat with us?” John asked as he hung up his keys.

  “No, thanks, not tonight. Jake and Hannah are waiting for me.”

  “Another time, then. When all of you can come.”

  Charissa echoed the invitation. “I’m not going anywhere. At least, not any time soon, I hope. So do come some night. We’d enjoy the company.”

  “I’ll talk with Hannah about that, see what might work. Maybe next week? She’s preaching on Sunday, did I mention that?”

  “No,” Charissa said. “Where?”

  “At Wayfarer.”

  “And I’m going to miss it!”

  “Well, I hope this will be the first of many more. She’s a gifted preacher, I know that.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Don’t tell her, but I’ve listened to some of her archived messages online from Westminster. Good stuff.”

  “Wish I could be there. They record them, don’t they?”

  “I know they do,” John said. “I’ve listened to a couple of Neil’s sermons online.”

  “Good. At least I’ll be able to do that.” She could also pray for Hannah as she prepared to preach. She would add that request to her list.

  “I’m going to change my clothes,” John said after Nathan left, “and then we’ll eat. Sure was nice of him to bring food.”

  Yes. It was. The casserole smelled delicious and would go down easy. It was the food for thought he’d offered that would take a bit more time to digest.

  Mara

  She would give herself several weeks to plan the feast at Crossroads. With Ellen’s generous commitment to fund the meal—not just dessert, she had insisted, but a lunch buffet with flowers on every table—Mara was going to approach it as if she’d been hired to cater a special event. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said to Miss Jada when she arrived for work Wednesday morning, “and I don’t think we should advertise. I’d like it to be a surprise for the regulars, make them feel really special when they arrive.” If they did it on a Friday, they could count on about fifty guests. That was manageable, especially for the first time.

  “I sure didn’t think you’d get donations lined up so fast. But this is good, Mara. This is real good.” She looked at her calendar. “So end of May, you think?”

  “Yeah. That Friday there.” Mara pointed to the last one of the month. Hannah had already promised to help. Jeremy too, if he wasn’t working. But I hope you’ll be working, Mara had said. And he’d said, Yeah, you and me both. Being together in worship and at the brunch on Easter had given her an extended time to observe him, and apart from being quiet at church, he’d seemed okay. She had confirmed this with Abby later. At Abby’s insistence he was back at his AA meetings, and his sponsor was regularly checking in with him. Jeremy had told Abby he was committed to staying sober for her sake and for Madeleine’s. For his own sake too, Mara hoped.

  “So you need any help from me,” Miss Jada said, “or you just gonna run with this?”

  “I think I’m good. It’s a challenge, but it’s something I used to dream about doing—cooking big meals for lots of people—so this’ll give me a chance to try it, see how it goes.”

  “Well, they’ll be grateful for anything, you know that.”

  She did know. Mara had once been one of them. She never wanted to forget that.

  “How’s Miss Charissa doing?” Billy asked when he arrived for lunch a few hours later.

  “She’s doing okay,” Mara said. “Thanks for praying for her. And that reminds me”—she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small envelope—“she asked me to give this to you.”

  Billy grinned broadly as he read the note. “Well, that’s real nice. Real nice of her.” He shoved it into the inside lining of his coat and patted it. “Do I smell cookies?”

  “Yes, you do. Snickerdoodles in honor of Billy Hamilton today.”

  He turned around to the crowd in line behind him, held up his hand for attention, and called, “Hear that? Billy’s being honored today. Miss Mara’s famous cookies for everyone!”

  And the crowd cheered.

  Charissa

  “All right, put me to work,” Hannah said after she removed her shoes and draped her sweater over the back of Charissa’s couch.

  “I wish I didn’t need this,” Charissa said. “But thank you.”

  “My pleasure. I remember what it was like after I had my hysterectomy. I hated asking for help. Much easier for me to give care than receive it.”

  Charissa wasn’t sure she could say the same. Both the giving and the receiving, it seemed, required practice.

  “So where do you want me to start?” Hannah asked.r />
  Gesturing toward the cleaning supplies on the coffee table, Charissa gave some brief instructions. Hannah reached for a duster and began with the fireplace mantel.

  “Did your husband tell you he busted me with Milton last night?”

  Hannah laughed. “No. What did he do?”

  Charissa gingerly repositioned herself on the sofa. “He reminded me of a poem I know well—really well—and then he didn’t have to say anything else. I got the message.” As Hannah cleaned, Charissa described Milton’s sonnet and her pondering.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t give that one to me last fall,” Hannah said, “with all my struggling to embrace my sabbatical.”

  Charissa hadn’t even made that connection between their stories. Hannah, as much as anyone, would appreciate how difficult it was to be stripped of productivity and forced to rest.

  “It feels like death, doesn’t it?” Hannah said.

  It did. But Charissa felt guilty for saying so because there were so many people who had it so much harder than she did. What she didn’t want to disintegrate into was a self-pitying whiner. Day after day she had to choose gratitude. “I’m trying to keep a good perspective about it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to imagine lying here in the house for another two and a half months.” Then again, it was even worse to imagine not lying there and what might happen if she went into labor this prematurely. “I was thinking again last night about all my compulsions, my drive to succeed, to achieve, to be perfect—all the things I’ve seen the past few months. None of this is new. It’s just a new context for the same old struggles to surface. But this time it feels like much more is at stake.” She stroked her abdomen.

  “When you say ‘at stake,’ do you mean your PhD program? Or pregnancy? Or . . .”

  “Not the program, no. I’m the one who’s driving myself to finish the semester, no one else.” In fact, she had received several kind emails from faculty members—Dr. Gardiner included—to remind her that her first priority was her health and that she shouldn’t feel obligated to complete her coursework on time. There would be grace. “What I meant was Bethany. And I guess the formation of my own soul, come to think of it.”