“Yeah.” She set her jaw. “But I’ve made up my mind. I want to sell it.”
Hannah managed to avoid sighing. “It’s yours to do with as you want, Becca.” Meg had left the house and everything in it to her daughter. All Hannah could offer was advice. But as Meg had told Hannah on multiple occasions, Becca was strong-willed. There would be no arguing with her. If she had decided she was going to sell it, then she had decided. Period.
“So what do I need to do?” Becca asked.
“Decide what you want to keep,” Hannah said, “and start getting rid of the rest.”
“You’ll help?”
“Yes.” And if there were things of Meg’s that Becca was quick to discard, Hannah might secretly save them in boxes in case Becca ever regretted her decision.
Becca sat back in her chair and breathed out a slow sigh. “Okay. I can do this. We can do this. Thank you.” She finished off her coffee and looked at her phone. “I’m going out with some friends tonight. Better get going. Thanks for dinner.”
“Any time,” Nathan said, rising. “You’re welcome here any time.”
“Thanks.” She gave him a hug and turned toward Hannah. “Can we plan time for sorting through things once I know my work schedule?”
“Absolutely.”
Hannah and Nathan stood at the window watching as Becca pulled her mother’s car out of the driveway a few minutes later. “I’ve got a crazy, crazy idea,” he said.
Hannah raised her eyebrows.
He kissed her. “How about another cup of coffee?”
Nathan was right. It was a crazy idea. A crazy, ridiculous, and quite possibly divinely inspired idea. She planted her elbows on the table and stared at him. “You heard Becca. It’s like a tomb.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been in the house, Nate, you know what it’s like.”
“Yes. And I seem to remember suggesting once before that you could move into it and bring some life to it.”
He was right. Last December he had suggested she stop commuting back and forth from Nancy’s cottage at the lake and stay instead at Meg’s house while she was in London. When Meg returned home she commented that she had never seen the house so beautifully decorated for Christmas.
“What about Jake?” she asked. “He won’t want to move.”
“Don’t be so sure. He’d have way more space in a place like that. And it’s not like we’d be moving far. What is it? A couple of miles?”
Hannah fiddled with her small diamond ring, the gem catching the light. What if?
“We can talk to him about it,” he said, “see what he thinks. And we don’t have to decide anything fast. We’ll need to make sure Becca really wants to sell it, give her all summer to think about it, longer if she needs to. But in the meantime, we can pray about whether there’s new life for an old house, whether God would call us to move there together.”
A funeral parlor transformed, a tomb thrumming with life, not death. Hannah pondered the images long after Nathan fell asleep that night. What if?
Meg would beam with delight to think that not one but two houses that had been places of sorrow and loss could be transformed into places of joy and new life. She would be thrilled, thrilled to know that her daughter would always have a room to return to if she wanted, thrilled to know that Hannah and her fledgling family would make it their own together.
And oh, the possibilities for ministry in a large house like that, for hospitality, for providing a resting place for the weary in need of deep renewal. What if?
As she drifted off to sleep, her head resting against Nathan’s shoulder, one verse rang in Hannah’s spirit again and again: Behold, I am making all things new! She could almost hear Meg’s voice echo, Amen.
thirteen
Mara
“Musical houses!” Mara exclaimed after Hannah finished sharing with the Sensible Shoes Club what she and Nathan were prayerfully considering. She glanced over at Charissa, who was lying on her couch in a pair of striped linen pajamas. “Crazy to think that both of you could end up living in Meg’s old houses.” That hadn’t come out quite right. “I mean . . . that you would move into places where Meg lived.” She hated using past tense for her friend. She would always hate it.
“I know,” Hannah said. “You’re right. It is crazy. But please don’t say anything to Becca about it if you see her. There’s still a lot for us to think through. I know from conversations with Meg that the house is in pretty rough shape, that it needs lots of repairs and significant updating. So it would be a huge project.”
“Well, I know a great handyman who could do some of that work,” Charissa said, smiling at Mara.
Now, wouldn’t that be something? “I bet Jeremy would love it,” Mara said. “He loves old houses, always has.”
“Well, if this is where God is leading, Nate and I are going to need someone like that. I don’t have a clue about remodeling. No idea what would be involved. But something about this feels right. We’ll wait and see where it all goes.” Hannah removed her Bible and journal from her bag. “I’m glad it worked out for us to be together tonight. There’s a lot to think about. Pray about.”
Charissa nodded and said, “Let’s pray for Becca right now.”
They did. They lit the Christ candle and prayed for God to comfort her, reach her, rescue her, and reveal his love for her. They prayed for the seeds Meg and others had planted in Becca’s life to sprout, grow, and flourish. They prayed for all the places of death and despair to be transformed into life and hope. They prayed fervently for Meg’s child as if she were their own. And when they finished praying for Becca, they continued in prayer with the Bible story and exercise Mara had selected for them to ponder together.
MEDITATION ON JOHN 21:9-22
Embracing the Call
Quiet yourself in the presence of God. Then read the text aloud a couple of times and imagine you are on the beach with the disciples and Jesus. What do you see, hear, smell, taste? Pay attention to the thoughts and emotions that are stirred within you as you listen.
When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn.
Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me.”
Peter turned and saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following them; he was the one who had reclined next to Jesus at the supper and had said, “Lord, who is it that is going to betray you?” When Peter saw him, he said to Jesus, “Lord, what about him?” Jesus said to him, “If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? Follow me!”
For Personal Reflection (45-60 minutes)
1. Imagine you are one of the disciples having breakfast with Jesus. What would you dare to ask Jesus? What have you come to believe about him?
2. Imagine you are Peter. How do you feel when Jesus keeps asking you if you love him? How do you feel about what Jesus asks you to do to demonstrate your love?
3. To what places and experiences have you been taken where you have not wished to go? How has God been glorified in these kinds of deaths?
4. In what ways are you tempted to compare your path of following Jesus to someone else’s?
5. What is your response when Jesus says, “Follow me”?
For Group Reflection (45-60 minutes)
1. In what ways is Jesus calling you to demonstrate love for him by loving others?
2. In what ways are you being asked to die to yourself as you walk with Jesus?
3. What does it mean for you to keep your eyes focused on Jesus without comparing your journey to someone else’s?
4. How can the group pray for you as you embrace his call to follow him?
Mara had always loved Peter, a fellow open-mouth-and-insert-foot-er. Peter gave her hope because when he failed—and he failed miserably—he got up again. She liked that about him.
Peter’s frustration was something Mara also understood. Jesus had asked her the same questions over and over again too. Sometimes she felt frustrated, not that Jesus asked the same questions but that Jesus needed to ask the same questions.
Mara, do you love me?
Yes, Lord. Of course she did. Not as much as she wanted to, not as much as some other things in her life sometimes, not as much as some other people loved him, maybe, but yes.
Mara, do you love me?
Yes, Lord, but . . .
Mara, do you love me?
Yes, Lord. She loved him. As much as she was able to, she loved him. And she wanted to love others well too. Even if she didn’t like where that path led. Because when Jesus talked about loving others, he wasn’t just talking about the ones who loved her back. That was the hard part about love, about “going the extra mile,” like Charissa had been talking about the past couple of months. Because you didn’t get called to walk the extra mile with people who made it easy to walk it. That was the hard part.
She stared at her shoes. In the past few weeks her bitterness against Tom had found different forms of expression: her desire to win, to punish, to play “gotcha” games with him. She had told herself it would be a miracle if both Brian and Kevin became fellow allies in a battle against a common adversary. But was that really the miracle she wanted? That her boys would turn against their dad and develop and nurse their own bitterness and resentment to equal hers? Is that what she wanted?
There was an awfully wide gap between her honest answer to that question and what she knew was the “right answer.”
Help, Jesus.
She rubbed at her chin, her fingertips finding a couple of wiry whiskers. The real miracle, she knew, would be to have her heart changed toward Tom. The real miracle would be for her to long for Tom to turn to Jesus and be rescued. The real miracle would be for her to pray for that. She snorted and then covered her mouth. What a miracle that would be.
Charissa
Charissa smoothed her pajamas and tried to find a comfortable position for writing in her notebook. Thirty weeks. She had made it to almost thirty weeks. But oh! the days were tedious. She stared at the handout. To what places and experiences had she been taken where she had not wished to go?
That was the easy part to answer. It was the second part of the question that was harder: How has God been glorified in these kinds of deaths?
She had no idea.
What she’d glimpsed of the glory of God had been revealed through others laying down their lives to love and serve her well, not through her own yielding and dying to self. Much as she affirmed the principle of cruciformity as a way of life, in practice she continued to resist. I understand that, Hannah had said one day when Charissa voiced her resentment over her enforced rest and her guilt over feeling resentful. Love for Bethany ought to translate into a willingness to embrace the cost, right? Instead, she caught herself griping. Constantly. And when she considered all the blessings she had been given, she felt even more guilty for complaining.
Follow me, Jesus said. And like Peter, she was looking over her shoulder to see how other people were doing it and objecting if their way looked easier. Especially now. But it was none of her business what discipleship for others looked like, none of her business whether others were called to die in painful ways or whether they lived fruitful, comfortable lives of ease. None of her business.
What is that to you? Jesus asked, exposing her heart.
Nothing, Lord, she responded. But in reality, it was something.
How hard was it to lie at home and rest? John tried to understand and be patient, but she could tell he wasn’t entirely sympathetic. “Think of all the books you can read or the movies you can watch,” he’d said multiple times. Though she had tried to devote more time to Scripture meditation and prayer, as the end of the semester approached, her thoughts drifted to chronic rehearsing of what she had laid down, some of it forced, some of it chosen, all of it hard. She wished it weren’t so hard. She wished the cruciform way were something she embraced more readily, more enthusiastically. Her sorrow, she realized, was not that Jesus asked multiple times for an affirmation of love; her sorrow was that she kept failing to demonstrate it. After all the ways he had loved her, all the evidence of grace in her life, could she not pick up her cross and follow without chafing every step of the way?
“Pray for me,” she said to Mara and Hannah when they shifted toward the group discussion time. She didn’t want to die.
But die she did, daily. Most days blurred together without anything remarkable to note. Daily Charissa chronicled gratitude because that was the one spiritual discipline that helped her press forward: thanks for a good night’s rest, for white blossoms on a Bradford pear tree in the front yard, for a thoughtful card or meal offered in kindness, for visits from friends, for the opportunity to devour literature for pleasure rather than productivity, and for one more day of Bethany being safe. At John’s urging, she joined him in reading about their baby’s development day to day, week by week, giving thanks for tiny fingernails growing in secret and elbows that poked her ribs, even as she tried to give thanks for heartburn and every other kind of discomfort that reminded her that she was still pregnant and that she was grateful to be so. Thanks to Mara’s help and the convenience of online shopping, she also supervised the decorating of the nursery, including John’s assembling the crib, which took three times as long as the instructions claimed.
She was browsing a baby clothing website one morning when her inbox dinged with an email from the Academic Affairs office. Evaluations. If she had remembered that she would be receiving student evaluations, she would have daily monitored her inbox for them. Charissa clicked on the attached document, the first part of which was a summary report assessing “teaching effectiveness” in such categories as “establishing rapport,” “stimulating student interest,” and “classroom experience.” The second part contained student comments.
She skimmed the numerical grades first. On a scale from one to five, five being high, rate your instructor in the following areas. The more she read, the more agitated she became. Though it would have been naïve to think she would receive perfect fives all the way across, to consistently receive mostly threes made her heart sink, especially when her averages were compared to the “overall averages” of other faculty members. It wasn’t just Justin and his back row posse that had graded her harshly. In categories like “explained course material clearly and concisely,” she had received mostly ones and twos.
She skimmed the comments page. “Lectures too much” was one of the kinder remarks. A few students wrote that though they were sorry Ms. Sinclair had gotten sick, they had benefited from having a “real professor” finish the course.
“These aren’t as bad as you made them out to be,” John said when he got home that night. He stared at her computer screen. “Look here: ‘Ms. Sinclair assigned writing themes that helped me think about life in new ways.’”
“That would be from Ben. Or from Sidney.” Both of them had responded thoughtfully to the memento mori exercise she had given months ago. “Those are probably the only two who even gave me any fours.”
“That’s not possible. You got mostly fours in the ‘demonstrated importance of subject matter’ category. Look.”
She leaned forward and shut the screen. She was tired of looking at it. “I’m obviously not cut out to be a teacher.”
“Don’t say that. It was your first semester, with lots of extenuating circumstances.”
“I’m not going to make excuses for myself. It is what it is.” She covered her eyes. “Maybe I should just withdraw from the whole program.”
He pried her hands from her face. “You’re kidding, right? All your life all you’ve ever wanted to do is teach.”
“For my own selfish reasons. And this just shows how foolish it all has been.”
“I don’t buy it. And I bet if you talked with other faculty members—I bet if you asked Nathan, he’d tell you he’s gotten plenty of lousy evaluations over the years.” He picked up her phone and handed it to her. “Call him and ask.”
“I’m not going to call and—”
“Call him, Charissa. He’s your advisor. Call him.”
She exhaled loudly and stared at the phone. She could tell by the look on John’s face that he wasn’t going to let it go. “Fine,” she said, and dialed Nathan’s number.
An Extra Mile Page 29