An Extra Mile

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Saturday, May 30

  8:30 p.m.

  There are people who would say I missed an opportunity to bring Becca straight to Jesus today. But I had such a strong sense of the Lord saying, Wait. Go slow. I need to trust that God is gently tending to seeds that have been planted, and I don’t need to rush the process.

  But oh! how I long for Meg’s prayers—our prayers—to be answered. If Becca can come to see herself as that little lamb being found, nuzzled, and cradled with wounded hands, what a gift that would be! She told me she put Meg’s picture of the shepherd and the lamb in a box for me along with Meg’s prayer shawl and holding cross. But when I told her I already had a copy of it and that maybe it would give her some comfort to look at it, she didn’t argue. I told her it’s Jesus’ wounded hand that catches my attention these days, that he knows the anguish and sorrow we feel, and he holds us in it. Keeps us company in it. She almost looked like she understood that.

  Lord, bring her to yourself. Draw her with your love. Help her see what kind of God you are, a God who is with us. A God who did not withhold yourself from sorrow and suffering but endured it for our sake. In love. Lord, let her see your love. She’s longing so deeply for her mom, for a sense of connection with her mom. Help her see what her mother saw, that the veil between this life and the next is very thin. Bring Becca from death to life, Lord. Bring her home.

  Charissa

  Early Sunday morning when the room phone rang, Charissa had just finished eating her breakfast, and John was on his way to the hospital. “Bethany’s doing so well,” the nurse on the phone said, “that we’ve taken her off the CPAP.”

  Charissa stiffened. Why hadn’t they called her so she could be there to watch? She had wanted to be there the moment the mask was removed so she could see Bethany’s full face. She had missed it. She had missed another milestone.

  “She’s doing really well without it,” the nurse went on.

  This was good news, wonderful news. C’mon, Charissa commanded herself. Be grateful, not resentful.

  “So well that we’re going to try to give her a bottle. Would you like to come down and watch?”

  What a stupid question. “Yes, of course! Yes.” She pushed her tray away and eyed the wheelchair in the corner.

  “We’ll need to do it within twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. I’m coming. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and dialed John’s number. “Where are you?”

  “McDonald’s drive-thru. Want something?”

  “They’re feeding her, John. They took the CPAP off.”

  “That’s great!”

  “No, I mean, they’re going to give her a bottle, her first bottle, and I’m still in my room.”

  “So we’ll go down together when I get there. Hold on a sec.” He spoke an order into the microphone and then said, “You want a smoothie or something?”

  “No!”

  “That’ll do it,” he said to a cashier and then to Charissa, “I’ll be there soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes?”

  Not good enough. “I need to get down there now. I’m not going to miss this.”

  “Just ask them to wait until I get there. I’m on my way. I don’t want to miss it either.”

  “They said twenty minutes. I have to be there within twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, get a nurse to wheel you down, and I’ll meet you there.”

  Charissa pressed her call button. Someone would be there soon, the voice said. But precious minutes passed. She pressed it again. The nurse tech was with another mother, the voice said. Someone would be there soon. But precious minutes ticked by. When the clock on the wall shouted the twenty minute mark, Charissa buried her face in her hands, too angry to cry.

  “I thought you were on your way,” John said when he arrived in Charissa’s room.

  “You got there in time?”

  He looked sheepish. “They were just getting ready to give her the bottle, so I wasn’t going to leave her. But look. See? I got some pictures, some video. Here. Watch.”

  Charissa overcame the temptation to turn her head away and instead watched her little one latch onto the nipple. She pressed her hand to her breast, a surge of heat rushing through her. “She did it.”

  “Of course she did it. I told you, she’s a high achiever.” John kissed the top of Charissa’s head. “I’m sorry, Riss. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to get you there in time.”

  It wasn’t his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault. “Thanks for taking video,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.” She had missed the moment, but he had captured it for her. She could be resentful, or she could be grateful. She wanted to choose gratitude. Help, Lord.

  “How about if I wheel you down there to see her?”

  Charissa reached for his hand, and he helped her into the chair. She would spend as much time as possible on the ward with Bethany and John. She would spend every possible minute savoring Bethany’s second day. She would be there to feed her the second bottle, and regret would not rob her of joy. As John wheeled her down the hallway to the elevator, she opened her hands in her lap and let go.

  Mara

  Mara was packing up a gift bag to take to the hospital Sunday afternoon when the garage door opened. “What are you guys doing home so soon?” she asked Kevin as he traipsed through the kitchen. They were supposed to be at the lake with Tom through the evening.

  “Tiffany’s having her baby.”

  “Today?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I guess.”

  Brian flung his duffel bag onto a kitchen chair and stooped down to pet Bailey. “She was, like, in her bathing suit making this sand castle with Mikey—”

  “When she started shouting for Dad and—”

  “Hey!” Brian said.

  “Let him tell it, Kevin.” Brian telling her a story was an occasion to be celebrated.

  “When she started shouting for Dad,” Brian said, with a pointed glance in his brother’s direction, “and she was all, ‘The baby’s coming, the baby’s coming!’” Brian mimicked her with arms waving in the air. Mara tried not to laugh. It wasn’t funny. “So Dad told us all to get in Tiffany’s van, and he drove like crazy to the hospital. And then we had to watch her kids in the waiting room until her mom got there.”

  “And they were totally hyper,” Kevin added.

  “Yeah. Totally. But I told Dad I would watch them if he let me go to Disney World”—Mara pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t beam at Brian’s skillful maneuver—“and he said, yeah, okay, whatever.”

  She rubbed her chin slowly. “Well, that’s good. That’ll be good. I’m glad he gave you his word on that.” She hoped Tom would keep it. “Which hospital?”

  Kevin said, “Saint something.”

  “St. Luke’s?”

  “Yeah, St. Luke’s.”

  So Tiffany and Tom were at St. Luke’s the same time Charissa and John were there. Small world. She fought the temptation to calculate Tiffany’s months backwards in order to date Tom’s infidelity. “So who brought you home? Dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should’ve called me. I would have come to get you.” It was an odd feeling, hoping that Tom would make it back to the hospital in time for the birth, very odd for her first thought to be, I would have helped, instead of, I hope he pays.

  In fact, she would take that first thought one step further. She stared at her reflection in the microwave and prayed for them. For Tiffany. For Tom. For the baby. And oh! what freedom she felt in that moment. What surprising, delicious freedom. Maybe when she was at the hospital visiting Charissa, she would stop in the gift shop and have something delivered to Tiffany’s room. Not a “gotcha gift” but a sincere offering. A blessing. A letting go.

  On second thought, maybe the gift was not inserting herself into their moment. She could send the baby a present another time. “Do they know if it’s a boy or girl?”

  Kevin said, “Boy.”


  Four boys. No, wait. Six boys. Oh, boy. “And what about you guys? Did you get to go surfing? Get some time with your dad, or was Tiffany . . .”

  “No, we got time,” Kevin said. “The surf was awesome, like four foot—”

  “Five,” Brian said.

  “Yeah, maybe five-foot waves, and Brian caught this one . . .”

  As the two of them recounted each sweet wave they’d either wiped out on or successfully caught and surfed, Mara offered God thanks for every good and perfect gift.

  Entering the NICU was a far more complicated affair than visiting Jeremy and Abby after Madeleine was born. “Kinda like Fort Knox,” Mara whispered to Hannah after they signed in and received their security badges. Mara removed her rings, bangles, and watch, then scrubbed her arms up to her elbows before being admitted onto the ward. “Did you do a lot of NICU visits in Chicago?”

  “Some. Especially with the families that were there a long time.”

  “That must’ve been hard.”

  “Yes. Very hard.”

  Mara didn’t press for details. Even if the babies lived, she imagined some of the marriages might not survive the long-term stress and trauma.

  John met them on the other side of the security door. “So glad you’re here!” He greeted both of them with a hug. “Good timing too. Bethany’s awake.”

  “How’s she doing?” Hannah asked.

  “Really well. So much better than what we thought. She may even be able to go home in two weeks instead of three.”

  “Thank you, Jesus!” Mara said.

  “Amen!” John pointed down the hall. “This way,” he said, “follow me.”

  The same glow of serenity that had surrounded Abby as she cradled Madeleine radiated from Charissa, even in her visible weariness. “Hey,” she said, looking up with a smile as Mara and Hannah entered the bay. “Come meet Bethany.”

  Oh, what a tiny little pink body! Maddie was huge by comparison. And with so many stickers and cords and tubes and a red light pulsating from some kind of monitor on her foot, Mara would have been overwhelmed with anxiety. But oh! Bethany’s eyes were bright and locked onto her mother’s face. “Look how she’s watching you!” Mara exclaimed.

  “I know. She doesn’t blink very often, but the nurses say that’s normal.”

  Mara studied Bethany’s face, trying to figure out who she resembled more. Dark hair like Charissa and maybe like John around the mouth, though with a feeding tube it was hard to tell. “She’s so bright,” Mara said, “look how alert she is! It’s like she’s taking everything in.”

  Bethany thrust out her little fists and yawned. “Did you see that?” John said. “Big, big yawn for a little girl. You tired, baby girl?” Charissa leaned forward to kiss Bethany’s nose as her eyes closed partway.

  “She’s not giving in, is she?” Hannah said. “She doesn’t want to miss anything.”

  Mara remembered what it was like, holding each of her boys in those early days. Every breath, every cry, every yawn, every blink, every kick of their little feet, every bit of it was spellbinding. “So what’s the schedule? And what can we do to help?”

  “Not much at the moment,” John said. “My folks are coming down just for the day tomorrow.” Mara watched for a change of expression on Charissa’s face but didn’t see one. “I’ve got to go back to work in a week, much as I hate to. They think they’ll send Charissa home on Tuesday.”

  “But I’m going to be here as much as possible,” Charissa said. “I’m not going to leave her.”

  Mara understood. “I’ll keep you company, if you want company.”

  “That would be good. Thanks, Mara.”

  “Me too,” Hannah said, “whatever you guys need. Meals, cleaning, company, let me know.”

  “Prayer would be good,” Charissa said. “Not just for us.” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “Some of the babies are really struggling. I try not to feel guilty but . . .”

  “It’s hard not to,” John said, “especially when your baby’s thriving and you want the others to thrive too.”

  “Yeah,” Mara said. “I get it.” She watched a nurse hurry over to a monitor that was beeping fast, the young father’s face clouded with worry as he held his wife’s hand. Being in a place like this for an extended period of time would take its toll. Or enlarge you with compassion and gratitude.

  Hannah

  “So how are they doing?” Nathan asked, scooting over on the couch to make room for Hannah.

  Hannah had logged many hours alongside anxious mothers who hardly took their eyes off the monitors, who refused to leave the bay to rest or eat, and who were insulted when nurses gently suggested they needed to take care of themselves so that they could better care for their babies. But Charissa, who had often spoken about her struggle with control, seemed to be taking the experience in stride. “They’re all doing really well. Bethany’s hitting every marker for progress, and Charissa’s listening to advice about getting rest.” She laid her head against Nathan’s shoulder. “She said to tell you that this whole spiritual formation journey she’s been on has made a big difference to how she’s approaching everything now. She said she’s seeing lots of opportunities to let go, so she’s trying to practice.”

  Nathan laughed. “Amazing she’s thinking about that while she’s under that kind of stress. Good for her.”

  Yes. It was very good. Grace upon grace, Charissa had said, smiling. Evidence of the Spirit’s work.

  “And how was it for you, Shep, being there?”

  Hannah thought a moment. “Good. Hard. Mostly good, though. Guess we’ve all come a long way.” What a journey it had been. All the endings, all the beginnings, the life, the death, the new life. “I had this moment of insight as I watched Charissa holding Bethany, how she was beholding her with complete delight. It was like glimpsing God, his heart for us, his love for us.”

  Nathan nodded slowly. “Even before we know our own names,” he said quietly. “Beloved. Treasured.”

  “And securely held,” Hannah added, grasping her husband’s hand.

  fifteen

  Charissa

  Welcome home! the banner on the front porch read. It had not been there when she and John left for the hospital early that morning. “Mara, I bet,” Charissa said as she carefully unstrapped Bethany from her car seat. The pink balloons were the giveaway.

  “Wait, wait!” John said. “Let me get video.”

  Charissa didn’t sigh, roll her eyes, or argue. Though she refused to be the mother who would document every waking and sleeping moment, this was one to add to John’s video collection of first things: first bottle, first time being held by grandparents, first bath, first time being dressed. “Okay,” he said, “look this way. Hey, Bethany! Look here, baby girl.” John snapped his fingers to try to get her attention.

  Careful to cradle her head, Charissa lifted a very alert Bethany to her shoulder and turned so that he could film her face. Two and a half weeks old, and already it seemed she had been part of their lives for years. Charissa adjusted Bethany’s pink pants and followed John, who was walking backwards, up the front steps and across the threshold.

  Home.

  They were home.

  Charissa hadn’t expected to cry. She waved for John to stop recording. Some moments were too precious, too intimate for other eyes to see.

  Mara

  So that was it. On the twentieth of June, one week after celebrating her fifty-first birthday with family and friends, Mara Garrison returned to being Mara Payne. She stared again at the final divorce decree. She hadn’t predicted the odd cocktail of emotion. She had thought she would feel a euphoric rush of joy and relief. Instead, she was surprised to feel sorrow. Not sorrow over losing Tom—no, not that—but sorrow over broken things, over broken people, over broken relationships. That kind of brokenness was worth lamenting.

  “Everything okay?” Jeremy asked as he came down the stairs, paintbrush in hand. He was almost finished painting her b
edroom Caribbean blue.

  “Yeah. Just not what I expected to feel, now that it’s actually over.”

  He rinsed the paintbrush off in the sink.

  “I thought it would be, ‘Good riddance,’ you know? Move on with life, be free.”

  “You are free, Mom.”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s just an odd feeling.”

  All her life she had wanted to be free of Payne, to be free of all the grief that name had brought her. Now she was embracing it again, and by doing so she was declaring that God could redeem all the broken, painful parts of her journey. God had already done so much to heal her and transform her and give her hope. Now she was stepping again into unfamiliar territory. A new adventure with Jesus.

  Jeremy was eyeing her with compassion. “I love you, Mom, and I’m with you. We’re with you.”

  “I know you are,” she said, embracing him. “Thank you.”

  Beloved. Chosen. Favored. Blessed.

  And not, thank God, alone.

  Hannah

  Amazing, how much Becca had accomplished in clearing out the house. With most of the furniture and accessories now sold off in a very successful estate sale, the house felt less like a funeral parlor and more like an empty tomb. “I’m proud of you,” Hannah said as she helped Becca box up the few things that remained. “Your mom would be proud of you; I know she would.”

  “Thanks. Now I just need to get it ready to sell. And I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I’ll help you with all of that,” Hannah said. In fact, maybe this was as good a time as any to mention her ongoing conversations with Nathan about possible next steps. “How about if I make us both a cup of tea?”

  If Becca could have signed paperwork on the house tomorrow, she would have. How soon? was her only question. How soon would they be willing to buy it? Hannah explained that there were probate issues to be explored, and she was happy to do that if Becca wanted to move forward. “Yes! As soon as possible. Please.”