Rejoice

by Karen Kingsbury

  They kissed again, and after a while, Landon whispered against her cheek, “Here’s something strange. It wasn’t the men at the fire that got my attention. Really, it was Irvel’s death. Knowing that her entire life was all about loving Hank.” His lips moved briefly against hers. “The way my life is all about loving you.”

  Ashley admired her ring, the way it caught what was left of the sunlight and splashed it across her hand. Nothing about the day was real, but Ashley didn’t care. She’d never felt so much in a single day. “I thanked God for Irvel earlier, because she taught me how unforgettable love could be. How it can consume a person and change a person and bring light to a waning life, even until the last breath is drawn. Irvel showed me that.”

  “She did, didn’t she?” He took her hand and rubbed his thumb in light circles over the ring.

  “The way Irvel loved Hank, the way he loved her—that kind of love kept her warm inside years after life grew cold.” Ashley met Landon’s eyes again. “Theirs was a love worth remembering, a love worth celebrating.”

  “And one day, my precious Ashley . . .” Landon eased her to her feet. For a few brief seconds, they came together and swayed to the music of all that tomorrow suddenly held.

  “You were saying?” She breathed the words against his neck, intoxicated by the nearness of him.

  “Yes. A love worth celebrating.” He nuzzled his face against hers. “One day that’s exactly what people will say about us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Brooke parked her car in a lot adjacent to the hiking trail and peered out the front window.

  Other than her sedan, the parking lot was empty, and suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d read the card right. It had come on a bouquet of yellow roses and white carnations delivered to her house the day before.

  “Happy anniversary, Brooke. Meet me at the rock at noon tomorrow.”

  Brooke was touched. Obviously the card was from Peter, and it could only mean he wanted to talk with her again, maybe even find a way to love her the way he had before everything had gone so bad. They were in counseling still, twice a week now, and the counselor had hinted that it might be time for her and Peter to have a trial run at living together again.

  “That’s the goal,” the counselor had said at their last meeting. “I think we’re getting close.”

  Brooke had mixed feelings. Part of her couldn’t wait to have Peter home. He’d been drug-free since the hospital had checked him into rehab, and these days he was wonderful with Hayley. He stopped in several times a week and worked with her, massaging her muscles and stretching her so she stayed limber while her brain tried to remember what to do with her arms and legs.

  Still . . .

  She wanted to love him the way God wanted her to love him. Honoring him, putting him first, building him up as a doctor. But that would only come as she trusted him, and she wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of love again. Mostly because he hadn’t said he was ready.

  But in the message at the bottom of the card, he’d written something that took her breath away. Something the old Peter would’ve said to her: “Meet me at the rock at noon tomorrow.”

  The rock was a midpoint in a hike they’d taken a hundred times when they were in med school. The path veered off from the campus and wound its way into the hills that surrounded the university. Two miles along the path stood a boulder-sized rock, a place they’d come back to on every one of their first four anniversaries. In order to reach the top of the rock, they would climb up one side, using ledges and grooves in the stone.

  It took several minutes, but the view from the summit was well worth it.

  The summit—a plateau really—was just large enough for two people, and it was Brooke’s and Peter’s favorite place. The view covered miles of sprawling, rural Bloomington, and the two had spent hours there, talking and watching dozens of sunsets. But after they had the girls, life became too busy for hikes or rocks or breathtaking views from little-known summits.

  So much time had passed since they’d visited the rock, Brooke wasn’t even sure he’d meant this one, the one on the hiking trail near campus. Maybe he meant for them to meet at a rock near the rehab center. Or one that stood as part of their landscaping at the home where Brooke and the girls were living.

  But just in case, in case maybe he’d started back on campus and hiked the whole thing, Brooke made her way onto the path and walked the short distance from the parking lot to the rock. And there it was, tagged with simple graffiti: “Jaime loves Jake” and “IU girls rock” and the like.

  Brooke studied it, the slope of it and the height of the summit. It was smaller than she remembered. But still it remained. Brooke leaned against it, savoring the feel of it and all it represented. She stood waiting, looking around and remembering every good memory she and Peter had ever shared here.

  For a moment she listened, hoping to hear Peter’s voice or footsteps. Maybe this wasn’t the place he’d referred to on the card. She checked her cell phone. Five after twelve. Peter must’ve meant a different rock, and why not? It had been years since they’d been here. He probably didn’t remember this old rock at all. She was about to turn away when she heard someone call her name from down the path.

  “Brooke . . .”

  Peter’s voice. It was his voice, and her heart soared the way it hadn’t in far too long. He was coming for her, and that meant yes, he’d walked the entire two-mile trail. But more than that—far more than that—he’d remembered.

  He rounded the corner then, and the moment he saw her he stopped. “Brooke . . .”

  “You . . .” She took a few steps toward him. “You remembered our rock.”

  The path was empty except for the two of them. Peter searched her eyes, and in his she saw a depth that hadn’t been there in years. He came to her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re so beautiful, Brooke.” He took her hands in his. “How come I stopped seeing it?”

  She’d never answered that question in counseling. But here, now, being honest with him seemed the most right thing to do. Because the problems they’d suffered were not only his fault.

  They were her fault, too.

  “Brooke . . .” He studied her, and she liked the image he made. He’d gained back some of his weight, and he looked almost as good as ever. As if the nightmare of the past five months had never even happened. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “It was my fault, too, Peter.” Her stomach felt suddenly nervous. “Because I stopped needing you.”

  There. She’d said it.

  And as she did, she winced. How wise was it to have this conversation with Peter now, on their anniversary, and without the assistance of a counselor? This was the first time they’d been alone since Peter had been admitted to rehab. What if something went wrong and they lost ground? She closed her eyes for the briefest moment and thought of the Bible verse she’d clung to these past months.

  The words ran over in her head: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! . . . Do not be anxious about anything.” Thank you, God. . . . Help me rejoice even now. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “You stopped needing me?” He cupped her elbows with his palms, looking at her eyes, wanting more information.

  Brooke let loose a sad sigh. “I think so. I’ve thought about it, and yes—” she squinted at him—“I think that’s what happened.”

  He was quiet, waiting. Finally he lowered his brow and his voice at the same time. “And now? Do you need me now, Brooke?”

  “Yes.” Her answer came so quickly it took even her by surprise. She pictured him working with Hayley on the floor of their living room, pictured him reading to Maddie. And mostly the way her heart hurt when he said good-bye at the end of a visit. “Yes, I need you, Peter. I need our family back together, the way it was.”

  He lifted his hands and eased them alongside her face. “I need you, too, Brooke. That’s why I had to come here.”

  He led her to t
he side of the rock and helped her start the climb. They weren’t as smooth as they’d been last time they were here, but in a few minutes they were both on the summit, sitting side by side looking out over Bloomington.

  “You see all that.” Peter stretched out his hand and fanned it across the width of the horizon. “Between Ryan and you and the counselor, God’s let me see how that’s our future. Wide-open, full of beauty, and spread out before us.”

  He turned to her and took her hand again. “I’m so sorry, Brooke. You’re a wonderful doctor, an amazing mother, and if I’d give you half a chance, a beautiful wife. I need you, Brooke. I want to come back home and try again. Please.”

  Brooke’s heart thudded hard against her chest. This was the moment she’d waited for, the one she’d dreamed about long before Hayley’s accident. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He kissed her then, the first time he’d kissed her in a year. “The months away from you have shown me that I never want to leave again. I love you and the girls so much, and after Hayley . . .”

  She tightened her grip on his hand. “Don’t do that to yourself, Peter. It wasn’t your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “The blame is mine, but that’s okay.” He held up his hand. “Ryan’s teaching me that it’s okay to feel that kind of pain, to see Hayley and know she may never walk normally. That’s the valley of the shadow of death, and God doesn’t promise to take us around it.” Peter’s voice fell some. “He promises he’ll walk us through it.”

  They kissed again, and the feel of his lips on hers, the breeze against their faces as they sat on the rock’s summit, was more than Brooke could believe. “Happy anniversary, Peter.” She raised an eyebrow. “So, how soon are you thinking about coming back?”

  The answer she wanted was something she didn’t dare hope for, so she waited instead, watching him process the sensation of their being together.

  Peter smiled at her and looked at his watch. “Well, the funny thing is, I have this truck back in the university parking lot, and inside . . . well—” he shrugged and gave her an easy grin—“inside the truck is everything I own.”

  Again her heart took wing, because at that moment she understood. “Everything?” She smiled, playing with him.

  “Yes, indeed.” He looked at his watch. “So actually, I was thinking about moving back home today. You know . . . in a few hours. You know . . . in time for that anniversary dinner.”

  “Anniversary dinner?”

  “Yes. The one I’m taking you to this evening.”

  Brooke giggled. “Okay.” He’d had the whole thing planned; that was the only explanation. “I think we could use a little celebrating.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Peter held her hand, his eyes locked on hers. “But this time, I promise you, Brooke, the celebration will never end.”

  A Word from Karen Kingsbury

  Oftentimes when I write a novel, God presents me the opportunity to live through things he wants me to tell you about. During the writing of countless novels, I marveled at the strange similarities taking place in my life. But the situation that came along as I wrote this novel was almost more than I could believe.

  Four months after I’d written the first chapter of Rejoice, the chapter that sets up Hayley’s drowning, I got a call from a close friend in Arizona. Her sister—another friend—needed prayer because her nineteen-month-old son, Devin, had fallen into an irrigation canal in central Arizona and drowned.

  Little Devin traveled the canal for nearly a mile—eighteen minutes—before a neighbor saw his body and pulled him from the water. Eighteen minutes. Devin’s body was blue and lifeless; he was not breathing, and he had no pulse.

  Nevertheless, the neighbor administered CPR while a helicopter was called to the site. Devin was life-flighted to Children’s Hospital in Phoenix, where he was put on life support. The lead doctor pulled aside Devin’s mother and told her that the next two days were bound to bring about brain swelling, a condition that would push Devin even further from the possibility of ever waking up. To make matters worse, the family was asked to consider organ donation since Devin was basically brain-dead, being sustained by machines and pumps.

  On the phone with me that day, my friend’s request was simple. Pray. Pray for a miracle for Devin.

  I’d like to tell you that when I hung up the phone, I rejoiced in God’s healing power and prayed exactly as my friend had asked. But I didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, I begged God to let Devin go home. Let him run and skip and jump and catch frogs along a lake in heaven, where he would be free from the prison of his brain and his body.

  You see, Devin looks very much like my little Austin. White blond hair, tanned skin, blue eyes. A boy with more testosterone than blood coursing through his body, one who had found his greatest joy running and jumping and living life to the absolute edge.

  The same way Austin does every day.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Devin confined to a hospital bed, barely cognizant of the people around him, unable to run or jump or ever play again. And the picture was more than I could bear. I added up the facts and told myself that eighteen minutes underwater would never result in a miracle. Never. And if Devin couldn’t smile or get out of bed again, then what was the point? Take him, God, I prayed. Set him free in the fields of heaven.

  Two weeks passed, and against all medical odds, Devin was still alive. My friend would call on occasion and give me updates. Good news was always tempered with the reality of his situation. He could cry, but he couldn’t recognize his mother so he couldn’t be consoled. He could open his eyes, but the drowning had left him blind forever. He could turn his head, but he had no control of his arms and legs.

  That month, I was asked to speak at an event in Phoenix. The way the flight schedule worked out, my plane arrived five hours before the event, so after checking into my hotel, I took a cab and met my friend and her sister at the hospital, at Devin’s bedside.

  He was awake, looking even more like my Austin than I remembered. Nurses had him propped up in bed with blankets. Padding was wrapped around his arms so he wouldn’t hurt himself when his body seized, as it did several times each minute. Nestled beside him was a red Elmo doll, his favorite. In a slow, brain-damaged way, he moved his head from side to side and made a deep, throaty sound. He blinked, but also in slow motion.

  His mother went to the opposite side of the bed. “Devin.” Her voice held a hope and love that showed she had gotten past the initial shock of seeing her changed son. “Laugh for Mama, Devin.”

  And that’s when it happened.

  Devin followed the sound of her voice and looked at his mother with vacant eyes. His lips lifted into a little-boy smile and he laughed. It wasn’t a normal-sounding laugh, but it was a laugh anyway. A response. Proof that somewhere beyond the obvious brain injury, Devin still lived.

  The tears came then.

  They streamed down my face, and though I was able to carry on a conversation through much of the next two hours, the tears never stopped. Not once. Not while Devin’s mother talked to him, not while his legs seized straight up in the air, and not while I massaged his calf muscles in an effort to ease the tension there.

  Through it all, I wept. Very simply, I was caught up in one of the saddest moments I’d ever been a part of. But it wasn’t only because lying before me was a little boy who, until a few weeks earlier, was wonderfully vibrant and whole. It was that, for sure. But it was something else.

  Watching Devin, seeing him interact with his mother, told me that I’d prayed for the wrong thing. Never mind the statistics and medical understanding of a child who had been underwater eighteen minutes. My God is bigger than all of medicine combined, bigger than brain damage and drownings, bigger than any limitation our bodies might put on us.

  There and then I was convinced beyond any doubt that God could heal Devin. I held that little boy against my chest and let my quiet tears fall on his cheeks. Then I rocked him and leaned my face clo
se to his ear the way I would with my own children.

  And I begged God for a miracle for Devin.

  I saw in that hospital room a family who was choosing to rejoice rather than give up. Rejoice rather than medicate their pain. Rejoice rather than believing the dismal reports from doctors.

  When I left that afternoon, I could only do the same.

  I went home and told my family about Devin. My parents assured me they would pray. Don and our kids looked at pictures of Devin and prayed along with me. My friend had a specific prayer, which I lifted to God every day: that come August, Devin would be off feeding tubes. That when he turned two years old, he might be able to eat his own birthday cake.

  The first significant good news came two weeks later. My friend called with an update, and I went to my parents’ house to tell them the news.

  “I’ve been wondering how he is.” My father hugged me. “I’ve been praying every day for God to give Devin back his eyesight. For some reason that’s been on my mind morning and night.”

  “Dad . . .” My heart skipped a beat. “That’s the news. The doctors have done a series of tests and they’re sure. Devin can see again!”

  I’ll never forget the way my father’s mouth hung open, the way he brought his hand to his face and let his head fall forward. My father had believed God was able, and now his tears were those of joy.

  Since then, Devin has continued to improve. On his Web page, www.devinsmiracle.org, click the word prognosis and you’ll see a brief testimony to the truth. It says, “Devin’s family rejoices in God’s goodness.” They refuse to give a prognosis, since only God knows the plans he has for Devin.

  Obviously much of what you’ve read in Rejoice was taken from my time with this precious little boy, my heart for him, and his recovery time. Please pray for him. If you have children, tonight before you hit the pillow, take a moment and thank God.