Undone

by Michele Cushatt

  What courage! Two thousand years before, ordinary men and women, not all that different from me, chose death over disbelief because of their confidence in something greater, someone bigger. Two millennia had passed, millions of lives come and gone. I thought of myself, my short forty years of life on this earth. I thought of my struggle over the months before and how I’d let cancer and my fear of death nearly consume my life. I too chose death. But a living death because of my unbelief.

  I stopped walking to look up at an ancient wall butting up to a modern one. The contrast powerful, the implications unmistakable. Two worlds colliding in the space of a few feet. Old and new. Then and now.

  How foolish I’d been! On the streets of Rome on a cool November night, I linked hands with Troy, mingling my fingers with his. With my husband on one side and history on the other, I heard the stones speak of the power of faith. Of believing what you cannot see, of banking a life on something more real and powerful than the certainty of death.

  No one spoke, but something changed.

  Faith. I choose faith! Emboldened by the courage of so many brave others who’d gone before, I determined to live a different life. I didn’t know what that looked like exactly. But I knew I didn’t want a legacy characterized by regret over the past and fear of the future. I wanted the stones of my life to speak of a deep and enduring faith. Regardless of the cost.

  “You sit and read. I’ll go grab a few things,” he said with feigned nonchalance. It was our last night in Italy, and I knew he planned to make it memorable.

  Normally, I wouldn’t let him do all the work while I lounged with a book. But the look on his face convinced me he needed to do this. And I needed to let him. It didn’t take all that much convincing.

  “Alright. Meet back here in a half hour?”

  By “back here” I meant the Spanish Steps, the Piazza di Spagna. A popular tourist spot, rich with stories and history, it sat only a couple of blocks from our hotel room. I could read a book by the fountain, and people-watch. The day was brisk but sunny, and I had all the time in the world. Why not?

  Troy disappeared into the crowd. I settled next to the fountain and opened my Kindle.

  I’d been told that in 1821 and at the age of twenty-five, poet John Keats died in an apartment on the right corner of the piazza. Other artists and writers claimed this spot for their inspiration. As I watched tourists and locals pass through the piazza, I imagined that the scene didn’t look all that different when Keats paused in his writing to look out his window and take in the crowds. Time had passed, but much of life had stayed the same. Another hundred years from now, I’d be the memory, and new tourists would fill the piazza wondering about those who sat at the same fountain years before.

  Close to an hour passed before Troy returned. He sneaked up behind me, a bulging package underneath his arm.

  “What’ve you got there?”

  “You’ll see,” he winked. “Let’s walk.”

  The sun was just beginning to lower over the western sky. We climbed the Spanish Steps — one hundred and thirty-five of them — to get the best view of the city.

  We turned after the last stair to take in the view of Rome. Exquisite. Beyond words. As the sun lowered, Troy pulled out our SLR camera and snapped several shots. Soft pinks and browns softened the scene, and Rome expanded impossibly wide in front of us. We could see St. Peter’s Basilica standing proud and magnificent in the distance, the cupola golden in the waning light. Straight ahead, over miles of stone-paved streets, the Colosseum and the Forum prepared to close for the evening. Piazzas, fountains, and cathedrals dotted the cityscape, such that you couldn’t walk a half dozen blocks without stumbling into another rich piece of history.

  Standing at the top of the Spanish Steps, we saw the prior eleven days we’d spent together in Italy. Intimate, sacred days that would anchor our marriage for the life awaiting us back at home.

  Troy reached for my hand. “Let’s go.”

  I hated to leave the view at the top of the steps, but there was more to see. We turned left and walked up the street, taking us farther away from our hotel and the familiar. In all our exploring of Rome, we’d never made it to this section. Everything was new and fresh to us, and I couldn’t help but wish we had another day or two. No matter how much time you have, it’s never quite enough.

  “We have to come back, you know.” My words sounded more like a question than a statement.

  Even after eleven days of soaking up everything Italy had to offer, I wanted more. I needed to know we’d do things like this again, husband-and-wife things, even after our lives and schedules grew by three more children. I wanted my husband to promise me that.

  “Absolutely,” he reassured.

  I believed him, but I wondered how tough it would be to make good on that promise. It’s one thing to say it, another to make it happen while parenting six kids.

  Ahead, we saw the entrance to the Villa Borghese garden. This was where we were headed, to find a quiet park bench that overlooked the city while the sun set in the distance.

  As crowded as the Piazza di Spagna, the garden of Villa Borghese remained quiet. A few couples strolled hand in hand. Pet owners walked their dogs. Children laughed and played on a small merry-go-round in the center of the park.

  We moved away from the children and dog-walkers on instinct, wanting to savor these last precious moments, just the two of us. We’d have plenty of children sounds once we got home. For now, we needed each other.

  The path wound through a canopy of trees, the dark-green leaves shading the dwindling twilight. Four-foot pillars held the granite busts of famous Italians and lined the walkway. We found an empty park bench placed underneath one of these stone faces. Other than him, we were alone.

  The bench sat away from the main path and provided a partial view of the city. Spectacular. All of it. The buildings. The people. The food and wine and conversation. The way the city seemed to come alive each day as the sun set. Even Italy’s cappuccino, served in itty-bitty cups, made the perfect complement to the pastries we couldn’t get enough of. The entire trip had been the makings of a fairytale, a dream come true.

  I settled into the bench, wrapped my sweater around my shoulders.

  “You hungry?” Troy opened his bag, revealing the contents. A thick bunch of red grapes. A loaf of crusty bread. Slices of salami and fresh mozzarella. A full bottle of Merlot. And two plastic cups.

  “I don’t have wine glasses. Sorry.”

  “Who needs wine glasses?” I had everything I could ever want, right here, with him. “This is perfect. Every bit of it.”

  For an hour, give or take, we snuggled on a park bench in the middle of a Roman garden. We ate our simple feast and watched the sun lower and fade. As the light dimmed, I leaned into our final dwindling moments in Rome as husband and wife.

  “I love you. You know that, right?” I looked at him over my wine, met his eyes in the soft light.

  He smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the corners and twinkling in that way that always melts me. “I do. And I love you.”

  Cancer, as heinous and evil as it was, had delivered an unexpected gift.

  It taught us how to live. Not in regret over all the ways we wished we could go back and do it over. Not in mourning the countless unfinished, undone places that yet remained. And not in fear of the unknown future we couldn’t predict or control.

  Cancer — in both its presence and absence — had taught me the immeasurable value of today. Faith isn’t rooted in the past or the future. It’s birthed in how we approach and handle today. It’s the anchor that holds us firmly in this moment, allowing us the freedom to experience it and enjoy it regardless of the regrets and what-ifs. Those who have faith, deep abiding faith in an Artist who has all things under his control, have no need to rehash the past or predict the future. They’re content to sit on a park bench, sip wine, and watch the sunset with the one they love.

  “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and a
ssurance about what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for.”20

  This is the story of which the stones whispered when we first arrived in Rome. And the reason the beautiful scarved-woman could smile in spite of her trip to the twelfth floor.

  Because we know what’s coming. That means that for today, for this moment, la vita è bella.

  Life is beautiful.

  CHAPTER 16

  No Room

  Reader, what have you done since this church opened to make it a benefit to mankind? We trust your entire duty to this mission. This church extended a helping hand to the poor people outside of this church. Do you allow the poor to enter this church with the same welcome as those in costly robes?

  — AUTHOR UNKNOWN, January 20, 1889 (penciled on a rafter in the attic of Trinity United Methodist Church, Denver, CO)

  PREPARATIONS FOR A GUEST ARE FAR DIFFERENT THAN FOR A resident.

  I learned this at the end of November, after Troy and I returned from Italy. We’d had plenty of visitors in our years of marriage. Some stayed for a week or a weekend. Others moved in for a month or two during a time of transition. To prepare, I stocked up on extra groceries, changed the sheets on the guest bed, and set out clean towels. For some, we rearranged schedules and canceled appointments. But always a day came, regardless of the length of stay, when the guest packed up and headed home. Afterward life returned to normal, the way it’d been before the visitor arrived.

  Not so with a resident. When someone moves in, he becomes a fellow dweller and part of the family. Whether a new spouse or an aging in-law — or, let’s say, three preschoolers — everything changes. Not for a week or two. For as long as they remain.

  Furniture. Budget. Grocery list. Kitchen sink. Vehicle. Family vacations. Routines. Bedtimes. Expectations. Date night. Laundry pile. Free time. Extended family. Friendships.

  Visitors can be accommodated. Residents must be assimilated.

  The night before the littles moved into our home, the truth of what we were about to do hit me like a speeding train. I sat on the mocha Berber carpet in my fourteen-year-old’s bedroom — former bedroom — as he and Troy assembled a borrowed set of bunk beds. It didn’t look like my boy’s room anymore. Gone was the student desk and the posters pinned to his wall. He’d moved all his clothes and furniture out earlier in the day, taking over the bedroom in the basement. Far away from his room across the hall from mine.

  By this time tomorrow, we’ll have three more children. Four-and five-year-olds. In our house.

  For months we’d been hoping for this moment, praying and planning for it. I thought I wanted it. Now, with reality staring back at me in the form of two bunk beds, I wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe my hesitation was a result of our nearly twenty years of experience. We didn’t harbor the dreamy illusions of first-time parents who can’t wait to bring their baby home. We knew the flip side of all that preciousness, how little true parenting resembles a Hallmark commercial. The sleeplessness, bathroom accidents, and never-ending worry. The drama, throw-ups, and late nights of homework. And the constant need for a parent to be on her game, ready to love and sacrifice and pour herself out for the sake of the bundle she brought home from the hospital.

  Or maybe my apprehension prickled as a result of our current scenario. We were neck deep in parenting adolescents. Ours were good boys. Still, even good boys struggle their way into manhood. This wasn’t exactly the vacation part of the parenting trip. Tension continued to rattle our house on a daily basis, and we couldn’t box up that part of our life and put it to the side. Three new children didn’t replace the existing ones.

  Troy and Jacob worked together to screw the headboard and baseboard and join the end posts together, lifting the second bed on top of the first, attaching the ladder and side rails and setting both mattresses in place.

  I stood back, holding two sets of twin-size sheets. Mute and wide-eyed.

  “You okay?” Troy must’ve seen my pasty-white cheeks, locked knees, or some other indication that I was about to keel over in a faint.

  I swallowed, tried to hide my uncertainty. “This is really happening.”

  “Yes. True.” Holding his blue Makita screwdriver in one hand, he stopped working long enough to measure me with his eyes. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? You still want to do this?”

  I did. Of course I did.

  Except, I didn’t.

  Two powerful and conflicting emotions trying to set up house in my stomach.

  Troy is notorious for seeing life in black and white, while I tend to view it in hues of gray. How did I explain my ambiguity to the man who’d just barn-raised two bunk beds? He worked with certainty. How did I confess the strange grief I was beginning to feel? That I both mourned and celebrated the adventure yet to come?

  “Yes. Of course I do.” It was the right answer, the expected answer. I rolled my shoulders, trying to rid my back of tension. “It’s hard to take in, that’s all.”

  He turned his attention back to the bed, leaving me to my thoughts. But I didn’t want the conversation to end. I had more to get off my chest.

  “Our lives will never be the same. You know that, right?” I hoped he might share my conflicting emotions.

  He held the screwdriver to the post of a bed corner and glanced over his shoulder at me. “Yep. I know.” He turned back to the post and drove the screw into the hole. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

  He was right. Matter-of-fact and not exactly tender, but right. We’d prayed about this. Spent countless nights talking about it. From the first phone call, we could see evidence of divine orchestration. The intricate weaving and aligning of desire and circumstance to bring this family together.

  I just hadn’t expected my easy prayers to solicit such uncomfortable answers.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, after the beds were ready and the refrigerator full, three children burst through our garage door and infiltrated the house. Shrieks and squeals echoed off the hardwood floors. The children bounced and pounced and chattered more than a Tigger playing with Pooh. Happy. Crazy, over-the-top happy. Like children who’d waited a lifetime to come home.

  “I put my bag in my bed-woom.” Jack skipped through the foyer and climbed the stairs, his hand cupping the wood rail all the way to the top. He knew exactly where to go, what to do.

  Princess and Peanut followed close on his heels, running into their neighboring room and flopping on their beds.

  “Bunk beds!” They cheered, at least two octaves higher than anything our home had heard before. The previous night’s efforts did not go unnoticed.

  In minutes, the once-clean family room filled with toys, coloring books, and winter coats and shoes thrown off in enthusiasm. The bedrooms, the very same bedrooms my boys had occupied only the day before, were now littered with stuffed animals, baby blankets, and rows of Dr. Suess and children’s Bibles.

  The air left my lungs.

  My too-big house suddenly felt far too small.

  God, forgive me. I hid in a corner of my bedroom and cried.

  The first weeks of any major change are often the hardest. Such was the case with us, although our transition wouldn’t end after a handful of weeks. It would take months and years for us to recapture any sense of normalcy. The English language does not contain adequate words to describe the proportions of our familial transition.

  Monumental? Colossal? Mammoth? Not even close.

  Naturally, as I typically do when feeling all measure of pain and discomfort, I resorted to questioning our decision. How did this happen? What had I been thinking? Better yet, what was Troy thinking? He’s supposed to be the stable one.

  As my gut predicted on the night of the bunk beds, everything changed. Even before the children arrived, ours was a full life, with three kids, two careers, and a marriage. Then, like an already full river trying to absorb the rain from a downpour, our family went from capacity to overflowing. We all felt like we were drown
ing.

  Then the arrival of Christmas. The unexpected respite in my rain.

  We have few nonnegotiable traditions in our family, but Christmas Eve delivers two of them. After a dinner of potato-cheese soup and homemade bread (not a nonnegotiable, but a tradition nonetheless), we drive downtown. There, dwarfed by Denver’s skyline and warmed by her Christmas lights, we make two stops. First, the Denver Rescue Mission. Second, Trinity United Methodist Church.

  Christmas Eve we did just as we always had, but with a bigger crew. Earlier that evening, after dinner, I drew three baths, washed three heads of hair, and toweled each of my littles dry. Searching a closet filled with hand-me-downs from friends and family, I found two dresses of black velvet and red taffeta, sizes four and five. For Jack, I pulled out a bright red sweater and khaki dress pants, miniatures of the same hanging in Troy’s closet. I slipped silky dresses over wet heads, pulled pants up, and helped tie shoes. Then, awkwardly since I didn’t yet know how to fix girl hair, I brushed and blow-dried until all three heads shone like the lights on our tree.

  This was my new life. Already the old life, the life before, began to fade.

  Just as we’d done three hundred and sixty-five days before, we loaded up and drove toward downtown Denver. Only this time we needed two cars to get us all there. Two adults, six children, and Tyler’s girlfriend, Cassie. The nine members of the Cushatt family.

  First, the Denver Rescue Mission. Our stop lasted less than fifteen minutes, long enough to transfer boxes of food and clothes and toys from car trunks to mission kitchen. It had looked like so much when I bought it at the store and packed it into our car. But I knew it wouldn’t be enough to serve the hundreds of homeless who would file through on a single day. Too small. Our offering was far too small.

  Back in the car, I glanced in the rearview mirror to gauge the faces of the littles. Light from the mission’s “Jesus Saves” sign filtered through the windows to reflect in their eyes. Three homeless men loitered on the sidewalk not twenty feet from where our car idled at the curb. They took it all in — the light, the old brick building, the grimy, lost-looking men.