First, she'd lost the baby.
And second, it was the last time Charlie was going to beat her. For the next hour she thought about calling a cab, getting a ride to the nearest bridge, and jumping with her girls in her arms. Yes, Emma, the voices told her. That's exactly what you should do. End it all. . . it's the easiest way out.
But for the first time in her life she didn't want the easy way out.
The girls were still whimpering, clinging to her legs, and looking to her for comfort. Emma shut her eyes and did the only thing she knew to do. With tears streaming down her battered face, she cried out to the God of her mother. "If You're there, if You're really there, help me now, God. I can't make it on my own!"
There had been no loud response. The building didn't shake, and she didn't feel an immediate transformation. But as she opened her eyes she had a very sudden, very clear memory. She'd seen a television talk show the week before, and on it they featured a woman Emma had heard about before.
The woman was Mary Madison.
Mary Madison, who testified on behalf of abused women before Senate committees and political hearings, ran shelters throughout the city and talked about the power of God being strong enough to change lives and cities and even the nation.
The most powerful woman in Washington, DC.
***
And now Mary's story was helping Emma remember her own. But there was one problem. As much as she was sorry for what had happened between her and her mother, and though Mary's story was giving her more hope every day, it didn't erase the way she felt about Charlie.
The way she still felt.
For every time he'd hit her, there had been a hundred times when he'd loved her. No one had ever made her feel so beautiful and cared for, not ever. A picture of Terrence came to her mind, and she dismissed it. Terrence had been her friend, nothing more. But Charlie loved her. He wanted to protect her and give her a wonderful life. His anger problem was just that—a problem. It was something they could work through, right?
She opened her eyes and looked at the beginning of the letter to her mother. Her thoughts were as scattered as fall leaves on a windy day. She wasn't sure what to do about Charlie, but she could at least finish the letter to her mother.
She picked up the pen again and put it to the page. But as she did, she heard Kami's voice behind her. "Mama . . . what are you doing?"
Emma turned around just as Kaitlyn sat up from her nap and stretched her arms toward her. "Drink, Mama?"
A protective love welled up inside her, filling her beyond anything she'd known before. These were her daughters, and they'd been through far too much in their few years. But they were here with her now, safe and well, learning to wake up without being afraid. It was a victory, and it was the direct result of Mary's story, Mary's survival.
Emma set the notepad and pen down on the windowsill. She went to her girls and hugged them, kissed the tops of their heads. This love—the love she felt for her girls—was a miracle. And only then did another possibility take up residence in her heart. Maybe the change wasn't from Mary or her story or the time she was giving to Emma. Maybe it wasn't any of those things at all. What if instead the change really and truly was coming from an all-knowing, all-powerful God?
The same one her mother tried to tell her about all those years ago.
***
Grace Johnson was making herself a sandwich Wednesday afternoon when the doorbell rang.
All that day she'd been consumed with thoughts of Emma, and other than a few brief breaks, she'd spent every moment talking to God. Where was her daughter, and what was happening to her? Was she in danger again? Had she gone back to Charlie? Or had he found her?
But every time fear gathered like storm clouds in her mind, she felt God talk to her.
Be still, daughter. Be still and know that I am God ... a strong tower, a refuge for Emma.
The words breathed peace into her, calmed her soul, and gave her a strangely curious hope. Something was happening with Emma, something that might lead her back to her faith. Still, Grace had the sense of a battle, and she intensified her prayers, begging God to hold tight to her daughter, to lead her back to Him no matter the struggle.
When the doorbell rang, for a few heartbeats Grace thought maybe it was Emma and the girls. She hurried to the front door, opened it, and felt the thrill of possibility dissipate.
It was Terrence Reid. "Hello, Mrs. Johnson."
"Terrence." Grace smiled and held out her arms. "Come in."
They hugged and Terrence led the way into the living room. He wore jeans and a short-sleeve shirt. "I was coming home from school." He sat on the couch and set his elbows on his knees. "I had to stop."
Grace held her breath. Terrence had been like a son to her, stopping by and holding conversations with her even after Emma left to live with Charlie. Over the years he'd filled out and become a strong young man—strong in stature and faith, conviction and study habits. He was twenty-four now, a medical student. No matter what choices Emma had made, Grace always held out hope that someday—when her daughter came to her senses—she would find her way back to Terrence.
But reality had a thing or two to say about Grace's dreams. The truth was, one of these days Terrence would fall in love, and then that would be that. Now, with him sitting across from her, his face lined with intensity, she wondered if this was that moment.
She exhaled. "What's on your mind?"
He opened his mouth, but for a few seconds he said nothing. His eyes grew damp, and he swallowed hard. "Emma." He shrugged. "I can't stop thinking about her."
A chill passed over Grace's arms. "Me neither. I've been praying all day."
"Something's happening." He sat straighter, his face masked with concern. "Every time I picture her I see a battle, warriors taking up their arms, two sides determined to claim victory."
Grace nodded. "You know what the battle's for, don't you?"
His voice fell a notch. "Emma's soul." He held out his hands. "Pray with me, Mrs. Johnson. I think Emma's life depends on it."
With fingers and hearts and souls joined, Grace and Terrence begged God to bring strength and protection to Emma, wherever she was. They asked for her salvation and her freedom—freedom from a bondage that would kill her otherwise.
When Terrence left half an hour later, there was an understanding between them. They were not merely the two people on earth who loved Emma Johnson the most.
They were warriors.
* * *
Chapter 14
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Mary never got used to the smell. The masked pungency of urine mixed with the constant scent of disinfectant.
Not that it mattered. This was where Grandma Peggy lived, and three times a week before her meetings on Capitol Hill or her counseling with battered women, before checking on the dozen causes she was politically or financially connected with, Mary Madison came to this place.
Orchard Gardens Senior Living Center.
She came for a precious half an hour with her grandmother. The connection between them was stronger than ever, as if God had given them this season to make up for all the years they'd lost. Sometimes they talked about politics and the bills Mary was testifying for. Other times they drifted back to the past, and Grandma Peggy would tell her how often she'd prayed, how many tears she'd cried waiting for God to bring them back together.
"I always knew the Lord would let us find each other one day," her grandma would tell her. "I just wish it would've happened sooner."
Grandma Peggy understood the current legislature Mary was pulling for, the funding for continuation of the national abstinence program. She also knew about the bills Mary had helped pass in the last year, bills that provided income for battered women's shelters and teen recreation centers in low-income areas. Her grandmother had prayed daily for Mary's part in the My Mentor program for disadvantaged and orphaned children, and when it came into being, they'd celebrated quietly together at her bedside
.
Her grandma knew about all of it.
Grandma Peggy was sharp and sensitive, splitting her time between lending a sympathetic ear to her friends at Orchard Gardens and seeking God in the quiet of her room on behalf of Mary. The way she'd done all of Mary's life.
Mary's visit that morning would have to be short. She didn't want to keep Emma waiting. She walked quickly down the hall and slowed when she came to room 114. Her grandmother was sleeping, her big brown Bible on her lap. Mary smiled and crossed the room without making a sound. She sat down and studied her grandmother's walls.
She still had Easter cards lined up on the windowsill. One from Esther down the hall and another from a gentleman friend of hers, a man who signed his card Love you, William B.
A few feet away were the framed photos that never left the wall. One of her grandma with her mama—when her mama was in third grade. Another of her mama and her, when she was a newborn. Then there was the photo that had hung in her pink bedroom, the one of herself as a three-year-old.
Mary's gaze returned to the photo of her mother. She studied her eyes, the way they looked happy and full of light. There had been no way to tell back then what the future would hold for Jayne Madison—that she'd turn to drugs and living on the street, or that she'd die without hope or love or redemption.
Tears stung Mary's eyes. The hopelessness and loss of her mama drove her on days when she didn't think she could help another person. No one had been there on the streets to show her mama the love of Jesus. There had been no rescue, no forgiveness asked or granted. Her mother's death was the single worst heartache in all Mary's life.
Jesus had healed every other pain, but the pain of knowing that her mama had died without knowing her Lord was almost more than she could bear. Forever it would drive her to meet with the Emmas of the city so that abuse and drugs and prostitution would not lead to senseless, hopeless death—but rather to redemption by the only one with the power to redeem.
Grandma Peggy drew a deep breath and stirred. After a few seconds she blinked twice and smiled at Mary. "Hello, dear." She held out her frail hand.
"Hi, Grandma." Mary worked her fingers around her grandmother's. Her skin was almost translucent now, marked by blue veins and soft bunches of wrinkles. "How are you feeling?"
"Good as ever." Her eyes sparkled. "How are things with Emma?"
Mary thought for a moment. "She's listening to me. I just finished the part about stealing the truck."
Sorrow eased across her grandma's features. She pressed her thumb against the top of Mary's hand. "If only I would've known. I never . . . never would've let them take you from me, Mary." There was a pleading in her eyes, as if even now it was crucial that Mary understand.
"I know, Grandma. God worked it all out."
It took a minute for that truth to work its way to the fibers of her grandma's soul. "Yes." She gave the hint of a smile. "I suppose you're right."
"Well, He did work it out. And now He's going to work it out for Emma."
"She has daughters, doesn't she?"
"Two. They're both young."
Grandma Peggy nodded. "No time like now." Her eyes were cloudier than even a year ago, her breathing slower, more labored—proof that her body was signaling the end. She gave Mary's hand a tender squeeze. "Have I told you lately, Mary?"
She stood and pressed the side of her face against her grandmother's. "Told me what?" She drew back and their eyes locked.
"Have I told you . . ." Her grandma's voice cracked. Her chin trembled, and she swallowed twice, searching for the words. "Have I told you how proud I am of you, Mary?"
Mary felt her eyes well up. In that moment, she was not the powerful Mary Madison, the woman publicly known for her educated voice and painful past. She was a little girl, sitting beside her Grandma Peggy in her pink bedroom, feeling more loved than any child in the world.
"Thank you for saying that." She kissed her grandma's feathery soft cheek, and her gaze fell to the Bible. "What are you reading?"
"Joel." Her grandma lifted the Bible and squinted at the words. "Joel 2:25." She lifted it to Mary. "Read it out loud."
Mary picked up the heavy book and found the verse. '"I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.'"
Grandma Peggy grinned and gave the Bible a hearty tap. "That's us, Mary dear. God is repaying us for the years the locusts have eaten."
"Yes." Mary's throat was too thick to say much. "I'm worried about Emma. The locusts have had a field day with her."
"What does God say about the locusts?"
Mary nodded, her eyes blurred from fresh tears. What would she do when her grandma was gone? The woman had brought perspective and reason to her life ever since her rescue by Jesus.
It was her grandma who had given her a place to live and encouraged her to go to college. Late into the night, Grandma Peggy would quiz her on upcoming tests and question her about the education process. At her graduation ceremony for her bachelor's degree and again when she'd earned her doctorate in family counseling, her grandma had been there, beaming from the audience, waving and taking pictures, and cheering her on.
Now, with Grandma's steps and abilities slower, she still was a rock of support and encouragement, sharing Scripture like the verse in Joel. She was the quiet support for all of Mary's public accomplishments as well as and her private ones.
Her grandma seemed to know what she was thinking. She pulled the Bible close to her chest and hugged it. "God is faithful in all things, dear." She took Mary's hand again. "He will be faithful with Emma."
"I know."
A curious look filled her grandma's features. "You know what the problem is with the world today?"
Mary smiled. She loved it when her grandma was like this, when she was able to sum up all the godly wisdom of a lifetime and put it into a sentence or two. "What's the problem, Grandma?"
"People want to make Jesus into some Gandhi or Rambo figure. A good teacher or a strong leader." She shook her head, and her eyes shone as they hadn't in years. "You know why Jesus had the power to rescue you, Mary Madison?"
Mary grinned. She knew, but she waited for her grandma's answer anyway.
"Because—" Grandma Peggy jabbed her bony finger in the air for emphasis—"Jesus is God Almighty. He is divine." Her energy dropped off a bit. "The world can only be rescued by a divine power."
"I'll remember that." Mary put her arms around her grandma's thin shoulders and hugged her. For a few tender moments, the two of them prayed for the political leaders on Capitol Hill and for Emma and for the world—that people might recognize the divinity of Christ.
Afterwards, Mary gave her one last kiss. "Be well, Grandma." She took a step back. "I need you."
"You don't need me." She grinned and waved Mary off. "You need Jesus. Only Jesus."
Mary gave her grandma a teasing look. It was certainly true. She had remained single because of that truth, devoting her life entirely to the work of God, allowing herself to bask in a love that was unconditional and constant. Still . . . she lowered her chin. "Jesus is enough. But I need you too. So be well."
Then her grandma's smile faded, and tears filled her eyes. She touched her fingers to her lips and blew Mary a kiss.
Mary did the same, holding her grandma's gaze for another few moments. As she left the room, her eyes caught a familiar sight sitting on top of her grandma's dresser.
The small red-beaded purse.
It was the single item that represented to both her and Grandma Peggy the certainty of God's promise, His providence, and His power. Mary smiled at her grandma once more and turned to leave.
All the way to the car she talked to God, begging Him the same thing she asked of Him every time she left Orchard Gardens.
Please, God, don't take her yet.
***
Mary arrived at her office a few minutes early.
Emma was reaching a breaking point, she could tell. Listening to Mary's story was probably calling to mind the pieces
of her own past, and with it two contrasting emotions: great hope and great despair. The last time they were together, Mary had seen the hope. Emma talked of writing a letter to her mother and regretting her choices.
But as Emma realized the depth of her bondage and the enemy of her soul tried to lure her into thinking change was too difficult, despair was bound to come. When it did, Mary wanted to be on her knees.
There was a knock on the door, and Emma slipped inside. She looked distant, as if her mind were crowded with conflicting thoughts. She sat down and smiled. "I started a letter to my mother."
"Good." Mary studied her. "How are you feeling about yourself?"
"Glad I'm here." Emma thought for a minute. "I should've done a lot of things differently."
Mary drew a slow breath. Here's the battle, God. Give me the words. "What about Charlie?"
Emma bristled. A shadow fell across her face, and she slid back in her seat. "A part of me thinks that maybe . . . maybe I could've gotten him help." Her chin trembled, and she bit her lip. "I still love him."
Don't react, Mary told herself. She kept her tone even. "I understand. That's part of the trap, part of the prison of abuse." She leaned over and touched Emma's knee. "Stay with me, okay? Stay with the story. The answers are coming."
"Maybe . . ." Emma's voice cracked. She brought her fingers to her throat and massaged her neck. "Sorry." She struggled for a moment. "Maybe I should have the answers now."
"They won't make sense to you. Not until you hear the whole story. Please, Emma. Trust me."
"Okay." Emma's voice was small.
"Before I start today, I want to pray." Mary closed her eyes. "Lord, You are the greatest power on earth, more powerful than any situation or addiction or abuse." She felt the arms of Jesus around her. "We ask that Your power reign over us today and in the coming days. Please, God, set Emma free as You— only You—can do. Amen."
Mary stood and opened the window. An early fog was burning off, and the fresh air would help to make the dark parts of her story that lay ahead bearable. She sat down and folded her hands. "After my arrest and conviction for grand theft auto, I fell even further from the little girl I'd been, the one who still missed her mama and her grandma. The nightmares and lying were still there, and I felt driven to hurt myself. I'd bite my fingernails and tear at them. Sometimes I'd pull one completely off."
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