"Yes. You were talking about how God can rescue a person."
A realization filled Emma's eyes. "Sort of like how He rescued me earlier today. A few times, really."
Mary felt joy surge through her. If Emma could recognize God's role in saving her first from Charlie and then from herself, there was no question about it.
Emma was ready for the next part of the story.
* * *
Chapter 23
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Mary had no trouble finding her way back to this part of her past.
She could still see dear Nigel finishing his lesson on Stephen, still hear the way his voice rang with passion in the silent classroom, touching the empty places in her soul. This was Mary's favorite leg of the journey back to yesterday—this part where the love of Christ finally and completely came alive to her.
It was the scene of her rescue, and Mary went to it willingly.
***
The lesson on Stephen was over, the street people and drug addicts silently awed. A hush fell over the classroom, and Nigel began to pray. A few seconds later, a heavyset man who worked evenings washing dishes for the center brought a guitar up front and began to play. He sang about amazing grace and what a wretch he'd been before the love of God came and rescued him.
Halfway through the song, Mary felt something damp on her cheeks. She was crying. From her place at the back of the room she was weeping, a bit of crusty ice from the frozen edges of her heart melting without her even knowing it.
Mary stole a look at the others near her. Several of them were crying too.
When the song ended, the man kept strumming, sending soothing, gentle sounds throughout the room.
Nigel began talking again. "Anyone here who wants to know that love, feel that love in your own heart, now's the time. Jesus doesn't ask for much." He came as close as he could to the first row, taking in the faces one at a time. "He wants us to trust Him, believe in Him. Then He wants us to turn away from our past—however ugly—and start a new life His way." Nigel held his hand out—palm down—toward the roomful of students. "Bow your heads and close your eyes."
When they had done so, he continued. "Anyone here tonight who wants to be rescued by God, raise your hand."
Mary had to watch, had to know if people around her were really able to believe what Nigel was saying. Then it began to happen. One at a time, hands went up around the room, including the hands belonging to the skinny white guy and the black teenager. Mary wanted to raise her hand, wanted to believe in a God who would rescue her and love her no matter what.
And in that moment she realized something had changed. She did believe. Regardless of every night she had spent chained to a bed in Jimbo's basement and the way she'd found peace through seducing a married man, despite her fears and faithlessness, and the life she'd lived every day since then, she actually believed in God.
But that didn't mean she could be loved by Him.
Tomorrow she'd be with Clayton again, dirtier than ever. She made fists and crossed her arms tight against herself, just in case her hand had a mind of its own and somehow wound up in the air. She couldn't raise her hand—wouldn't raise it. Not even for Nigel's mighty God.
That night before she left, she went to Nigel's office and sat across from him. She spent most of an hour asking Nigel about the face-of-an-angel thing. "There's something different in the eyes of people with faith. I can see it, but I can't figure out what it is. You called it Jesus eyes."
Nigel smiled. "It's the Holy Spirit. When people give their lives to Christ, He gives them His Spirit. It breathes from the center of the soul, giving life to the heart and shining bright through the eyes of believers."
"Sometimes I think it's only my imagination." Mary's words were slow, thoughtful. Even though it meant going home alone in the dark, she didn't care. Clayton wouldn't be back until the next afternoon, and at least she didn't have to race through her visit. She rested her chin in her hands. "Like it's all in my mind."
"Definitely not." Church music played in the background, coming from some room in the mission. It gave their conversation a depth that shone in Nigel's expression. "What you see in the eyes of believers isn't your imagination. It's real. As real as God's Spirit, as real as His love."
There it was. The thing Mary really wanted to know about. The reason she had come. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked at her knees. Fear towered over her, daring her to believe that she was good enough to ask about love. Anyone's love. When her entire past was riddled with filth.
"Mary . . . you have something to say?"
Nigel's voice gave her strength and sent fear just far enough away that she felt brave enough to answer. "God's love . . ." She winced and looked at Nigel without lifting her head. "What would I have to do . . . you know ... for Him to love me?"
Nigel stood, his eyes never leaving hers. "Stand up, Mary."
She had no idea what he was going to do or how standing would give her the answer she was looking for. Maybe he was going to tell her that he was tired of her questions and send her home. Maybe there was no hope for her, no way God would ever love her. Rather than tell her that, perhaps he would just call it a night. Slowly, with fear laughing at her from a few feet away, she did as he asked.
When she was standing across from him, Nigel motioned for her to step into the center of the office. He stood a few feet from her. "Pretend I'm Jesus."
Mary swallowed. "Okay." Her pulse was zipping along much faster than before. Was this where he would shout at her and condemn her for the choices she'd made, for sleeping with a married man day after day after day? Her knees and hands trembled, but she remained standing. Whatever was coming, she deserved it.
"All right." Nigel placed his hands at his sides. He was a teacher again, his tone the same sincere one he'd used in the classroom earlier. "Let's say I know everything you've ever done. I know about your time with Jimbo, and I know about the foster families—especially the man in the second family. I know about the truck you stole, and I know about your intentions once you came to the mission. I know what was your fault, and I know the things you had no control over." He paused. "I know about the man who's taking care of you . . . and the ways you're taking care of him." Nigel's voice was somber now. "I know that you're still a victim, but you're choosing the way of darkness. You know it too."
Mary hung her head. The light in Nigel's eyes was so bright it hurt.
"Look at me, Mary." It wasn't a sharp command but rather a request. A gentle request.
Inches at a time, she let her eyes find his again. She squinted, and she could feel the way her deep pain must've colored her features.
"If Jesus were here, knowing everything He knows, imagine what He would do."
She wanted to cover her face, her body. Her heart. Protect herself from the barrage of accusations that was bound to follow. What would Jesus do? "It would be . . . terrible." It was all she could do to keep her eyes on Nigel. "I would . . . have to look away."
"No, Mary." Nigel's chin trembled. With slow, measured steps he came to her until their feet were so close they were almost touching.
Mary wanted to turn and run. Why couldn't he leave space between them? She could take whatever he might say as long as he was across the room. That way she could say a few polite words and be on her way.
But this close?
So close she could see the pain and disappointment when it came into his expression, the way it would come any second now? It was more than she could take. She looked away, turned her cheek the way she had when Clayton had hit her. Then there was nothing to do but wait. Whatever he was about to say, she deserved it.
"Mary—" Nigel's voice dropped to a whisper—"look at me."
At first she didn't respond, but gradually it dawned on her. This—this looking into Nigel's eyes and seeing his disapproval—was part of her punishment. Wincing so she could see only through the narrow slits in her eyelids, she turned her eyes to him once more. "Te
ll me, Nigel." She set her jaw. "I'm ready."
There was something different in his expression, but it wasn't disappointment or anger or even disapproval. He held out his hands. "This is what Jesus would do." Slowly, Nigel folded his arms around her shoulders, her back, and he pulled her into an embrace.
Mary sucked in a slow breath, but she couldn't breathe out. She was lost in the feeling, a sensation unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
Where was the condemnation? the judgment and reprimand? The barrage of anger never came, nor did the pointing finger. His wasn't the hug of a lover or a brother, nor was it the hug of any other man she'd ever been with. It was the embrace of a father, the sort of embrace she'd never known, and it spoke things she'd never imagined straight to her heart. Acceptance and protection and concern and, most of all, the emotion she hadn't known since she was a little girl.
Love.
Seconds passed, and Mary felt herself relax. Layers of bitterness and shame crumbled, and she fell against his chest. Was Nigel right? Would Jesus see her and know her and still take her in His arms like a lost daughter? Would He really love away the pain? Was it possible?
All her life she'd wanted to believe in a God like that, but He never seemed to be around. Not in the basement of Jimbo's house, not when she had to leave Ted and Evelyn's, and not when she came just short of finding her grandmother. He certainly hadn't been around when she gave her heart and soul to Clayton Hamilton.
But now?
Nigel's arms still held her. He stroked her back, and ever so slightly he rocked her. Never in all her life had she felt so safe, so treasured.
After a long while, Nigel pulled back. He kept his hands on her shoulders, his eyes locked on hers. "That is the love of Christ, Mary. Full and whole, without judgment or reservation. Unconditional. When you fall, Jesus holds out a hand. When you turn away, He stands at the door of your heart, waiting, always waiting."
Mary's heart swelled, and tears flooded her eyes. Full and whole? Without judgment or reservation? A love that would pick her up when she stumbled and hug her when she . . . when she deserved hell? "I thought—" she searched his eyes— "I thought Jesus would be mad at me, punish me."
Nigel's eyes were deeper than the ocean. "Punishment, discipline—they come because of our choices. Jesus makes sure of that, for one reason."
Confusion dropped a pebble into the calm waters of Mary's soul. "So . . . He will punish me?"
A patient smile played at the corners of Nigel's lips. "Only to make you turn around, Mary. To make you stop running away and start running to Him. You're experiencing that punishment every day, trapped in a life with this man who keeps you so afraid. Jesus wants to set you free."
"Free?" It was something she'd never known. Freedom. Not when she was dragged around the city streets by her mother, not in the basement handcuffed to the bedpost, and not now, with Clayton. "Jesus wants me to be free?"
"More than that." Nigel wiped his thumb beneath her eyes. "He bought your freedom . . . with His life. His death."
The intensity in Nigel's eyes told her clearly. This was the most important part of his message that night: Jesus died to free her. But freedom wouldn't happen until she stopped the life she was living and turned to Him. Wholly. Completely. The idea sent shock waves through her. "And once I'm free . . ."
"Once you're free . . ." He pulled her close once more, hugged the life and joy and hope into all the places of her heart that had never known them. "Then this is the way Jesus will hold you, Mary."
The feeling of Nigel's embrace stayed with her long after she took a cab home and found her way to bed. She felt dreamy and light and new. Was it possible? Did God long to set her free? Free from the life she was living so that He could hold her that way? so He could wrap His divine arms around her and shelter her with a love that would carry her through the rest of her days?
Giddiness came over her at the thought. Maybe she wouldn't have to be a slave or a victim or a mistress. Maybe she could be a daughter of Jesus, a child. For the first time. Tears came, the way they often did since she'd started seeing Nigel again. But this time they weren't tears of despair or fear. They were tears of joy. Because Jesus was closer than she'd ever dreamed, His very tangible love warming her even now, when she wasn't quite sure how to walk away, how to accept the freedom He offered her.
Even if He had died to give it to her.
***
The next afternoon Mary told Clayton some of what she was feeling.
She sat across from him at the small kitchen table. He had brought her a new nightgown, silky and short and see-through, and he'd ordered her to put it on. She wore it now, hating the way it made her feel like trash. Her heart pounded in her throat so loudly she was certain he could hear it. "Clayton," she said. Help me, God . . . give me the words. "I want to leave this place."
His surprise couldn't have been greater if she'd said she wanted to fly to the moon. His brow lifted and forged a series of deep creases on his forehead. He set his forearms on the table and chuckled, disbelieving.
Mary felt sick to her stomach. "I'm serious. I want to find my grandmother in New York City and start life over."
The lines on his face faded, and his jaw went slack. Anger stirred the shallow surfaces of his eyes. "Don't tell me what you're going to do." He leaned over the table so his face was closer, his words angry darts. "Don't you see?" His mouth curved upward, but his look was hardly a smile. "You can't go now. You know too much."
Her body trembled, and something inside her told her to run as far as she could, because at least then she might have a chance at getting away. She slid her chair back and shook her head. "I know nothing, Clayton. I won't say a word."
He was on his feet, coming around the table and grabbing a handful of her hair. "Don't flash those blue eyes at me, Mary." He gave her head a solid jerk and pinched his lips together, each word a hiss. "You could destroy me, woman. It'll be years before you leave this place." He straightened and stared at her, the anger in his eyes building like a sudden storm.
Still she had to try. "I promise I won't say a—"
He raised his hand high over her head and brought it hard against the side of her face.
She screamed as she fell to her knees and began scrambling toward the door. She could run, and if he caught her and killed her, then she might be facing the open arms of Jesus when she died. But she might not. She hadn't really given her life to Jesus yet, had she? The possibilities chilled her with terror. She couldn't stay here, not another minute. Not without knowing what would happen to her if she died.
Her knees burned as she shuffled fast along the carpet. She was halfway to the door when he grabbed her hair once more and yanked her up and onto her back. He reeled back and struck her face, her arms, again and again. Only then did she realize the restraint he'd shown last time. Because this beating was too horrific to believe, sending shock waves of pain and nausea through every inch of her body. Something warm dripped down her face and into her eyes, and as she felt herself losing consciousness, her senses no longer registered the damage being done to her.
Because in every way that mattered, she could feel herself turning away, running to Jesus, her arms open wide. And there He was . . . standing at the door of her heart, waiting for her, longing for her. The picture sent her soul soaring on the winds of a joy that knew no bounds. Jesus. . .faithful Jesus. . . I'm sorry I didn't see You there before.
Nigel had showed her the unfathomable love of Christ, and now she believed in it with everything she was. Nigel had told her dozens of stories about Jesus and—in a blur of wonder—each of them came back to her now. One image stood out from the others, something that happened at the Lord's last supper with His disciples. It was the picture of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples—including the one who had already betrayed Him.
That was the sort of love Jesus had for her, even while she struggled for every breath under Clayton's heavy hand. The love of Jesus was warm and safe and wonder
ful, different from anything the world knew of love. It was a caring and a devotion that in an instant gave her a new and wonderful strength. Now, no matter what Clayton did to her, she was existing in a different sort of reality.
Something else became clear. Jesus was fully God and fully man. That's what Nigel had said, and it was why people feared getting to know Jesus. An amazing thought flashed in her mind. She—Mary Madison, daughter of the streets, child of a prostitute, former slave and mistress to one of the most powerful businessmen in the city—had the power to share the truth about Jesus with anyone who would listen. The way Nigel did. She had the power to defend history.
His story—the story of Christ.
The beating continued, blow after blow, but none of them mattered. Mary could feel the arms of Jesus around her, protecting her, sheltering her to a safe place in her mind. Finally, after every awful deed she'd done, after every unspeakable horror that had been done to her—even while she was still being beaten—the impossible had happened. She had turned completely away from Clayton Billings.
I see You, Lord . . . I feel You with me.
Beloved daughter, you belong to Me. . . only Me. I will be your shelter.
Her shelter? Who had said that? Was it Jesus, calling to her, talking to her the way Nigel had the night before? A certainty rushed through her. Indeed, God was speaking straight to her heart. His words breathed life into her and released her from the great pain of the moment. I love You, Lord Jesus. I'm sorry for missing You every time before, sorry for every wrong thing I've ever done. Hold me. Don't let me go.
I will never leave you, never forsake you, precious child.
The newness of love changed everything. The pain faded. Now all she could feel were the gentlest arms in all the world, embracing her, stroking her back, and cradling her like a beloved, precious daughter. All she could hear was the wonderful truth being whispered to her. She was free. No matter what Clayton did to her after this, it didn't matter. For the rest of her days she would revel in the great and awesome splendor of God Almighty, basking in His all-consuming love because she didn't belong to Clayton anymore.
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