Veronica
Sunday in Savannah. I walked down a shady street still rubbing sleep from its eyes to a church nearly as old as the Gospel in Georgia. At the top of wide, concrete steps, men in suits and ladies in summer dresses swarmed a columned portico that dwarfed the tallest among us. A reminder that we are all small in the presence of God. I needed that reminder more than I needed my husband’s touch.
Sitting alone in an antique box pew, I listened to a message rich in God’s word, but one that lacked the comforting timbre of Michael’s voice. After the benediction, I joined others inching toward the vestibule, where the minister shook hands with those eager for a moment with their renowned pastor. Unlike our church, where Michael insisted on making eye contact with each member or visitor before they departed, this shepherd accepted hands of fellowship while craning his neck to talk to a couple standing off to the side.
The confusion I’d harbored over my husband’s ministry deepened. I had witnessed his submission to the Lord. Had seen him pour out his love on his congregation. I could testify to the positive results born from that obedience—results that had blossomed into opportunities neither of us had foreseen. Yet every step forward took my husband farther from me. As his wife, did I have a right to demand a place in his life, or did our service to God mean sacrificing the companionship we once enjoyed?
The disinterested hand moved toward me. I stepped around it onto the portico and found my phone in my purse. Messages clogged my inbox and voicemail. I had taken calls from my mother, brother, and Dave’s wife, Emily, who asked only if I was safe before she prayed with me. The rest had come from Michael.
I typed out, I miss you
Though the clock in Dallas neared eleven, Michael responded. Then come home
I’ll miss you there too
The phone vibrated, and tears threatened to make a scene. I had expected an hour to pass before he called. Whispering a quiet thank you, I connected the line I’d severed a week ago.
“Veronica…” Michael’s voice broke. My determination nearly followed.
“It’s time to talk, Michael.”
Short, quick breaths created static across the line. “Are you leaving me? Is there someone…Are you alone?”
While planning this trip, not once had I considered Michael would accuse me of leaving him for another man. The idea was inconceivable, and evidence that my husband no longer knew my heart.
Fingers touched my shoulder. Flinching from the unexpected contact, I twisted around. A couple in their forties smiled at me. When the woman spotted the phone, she said, “We’re glad you came. Have a nice day,” then walked off with a wave.
I stepped to the corner of the porch. “I’m alone, as I have been for the past two years.”
“Okay, I get the point.” With his fears relieved, impatience hardened his tone. “Just come home. I promise we’ll spend more time together.”
“Treating the symptoms won’t cure the disease. We have to settle things.”
“I agree. The service is about to start. Meet me at the house at noon.”
The absurdity of Michael’s attitude—and, as I thought about it, pregnancy hormones—mingled. Laughter burbled from me with a sob. “I’m not an assistant doing your biding. I’ll see you at my mother’s on Tuesday.”
“Your—Ronnie, tell me you didn’t drive to Virginia in that car.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Don't hang up. Okay, I’ll fly to Richmond tomorrow.”
Music poured through the line. The service had begun without its leader. Not even I would let that stand. “Tuesday.”
“I broadcast that day, you know that. This week we’re talking about a missionary—”
“I won’t be at Mom's until tomorrow night.” Somewhere in Savannah, a church bell rang.
“Veronica, where are you?”
“I’ll tell you on Tuesday.”
Deep voices on the end of the line indicated someone had gone into the hall to fetch Michael. With a quick goodbye, he hung up, leaving me with the disconnect I’d felt far too long. In days, I would learn if that would become the standard for our marriage. Walking toward Reynolds Square and my appointment with Sarah, I swallowed tears that tried to comfort me.
Michael
Michael stumbled into the pulpit. Those who had arrived in time to find a seat in the pews waited along with those sitting in foldout chairs in the overflow wings. Autopilot took over as he sang several hymns. During his prayer, a tingling like blood returning to numb limbs spread across his skin. When the time came for the message, he erupted and delivered the fire-and-brimstone sermon he swore he would never give.
As the unusually somber crowd exited the building, Dave pulled him aside and shuffled him off to Plano. In the living room of the Johnson’s two-story home, surrounded by photos of Dave, Emily and their sons, Michael collapsed on the leather sofa and threw his arms over his eyes, blocking images of the happy family. Of the world. Of God.
After several minutes of silence, heavy footsteps entered the room. A glass or cup landed on wood, and the whoosh of a cushion decompressing made it clear that someone intended to stay.
Michael swiveled into a sitting position, rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands together. “I have to fly to Virginia tomorrow to find out if my marriage—” She couldn’t leave him. Couldn't.
“That’s fine,” Dave said.
“I have three meetings, one of which is with you, and I’m supposed to interview Brent Westberg during the broadcast on Tuesday. Unless they’ve released the missionary?”
Dave shook his head. “Still no word, but the interview isn’t a problem. We’ll call Westberg and see if we can record it tonight. If his guy is released before then, we’ll replace the interview with one of your old sermons. As for the meetings, just reschedule. I wasn’t in the mood for it anyway.”
For the first time since Veronica left, Michael smiled. “I’ll remember that.” Then he sniffed long and hard and turned tired eyes on the only man who seemed to have all the answers. “How am I supposed to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Love my wife and the church?”
Dave puckered his lips and gave a thoughtful look. “It isn’t easy. As you’re aware, Paul pointed out the interest of married believers are divided. In particular, how they can please their spouse. Jesus also tells us a person can’t serve two masters. He’ll hate one and love the other.”
Michael shot Dave a gotcha look. “What have I said about taking verses out of context? In that passage, Jesus was talking about loving money over God.”
“True, but doesn’t it also apply to your dilemma?”
More than Dave realized. “Maybe.”
“Then consider this.” Dave placed his hands on his knees. “You’re a fine pastor, Michael, and we’re blessed to have you. I’m sure I speak for the entire congregation when I say I hope you’ll grow old with us.”
With a quiet laugh, Michael nodded.
“Need I remind you that marriage is a picture of Christ’s relationship with the Church, He being the groom and believers, the bride? In that vein—” Dave smiled. “You'll like this. Emily made me memorize this verse. Drilled me and everything. We’re told to love our wives ‘as Christ loved the church.’ Not love the church instead of our wives. If you do that, knowing Veronica as we do, I’m sure everything will fall into place.”
He stood. “Emily is fixing lunch, but I think you have time to make travel arrangements. You’re welcome to use my reward miles. I have plenty. After evening service, we’ll run by your house and pack a few things, and tomorrow, I’ll drive you to DFW.”
He walked out, leaving Michael alone. Dave’s advice, while sound, did little to solve his problem. He did love his wife and she knew it. But love, and even spending more time together, may not be enough for her. After leaving the law firm, he’d spent most of their savings on hefty seminary tuition and supplementing Veronica’s income
for living expenses. In a few short years, his wife had gone from affluence to that of barely scraping by, and life in a small home with two geriatric vehicles had been more difficult than she’d expected, especially in a town where materialism crept through churches like kudzu through the South. In the past month alone, Veronica had insisted they buy a new car and a bigger house in a better neighborhood.
Reconciling with his wife meant submitting his resignation to better provide for her. Losing his wife meant the same. Either way, his short ministry, which had reached tens, then hundreds, then thousands, and had the potential of touching lives around the world, was barreling down a track toward a brick wall.
Steve
Heat shimmered around him in black waves. Steve pictured the sun moving overhead. Trees. Blue sky. His parents’ house in Amarillo. Land stretching so far, he could see Earth’s gentle curve along the horizon. His apartment in Houston. Waves crashing against the seawall in Galveston. Clean water.
Lying on the side that hurt the least, one arm stretched out, the other draped across his chest, he tried to mouth a prayer. Words stopped days ago, blocked by a scorched throat and thick tongue. The water his captors provided each day was rank. He couldn’t drink it at first, but after baking at four-hundred degrees for three hours, he changed his mind. Diarrhea hit soon after. Then he discovered someone failed to install a toilet. With his body bruised and broken, he’d barely made it to the far corner of the steel container before his intestines exploded, coating the back of his pants. The dry parts had served as toilet paper. He nearly threw up when he had to handle his food.
If dysentery didn’t kill him, hepatitis or a plethora of other feces-induced diseases would. If his kidneys didn’t shut down first.
Passing a swollen tongue over dry lips, Steve closed his eyes and let his heart pray.
Veronica
I arrived in Richmond on Monday. Majestic Georgian homes, ancient magnolias, and stone walls coated with thick, green ivy had a serenity that Dallas’s contemporary sprawl lacked.
My mother met me at the door. She led me to the living room and held me as my grief soaked the shoulder of her blouse. Sorrow from my separation from her and my husband. Grief over losses in my marriage. Shame for missing Mr. Thatcher’s death and funeral, which I’d learned about after listening to Michael’s messages.
She stroked my hair. “You did what you felt necessary, honey, for you and for the baby. As a mommy, you’ll always have to make difficult choices.”
Wiping my nose with my hand, I nodded and allowed her to tuck me in on the sofa with the quilt Grandma had made for my parent’s wedding. A comforting smile relaxed my mother’s face, void of wrinkles thanks to an endless supply of designer lotions. “I made molasses cookies.”
Only then did I notice cinnamon and nutmeg warming the air. Something tickled my abdomen. “Thanks, Mom. Now can I have the recipe?”
Her smile deepened. “I put it in the box with the baby things. Speaking of which, we’ll have to buy a new crib. Yours somehow broke in storage. Wait here and I’ll bring those treats.”
In the age in which we lived, only my mother would seek to solve problems with milk and cookies. As I adjusted my head on the pillow she’d brought down from the room she still called mine, I realized it wasn’t the food so much as the love that mattered. My mother loved me and was willing to bake my favorite dessert to make my world right.
That God loved me more took my breath away. But would He fix everything by restoring my bond with Michael, or would He insist on being my comfort as my husband went forth and served Him?
Tears dampened my cheek. I reached for my purse and found my phone. I miss you, I typed.
Seconds later, a text message arrived. I can be there in three minutes.
A swell of emotion consumed me. He came to me and was less than a mile from my arms. My mother rushed into the room and shushed me as I once again wept in her arms.
“Think of the baby, Veronica.”
For my daughter's sake, I dammed the torrent.
My phone rang. With her gaze resting on me, Mom answered. “Not tonight, Michael. My daughter needs rest after that exhausting journey. Please be here at eight. I’ll have breakfast on the table. Do you still like ham with your eggs or would you prefer bacon?”
My mother’s habit of mediating conflict with food bought a soggy smile. Instead of shaking my head as I had in the past, I took notes. “Tell him I love him.”
She did, and for the rest of the night, I clung to hope.
Michael
Michael stood on the Poag’s front porch, hands in the pockets of his jeans, jingling the key to his rental car. Should he rush into her arms or give her space? She said she loved him. He had that much in his favor. Or had her mother said that to smooth things over?
Honeysuckle and the faint sent of lemon perfumed the morning air as it had on the day Veronica had invited him over to meet her mother and brother. That night, on a swing in the backyard beneath a magnolia tree dotted with large white blossoms, he’d proposed. Had she summoned him back to this spot to bring their relationship full circle, or to start over?
He clutched the car key. The horn honked as he accidentally re-engaged the locks. The door opened, but the woman who answered was a finely aged version of Veronica. “Beverly.”
Beverly Poag wrapped him in a gentle hug, then stepped aside. “Michael, come in.”
Finally granted permission to see his wife, to address the problems that had broken his marriage, Michael stepped into the historic home. Veronica stood in the foyer. The ache he’d hoped to hide exploded, and he rushed across the wood floor and swept her into his arms. She wouldn’t want it, not as angry as she was, but he missed her. He needed her. How could she not know that?
Gripping her so tight a gnat couldn’t pass between them, he buried his face in her blonde hair and pressed his lips against a neck that smelled of the Dove soap Beverly kept in the bathroom. Had it only been a week?
She slipped her hands around his back and smoothed them across his shirt—a white button-down, opened at the neck. Her favorite. This would work. They would make it work.
“You kids talk,” Beverly said. “I’ll finish breakfast.”
For some reason, Veronica snickered, and as Beverly passed, she patted her daughter on the shoulder. After she disappeared into the kitchen, Michael stepped back and checked over his wife. Dressed in a sleeveless nightgown as pale as her face with circles beneath her eyes, she looked more than tired. But her cheeks looked fuller, and though he wouldn’t say it, she’d gained weight. At least one of them had eaten a decent meal during the past week.
“Are you okay? I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?”
“New Orleans and Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Making a point was one thing. Denying him a dream, another. “Are you serious? You knew I was looking forward to that trip.”
Her shoulders sank as if all hope had suddenly died. If he wanted this to work, he had to offer her some leeway. He took a breath and released the steam. “I’m sorry. But I can’t believe you drove your car across the country. That wasn’t safe.”
Without answering, she walked into the living room and sat in a wing-backed chair, signaling the start of a new beginning—or the end of the lives they’d shared.
His phone vibrated. The name of a young couple he’d been counseling blinked across the display. If they felt the need to call this early, something must have gone wrong.
Veronica watched in silence. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and sat on the sofa. “I’m sorry for forcing you to live a life you didn’t want, but I love you and I know we can fix this.” The growing congregation. The calls he’d received during the radio broadcast testifying of faith born from one of his messages. Opportunities to reach other pastors struggling in the ministry. To reach the lost. Gone. His tongue thickened. “I’ll submit my resignation and join a law firm in Dallas or here in R
ichmond, if you prefer. You can work or stay home, whatever you like.”
Sitting in the chair, one hand resting on the other, Veronica looked more mature, as if the events of the week had aged her more than they had him. “I don’t want you to leave the church.”
She’d left that church without a word and ran as fast as she could to get away from it, and now she claimed she didn’t want him to leave? “Babe, you’re confusing me.”
“This isn’t about you leaving the ministry. I just want you to see me.”
“I do see you. I know we need to spend more time together. Just give me a little time to rearrange—”
“Michael!” She launched forward and fell to her knees in front of him. Pressing warm hands on both sides of his face, hair mussed, eyes wide, she exuded desperation. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re so caught up in your work, you don’t need me. There’s no place for me in your life.”
“That is not true.” The stress of the past week, of everything she’d put him through over the past months—year—reared, and he jerked her hands away. “The ministry, the broadcast, my heavy schedule are exactly why I need you more than ever. Mr. Thatcher died, Ronnie. He died holding my hand. I needed you and you left me. I’ve had a heavy load at the church this week, performed a funeral, and had to attend functions while juggling things at home. And where were you? Playing around in New Orleans and Savannah. Now tell me how that’s fair?”
Veronica dropped back on her heels, defeat in her expression.
Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her. He focused on a bookshelf, a vase, anything but the pain he’d put in his wife’s eyes.
“Michael, before we can move forward, I need to know why you dance.”
“What?” He shook his head. “That doesn't even make sense. What are you talking about?”
She pressed her hand against her mouth for a second, then took a breath. “You’re so caught up in the excitement of stepping behind pulpits and podiums, doing radio shows, networking and talking book contracts, you don’t see me anymore.”
Eternal Weight of Glory And Other Short Stories Page 3