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Elodie was still at work, so Philippe was home alone in the late afternoon. He had read a Psalm that morning and prayed for Meredith’s deliverance, but she hadn’t called, she hadn’t repented, and Philippe was now choking with worry for her. He went up to her bedroom and stood in the doorway.
All he could see was the bed. Beds, Meredith in so many beds, so many men, or should he call them boys, since they weren’t man enough to keep it in their pants? Meredith! Why doesn’t God answer my prayers and help her! Philippe remembered the first line of his poem that the circle had used Thursday night as a prompt. I will be open with him, Philippe thought, for where I am closed I am false.
“God, I’ve served you for twenty five years. Save my girl, my precious little Meredith!”
He listened. As the Desert Fathers, or Teresa of Avila, or some ancient saint once said, the heavens are sometimes as brass.
“God, at this point, yes! You owe me! I’m calling in all markers!”
And he was silent again. He listened to the empty house, hoping. But still no phone call, no doorbell, no prodigal Meredith to return to his care and protection.
And then his disappointment with God, whom he loved and had devoted his life to but with whom he was more angry than he’d ever been with anybody in his life, boiled up. The anger in him, at God who was omnipotent but didn’t bring Meredith home, burst out of him with searing heat.
“I have been praying for this child since the moment I knew Elodie was pregnant with her, and things are so much worse than ever. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you do something?”
He looked up at the ceiling, through the ceiling, into the throne room of God. “Prayer after prayer, years’ worth of prayers for Meredith, and you have ignored them while I visited sick old people in dumpy hospitals, and took Elodie’s soup to them in their smelly little flats, and sometimes, when their aides weren’t around, I even wiped their bottoms.
“I’ve listened to parishioners who ruined their lives in spite of wise counsel I gave them. And I was patient, most of the time, because I loved you. I’ve modeled Jesus to the very best of my ability. For years!
“Years of divinity school, student debt so I could be a pastor, years of traipsing to dozens of churches asking for financial support so I could go to pagan Paris, the place that used to be the center of Christianity. I wanted to serve God, serve God, I’ve served you well, with my utmost—”
And then his anger became rage. Where was Meredith?
“God damn you, God!” he screamed at the ceiling.
The room was ringing with the screech of his voice. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. God was the creator of the universe. He deserved the utmost respect.
“I’m sorry.” He pictured Meredith, vulnerable, abused. “But I mean it! I really mean it, you old fool!”
He was appalled at what he was saying.
“I’m sorry. I’ve taken God’s name in vain. But oh my God, why don’t you help? You’re all-powerful, do something, damn it!”
Philippe fell on the bed and cried into the pillow. He had disappointed himself and God. He was powerless to help Meredith, and powerless to convince God to help Meredith. He had devoted his life, and this was the thanks he got. Worse, he had behaved in a way not worthy of his calling...he must never tell his parishioners...he must repent...he’d do that later, right now he was too upset...oh dear God, I’m too acquainted with grief, please spare me, spare us all...
Elodie came home later and found him on Meredith’s bed. She didn’t take his shoes off for fear of waking him. She covered him with Meredith’s red and white compass quilt.
