five

Charissa

With all the deadlines pressing in on her—books to read, papers to write and grade, lectures to revise—Charissa had discovered that offering a few hours of volunteer time at Crossroads on Fridays helped keep her life in perspective. Being surrounded by people who had nothing helped her remain grateful for what she had been given. The intentional practice of serving others had shaped her in ways she couldn’t have anticipated.

“The stir-fry was a big hit,” she told Mara as they set out bowls of salad and pots of soup for the Crossroads guests. “John says I won for the week since neither one of us got sick afterward.” Mara did not reply. “Thanks again for helping me.”

Mara smoothed the edge of the tablecloth. “I told you, you’ll conquer it in no time.”

“I don’t know about that, but if I have a couple of healthy meals in my repertoire, that will be a big improvement.” Charissa looked forward to planting and cooking from her garden. She had been studying seed catalogs the past week and was becoming quite the expert on heirloom tomatoes. Want to become an expert on basketball seeds? John had teased. She did not.

“You feeling better today, Miss Charissa?” Billy asked when he made his way through the line. A regular at the shelter, he had spoken to her a few times about his military service in Vietnam. “I seen you last week. You were out cold.”

“I was,” she said. “But yes, I’m feeling better. Thank you.” Her students, even Justin, who had not posted on social media—she had checked—had made similar inquiries about her yesterday. She ought to let go of the embarrassment and let people express concern and offer opinions, hard as it was. Bethany wasn’t even born yet, and already she was offering lessons about giving up control.

“You need to make sure you’re getting enough iron,” Ronni, a single mom of three, commented as she held out her plate for salad. “Doctors said I was anemic. Tell you what, I felt crappy. You tired?”

“Not too bad.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Yes, it was. Now that Charissa had hit the six-month mark, she felt like she was heading into the homestretch. In a few more weeks she would finish the semester, and then she could turn her attention toward preparing for Bethany’s arrival: decorate the room, stock up on diapers, buy newborn clothes and other paraphernalia. John had been researching strollers and cribs and car seats for months now, but she hadn’t yet given him the green light to purchase the larger ticket items. They’d had too many other expenses with remodeling the house.

Not that she was going to complain, she reminded herself as she served the salad. Most of these people didn’t have houses. And she bet most of the moms hadn’t been able to buy anything new for their babies.

“Are you okay?” she asked Mara after the last of the patrons had passed through the line.

Mara shook her head. Normally gregarious with each guest, she had served today without much interaction, even with the regulars. She picked up the empty soup pots and motioned for Charissa to follow her to the kitchen. “Usually it doesn’t bother me,” she said in a low voice. “But today the smell of booze got to me. Every time I smelled it on their breath or saw it in their eyes, it pushed all kinds of fear buttons about Jeremy. I just feel so helpless about everything.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Can I pray for you?” Charissa asked. Mara nodded.

Later that afternoon Charissa received an email from Hannah, apologizing that she hadn’t had a chance to select a text to pray with. She wasn’t even sure she would be able to come to the group, since she was leaving early the next morning for Chicago.

Charissa wished she could call Meg. Meg would have known how to reach out to Hannah and encourage her. Don’t worry about choosing a prayer handout, Charissa wrote back. I’ll find one. Just come. Even if you can only stay a little while, we can still pray for you.

“Did you get ahold of Jeremy?” she asked John when he entered with shopping bags shortly after five o’clock.

“Yeah. He’s home with Madeleine tonight.”

“And?”

“He sounded okay.”

She followed John to the kitchen and started unpacking groceries. Chips. Cookies. Soda. No wonder he’d offered to stop at the store after work. Charissa didn’t buy junk food. “What about going over there?” she asked.

“Just showing up? That’d be weird.”

“How about watching basketball together? It’s Friday. Somebody’s got to be playing, right?”

“Um, you’re cute.” He opened a Pringles canister and poured out a stack. “Michigan State against Kansas, remember?” She stared at him. “Regional semifinal.”

“Okay, then. Offer to take a pizza over there and watch the game with him.”

“Chuck and I are going to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the game with some of his friends.”

Charissa closed the pantry cupboard. She would organize it later. “Take a raincheck with the neighbor, okay? And call Jeremy back. Please.”

While John made his phone call (“Dude! I’ve got a great idea!”), she skimmed the prayer notebook for an exercise from Katherine that would be fruitful to explore together. It didn’t take long to find one.

MEDITATION ON MARK 14:1-11

A Beautiful Thing

Quiet yourself in the presence of God. Then read the text aloud a couple of times and imagine you are with Jesus at Simon’s house in Bethany. Use all of your senses to enter the story and participate in the scene.

It was now two days before the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread. And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to arrest him by stealth and kill him, for they said, “Not during the feast, lest there be an uproar from the people.”

And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”

Then Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, went to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. And when they heard it, they were glad and promised to give him money. And he sought an opportunity to betray him.

For Personal Reflection (45-60 minutes)

1. 1. Begin by picturing yourself as an onlooker in the story. What do you notice about the woman who anoints Jesus? What thoughts and feelings arise within you as you watch her break the jar and anoint him?

2. 2. How do you feel when you hear the disciples criticize her? What do you say about her? Why?

3. 3. Think of a time when you judged someone else for the way they served or worshiped Jesus. What justification did you use for your judgment? What might God say to you about this?

4. 4. Now imagine you are the woman anointing Jesus. What motivates you to pour out your perfume on him? Do you have any hesitation in breaking the jar? Why or why not?

5. 5. How do you feel when you hear the disciples criticizing you and scolding you? How do you respond? Offer what you notice to God in prayer.

6. 6. How do you feel when you hear Jesus defend you and the offering of your gift? How do you respond when he declares that you have done “a beautiful thing”? Offer what you notice to God in prayer.

7. 7. What “beautiful thing” are you being invited to offer in sacrifice and love to Jesus? Do you have any hesitation in offering such a costly gift? Offer your longings, fears, and resistance to God in prayer.

For Group Reflection (45-60 minutes)

1. 1. With whom did you most easily identify in the story—the woman or the critical observers? Why? Share what you noticed about your thoughts and feelings as you imagined yourself participating in the story.

2. 2. What opportunities do you have for offering a costly sacrifice of love to Jesus? How can the group encourage and support you in this offering?

3. 3. Offer a word of encouragement to the person on your left. What “beautiful things” have you seen him or her offer to Jesus? How has this offering inspired you? When you receive a gift of encouragement, take time to savor it before offering a word to the person beside you.

4. 4. Close by silently meditating on the worth of Jesus. What is he worth to you? Pray for an increase in love, devotion, and courage for yourself and for your fellow travelers.

Mara

Each person dealt with sorrow in her own way, Mara reminded herself as she settled onto Charissa’s couch, the prayer exercise on her lap. Hannah, evidently, preferred to deal with struggles by herself, by withdrawing from community. Mara, on the other hand, ran toward community, now that she had community to run toward. Or maybe Hannah preferred the community of a husband, now that she had one. What a lucky woman she was. Mara wouldn’t know what that kind of community was like. “Should we call her and make sure she’s okay?”

Charissa lowered herself into an armchair. “I think maybe we should just leave it for now. It sounds like they’re leaving early in the morning for Chicago.”

Where two or three are gathered . . .

Jesus was with them, even if it was only the two of them. But Mara didn’t like the thought of the Sensible Shoes Club unraveling. If Hannah didn’t value their time together, there was nothing they could do to force her to participate. But when should you let someone walk away, and when should you hunt them down? Mara offered a silent prayer for her friend, then looked at the text. “Want me to read first?” she asked. Charissa nodded and closed her eyes.

That woman sure was lucky to have something beautiful to offer Jesus. The jar looked like a treasure, like it was carved from marble. And when she broke it, the spicy aroma of the perfume filled the whole room and lingered. That woman was gutsy. Mara wasn’t sure she would have had the chutzpah to pour the ointment out on Jesus’ head during a dinner party. But maybe the rules for dinner parties were different back then.

The look in the woman’s eyes caught Mara’s attention as she imagined the scene unfolding, a look that declared the only person in the whole wide world who mattered at that moment was Jesus, and nothing—no one—was going to prevent her from pouring out her precious gift on him. Jesus had an intense look in his eyes too, this look of gratitude and love mixed with sorrow as he gazed at her. They did not break eye contact. Mara would have treasured a moment like that. What a lucky woman. “Blessed” was the better word. What a blessed woman to have a costly gift to offer. A blessed woman to think of offering it. A blessed woman to hear Jesus praise her for the gift and then say that everyone in the whole wide world would hear about it. Blessed. Like a star pupil in a class. Like a favorite child. Blessed.

Mara twirled her bangle bracelets, oblivious to the clicking sound until Charissa looked up from her writing. “Sorry,” Mara mouthed. She crossed one leg over the other, wishing she could rest her bare feet on the coffee table. But Charissa had complained to her about the “punk kids” who put their feet up on desks and disrespected her with phones in the classroom, and Charissa’s glass coffee table didn’t invite smudges from feet. Her new rugs didn’t invite shoes. She would be in for a shocker once they had a baby spitting up or a toddler spilling things. And if Bethany had those rocket poops like Kevin had . . .

Mara stared at the Christ candle, rolled her shoulders, and read the questions again. How did she feel when she heard the disciples criticizing the woman? Mad. That woman had every right to use her gift any way she wanted to. Who were they to tell her what to do with it? They had no right to judge her. What that woman did was between her and Jesus. They should just back off, leave her alone.

Jesus was mad too. Leave her alone, he said.

Yeah. You tell ’em, Jesus.

What a blessed woman to have Jesus defend her. Defend and praise. Wow.

If she put herself in the woman’s place, Mara could imagine Jesus defending her against bullies. That’s something Jesus would do— intervene and tell the bullies to knock it off. But praise? That’s the part that kept her from imagining herself as the woman. For one thing, she didn’t have a costly gift to offer Jesus, nothing that would cause him to praise her. Compared to that woman, Mara was the little kid drawing stick figures and coloring a purple sun or something to present to Jesus. Jesus would take her drawing, of course, and he would smile and tell her it was pretty and hang it up on his fridge for a while to make her feel special. But she had nothing other people would regard as precious and valuable.

Mara scrunched her toes on the floor rug and then brushed the indentations away with the sole of her foot. What “beautiful thing” was she being invited to offer to Jesus? She had no clue. And thinking about all the beautiful things other people had to offer him only made her feel worse about herself.

She stared at her empty hands. How did she feel when she watched that woman pour out her gift upon Jesus? How did she feel when she heard Jesus defend and praise her?

Jealous. That was the honest word to describe how she felt. That was often the word to describe how she felt. Mara shook her head and sighed. How she wished that wasn’t what she felt. But since it’s the only thing she had, she poured it out and tried to imagine that the offering smelled like something other than stinking shame.

Charissa

It was possible, Charissa thought as she read through the prayer exercise again, that she was subconsciously drawn to texts that mentioned “Bethany.” First, the raising of Lazarus story, now the anointing at Bethany. She rested her hand on her abdomen. Bethany was quiet after an active day. Sleep, little girl. Sleep. But if she slept now, would she be kicking all night?

Sleep. It was no alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume, but it was a costly sacrifice nonetheless, one that Charissa ought to accustom herself to making. She had read some new mothers’ testimonies online, about how they had started using colorful words they had never in their lives uttered before, how they would never again take sleep for granted, how they wondered if they would ever sleep soundly again, what with worrying about whether their infants were breathing in their cribs or whether they could choke on a pacifier or whether they were getting enough nutrition or whether they would earn a merit scholarship to a prestigious college.

Charissa stared at the Christ candle and took a slow breath. Even after a few months of practice, it was far easier to analyze the story from a literary or psychological distance than to enter it with her imagination. What had caught her attention during her search for a text, however, was first, the timeliness of the story as they approached Good Friday and second, the opportunity to ponder a text that was similar to one that had impacted her months before, the story of the woman who, with scandalous devotion, crashed Simon the Pharisee’s dinner party and wiped Jesus’ feet with her hair. The same dynamic was at play in Mark’s story: one woman’s extravagant love for Jesus and others’ harsh judgment of that love. With which characters, Charissa wondered, did she identify now? What progress had she made in her own journey toward expressing greater devotion and gratitude? Could she say she had become more loving, more passionate since embarking on the sacred journey at New Hope last fall? She wasn’t sure.

She read the text silently, trying to envision the scene.

“Lavish” was the word that came to mind as she pictured the woman breaking open her jar to anoint Jesus. She saved nothing for herself. She didn’t measure out the perfume by teaspoons, calculating the cost. Instead she poured out every last drop in love, devotion, and gratitude. While the chief priests and scribes sought the opportunity to arrest and kill Jesus, and while Judas sought the opportunity to betray him, this woman sought the opportunity to honor him, to anoint the Anointed One.

What opportunity did Charissa seek? She clicked her pen. The opportunity to follow him, yes. To be faithful, yes. But to give herself over in love with reckless abandon? Not most days, no. She was still cautious, still calculating, still measured.

If she was honest, she understood the criticism. Though she might have refrained from publicly denouncing the woman and her offering (hadn’t she been striving the past few months to crucify her critical spirit?), she would have silently censured. It did seem a waste. Especially if the gift was worth what the disciples appraised it to be. Three hundred denarii could go a long way toward altruistic causes, toward kingdom work.

But Jesus received the gift and commended her for it.

Charissa stroked her abdomen. There were plenty of times over the past several months when she had reprimanded John for his impulse to “waste money.” No, Bethany didn’t need that high-end crib or state-of-the-art stroller. Charissa was constantly reining him in, reminding him of their budget, approaching their purchases from a cost-effectiveness perspective. She had tried to control his generosity and manage his prodigal tendencies.

But she also remembered the joy she had experienced the night she disregarded their budget and charged off to the store to buy groceries for Mara, not merely the necessities but also some treats for the boys. Or the time when she sent in the donation to Crossroads with the instructions to use the money to buy ingredients for Mara’s famous snickerdoodle cookies so that the patrons would have something more than sandwiches or soup that day. Small examples, to be sure, but examples that reminded her that extravagance could have purpose when it was directed in love toward another.

It was the difference, perhaps, between sharing an expensive meal with a loved one to mark a special occasion and taking that same expensive meal and dumping it into the garbage without eating it. One was extravagance, the other waste. And what the woman in Bethany discerned correctly was that this was a moment when extravagant devotion superseded practicality. And so she poured out her precious treasure with abandon. In freedom. In love.

Charissa checked her watch. Twenty more minutes for silent reflection. Though she could spend the remaining time repenting of the ways she had judged others over the years, it might be more profitable to ponder her discomfort over imagining herself as the woman. Learn to linger with what provokes you, Nathan often said.

Okay, she would linger.

What had she ever offered that Jesus would deem “a beautiful thing”? What costly sacrifice had she ever given in love? Recently, she had given up her childhood church for John, but she hadn’t really been thinking about Jesus when she agreed to attend Wayfarer. She had given up some of her time on Fridays to serve at Crossroads, but this practice benefited her as much as anyone. She liked the feeling of making a difference, liked helping Mara. Was she serving for Christ’s sake? She wasn’t sure. Was she serving for the sake of the poor? She wasn’t sure. Was it possible that even her serving could be self-serving?

Weeds, weeds, and more weeds. Was it ever possible to offer anything that was pure and untainted by selfishness, or would her soul always be a mixture of wheat and weeds?

I have no beautiful thing to offer you, she wrote in her journal, then closed the book with a thud that caught Mara’s attention and elicited a sympathetic sigh.

Though Mara was kind to name the ways Charissa had served her and helped Jeremy—“Those are beautiful things to me,” Mara insisted—the encouragement did little to assuage the guilt over all the things that had not been beautiful in her life. Charissa had been trying to go the extra mile, to lay down her life in love for others. But it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t going far enough with sacrifice.

“You’re way too hard on yourself,” John said as they lay in bed later that night. “I don’t think the goal of spiritual formation is beating yourself up over not being perfect, is it?”

No. It wasn’t. It’s a journey, not an exam, Nathan would say. Progress, not perfection. “You know who I kept thinking about tonight?” Charissa said. When John didn’t guess, she answered, “Meg. She had this purity of heart that I don’t think I’ll ever have.” Purity of heart wasn’t something she could achieve by trying harder, either. That’s what was so frustrating—her helplessness in making herself like Jesus.

John rolled toward her and propped himself on his elbow. “Yeah, but we never see other people’s motives, do we? I mean, we can’t know whether someone’s heart is pure or not. If Meg had been here tonight, she probably would have been commiserating with you.”

“I know. But she loved well. I can imagine Jesus greeting her with a big smile and saying, ‘Well done.’” Charissa couldn’t imagine Jesus doing the same for her. And if she focused on serving in order to receive Christ’s commendation, then she was still living selfishly, wasn’t she? She exhaled loudly.

“What?” John asked, his thumb to her cheek.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be free of my self-centeredness. Ever.” John kissed her, and she turned off the light.

 

Becca

Another email from Hannah, the second this week. No, Becca hadn’t confirmed her plans for the summer yet. No, she didn’t know when she would be flying to Kingsbury. No, she didn’t need Hannah to make any of the arrangements for her. If Hannah could just put enough money into her account to pay for the airfare, Becca would take care of it herself. She pressed Send and closed her inbox.

“She’s as bad as my mom,” Becca said to Simon, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, she’s acting like a mom, and I don’t need a mom right now.” The words had tumbled out completely wrong. “What I mean is, I don’t need someone else trying to be one.” She was not going to cry. Simon was tired of her tears. He hadn’t said that, not directly. But she could tell that her moods were becoming tedious. The last several nights he had been out late with work colleagues for drinks and hadn’t once invited her to join them. She would need to get a better handle on grief management.

She sidled over toward his chair and squeezed in beside him, her leg draped over his. “How about takeaway curry tonight?”

He reached for a cigarette and lit up. “Quiz night.”

“Another quiz—”

“I told you that already.”

“Sorry. Forgot.” She waved her hand in front of her face to shoo away a puff of smoke. She wished he would quit, especially now that her mom . . . “I can come cheer you on.”

“Nigel wouldn’t like that.”

“Why not?”

He took another long drag on his cigarette. “Nigel’s very intense, very competitive. He doesn’t like spectators.” Becca had never met Nigel. She hadn’t met many of Simon’s friends, in fact, and the few she had met didn’t seem to like her. They’re jealous, Simon said whenever she complained. You should see their wives. Ghastly.

“I won’t cheer, then,” she said. “I’ll just sit and watch. I’ll be so quiet you won’t even know I’m there.”

“Then why bother?”

“You don’t want me there?”

“I said Nigel wouldn’t want you there.”

“Why should this Nigel get to say who’s there and who’s not there?”

“Rebecca, stop.”

“I’m just saying, you should be able to take your girlfriend to quiz night without the others making an issue out of it.”

Simon shifted as though he were rising from the chair. No. Stay. Please. She maneuvered onto his lap. She could make him stay. Nigel could find a different partner. She nuzzled Simon’s ear. Quiz night? What quiz night? When his hands began to grope beneath her skirt, she thought she had won. But twenty minutes later, he was on his way to the pub without her.

She stared at the door after it closed behind him. Fine. He could go have his fun. But there was no point staying at the flat by herself. Maybe Harriet and Pippa were going clubbing. She texted both of them. Dance night with killer band at Cargo, Harriet replied. Good. Maybe she would take Pippa’s advice for grief management and get totally wasted.

She opened Simon’s closet and removed her favorite black leather mini-skirt and a low-cut blouse. A little flirting with strangers wouldn’t hurt, either.

Carpe diem.

Hannah

Even after rehearsing the moment in her imagination during the three-hour drive south to Chicago, Hannah was unprepared for the emotions that overtook her when Heather opened the door to her bungalow and greeted her with outstretched arms and a bubbly, “Wow! You look great!”

Heather looked great too, her twentysomething face bright and fresh and without any visible evidence of ministry strain. The veteran indicators of the furrowed brow, the dark circles under the eyes, the slumped shoulders—those would come later. Just wait, Hannah thought, eyeing the perky potted pansies in unfamiliar matching swan urns on the porch. Heather had evidently made herself at home.

“And you must be Nathan!” Heather exclaimed before Hannah had a chance to introduce him as her husband. She had anticipated that moment on her doorstep, and now she’d even had that snatched away from her. Hannah summoned an appropriate smile. “C’mon in!” Heather said, stepping aside and sweeping her arm toward the living room.

She should have emailed Heather and asked for privacy, for the gift of returning home without being made to feel like a guest. Nathan was right: she didn’t know how to ask for what she wanted, and now she wouldn’t get a second chance to introduce her husband to her old life without someone else watching.

Once across the threshold Nathan stooped to remove his shoes. “Oh, that’s okay, you can keep your shoes on,” Heather said, and then added awkwardly, “unless Hannah, you want—”

“No, shoes are fine,” Hannah mumbled, noting Heather’s stylish flats before casting her eyes around the room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I added some personal touches,” Heather said. Translation: I hammered holes into the walls to hang artwork everywhere.

“You’re a Monet fan, huh?” Hannah commented. The front room now contained several prints of gardens and bridges.

“Love him. The way he captures light—I could sit in front of his paintings for hours. You should take Nathan to the Art Institute while you’re here.”

This isn’t a sightseeing trip, Hannah replied silently. Aloud she said, “Maybe another time. We’ve got our hands full, trying to get everything packed up.”

Heather sat down in Hannah’s prayer chair, the recliner where for years Hannah had engaged in her morning devotions beside the front window, and put her feet up. “I was going to help get your office ready by boxing up your books,” she said, “but then I thought you might be sorting things out while you packed. Anything you don’t want to keep, feel free to leave.”

Nathan squeezed Hannah’s shoulder as they sat down together on the couch.

“I should have asked you before about some of the furniture,” Heather went on. “I’d be happy to buy some of your stuff if you don’t want to move it.”

Though Hannah knew she had no room for any of it in Kingsbury, her first impulse was to put it all in storage rather than leave it for Heather.

“What do you think, Shep?” Nathan asked when she took too long to reply.

“We’ll talk about it.”

They did—after Heather finally excused herself to lead a Bible study at the church. “Keep everything that’s important to you,” Nathan said as they assembled boxes. “We’ll figure out how to consolidate everything once we get home.”

Obviously, he wasn’t entertaining her desire to move. Despite his declaration that they would “talk about it later,” he hadn’t initiated the subject on the drive down. After the first hour of relative silence in the car, Hannah assumed he preferred not to discuss it. In any case, she didn’t intend to bring it up again. Once was too much.

She opened all the cupboards in her kitchen and stared at her old dishes and appliances. What sentimental attachments did she have to any of it? A few souvenir plates and mugs, that was all. She wrapped some pieces in newspaper and filled half a box. Heather could keep the rest or get rid of it. Hannah didn’t care.

Did. Not.

“You okay, Shep?”

“I want my chair.” She didn’t wait for him to help her drag it toward the front door.

It was dark when Hannah and Nathan arrived at Westminster, the U-Haul only partially filled with boxes and a few pieces of furniture: her recliner, a roll-top desk, and an antique barrister bookcase that had been her father’s. The rest Heather purchased with a check that had already been made out to Hannah and signed by Claudia Kirk, presumably her mother. Heather had scribbled in the total for her first month’s rent plus the household items. She’d gotten a bargain, and she knew it.

Hannah unlocked her office door and breathed deeply. This had been the haven where she had spent the majority of her time over the past fifteen years, even sleeping on the couch many nights. She set down a stack of empty boxes and picked up a favorite blanket that was folded on one of the throw pillows. “I want this couch,” she said. “And those lamps.” The antique lamps with urn-shaped bases and scalloped shades had lit the dens in her childhood homes, and her mother had sent them to her when she got the job at Westminster. Nathan unplugged them from the wall and set them on the sofa.

“Are the bookcases yours?”

“No. Just the couch and the lamps. And all these books.” Oh, how she had missed her books.

Nathan adjusted his glasses and leaned in for a closer look. “You’ve got good stuff here.” He fingered some of the book bindings. “We’ll find room, don’t worry. I can take my books from home to school and give you that office space. You can even put your chair in there by the front window, have a place where you can close the door. We’ll make it work.”

Mm-hmm.

She opened her desk drawers. These, at least, Heather had left untouched.

Shocking.

“Are you going to sort books here or just pack them all up?” Nathan asked.

With her future in pastoral ministry still uncertain, she wasn’t sure what she might need. “Just pack all of them.” That was easier than deciding what to keep and what to leave behind. While Nathan cleared shelves, she cleared out her desk.

“Knock, knock,” a voice called from the doorway.

Hannah looked up. “Steve!” She hadn’t seen his car in the parking lot, and his office had been dark when they had arrived. So much for avoiding him while she packed up. She stepped around boxes to give him a one-armed hug.

“I figured that was your U-Haul out there,” he said.

Before she lost another opportunity at an introduction, she motioned toward Nathan. “Steve, I’d like you to meet my husband, Nathan Allen.”

Steve smiled warmly and extended his hand. “If I’d known you’d be here tonight, I would have invited you both for dinner.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “We were working all day at the house and finally got it cleared out. Or everything I need to clear out, anyway.”

“Well, thanks for being willing to work with Heather on that. She’s very excited.”

Feeling Nathan’s gaze on her, Hannah pitched her voice correctly. “I’m glad she’s worked out. It sounds like she’s been a great fit for Westminster.”

Steve nodded. “She had hard shoes to fill, but she’s done a great job.” He glanced again at Nathan. “Your wife was a great colleague. It’s hard to let her go.”

Nathan grasped her hand and held onto it. “Well, thanks for paying attention to the Spirit’s nudges. If you hadn’t given her the sabbatical, we wouldn’t have reconnected.”

“Glad to be part of God’s plan.” Steve paused and then said, “You sure you won’t join me in leading worship tomorrow, Hannah?”

“I’m sure, thanks.”

He was looking at her not with the shepherd’s expression she had often seen as he ministered tenderly to the flock but with the senior executive’s expression she had glimpsed at staff meetings when he was issuing correctives. “I’ll be frank,” he said. “There are some people in the congregation—not many but a vocal minority—who think I forced you to resign, that somehow your sabbatical was part of some grand scheme to push you out in favor of someone—”

Younger, she silently supplied when he hesitated.

“—new,” he said, “or that you left because you’re angry or because something happened between us.”

“What? Of course not!”

“It just seems odd,” Steve went on, “the way you resisted having a proper send-off here. If there’s anything unresolved or unspoken between us, I’d like to talk it through.”

Unresolved and unspoken. Yes, as a matter of fact, there was. And though Hannah resisted naming it—though her mind commanded her to disappear without naming any hurt or disappointment for fear of giving offense—her soul longed to speak the truth. If she didn’t take this opportunity to voice her struggle face to face, she might not get another. “Nate, maybe you can give Steve and me a few minutes together, alone.”

To Steve’s credit he listened without interrupting, asking appropriate, clarifying questions. To Hannah’s relief he did not become defensive when she said that even though she knew he had her spiritual health in mind when he insisted she take a sabbatical, the way it was sprung on her had felt controlling. He also understood that his reluctance to take her part-time proposal to the elders had left her feeling unappreciated. “I think I wanted you to tell me that you so valued my partnership in ministry that you’d go to bat for me,” she said, “that you’d do anything you could to enable me to continue to serve here. Instead, you seemed eager to accept my resignation.”

He visibly bristled for the first time. “Whoa. That’s not what I remember from our conversation. What I remember is that I asked you about your sense of call. I asked you to consider whether you were feeling any sort of obligation to return to Westminster. I didn’t say you couldn’t return here in June. I never would have said that. I asked whether you were wholehearted about remaining here, or whether perhaps God was doing something new in your life. That’s what I remember.”

“No, you’re right. I know that’s what you said.”

“There wasn’t any hidden subtext to that, Hannah. I wasn’t looking for ways to get rid of you. But if you’ve communicated something else to people in the congregation . . .”

“No! Of course not. I haven’t communicated with anyone about it.” If he was going to turn this around and accuse her of gossip or otherwise undermining the body, she wasn’t sure she could keep from bursting into tears. She pulled a throw pillow to her lap and fiddled with the tassels.

Steve shifted in his chair, the faux leather squeaking. “Part of what I’m trying to do here is damage control. There’s already been hurt and misunderstanding, and I’m sorry for that, for the part I’ve played in it. But if we don’t do this ending well, it will cause even more hurt. And I don’t want that. This congregation has deep affection for you, nothing but appreciation and affection.”

Affection? It hadn’t felt like affection, being cut off from communication about the life of the congregation for the past seven months. It hadn’t felt like affection, being accused by some of exploiting the congregation’s generosity by not returning to serve. And the one person who had maintained active communication during her sabbatical—Nancy—now refused even to meet with her for a cup of coffee. She could count on two hands the number of people from Westminster who had emailed her after she tendered her resignation, and there were even fewer who had bothered to send congratulations or well-wishes for her marriage. If this was what passed for affection, she didn’t want to see apathy.

“We’d like to say a public thank-you in worship tomorrow,” Steve said, his voice firm. “At both services.”

For their sake, his sake, or hers? She made sure not to audibly sigh her frustration. Though she hated playing the appearance game, she supposed she shouldn’t fault a senior pastor for attempting to unify the body and minimize collateral damage caused by the sudden resignation of a long-time staff member. For all she knew, he and the elders had had multiple conversations about how best to proceed. But the whole approach smacked of control.

“I’d also like for you to participate in worship,” he said. “Call to worship, pastoral prayer, benediction—your choice. Let the congregation receive your blessing even as we pray God’s blessing for you.”

Hannah stared at her feet. “I’ll sleep on it,” she said. But that night she didn’t sleep at all.

Becca

Becca turned over in a bed that was not hers, a bed that was not Simon’s, and groaned. The sunlight streaming through a window pierced her. She shut her eyes and covered her face with her arms.

“’Morning,” a voice said. Too loud. She lifted one arm to see who was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink this,” Harriet said, handing her a mug.

Becca didn’t have the strength to reach for it. She groaned again, the taste of vomit in her dry mouth causing her to gag.

“C’mon, Becks. Wakey-wakey!” Harriet nudged her until Becca propped herself up on her elbows, her head tilted back against a pillow that reeked like a parking garage stairwell. She took one sip of black coffee and spit it out on the floor.

Someone else in the room moaned. Becca squinted in that direction. “’Arrrry?” Pippa called from a tangle of blankets on the floor.

“Here, pet.” Harriet kicked aside a pile of discarded clothes and offered Pippa the mug Becca had rejected. “I swear, you lot . . .” She plopped down on the edge of the bed again, causing Becca to bounce. Stop. Bouncing.

Pippa cursed.

“It’s your own fault,” Harriet said. “I told you you’d had enough. And you”—she poked Becca—“lucky for you I was there. You were a complete and utter madwoman, I tell you.”

“With ridiculous dance moves,” Pippa added, rising unsteadily. “Wish I could dance like that.”

The way the two of them kept talking about Becca’s dancing, she was pretty sure she hadn’t been doing ballet on the floor. “I’d change your mobile number if I were you,” Harriet said. “I heard you give it out to a dozen guys, and believe me, you don’t want some of them calling.”

Becca groaned again.

“Ooohh, but that one,” Pippa said, “what was his name? Benjie? He was fit. Care to share?”

Becca did not remember a Benjie. “Did I—” She struggled to sit up in bed. “Did I, you know . . .” She rubbed her bare arms, knees pressed against her chest. She could not remember.

“You were getting friendly,” Harriet said.

It was Becca’s turn to curse. “How friendly?”

Pippa stooped to pull on her jeans, one hand on Harriet to steady herself. “Lighten up. A wee snog, that’s all. Nothing serious.”

“You told him all about Simon,” Harried added. “Loudly. Should have heard yourself, going on about how you’ve found your one true love.”

Becca breathed a sigh of relief and checked her phone. Simon would be worried, wondering where she was. She scrolled through dozens of missed calls and texts from names she did not recognize. But among all the calls and texts, one number was missing.

“Steady on,” Harriet said when Becca tried to rise too quickly from the bed. “Where are you off to?”

Becca reached for her blouse—also covered with vomit—and winced. “Can I borrow some clothes?” She crumpled her skirt and blouse into a ball. “And use your shower?” She wanted—needed—to wash it all away.

A stomach flu, her mother had insisted to her grandmother the morning after Becca’s first and, up until this morning, only hangover. Gran would have had a fit if she’d known Becca had come home from Lauren’s eighteenth birthday party drunk. Becca was so sick that night, she didn’t need a lecture. Her mother didn’t give one. Instead, she held back Becca’s hair and kept a cold cloth on her forehead while Becca vomited into the toilet bowl, vowing between retches that she would never do it again.

She stared at the ads inside the Tube as she traveled to Notting Hill Gate. With any luck, Simon would still be asleep when she arrived. He loved to have a long lie in on weekends. When she arrived at the flat, she made sure the gate and door did not slam behind her. But Simon was not there. “Simon?” she called, making a quick round of the place. No sign of him. She texted. No reply. She made herself a cup of black coffee and sat down on the couch to watch television. Four DIY shows later, Simon still had not contacted her. But Benjie, Luke, Kristofer, Ian, and Freddie had, each with proposals of varying degrees of vulgarity—enough to make her want to shower again.

Hannah

“Can I bring you something for breakfast?” Nathan straightened his tie and smoothed his mildly rumpled suitcoat. “Yogurt? Cereal? Bagel? Anything?”

The thought of food made Hannah feel sick to her stomach. “No, I’ll be okay.”

He sat down beside her on the bed. “What can I do for you?”

She wasn’t sure. She just wanted the day to be over. She still hadn’t decided what to do about Steve’s request for her to participate in both services, and she was running out of time. “What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“What I want to do is just hop into the U-Haul and drive home.” She was certain, however, that there was a wide chasm between what she wanted to do and what she ought to do.

If we don’t do this well, Steve’s voice reminded her, it will cause even more hurt.

“I don’t want to be there out of guilt,” she said, “but that’s about the best motivation I’ve got right now. Obligation and guilt.” And fear. Fear of causing not only hurt, but damage. Much as she wanted to disappear with minimal interaction with the congregation, she knew Steve was right. She needed to leave well. And if this was her best opportunity to express gratitude for their fifteen years of life together, then she needed to get over herself and do what love required. “I’m not sure what I can offer from an authentic place right now. No way I can lead the congregation in prayer. I haven’t even been praying myself. It would just be empty words.” As for standing up front and receiving their gratitude or commendation or prayers or whatever Steve had in mind for the beginning of each service, she wasn’t sure how she would manage that without disintegrating into a puddle.

“What else did he offer you?”

“Call to worship. I guess I could read the Scripture and just let it do what God intends it to do. At least my spiritual funk wouldn’t get in the way.”

He did not reply.

“He also offered me the benediction. But it would feel pretty weird to stand up there at the end of the service and pronounce a blessing without doing anything else.” Nate was looking at her with his I can see into your soul look that was so unsettling. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m just listening.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

“I’m not you, so—”

“No, I know.” They’d had conversations like this before. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

He took a slow breath. “Watching you, watching all of this, it brings back memories of leaving my own church years ago. With all the shame swirling around Laura’s affair and my own anger and resentment about everything, I wanted to disappear out the side door. Like you. But a wise friend told me the same sort of thing Steve told you, that endings are crucial. Benedictions are important. Celebrating the good that’s been shared in ministry is important, even when not everything can be resolved the way we want it to be.”

“But with all the rumors circulating about my credibility, my integrity—I hate the thought of standing up there in front of people who think I tricked them or manipulated them or that I’m a hypocrite, a liar. I don’t know what all they’re saying about me.” She shouldn’t care so deeply. But she did. She didn’t know how to keep company with Jesus as he surrendered his reputation. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get past her own ego, release what others thought of her, and crucify her pride. She couldn’t.

As the minutes ticked by toward a decision she didn’t know how to make, one phrase pursued her. Keep company with Jesus. If she had to stand in front of the congregation, where could she best keep company with the One who understood her wrestling and resistance, her sorrow and emptiness? Where could she serve without being the center of attention?

Suddenly, she knew. There was one place, one place she had always loved to stand. She picked up her phone and dialed Steve’s number. “May I preside at the communion table with you?”

There was a moment’s silence before he answered. “That’s the perfect place to serve together.”

To spare her the drain of pre-service narthex encounters, Steve offered Hannah and Nathan the small prayer chapel adjacent to the sanctuary. “You can stay here and then slip in during the gathering song, if that sounds okay.”

Hannah nodded.

“I’m assuming you don’t want to sit up front with me?”

No, she didn’t want the vulnerable exposure of facing the congregation for the entire service. “I’ll sit with Nate in the front row.”

Steve scanned the printed bulletin. “All right. I’ll summon you forward after the announcements to offer a word of thanks for your ministry and say a prayer for you. Then I’ll invite you to join me at the table after the sermon.”

“Sounds good.”

Steve glanced at his watch. “Short prayer?” Hannah reached for Nate’s hand on one side and Steve’s on the other, then tried to stay focused as Steve asked that everything spoken, sung, and prayed would bring honor and glory and praise to the Most High. “And Lord, I thank you for bringing Hannah and Nathan here this morning. May she be encouraged and strengthened by our time together. Give her ears to hear the good words spoken over her life, not just by me but by you. In Jesus’ name.”

Hannah sniffled and murmured, “Amen.”

“Amen,” Nathan echoed, and kissed her wedding band. “You okay?” he asked after Steve left the room.

“I hope so.” She smoothed her gray slacks with clammy palms. “Why do I feel like I’m going to a funeral?”

Nathan stroked her hair. “That sounds like a really important image to ponder,” he said as they walked hand in hand to the front row.