eight

Hannah

The Maundy Thursday service at Westminster had always been one of Hannah’s favorite services of the year: the Scripture passages focusing on Jesus’ last hours, the acapella singing of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” the gradual extinguishing of candles and dimming of lights until the entire sanctuary was plunged into darkness, into silence.

As she sat beside Nathan at Wayfarer’s evening service, her thoughts wandered to a little church in rural Ohio where she had served as an intern her second year of seminary. They had finished the Maundy Thursday service by ringing the steeple bell thirty-three times, once for each year of Jesus’ life. But before each bell tolled, the long attached rope lashed and cracked with a violent snap. By the end of the tolling, Hannah was in tears. She wasn’t the only one. It was as though they had traveled across two millennia to hear the ruthless strike of a whip against the bruised and beaten flesh of the man from Galilee.

Nathan reached for her hand as a soloist began to sing: O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down, now scornfully surrounded with thorns, thine only crown: how pale thou art with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn! How does that visage languish which once was bright as morn!

Hannah fingered the nail she had picked up from a basket outside the sanctuary. At the end of the service, they would be invited to come forward and drop the nails at the foot of the cross. But first they would be invited to come forward for foot washing in remembrance of Jesus’ command to love one another. She would not go forward. She could not bring herself to offer her feet to a stranger when Meg was the one who had washed them right before she died. That was the memory she wanted to cherish, the memory of being loved and served in such a poignant way. She was not ready for a new memory to be layered upon the old.

The lights dimmed further at the second stanza, with more voices blending in melancholy harmony: What thou, my Lord, has suffered was all for sinners’ gain; mine, mine was the transgression, but thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve thy place; look on me with thy favor, vouchsafe to me thy grace. The lyrics brought to mind the mirrored cross at New Hope and the cushion where Hannah had chosen not to kneel. Perhaps the prayer stations would still be set up on Saturday for the silence and solitude retreat. Perhaps she would take time to kneel and meditate on Christ taking her place.

What language shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest friend, for this thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end? O make me thine forever; and should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for thee.

Amen, Hannah whispered. Amen.

Thursday, April 9

10 p.m.

I was worried that I would sit at Wayfarer tonight and lament the ways the Maundy Thursday service wasn’t like Westminster’s. Instead, I was able to enter into the beauty of what was offered, even as it was different from what I loved for fifteen years. Tonight’s service was another opportunity to be reoriented toward wonder and awe at the suffering of Jesus. “What wondrous love is this?” we sang together. What wondrous love, indeed. And when we sang the final verse, I wept. Because as we sang, I was reminded that beyond the veil, beloved voices also testify to the truth: “And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing on, I’ll sing on, and when from death I’m free, I’ll sing on; and when from death I’m free, I’ll sing and joyful be, and through eternity I’ll sing on, I’ll sing on; and through eternity I’ll sing on.”

I’ve spent so much time the past couple of months thinking about death—not just physical death but all of the ways I’ve been invited to die—that maybe I’ve lost sight of life and resurrection. I know that grieving all of the losses in their full power has the capacity to enlarge me, not diminish me. And I do want to be enlarged, Lord. I want to experience the depth of suffering and sorrow so I can also experience the joy of resurrection and life. You are the Resurrection and the Life. Keep reminding me. None of my losses end in death but in life.

Something significant is shifting in my spirit. I perceive it, a move from desolation toward hope as I fix my eyes on the cross and meditate on your victory and love. Hineni, Lord. Here I am.

Charissa

It wasn’t the way Charissa had expected to spend Good Friday, still hooked up to an IV and a monitor. She had expected to serve alongside Mara at Crossroads. She had expected to attend an afternoon worship service at the university chapel. She had expected to fix another dinner as part of her bet with John. And as long as she was counting off expectations . . .

She had expected to finish her semester strong. She had expected to use May and June to prepare for the baby. She had expected her pregnancy to be straightforward. She had expected to carry their baby to full term. She had expected.

She stared at her hand, where bruises from unsuccessful IV prods had darkened. She ought to be grateful, grateful that they had managed to stabilize her, grateful that she had not yet given birth, grateful that she could go home and sleep in her own bed. But she was too disappointed to be grateful.

“Mom said she was on bed rest with Karli for a few weeks,” John had unhelpfully offered that morning.

Well, “a few weeks” was not ten or twelve or fourteen. And John’s younger sister had not been born premature. So if Judi thought she understood what Charissa was going through, then she was wrong. No one could understand unless they were experiencing all the losses she was experiencing right now.

John entered the room with a sandwich from the cafeteria. At least he hadn’t gone for fast food again. “You want a bite?”

Charissa shook her head. She would be getting a tasty tray of dry, stringy chicken and one of those mixed fruit snack cups any minute. Yum.

“Hannah called while I was downstairs, wanted to know if she can help with anything once we get home. I told her we’d let her know.”

Charissa did not reply.

“And I told Mom again that we really can’t handle company right now, even though she’s desperate to help.” Charissa had told her parents the same thing. Having them in town would stress her out even more. If John could keep up with the shopping and cooking and Mara could help with cleaning and the occasional meal, as she had offered, then they could keep both sets of parents at bay by reassuring them that they had everything covered. “And it’s not like you’ll have to spend every moment lying in bed. You’ll be able to sit in a chair and read or write or do online shopping or—”

Charissa covered her eyes and exhaled loudly. It wasn’t his body, wasn’t his time, wasn’t his life, wasn’t his responsibility. He couldn’t possibly understand what she was feeling. No matter how hard he tried.

Mara

Mara was stirring a pot of tomato soup on the stove at Crossroads when Hannah entered the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” Mara exclaimed. She was so surprised to see her that she nearly dropped the ladle.

“Well, I know Charissa has been helping out, and I didn’t want you to be down a volunteer.”

Mara removed her gloves so she could hug her friend. What a gift to have Hannah back! “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Hannah reached into the box of plastic gloves on the counter.

“Hairnet too.” Mara pointed toward another box. As Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears and covered it with the mesh, Mara noticed there was some light in her eyes again. “You look good. Rested or something. Like a shadow got lifted.” Amazing, the change since she had last seen Hannah at New Hope. Maybe her prayers had made a difference for someone after all.

“You’re right,” Hannah said. “I can feel it.” She clasped her gloved hands together and stared at the stove. “So point me in the right direction. What can I do to help?”

“Can you chop some carrots and celery for the salad?”

“Sure,” Hannah said, and reached for a knife.

“I’ve put her on every prayer list I can think of,” Mara said as they set the food out half an hour later. “I told John I’d help with cleaning and cooking, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get them on the church’s list for meals, if they do that sort of thing.” Mara wanted to do everything she could to help, but she was strapped for cash. It would be hard to supply more than a meal or two each week. Not that John had asked for help. Until their bet, he reminded her, he had always done all of their cooking.

Hannah placed some tongs beside the salad bowl and straightened a pile of napkins. “Nate says Wayfarer has a meal coordinator. He’ll call and let them know it’s going to be a long haul.”

If they’re lucky, Mara thought. The longer, the better.

“Where’s Miss Charissa?” Billy, one of their regulars, asked as he ambled into the dining room. “She ain’t sick again, is she?”

He obviously hadn’t heard the news through the grapevine yet. “Miss Charissa is in the hospital. Her little baby tried to come early.”

Billy whistled and rubbed his crewcut back and forth. “Poor little baby. It don’t know it’s not done cookin’ yet.” He fumbled around in his coat pockets and pulled out a crumpled receipt. “You take somethin’ to her for me?”

“Sure,” Mara said.

“You got a pencil?”

Hannah reached into her purse and pulled out a pen.

“Thanks.” He sat down at one of the round tables and scribbled something on the scrap, folded it in half, and gave it to Mara. “Tell her Billy’s praying for her, okay?”

“You bet.”

He tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “Tomato soup today?”

“Yep.”

He looked at Hannah and said, “Miss Mara makes the best soup.”

“Yes, she does.”

“You one of her friends too?”

“I’m Hannah.” She reached out her hand to shake his. “Nice to meet you, Billy.”

He thrust his nose into the air again. “You got those cookies today too, Miss Mara?”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

He looked disappointed. “Ohh. Those are good. I like those cookies.”

“Mara’s famous snickerdoodles?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah. Knew it was some funny name.”

Mara made a mental note to buy the ingredients. “I’ll make them just for you next week, Billy.”

“All for me?”

Mara laughed. “Not all for you, but I’ll make them because of you. In honor of you.”

“In honor of me?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You hear that, Joe?” he said, bumping another regular patron with his elbow. “Miss Mara’s making cookies in honor of me.”

“What kind? Chocolate chip?”

“You like chocolate chip cookies, Joe?” Mara asked as she filled his bowl with soup.

“Yes, ma’am. My mom used to make us kids chocolate chip cookies. I used to lick the batter right off the spoon.”

“I used to let my sons do that too,” Mara said.

“My mom always left the chips on the beaters for me,” Joe said. “I liked that. Haven’t had chocolate chip cookies in a long time.”

“Well, I’ll make snickerdoodles in honor of Billy next week and chocolate chip in honor of you the week after that. How’s that?”

Joe lit up with a toothless grin. “If I get here early, can I lick the batter?”

“I’ll save a little bit for you, okay?”

“Okay. Deal.”

Like wildfire word spread through the line that Mara was making cookies in honor of people. “Tell you what,” she said, after half a dozen guests made special requests for their favorite kinds, “I’ll talk with Miss Jada and see about having a whole bunch of cookies some week, okay? Lots of different kinds to choose from.” She’d made her dozens of assorted Christmas cookies for Tom’s office for years. Why not do something similar for Crossroads?

“Like an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant!” Ronni said. “The kind where you can keep going back to the dessert bar for as much as you want.”

What a great idea! She could bake more than cookies as a treat for them.

“I wish we could do something like that, Mara,” Miss Jada said when they were cleaning up the kitchen after lunch, “but there’s no extra money in the budget.”

“What if we get donors?”

“Donors for cookies? I don’t know how many people would give money for that.”

“Just for the ingredients. Like we got that time before.” Mara didn’t mention that she’d discovered Charissa had been the anonymous donor. “I’ll figure out how much it would cost to make what I want to make. And then we’ll have a big celebration.”

“A celebration of what?”

“No special occasion. Just a celebration of them. To make them feel special.” If Billy and Joe and Ronni and the others could have one place where they knew that they were important, that they were seen, that they were known, that they were loved, then it was a start.

Miss Jada sighed. “I love your spirit. If you can figure out how to make it happen, I’ll leave that up to you.”

“I’ll help,” Hannah said after Miss Jada left to take a phone call. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“It’s a start.” Mara eyed her reflection in the microwave. Beloved. Favored. And chosen to bear Christ. What a beautiful thing. “At least it’s a start.”

Half an hour before Tom was scheduled to pick the boys up for the weekend, Mara found Kevin sprawled on his bed. “You packed?” Mara asked, picking up an empty bag of Doritos off the carpet. Bailey followed her with his nose to the ground, scouting for nacho cheese fragments. “Kevin?” On top of a chair piled high with rumpled clothes—dirty or clean? who could tell?—was his empty duffel bag. She nudged his foot. “Hey. You gotta get going. Your dad’ll be here soon.”

Kevin rolled over to face the wall.

“Kev . . .” Bailey vaulted onto the bed and licked his hand.

Kevin didn’t acknowledge either one of them.

“I said your dad—”

“I know, okay?”

“Okay. You know he doesn’t like to wait.” If the boys weren’t ready on time, Mara would be the one blamed for it, and she wasn’t up to a confrontation with him. She nudged Kevin’s foot again. “C’mon, Kev.” Tom wasn’t the only one on a schedule. She had promised Abby she would babysit so that Abby and Jeremy could have a night out together before her parents arrived on Saturday. They needed time together, just the two of them.

Kevin, his face concealed in the crook of his elbow, said with a muffled voice, “Why do I have to go?”

It was the first time Kevin had ever voiced any objection to spending a weekend with his father. “Because it’s your dad’s weekend. And I know he looks forward to being with you.” For all of Tom’s faults—and they were legion—he had always been devoted to spending time with his two sons.

“Yeah. Right.” The scoffing noise Kevin made when he said these words startled Mara. Though she knew he had been upset about something when Tom dropped him off two weeks ago, Kevin had never confided any details. She figured maybe they’d had an argument. Kevin, with all his teenage bravado, could be moody and sensitive, and Tom didn’t tolerate it. Stop being such a sissy, Tom had barked at Kevin many times over the years. What are you, a momma’s boy? He’d never accused Brian of that. Brian had never been and would never be a “momma’s boy.”

Mara sat down on the edge of the bed. What were the chances of her resolving this before Tom showed up in the driveway? “You wanna talk about what’s going on with your dad?”

“I just don’t want to go.”

“But you have to.”

“Just tell him I’m sick. Tell him I’ll cough all over Tiffany and her kids and get them all sick.”

Ahhh. So it was about the girlfriend. She reached out and placed her hand on his dry forehead. “You do feel a little bit clammy. I’m thinking you’re running a fever. And is your throat sore?”

He swallowed hard and said, “Yeah.”

“Well, then. I think you’d better stay home this weekend and get better so you don’t miss any school next week.”

When he rolled over again to face the wall, she thought she heard him mumble, “Thanks.”

It wasn’t a tactic that would work long term. But when Mara texted to say Kevin was sick and was concerned about getting a pregnant woman and her kids sick, Tom replied with a single word: Okay.

She felt like running a victory lap. With a single text she had managed to communicate that she knew all about the pregnant girlfriend, and she had done so in an ostensibly reasonable and court-appropriate manner. As soon as Brian was out the door, she returned to Kevin’s room, where he was sitting at his computer watching some comedian on YouTube. “All set,” she said. “Your dad seemed fine with it.” She didn’t tell him that his father never even bothered to ask for details or that he didn’t seem upset about the change of plans. “How’s your throat?”

“Better.” He clicked the pause button on the video.

“Glad to hear it.” She sat down on the edge of his bed. “We don’t have to talk about it now, but we’ll need to talk, okay? I’ll need to know what’s going on with your dad so that I can help you.” Try to help, anyway. There was only so much she could do to negotiate around the court settlement.

Kevin nodded without looking at her. If he knew she would be his advocate, then that was also a victory. “I was just going to make myself a frozen pizza before I go babysit Maddie. Want some?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, and pressed play.

Charissa

The first thing Charissa noticed Friday night after John helped her up the front stairs and into the house was that the rug on top of the hardwood floor in the family room had been carefully vacuumed into the precise sawtooth pattern she prized. “Thought you would notice that,” he said when she thanked him. “You want to lie on the couch for a while or head back to bed?”

She wasn’t tired and couldn’t bear being horizontal again. “I’ll sit here.”

John pulled the ottoman toward her. “Then put your feet up.” She obeyed. “Hannah said there’s a recliner at Meg’s house that they can bring over.”

Charissa did not want Meg’s cancer chair. “This will be fine.”

“But a recliner would be so much better for you. You’ve got to make sure you’re—”

“Resting. I know. But I can’t have you treating me like an invalid. I won’t survive that.” If he hovered around her for the next however many weeks, she would go crazy. Helping was one thing; monitoring her every move was another. She couldn’t live under that kind of intense scrutiny, not from John, not from his mother, not from any other well-meaning, concerned friends. She had heard the doctor’s instructions. She knew what was at stake. She knew that every hour, every day, every week that Bethany could remain in the safety of the womb meant a better chance for her health and survival outside of it. She knew that. And if someone called into question her level of activity, it would be like calling into question her level of commitment to her child. She wouldn’t tolerate that. Not from anyone.

“What can I bring you?” he asked. “Something to drink? Something to read?”

“My laptop.”

“You’re not going to work on—”

“The doctor said I couldn’t do physically taxing things. He didn’t say anything about not doing work for school.”

“But you can’t go back to—”

“I know that, okay? I’m not going back to my classes. I’m not going back to teaching. But I’m still going to write the lectures and grade the papers and finish my own assignments for the semester. I’m supplying the substitute with everything they’ll need to teach the class well.” As far as Charissa knew from her email and phone interaction with Dr. Gardiner, the substitute had not yet been decided on. But she had been reassured that there was no reason why she couldn’t continue to work from home. She would finish the semester, and she would finish it well.

John retrieved her computer and brought her a tall glass of water. “Thanks,” she said.

“Yeah.”

While he sat down on the couch to check his phone, Charissa opened her inbox to find dozens of new messages, most of which were inquiries about her health from peers, faculty, and students. Why couldn’t her body be her own business? She had no desire to supply details or answer probing questions. And though many of the messages contained well-intentioned expressions of care, she knew that some people were simply being nosy. She clicked her mouse on one from an unfamiliar address with the subject, Coordinating meals.

Hi Charissa,

My name is Stacy Jones, and I’m the food ministry coordinator at Wayfarer Church. We’ve received word that you are in need of meals for the next few months, and I’ll be taking care of setting up the schedule. Please let me know if there are foods you cannot eat or do not like so we

Charissa slammed her laptop shut. “Did you call Wayfarer?”

John looked up from his phone. “Call Wayfarer?”

“Yeah. Did you call the church and put us on some list for getting food?”

“No.”

“Well, somebody did.”

“I asked Mara to help by getting us on prayer chains but—”

“Why would you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Ask her to recruit people I don’t even know to be praying?”

“You were there in the room when I asked her to.”

“I didn’t hear you say that, John. And I wouldn’t have asked for it.” Why in the world would she want strangers knowing her business?

“It’s for prayer,” he said. “It’s what people do. They ask for prayer.”

“Not from absolute strangers, they don’t.” It was bad enough that the grapevine at Kingsbury University had made her private affairs public knowledge. And now to have people at Wayfarer—people she did not know—spreading word about her being on bed rest and recruiting strangers to come to the house to deliver meals? No. Not okay.

“I think you’re overreacting, Riss. It’s not like people are sitting around constantly talking about you. It’s just prayer. And food. That’s all.”

There were people who loved posting every intimate detail of their lives on Facebook, people whose newsfeeds vomited information. She wasn’t one of them. And this felt like a deep violation of trust. Just as she was about to continue her rant, the doorbell rang. Great. Now what?

John jumped to his feet and opened the door. “Hey, Mara!”

Speak of the devil, Charissa thought, and then immediately felt guilty for assigning such a label to her. But the timing was interesting.

“I can’t stay,” Mara said. “I’m on my way to babysit Maddie, but I just thought I’d come by and drop these off.” She entered the room carrying a bouquet of tulips. “How’re you doing?”

Charissa shrugged.

“Here,” John said, reaching for the flowers, “I’ll put these in water. Come sit down.”

Mara sat on the edge of the couch. “I can’t stay long. Just wanted to drop by and see you, let you know I’m praying for you. Lots of folks are praying for you.”

“So I hear.” Though Charissa heard the terseness in her own voice, Mara didn’t seem to notice.

Reaching into her pocket, Mara pulled out a crumpled little slip of paper. “Here’s a note for you.”

Charissa read it, heat rising to her face. Dear Miss Karisa, So sorry to here about your little baby. Get better soon. Love, Billy

“Crossroads Billy?” Charissa said.

“Yeah. He was worried about you, wanted you to know he’s praying for you.”

“You told Billy?”

Mara nodded. “He was first in line today, hoping there would be snickerdoodle cookies, so I told him I’d make them special for him next week to honor—”

“How many others?”

“What?”

“How many others at Crossroads know about this?” Charissa made a sweeping motion with her hand toward her abdomen, her lap, her whole body.

Mara looked confused. “About what? About you having to be on bed rest?”

John entered the room and placed the vase of tulips on the end table beside Charissa. Then he signaled with his hand for her to calm down.

No. The fury within her billowed. “Did you tell everyone at Crossroads?”

Mara fiddled with her bracelets. “I uh . . .”

“They all know, don’t they?” Charissa gripped her knees and leaned forward. “Do you have any idea how it makes me feel to think that the whole homeless population of Kingsbury now knows about—”

“Charissa,” John murmured.

“—me being alone here during the day and—”

“Charissa,” he said a little louder.

“Here I am, not knowing who could track down an address and—”

“Charissa, stop.” He stared at her, his mouth half open.

Mara looked as if she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

“It’s fine, Mara,” he said. “Everything’s fine. But I think maybe—”

“Yeah. I’ll go.” She rose slowly to her feet and cast Charissa a mournful, apologetic glance. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Me and my big fat mouth.”

Without replying, Charissa turned her face away.

Hannah

“I’ll call Charissa and apologize to her,” Nathan said when Hannah finished recounting what Mara had told her in tears on the phone. “I’m the one who called Wayfarer to ask about the meals.”

Hannah shut the dishwasher and selected the light wash cycle. “Because I asked you to, Nate.” She sighed and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I feel awful. I should have specifically asked Charissa what kind of help she wanted instead of following Mara’s lead. But Mara was just trying to be helpful. She wasn’t trying to violate any personal boundaries; she was just trying to show love for a friend. She’s devastated by it.”

Hannah had offered to go over and keep her company while she babysat at Jeremy’s apartment, but Mara had refused. She did not want to be comforted; she wanted to punish herself. She hadn’t said that directly, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. “I guess it’s a really painful reminder to all of us,” Hannah said, “not to assume what love looks like.” She kicked herself again for emailing Becca the news. She never should have violated Charissa’s privacy like that. Not even with one person.

Though Hannah had not said this to Mara, she had listened to the story with some measure of sympathy for Charissa. She wouldn’t want her private business broadcast widely without her permission either, even for the purpose of prayer. Like Charissa, she preferred to dispense personal information on a need-to-know basis, under careful control. But unlike Charissa, Hannah told herself, she would not have lashed out at Mara as if she had deliberately betrayed her. She would have hidden behind a smile and told her that everything was fine, that she wasn’t upset at all. Just like she had done with other friends over the years. Hide. Conceal. Deny. And then try to get over it.

Maybe, she thought as she wiped down the kitchen counter, maybe Charissa and Mara had a better chance of authentic reconciliation because they each knew something was badly broken.

“Shep?”

“Yeah?”

“Come sit for a minute, will you? I’ll finish cleaning up later.”

Something in Nathan’s tone unsettled her. She wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the faucet before sitting down at the table across from him. He reached for her hand. “Laura called.”

She stiffened. “When?”

“When you were on the phone with Mara.”

“And?”

“And she came into town early. She wants to meet with me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What time?”

“Around lunch.”

“But we’re supposed to be at New Hope together for the retreat day.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to put her off to next week, but she wants to see Jake on Easter. And I’m not going to let her see him until I’ve met with her face to face. So it’s got to be tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you.” She could skip the silence and solitude day. She had plenty of days with silence and solitude.

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. Not for our first meeting.”

“But we talked about this, how we need to be a team, to stand together against her!”

Nathan stroked her wedding ring. “I know. And we will. But tomorrow it just needs to be the two of us, trying to work things out for Jake.”

He was right, of course. She knew he was right. “Does Jake know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell him when I pick him up at Pete’s. In fact, I’ll probably take him out for ice cream, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes. Of course.” She didn’t need to be a third wheel in that conversation either.

He leaned forward. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For wanting to come with me and for understanding why you can’t. Thank you.”

She nodded, cupped his chin, and kissed him.

Good Friday

9 p.m.

I’ve spent the last hour reviewing journal entries from the past few months while I wait for Nate and Jake to come home, particularly my entries about Laura. Here we are again, yielding to her demands. I’ve already written so many words about my envy, my resentment, my begrudging God’s generosity to her, my struggle to pray God’s blessing upon her and her husband and their unborn child because it still doesn’t seem fair that she, who abandoned her marriage and her son, gets to waltz back into Jake’s life even as she prepares to welcome another child into the world.

And I hear the whisper of the Spirit, again, reminding me that what I want for myself is grace. Abundance. And I’m invited to desire that for others as well. Not fairness. But grace. The “unfairness of grace.”

I read again my pondering about what it would mean to wash Laura’s feet and how that question led us to give up our Holy Land trip—a trip we would have been leaving for in three weeks—because she threw a fit about not being consulted. I read my words about what love looks like, about what dying to self looks like, about what turning the other cheek and offering the cloak and walking the extra mile looks like.

It occurs to me that what each of those things has in common is the going beyond what’s demanded. Take more. Here’s more. You want to slap one cheek? Slap the other one, too. You want my tunic? Take my cloak, too. You demand one mile from me? I’ll walk the extra one.

It’s all about freedom, isn’t it? The first mile is demanded. The extra mile is freely given. Only the extra mile can be given as a gift of love, from a posture of freedom. And so that’s the mile where Jesus’ life shines brightly. That’s the mile that can stun the world with its beauty and grace.

That’s where I want to walk, Lord. In freedom. In the power of your Spirit. In love. But it’s so hard to keep company with you in all the deaths to self. It’s so hard to embrace your call to love, to sacrifice, to trust, to persevere in hope that death is never the end with you. To believe that in all of these dyings there are also risings.

Tonight you invite me to keep company with the disappointed and the hopeful, to remember the ones who kept watch with you as you died, who were crushed and perplexed and heartbroken. And uncomprehending.

Watch and pray, you say. Help me watch and pray.

Mara

The good thing about trying to soothe a crying baby for two hours, Mara thought, was that the little one’s frantic sobs could distract you from indulging your own. When Madeleine finally wore herself out, Mara laid her down in her crib and watched her sleeping baby twitches. Poor little lamb.

The front door opened, and Abby poked her head into the room. “Everything okay?” she whispered.

“Yes, fine. She just conked out.”

“Cried the whole time?” Jeremy asked from the doorway.

“Not the whole time.” Mara bent over to kiss Maddie’s forehead, then stepped aside so Jeremy and Abby could also kiss her goodnight.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Abby said, closing the door with a gentle thud behind them.

“Any time. You know that. Any time.” Mara retrieved her coat from the couch. “When do your parents get in tomorrow?”

“Late afternoon. If you’d like to join us for dinner, you’re welcome.”

What a kind offer. “Thanks so much. But I’ll let you have that time together. Kevin’s home this weekend, and I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow for a retreat so . . .” Not that Kevin would want to spend an evening with her, but she wanted to be home. Just in case there was an opportunity for conversation.

“Kevin is welcome to come too,” Abby said. “Just let us know. You think he’ll want to come to lunch with us after the baptism?”

Mara hadn’t even thought that far ahead. What were the chances she could persuade Kevin to come to church with her on Easter? She couldn’t remember the last time one of the boys had come to worship. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

Jeremy was staring at the floor, shuffling one foot back and forth across the carpet. Much as she longed to probe and ask him how he was doing, she kept her mouth shut. Her big fat mouth that had gotten her into trouble again. If Jeremy knew she had told Charissa and John and Hannah about his struggles and Abby’s worries and their financial stress and his previous battles with addictions, what would he say to her? Would he explode like Charissa? Would he feel betrayed? She had only wanted other people praying for him because she loved him so dearly. She had only wanted other people praying for Charissa and John because she loved them dearly too. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone.

“You okay, Mom?” Abby asked. When Jeremy looked up, the sorrow and despair in those hazel eyes of his shattered her heart again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for letting me spend time with Maddie.” There was so much more she wanted to say, but if she didn’t get to her car soon, Jeremy and Abby would have front row seats on an emotional geyser erupting, and it wouldn’t be pretty. After kissing both of them goodbye, Mara hustled to the apartment parking lot, where, behind the protection of her tinted windows, she let it all go.

Kevin was watching a movie in the family room when Mara entered through the garage. “Hey,” she called.

“Hey,” he called back, his eyes fixed on the television.

Bailey trotted into the kitchen to greet her and flopped onto his side. He would need a walk. Without taking off her coat, she grabbed the leash off the hook. “I’ll be right back. Gotta take Bailey out.”

“Already did.”

“You already took him out?”

“Yeah. He had to go, so I took him for a walk.”

Mara stared at the back of his head.

“And yeah, he pooped. So I cleaned it up.”

She looked at Bailey, who was now wagging his tail in anticipation of another outing. She gave him a treat instead. “Thanks, Kev.”

“Yep.”

She hung her coat up in the closet. “What are you watching?”

“Bourne Identity.”

“Want some popcorn or something?”

“Yeah, okay.”

She grabbed a bag from the pantry, tossed it into the microwave, and hit the timer. As the bag inflated and the kernels popped, she practiced her mirror reflection discipline again: I am the one Jesus loves. He has chosen me and will never reject me.

No matter what, she added. She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. No matter what.

“Here you go,” she said, making sure she didn’t block the television screen when she handed him the bowl.

“Thanks.” She was just about to retreat to the kitchen when he said, “Have you seen this movie?”

No. She hadn’t. “Is it good?”

He shrugged. “I like it.” Tires screeched and sirens blared in a chase scene. “You might like it.” Without saying another word, he slid over a couple of inches on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. Sitting down next to him, Mara dipped her hand into their communal bowl and ate.