nother great day.” Grinning, Chris zipped his money bag and closed the register.
“That good, huh?” Wanda drew near, swinging a dish towel, her chestnut eyes sparkling.
He nodded and clasped William’s shoulder who stood beside him, plunking leftover pastries into a paper bag. “Better than I estimated. And I couldn’t do this without you all.”
Wanda’s eyes glistened as she looked at her son. “We move into our apartment next week, thanks to you. A month and a half ago, William and I spent our first night on the streets, slept beneath an overpass.” Her voice quavered. “I thought for sure God had turned His back on us. But I never stopped praying, for William’s sake. Figured I’d die in a heap of garbage, but not my son.”
She shook her head, her eyes like chiseled flint. “Nope, not my son. I determined then and there to do whatever it took to see he got a better life. Begged God for mercy on William’s behalf.” She grinned. “He’s about to finish third grade and never missed a day this year, did ya boy?”
William puffed out his chest, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Even kept a B average.”
Though Chris rejoiced with them, his heart felt heavy thinking of all the other homeless kids he’d seen come in and out of the shelter. How many of them made it to school? How many mothers knelt on the ice-covered ground each night begging God for better, asking for aid? What might the world look like if every Christian lived out their faith in surrendered obedience?
He looked at Wanda. “Can we pray?”
She and her son nodded and they all joined hands. Chris glanced across the café toward Candy who leafed through a leather-bound Bible. “Wanna join us?”
She shook her head and looked away.
Chris bowed his head. “Lord, may this café be a sanctuary, a place of hope and healing. Rain down Your blessings, Lord, so we can be instruments of Your love and grace.”
“Amen!” Wanda squeezed his hand before letting go. “And I’d say God already answered that prayer.”
Chris followed her gaze through the front window where Albert shivered, breath fogging the glass. A woman with long, gray hair protruding from a brown ski cap stood beside him, gnawing on a fingernail.
Chris turned to William. “Think you can hand me a couple of those pastries? And one of the gospel tracts.”
William nodded and selected three blueberry scones. He pulled a glossy flyer from beside the cash register and loaded everything into a paper sack.
“Thanks.” Chris grabbed the food items, crossed the café, and held the door open. “You wanna come in for a bit?”
Albert stepped forward, his gaze darting from one face to the next, bushy eyebrows scrunched together. Chris held his breath, praying for God’s love to sweep over this man and give him the courage to step inside.
Footsteps clicked behind him, and Albert’s eyes widened. He darted around the corner.
Chris sighed and stepped outside, letting the door close behind him. Albert huddled against the brick wall, teeth chattering. The woman stood beside him, staring at the street in front of her.
“Here. Blueberry scones with lemon icing.” He held out the package and Albert snatched it up. He and the woman studied Chris then looked away.
Chris lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the two devour the pastries. When they finished, he squeezed Albert’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”
Albert nodded, a smile emerging beneath his crumb-speckled mustache.
Chris returned to the café to find everything cleaned, swept, and in order. He turned to Wanda “You guys ready to go?”
“Don’t need a ride today. Rose is picking us up. Gonna take us to Operation Breakthrough so’s we can talk to other moms standing where we once were.” She gave William a sideways hug. “Like that verse you always tell us about. ‘To him who much has been given, much is required.’ Finally got a chance to give back some.”
A horn beeped and Chris turned to see Rose parked along the curb. She smiled and waved while Wanda and William scurried out.
“Wait, don’t forget the pastries!” Chris chased after them with the paper bag. He returned to find Candy lingering near the counter, a coffee-table devotion in her hand.
“What’s this mean, walk by the Spirit?”
“That’s kind of confusing.” He lifted a Bible from a nearby shelf and placed it on the counter between them. Flipping through the pages, he located John chapter 3. “Back in Bible times, there was this guy named Nicodemus. To the observer, he appeared to do everything right. Read the Scriptures, went to the synagogue, followed all the rules.”
“Taking the direct route to heaven, huh?”
Chris smiled. “Well, he thought so—until he met Jesus.” He read the passage, starting with verse 3. “Jesus replied, ‘Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again’” (NIV).
“Ha, ha. Yeah, I’ve heard about that—the rebirth experience. From where I sit, if that’s what it takes to get to heaven, I’m outie!”
Chris chuckled. “Nicodemus had a similar reaction.” He continued reading. “Jesus answered, ‘Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.’ You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (John 3:5–8 NIV). He marked his spot with a napkin then closed the book. “It’s a spiritual birth that happens when a person turns from a life of sin and surrenders to Jesus as their Lord and Savior.”
“Still don’t get it.” She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against Chris’s, a small pout on her lips.
“I think I’ve got something in the back that will explain it better. Hold on.”
He dashed into his office and scoured his shelves in search of anything that might explain spiritual life to someone who might have no concept of sin. Settling on a spiral-bound notebook filled with commentaries, he pulled it down and leafed through the pages. Footsteps scuffed behind him. Candy appeared at his side, the fruity scent of her perfume filling his office.
“My old neighbor used to tell me stories . . . about a Samaritan woman who slept with a bunch of guys.” Her eyes intensified as she traced her finger along the book spines lining the shelf. “And of another woman caught in adultery.”
Chris swallowed and stepped back, clutching the notebook to his chest.
Candy slid closer, gaze locked on his. “She said Jesus loved those women despite what they’d done.” She moved closer, her breath warm on Chris’s face. He tried to increase the distance between them, but his heel hit the wall. “What about me? You think there’s hope for a girl like me?” Angling her head, she touched his arm and leaned forward. Chris raised a hand to push her away moments before her lips met his, his hand squished between them.
“Excuse me.”
Chris gave a shove, sending Candy tumbling backward.
Ainsley stood in the doorway. Color seeped up her neck, matching the fire in her teary eyes. “To think I thought you were different.” She flung a stack of papers toward him, spun on her heels, and ran out.
“Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” Chris chased after her, slipping on the pages strewn across the floor. By the time he reached the front of the cafe, she’d already made it to the door. “Please, let me explain.”
Without turning around, she raised a hand and left, the door swinging closed behind her.
Chris grabbed his cell phone and punched in her number. Her voice mail picked up halfway through the first ring. She’d hit Ignore. With a sigh, he turned around and lumbered back to his office, pushing past Candy.
She rolled her eyes. “Touchy.”
Chris marched down the hall to his office and the mess of papers spread across the floor. The Los Angeles County Circuit Court official document glared back at him, causing his stomach to catapult. Beside them lay a picture of him and some college buddies, looking like a pack of playboys. It was downright shameful, and thanks to Christ, he’d left that kind of lifestyle behind. Surely Ainsley could see that. And yet, stacked with the court case and flirty Candy pressed against him, Ainsley had drawn her conclusion.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. The image of her wide, tear-filled eyes tumbled through his skull. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out an ad he clipped from the local paper and stared at the photo of the diamond ring.
Lord, please don’t let me lose her.
Ainsley jumped into her car and cranked the engine. Praise music poured from her radio. She snapped it off and eased behind a pale blue pickup.
Men were pigs. All of them. Why should Chris be any different? But at least it hadn’t taken her five years to figure it out.
Tears stung her eyes as she gripped the steering wheel, memories of riding through the Plaza tucked beneath a warm blanket while Chris shared his dreams for the café resurfacing. And she bought it all, going so far as to plop herself in them.
Now what? Her entire life revolved around the man, and she certainly couldn’t quit her job. Not yet anyway. She’d have to give her two weeks notice.
Rounding the corner into her cul-de-sac, her gaze fell on Chris’s house and her heart plummeted.
How stupid could she be? Way to box yourself in, Ainsley. How many times had she rolled her eyes at women who got involved with their bosses? And here she was, dating not only her boss and ministry partner, but her neighbor! With Richard, breaking up had been as easy as hitting the Ignore button whenever he called. With Chris, it’d require a complete life change. Maybe even a move.
She gathered her things, got out, and hurried inside, slamming the door behind her. Silence settled over her house. Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she thought about calling Gina then tossed the phone aside.
It’s just You and me, God. Like always.
Collapsing into the corner of the couch, she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it, tears pricking her eyes as questions that once haunted her nightly as a child rose to the surface.
What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t anyone love me?
An old photo album lay on the bottom shelf of her coffee table. She’d salvaged it from her mother’s trash years ago. The memories tucked inside were bittersweet. It was like a timeline of her life, from carefree toddler to broken home to isolation.
She flipped the album to the first page and studied an image of her father holding her. Nestled in his arms, only the top of her peach-fuzzed head remained visible. A smile crinkled the skin around his eyes as he looked down at her.
Turning the page, she skimmed through five more years to when she turned six. The year her dad took her to Kmart to buy her first bike. Pink with glittery tassels. Her helmet swallowed her head, and thick pads encircled her knees and elbows. In the photo her father stood beside her, clutching the back of her seat as she death-gripped the handle bars. His smile was huge.
By the time she turned twelve, the pictures grew scarcer, most of them class photos. She paused to study a snapshot of her thirteenth birthday—an afterthought when her mother came home to find her in tears. The year her mother forgot and her father never sent a card.
That was the year she barred her father from her heart. The year she told herself she didn’t—wouldn’t—care.
She glanced up, reading the verse on an embroidered wall hanging.
“I have loved you with an everlasting love. I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.”
Yeah, well, You’re the only one. And Gina. And Deborah. Thank You for bringing such caring women into my life, Lord.
As she crumpled against the couch cushions, one image rose to the surface—her father. She tossed her pillow aside.
This is not about my father. It is about a sleazeball who charmed me into believing he was different, who broke down my walls only to slash through my heart once he laid it bare.
And yes, Chris was like her father. Carbon copy, minus the gray hair and paunch belly. Lesson learned.
Her Bible beckoned like an ever-faithful friend. She grabbed it and flipped through the thin pages, landing on Matthew 7 (NIV).
“First take out the plank in your own eye, and then you will see clearly” (v. 5).
She snapped it shut and dropped it back onto the coffee table.
The issue wasn’t clarity. She’d seen enough already, but somehow the prick in her heart wouldn’t go away, as if God wanted her to dig deeper—to draw nearer, to somehow catch hold of something just beyond her reach.
Then you will see clearly. She reread the passage again, beginning with verse 3 (NIV).
“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.’”
OK, God, You want me to resolve things. Then can I quit?
The phrase, “then you will see clearly,” echoed in her mind, causing her to read the passage a third time, more analytically.
What are You trying to tell me, God? What’s my vision-distorting plank?
Once again an image of her father surfaced and this time she didn’t shove it away.
Closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose as tears welled behind her lids.
She knew what God wanted. He wanted her to release her bitterness, to forgive her father for all the times he hurt her, but doing so would only invite fresh pain.
I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
But that wasn’t true. Not really, because with God, all things were possible. This wasn’t a question of her ability but instead of her surrender. To give herself fully to God, wounds and all.
Closing her eyes once again, she slipped to the floor. On her knees, she pressed her folded hands to her forehead. “Help me, Lord. Help me to forgive him. To move on. Help me learn to trust.”