Chapter Twenty-Two

Where was God?

Monday morning, Labor Day, I sat on the hood of the Chevy, picking at the polish on my thumbnail and waiting for Him to show up.

Probably He was angry. Even though I turned my back on some of my sinful behaviors, greed had driven me into another scandal with Tyler, and I hadn’t even prayed about it. Not much anyway.

In general, prayer was a new thing for me. I had been raised in the church, perfect attendance three times a week and years of potluck meals, but in spite of that, I hadn’t developed a faith of my own.

I lifted my hair to the top of my head and fanned the back of my neck. If I didn’t shower soon, I wouldn’t be ready when Dodd and Ruthie picked me up for the softball game. But I shifted to a more comfortable position, gifting myself five more minutes as I considered the terminology. A faith of my own.

I heard that phrase in sermons, read it in blogs, and listened to it in Christian songs on the radio. And I recognized it in myself. Once I started looking.

And I started looking about the time I left home. I don’t mean when I went to college because nothing changed then. But when my parents kicked me out of their house? That’s when I started questioning God, wondering why I couldn’t feel Him. Yes, feel Him. According to the sermons and blogs and songs, God could be felt. He could be heard. And if I believed strongly enough, He could be seen.

But so far, He hadn’t shown up.

He hadn’t been at Ansel and Velma’s house either, in their guest room where I first started fumbling with prayer and cried and moaned and pitched a fit. I had expected Him to show up immediately, and when He didn’t, I longed to ask for Velma’s advice. But I didn’t. Even though we talked about every topic under the sun, religion was off limits. The Picketts were still trying to make sense of JohnScott’s baptism last year.

Ruthie was no help either. I tried to talk to her about God a few times, but she could hardly understand the faith-of-my-own dilemma. She had been going to church such a short time, she couldn’t understand the habitual boredom I felt every time I entered the building. Or worshipped. Or prayed.

“God?” I leaned my head back and stared at a puffy, white cloud. “I get the feeling I should have talked to You about Tyler a while back.”

Nothing. My words floated over the cliff, dropped straight down fifteen feet, then tumbled end over end down the sloping terrain until they came to a stop two hundred feet below.

Maybe I should speak more confidently. Boldly. Assuming God would grant my requests. But no, I’d heard strong Christian women in the Tuesday-morning ladies’ class praying soft and humble prayers, and they seemed to be feeling His presence constantly.

“Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t consult You about Tyler, but now … what am I supposed to do about JohnScott?”

I ducked my head. How could I expect God to answer? I carried one man’s child, yet somehow attracted the attention of another. And I enjoyed it.

Maybe I had a thing about sin.

I shoved my curls out of my face and frowned at the cloud. “Okay. So I don’t deserve a man, but could You at least help out with my bills? I can’t take care of this baby all by myself.”

In slow motion, the cloud slid to the left, mocking me with silence, and I jerked to my feet, wincing as the backs of my thighs stuck to the metal hood. I cursed, kicked the bumper, then slumped against the driver’s door and sobbed.