Barefoot Read online

  Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.

  Exodus 3:5

  For Jack, my dearest companion. Together we have glimpsed the glory of God.I love you.

  To be a pilgrim means

  to be on the move, slowly

  to notice your luggage becoming lighter

  to be seeking for treasures that do not rust

  to be comfortable with your heart’s questions

  to be moving toward the holy ground of home

  with empty hands and bare feet.

  From “Tourist or Pilgrim” Macrina Wiederkehr

  Contents

  Part One

  The Pilgrim Way

  Meditation on Psalm 131 – A Prayer of Rest

  Part Two

  Crossroads and Thresholds

  Meditation on Romans 8:31-39 – Confidence in the Love of God

  Part Three

  Holy Ground

  Meditation on John 13:1-15, 21 – Loving to the End

  Acknowledgments

  Companion Guide for Prayer and Conversation

  Praise for Barefoot

  About the Author

  The Sensible Shoes Series

  Formatio

  More Titles from InterVarsity Press

  Copyright

  Part One

  The Pilgrim Way

  Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.

  Psalm 84:5

  one

  Meg

  Resilient. That was the word Meg Crane had been searching for. Resilient. “You’re not resilient,” Mother had often said, her accusing tone ringing in Meg’s ears, even almost a year after her death. “You’ve got to learn how to bounce back. Move on.”

  Meg rolled over in her twin-size bed, the same bed she had slept in as a little girl. Never, in her forty-six years, had she been one to recover quickly from trauma or sorrow, never one to adjust easily to change or disappointment. She knew people able to withstand pressure with remarkable equanimity, to stretch, bend, and adapt to suffering with grace, with hope. She had never been one of them.

  Perhaps “resilient” would be a good word to embrace for the new year. Resilient in hope. Especially in light of everything that had been thrown upside down, just in the last month.

  She propped herself up on her elbow, the old box springs creaking beneath her spare, five-foot-two frame, and gazed out her second-story window at the gray gloom. The gnarled wild cherry tree in the next-door neighbors’ backyard, visible from Meg’s window ever since she could remember, offered a picture of resilient hope. Years ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Anderson lived there, violent winds tore through West Michigan on a balmy summer night and nearly ripped the tree out, leaving the roots exposed. The next day neighbors gathered around it, some of them bracing the trunk upright with hands and shoulders while others stamped the roots back into the soil again. Mother chided them from an upstairs window: they were fools, making such a fuss over a tree. But Meg secretly cheered them on. The tree always leaned after that storm, but it lived, its lopsidedness testifying to resilience, its yearly blossoms to hope.

  Resilient in suffering, not impervious to it. That was the silent witness of the stooped tree: not denial of the storm but perseverance, character, and hope as a result of it.

  Oh, for that kind of testimony.

  The faucet sputtered in the bathroom down the hall, the plumbing pipes clanging in arthritic protest. Hannah was awake. Strange, how quickly Meg had grown accustomed to having someone else in the house again. A ceramic floral mug on the kitchen counter, a towel draped over the rusting shower door, a second toothbrush beside the chipped enamel sink—all were cheerful reminders that Meg was not alone. Even if Hannah’s presence in the house was temporary and sporadic, Meg was grateful for her company.

  In the months since meeting one another at the New Hope Retreat Center, Hannah had become like a sister. And not just Hannah, but Mara and Charissa too. The Sensible Shoes Club, Mara had dubbed them. Meg, who had spent most of December in England visiting her daughter, was looking forward to walking together in community again. She needed trustworthy spiritual companions on the journey toward knowing God—and herself—more intimately. She needed a safe place where she could be honest about her struggles to perceive the presence of God in the midst of her fear, disappointment, and sorrow.

  But once Hannah finished her nine-month sabbatical, their newfound, intimate community would inevitably change. And then what?

  Don’t you think she could just stay here? Mara had asked Meg while they served a meal together on Christmas Day at the Crossroads House shelter. She doesn’t have to go back to Chicago, does she? Couldn’t she just tell her boss that she’s been reunited with the love of her life and she’s gonna stay in Kingsbury?

  Meg didn’t know how sabbaticals were supposed to work, whether there were rules about not leaving the church after taking a break. You know Hannah, Meg had replied, how devoted she is to ministry. I can’t see her taking a gift from them and then not going back there to serve.

  As if on cue, Hannah appeared in the doorway in her white terry cloth robe and slippers, her light brown, gently graying hair still rumpled from sleep. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Meg boosted herself up against the headboard. “Sorry—did my coughing keep you awake?”

  “No, I only heard you this morning, after I was up.”

  “Airplane germs,” Meg said, sniffling. “I hope I don’t spread them to you.”

  “I’ve got a pastor’s immune system,” Hannah quipped. “Years of hospital visits.” She swiveled Meg’s desk chair toward the bed and sat down. “Any word from Becca?”

  “No. I need to learn how to text. Guess she’ll call when she feels like it.” Hopefully, Becca would make it safely back to London after celebrating her twenty-first birthday in Paris with her forty-two-year-old boyfriend, Simon.

  The very thought of his name conjured the vile experience of meeting him. There he stood at the base of the London Eye, dressed in a tweed overcoat and a pretentious hat, his middle-aged hands roving across Becca’s body, his theatrical voice dripping with condescension, his lips curled into a gloating sneer. Maybe he would tire of her and find some other young innocent he could manipulate and control. You still don’t get it, do you? Becca would argue. I’m not a victim! And I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Accept it, okay?

  No. Meg would not accept it. And she knew what her mother would say. As impervious as her mother had been to sorrow, she had never been impervious to shame or unruffled by the appearance of impropriety. Why in the world would you let her be involved with him? Mother would demand. Why did you even agree to her going to Paris? You should have stayed in London and taken control.

  “You okay?” Hannah asked.

  Meg shrugged. “Just having imaginary conversations with people who aren’t here.”

  “Becca?”

  “And my mother. She would have had a conniption over the whole Simon thing.” Meg tugged at the hem of the blanket. “Tell me the truth, Hannah, what you really think. Should I have stayed in London? Fought to keep Becca from going to Paris?”

  Meg had never posed the question, and Hannah had never offered an unsolicited opinion. “I’m not sure that would have accomplished anything,” Hannah said after a few moments, “except make her more determined. More angry. And you were asking God to guide you in love, to show you what loving Becca looked like. I think it was courageous to love her by letting go, by not trying to control her. Hard as it is.”

  Yes. Very hard. Very hard to trust that the story wasn’t over, that God placed commas of hope where Meg might punctuate with exclam
ation points of despair. “I have dreams. Nightmares. I see Becca in danger—sometimes she’s standing right on the edge of a cliff—and I try to scream to warn her, but nothing comes out of my mouth, and I try to run toward her, but my legs won’t move. I’m totally helpless. And it’s terrifying.” She clutched her knees to her chest. “Sometimes I feel like my own prayers just hit the ceiling and bounce off. Keep praying for her, okay?”

  “I will. And for you too, Meg.”

  “Thanks.” Meg pulled another tissue from the box on her bedside table. “Much as I hate to, I think I’d better pass on serving with you guys at Crossroads today. I’m worried I’ll be coughing all over the soup.”

  “Mara will understand,” Hannah said. “We’ll have plenty of chances to be there together. You need to get your rest.”

  Meg nodded. Maybe an entire day in bed was a necessity, not a luxury.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Hannah said, “and bring you a cup of tea with honey.” Before Meg could protest and insist on getting her own, Hannah was out the door, her footsteps padding down the hardwood spiral staircase, her warm alto voice singing a melody Meg did not recognize.

  She reached for the daily Scripture calendar Charissa had given her (“Just a small thank-you,” Charissa had said, “for letting us know your old house was for sale”) and flipped the page to New Year’s Eve. In five short weeks Charissa and John would take possession of the house Meg and Jim had once shared, the home where they had dreamed their dreams about having a family and growing old together. Now, twenty-one years later, Charissa and John would dream their dreams in that same space and, God willing, they would bring their baby home together in July to the room Jim had once lovingly prepared for Becca. But Jim had not lived to bring Becca home. He had not lived to meet and hold his daughter. He had not lived.

  For God alone my soul waits in silence, Meg read from the calendar, for my hope is from him.

  Hope. Again and again, that word appeared, as if the Lord himself were whispering it in her ear. Hope, not in a particular outcome, but in God’s goodness and faithfulness, no matter what. Hope, not in an answer or solution, but in a Person. Hope, in him, through him, from him.

  “Look,” Meg said when Hannah returned with a tea tray.

  Hannah placed the tray on Meg’s bed and took the calendar to read. “There’s your word again.”

  “It’s like I’m living in an echo chamber.”

  Hannah grinned. “I know the feeling.” She passed the calendar back to Meg and hooked the leg of the desk chair with her foot, pulling it closer to the bed. “Thank God he doesn’t assume we’ll hear him the first time.”

  Meg took a sip of tea, the taste of honey lingering on her tongue. Yes, thank God.

  She knew her honest version of that verse most days: For God alone my soul doesn’t wait in silence, for my hope is not from him. Instead of waiting for God in hope and peace, she waited with agitation, restlessness, and anxiety. Even with everything she had seen about God’s faithfulness, even with everything she’d experienced the past few months about God’s presence and love, she still found it hard to trust. So that’s what she was learning to offer—the truth. To God. To others. To herself. No denying her fears. No stuffing her sorrow. All the anxiety and the heartache, the regret and the guilt, the longings and the desires, the wrestling and the sin, the past and present and future—all of it belonged at the feet of Jesus. All of it.

  Meg tried to offer a breath prayer but was seized with a fit of coughing as she inhaled.

  “You sound awful,” Hannah said. “How about if I bring you something for that cough?”

  It had been a while since Meg had been sick, even with a stuffy nose. “I don’t think I have anything,” she said.

  “No problem. I’ll take a quick shower and go get some medicine for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that—”

  But Hannah was already on her feet. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” She took a pad of paper and a pen from Meg’s desk. “Here—make a list of anything else you need, okay?”

  “Hannah, I—”

  “No arguing.” Hannah pointed her finger, her tone playfully firm. “You’re one of the ones telling me I need to practice resting and receiving. You can practice with me.”

  Meg gave a mock salute.

  “And put a couple of things on that list that are just for fun,” Hannah said. “You can practice playing too.”

  “I was never allowed to play when I was sick. It was against the rules.”

  Hannah’s eyes filled with a deep kind of knowing. “All the more reason to do it now.”

  Meg leaned her head back against her pillow and stared up at the ceiling, remembering lonely, censured sick days when her childhood room was converted into a confinement cell, with freedom granted only for trips to the bathroom or to the kitchen to forage for food. How many hours had she lain in bed, tracing the floral wallpaper pattern with her finger and making up stories in her head because even pleasure reading was forbidden?

  There was more—always more—to offer at the feet of Jesus, if she had courage enough to see.

  Mara

  The muffled yapping followed by a plaintive whine was Mara Garrison’s first clue that the cardboard box and silver duffel bag thirteen-year-old Brian was carrying contained something other than a few days’ worth of dirty laundry.

  “Hey!” she called to her youngest son, who had not removed his slush-covered boots or headphones when he entered the house. “Brian!” Mara thrust out her sudsy dishwater hand from the sink and caught his sleeve as he passed by. He flicked his wrist and swept through the kitchen without looking at her, his chest puffed out in a swagger that perfectly mimicked his father’s. “Hey!” She wiped her damp hand on her jeans and charged after him, reaching the door to the family room seconds before he did and blocking his path with her plus-sized body. She extended her elbows to touch the doorframe so he couldn’t get past her, then motioned for him to take off the headphones. Brian pulled one a few inches away from his ear.

  “How about a ‘Nice to see you, Mom!’”

  If looks could kill, he’d be charged with murder.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked, pointing with her chin.

  He hooked the headphones around his neck. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing” yelped.

  “Dad got him a dog,” Kevin replied, closing the garage door behind him with a hard slam before stooping to remove his boots.

  Brian spun around and glared at his older brother.

  “Don’t be such an idiot,” Kevin said. “It’s not like you could keep it a secret.”

  “Open the box,” Mara commanded, her voice surprisingly calm.

  Brian tried to scoot around her.

  She braced herself against the door frame. “I said open the box.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, the corner of his mouth twitching, the vein near his freckled temple pulsating. Just like his father.

  “Open the frickin’ box!” Kevin exclaimed. He snatched it away from his brother and set it down on the brown tile floor before opening the flaps. A wide-eyed, tan fur ball blinked at Mara.

  Tom, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, crowed in her head. Happy New Year!

  Kevin scooped up the quivering dog from the soiled newspapers and cradled it. The floppy-eared, shaggy-coated mutt licked his finger and whimpered. Brian wrested the dog away. “Bailey’s mine,” he growled, pushing Kevin’s chest with the palm of his hand.

  Kevin punched Brian’s shoulder. “Then don’t suffocate him.”

  In reply, Brian shoved Kevin hard.

  “Hey!” Mara shouted. “Knock it off! Both of you.” Though she’d expected Tom to pull some stunt with the boys over Christmas vacation, she hadn’t predicted this particular maneuver.

  For years she had put her foot down, insisting the boys could not have a dog because she knew who would end up taking care of it, and she didn’t want the additional responsibility. Tom traveled out of to
wn most weeks, the boys participated in multiple extracurricular activities, and Mara barely managed the pace of solo parenting.

  Now that Tom had filed for divorce and moved out to pursue a new promotion and new life in Cleveland—now, when Mara needed to look for a job and wasn’t even sure she would be able to afford to keep the house once the divorce was final in June—now Tom had given exactly what Brian wanted. It was a skillful ploy for maintaining loyalties and creating even more hostility if Mara took the dog away. She could imagine Tom’s mirth when he backed out of the driveway after dropping the boys off. He would probably smirk all the way through Michigan to Ohio.

  While Brian disappeared with the dog and his bag, Kevin lingered by the kitchen counter to inspect the apple pie cooling on the stove.

  “Want to fill me in?” Mara asked, hands on her hips. Ever since Kevin first confided in her about Tom’s job promotion a few weeks ago—news which Tom had decided not to share with her—he had become a fairly reliable informant. He broke off a tiny edge of golden crust to taste.

  The dog, Kevin explained, had been purchased through Craigslist after Brian threw a fuss about wanting—needing—one. “I told Dad you wouldn’t be happy about it.”

  Exactly.

  Muttering a few choice words under her breath, she reached for her phone and then stopped midnumber.

  No. This was precisely what Tom wanted. In fact, he was probably waiting for his phone to ring, counting on it ringing.

  Let him wait and wonder.

  She would figure out how to exact her revenge. She would find some weakness and exploit it, or she’d use the dog as leverage for keeping the house. Tom wanted to play games? Fine. She’d play. Brian wouldn’t be able to have a dog if she and the boys were forced to move into some rental property, and she could readily sow those seeds of blame and resentment. Don’t get too attached to it, she’d say, because once the divorce is final, we’re probably gonna have to move into a really small house with no pets allowed—all because your father’s too selfish to let us stay here.