A Story about the Spiritual Journey Read online

  Even though his voice was gentle, she winced.

  “Years ago my senior pastor had the same talk with me, Hannah. He saw warning signs in my life that I didn’t see, and he took action. His intervention saved my ministry, my family, and my health. It was a huge blessing to me, and I hope this will be a blessing to you.”

  She didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t burned out, and she wasn’t on the brink of disaster. She didn’t have a family to worry about, and her health was fine. She didn’t need a break. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.

  “Can’t I just take a month off?”

  “No.”

  “Three months then? I’ll go on a guided retreat somewhere and come back renewed and refreshed.”

  Steve was immovable. “This is radical pruning we’re talking about. If we only give you a couple of months, you’ll just mark time until you can come back and pick up right where you left off.”

  “But an entire school year! What am I possibly going to do with all that time off?”

  He smiled gently. “Don’t worry about trying to figure out the whole thing right now. We can talk later about some ideas for how you might want to spend it. The priority is getting you to a place where you can shift gears into real rest, and we’re going to do everything we possibly can to help make that happen for you.” He stood up. “Nine months, Hannah. Just give God nine months.”

  She knew there was no use arguing. They had made the decision without even consulting her—without her knowledge or approval—and it was out of her control. As she watched Steve leave her office, Hannah couldn’t help feeling resentful. She didn’t need an intervention, and she didn’t want his gift—especially a gift that was intended to be so outrageously generous. Not only did she feel resentful, but now she felt guilty over being ungrateful.

  She hated feeling that way.

  Mara, 1968

  Mara Payne bit her lip and fixed her eyes on her saddle shoes as she kicked up little clumps of dirt and grass. She had played this role countless times, and she knew the script by heart. One by one the fourth grade team captains would call out the names of her classmates. One by one the chosen would saunter to their respective sides, congratulating each other and whispering recommendations for the next pick into the captains’ ears.

  Mara didn’t have to look up to know what was happening. The feet next to hers were Eddie Carter’s. She knew his sneakers: blue stripes, muddy laces, and a small tear where a big toe wriggled in the sock. Eddie was always second-to-last pick, but at least he was chosen. Mara was just the leftover. When the sullen captain finally groaned her name, she would take the walk of shame and tell herself she didn’t care. But her tearstained shoes told a different story.

  Mara and Tom Garrison sat on the metal bleachers on a warm August evening in western Michigan, eating hot dogs and cheering on their sons’ baseball team, the Kingsbury Knights. Fridays were one of the few evenings the family spent together. Most weeks Tom traveled Monday through Thursday, leaving Mara to manage the precisely choreographed steps of the single parent dance. But when Tom was in town, he was devoted to their two teenage boys.

  “Go, go, go!” Tom jumped to his feet and shouted as fifteen-year-old Kevin drilled a hard line drive deep into center field, rounding first, rounding second, and sliding into third base. “Safe!” Tom yelled along with the umpire. “Yeah! Way to go, Kev!” He sat down again, still clapping enthusiastically. “I tell you what, Mara—that boy’s got talent. You watch! He’s gonna end up with a scholarship somewhere. Baseball, football, basketball—you name it, he can do it.”

  Mara sipped her diet soda and scanned the dugout bench for thirteen-year-old Brian. When she finally spotted him, she stood up. She was hard to miss in her oversized lime green tunic and large-brimmed straw hat; but if Brian saw her waving to him, he didn’t acknowledge her. She sat back down and stared at her shoes, hoping no one else had seen him look her direction before turning away.

  “So,” she began, rubbing her palms back and forth along her considerable thighs. “Do you know any more details about your plans with the boys tomorrow?”

  Tom did not reply, choosing instead to concentrate intently on the pitcher’s windup and Kevin’s lead at third base. Mara waited for the batter’s swing and miss before she tried again. “I was just wondering if you guys are planning to be gone all day or if you’ll be home for dinner?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll play it by ear.” He was still watching the mound.

  Mara removed her hat and smoothed her freshly colored, dark auburn hair. She could still smell the ammonia. Someday maybe she’d splurge and treat herself to color from a salon instead of from a box. Unfortunately, the copper highlights had turned out to be far more orange than she’d wanted, and she was going to have to try to fix them without making things worse. She supposed she could always go back to a boring shade of brown. Or maybe she’d make an appointment with a hairdresser. She figured that at fifty, she was entitled to a little more attentive pampering than she normally indulged in, even if Tom disagreed.

  She sighed. “I’m happy to cook something for us, if you think you’ll be back from the game by then.”

  Tom took a bite of his hot dog and waved to Brian. Brian waved back. “I said I don’t know. We’ll play it by ear.”

  “It just helps me plan my Saturday if I know what to expect—”

  “Enough, Mara!” he barked, rubbing his hands over his gray crew cut. “Wouldya just let me watch the game?” He jumped up to cheer again as Kevin raced home on a ground ball to the shortstop. “Way to hustle, Kev! Keep it up!” Kevin turned his freckled face to the stands and high-fived toward his dad.

  Mara put her hat back on. “I just—”

  Tom spun around, glaring at her. “Do whatever you want, okay? If we get hungry, we’ll stop and get something to eat on the way home. Just quit naggin’ me!”

  Mara saw one of the other mothers turn and cast a sympathetic glance in her direction. Knowing their conversation had been overheard, Mara forced a broad smile and a lighthearted chuckle. “Men!” she mouthed to the woman, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

  For the next three innings she ignored Tom and pretended to be interested in the lives of the other families sitting in the bleachers. The other Perfect Happy Families. After the game ended, she stood in the stands and watched Tom embrace the boys on the field. Then she shuffled slowly across the parking lot to her black SUV, fighting back her tears until she was safely out of sight from any spectators.

  When Tom and the boys arrived home after their customary post-game celebration at Steak ’n Shake, Mara was already in bed, pretending to be asleep.

  On Monday night Mara sat on her king-sized bed pairing socks. She’d heard other women talk about leaving clean laundry in baskets for husbands and kids to grab what they needed. But Mara had never minded sorting laundry. There was something particularly satisfying about matching socks together. When she couldn’t find a mate, she’d put the lone sock in her top dresser drawer and wait for the missing one to surface. In fact, her top drawer was crammed with unmated—no, once-mated—socks she couldn’t bear to throw away.

  There ought to be a country and western song about that.

  Maybe there already was.

  Kevin appeared in the doorway just as Mara was putting away the last of Tom’s undershirts. “Dad says to tell you he won’t be home until late Thursday night.”

  Ever since Kevin got a cell phone for his fifteenth birthday, Tom had made a habit of communicating most of his messages through him. Or by text. These days Mara had very little voice-to-voice contact with Tom when he traveled. Or when he was home.

  Having delivered the message, Kevin was already headed down the hallway.

  Just once, she wished the boys would linger long enough for a meaningful conversation—something other than the typical grunt or shrug whenever she asked about homework or friends. The only time she received actual sentences was when they were asking for food or laundry or tax
i services.

  “Kevin, don’t forget you’ve got an orthodontist appointment tomorrow!” Mara called after him. He didn’t reply. “Kevin!”

  “I know!” he yelled from his room.

  “Where are my jeans?” Now Brian was in the doorway.

  “I put them away in your drawer.”

  “No—my black ones.”

  “I haven’t seen your black ones.”

  “I put them in the laundry like a week ago!”

  “I don’t know, Brian. I emptied the basket this morning and washed everything that was in it.”

  “So where are my jeans?” The freckled dimple at the left corner of his mouth was beginning to twitch. He looked just like his father as he stood there frowning, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Check the floor in your room. I saw a pile of stuff by your desk.”

  Dawn, her counselor, had told her to stop picking up after the boys. They need to take some responsibility, Dawn said. They’ve got to learn to live with consequences.

  Brian disappeared and came back with the jeans crumpled into a ball. He tossed them at Mara.

  “I need these for tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.

  Mara exhaled slowly and put the jeans into the empty laundry basket. Someday maybe things would be different. God, please. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on like this.

  Charissa, 1990

  The Goodman family always chose the first row pew right in front of the pulpit, where everyone could see them. Eight-year-old Charissa would sit between her parents, feigning close attention as the Reverend Hildenberg preached. Even when her tights itched and her taffeta sash was cinched uncomfortably around her waist, Charissa was determined not to fidget.

  She was a statue—still and stoic like the ones carved centuries ago by Mother’s Greek ancestors. Daddy’s ancestors were still and stoic too; but they were British. Maybe even royalty. Charissa liked the idea of being a princess. Daddy always said she had a face that could launch a thousand ships, like Helen of Troy.

  Charissa of Kingsbury.

  She liked the sound of her name, even if she always had to correct people who mispronounced it. “It’s ‘Ka-Rissa,’” she would say. Her name meant, “grace,” and Charissa liked that too. She practiced being as graceful as possible.

  Most weeks Charissa spent the worship service sitting still on the outside while moving fast on the inside. Mother did not allow her to bring books to church or to the dinner table, so Charissa hid them in her head. She had a whole library of books stored inside her, and she could read them whenever she wanted. No one ever knew she was just pretending to listen to the sermon. In fact, every week the Reverend Hildenberg would shake Charissa’s hand and tell her what a joy it was to see a young lady paying such careful attention. And Mr. Goodman would put his arm around Charissa’s shoulders, smile, and say, “Thank you, Reverend. We’re very proud of her.”

  Twenty-six-year-old Charissa Goodman Sinclair leaned back to stretch her tight shoulders and then stood up at her desk. Only the doctoral students at Kingsbury University had private study cubicles in the main library, and hers was stacked high with English literature classics. She scanned the shelves, trying to decide which books to take home. She was definitely going to be spending the evening with Milton again, and she would need her resources on culture and society in Elizabethan England. Of course, she could also get a head start on her Shakespeare paper if she finished her analysis of Paradise Lost. The fall term had only just begun, and she was already swamped.

  She pulled her long dark hair up into a clip and looked at her watch. John was supposed to pick her up on his way home from work. Maybe she should call and tell him that she’d be spending the night at the library instead. Then she would have easy access to all the books she might need.

  But no—that wouldn’t work. She would have to get home to shower and change in the morning before her eight o’clock class, and she didn’t want to awaken John to come and get her. She hated having only one car. It was so inconvenient.

  At least their skimp-and-save lifestyle was temporary. John was working his way up at the marketing firm, and Charissa would be an English literature professor someday. Just four more years of graduate school. Her father didn’t understand why she would invest six years of her life in acquiring a graduate degree from a non-prestigious Christian university when she could have had her choice of Ivy League schools. At Kingsbury, however, Charissa’s reputation in the English Department was well-known. Having graduated summa cum laude, she relished the distinct advantages of being a big fish in a small pond. Although Daddy would have preferred her pursuing a more profitable career in law or business, he loved telling people that his little girl was getting her Ph.D. And Charissa didn’t mind him telling.

  She packed up her laptop and a stack of books before heading out to the parking lot to wait for her husband.

  On Tuesday evening Charissa was on her way to her library cubicle when she noticed plum-colored flyers posted on a bulletin board. Since there were multiple copies, she removed the thumbtack and slipped one into her backpack.

  Normally, she wouldn’t have paid any attention. She had never been to the New Hope Retreat Center, and she didn’t know anything about its programs. But Dr. Allen, who taught her Literature and the Christian Imagination seminar, had been urging his students to find ways to deepen their life with God.

  “I know I’m sounding like a broken record,” he said at the end of class the next day, “but if you truly want to understand the literature we’re reading this semester, you’ll need to do some extra-curricular work. You’ll need to make a commitment to pay attention to the path and contours of your own spiritual journey.”

  Removing his glasses, he ran his hand across his face and through his salt and pepper hair. “The poets and authors we’re studying wrote out of the depths of their personal experience with God,” he went on. “Their work reflects their wrestling with who God is and who God created them to be. If you don’t do some wrestling of your own, the texts will have little meaning for you. So I encourage you again to explore your own spiritual formation this semester—to be intentional about how you are being shaped to become more and more like Christ. If you find ways to cooperate with the Spirit’s work of transformation, these texts will spring to life for you.”

  Charissa wondered if New Hope’s program would qualify as an appropriate spiritual formation experience. She could manage six Saturday sessions spread over three months. Maybe the New Hope course would be the perfect way to fulfill Dr. Allen’s request.

  She waited for the room to clear before she approached his desk to ask if he knew anything about the “sacred journey” group advertised on the flyer.

  “Walk with me,” he said, picking up his briefcase and his travel mug.

  She followed him down the crowded hallway toward his office. “I’m just wondering if this is the sort of class you were talking about—something that would supplement the work we’re doing in your course.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And the director, Katherine Rhodes. Do you know anything about her?”

  He nodded. “I know Katherine well. She’s been at New Hope for a long time.”

  Charissa hesitated, trying to find the right way to phrase her next question. “And theologically . . . I mean . . . ”

  Dr. Allen interrupted, chuckling. “Worried about orthodoxy, Charissa? You’re far more likely to hear heresy in these classrooms than from her. You’d be in good hands.” He took a sip from his mug. “Apart from the spiritual formation recommendations I made in class, why are you interested in going?”

  She thought for a moment and then answered, “To learn.”

  He stopped walking and turned his riveting dark eyes upon her. “Wrong answer,” he said, smiling enigmatically. Was he teasing her?

  Though she was several inches taller than her professor, Charissa suddenly felt rather small. Lowering her gaze away from his eyes, she focused inst
ead on his neatly trimmed goatee and waited for him to explain himself.

  “Go to encounter God, Charissa, or don’t go at all.”

  Hannah

  Just one month after Steve broke the news of her unsolicited, unwelcomed vacation, Hannah Shepley relinquished her keys to Heather Kirk, the twentysomething pastoral intern that Westminster had hired to try to fill her shoes. Heather, who had graduated from seminary in May, was thrilled to have a nine-month internship before she sought a more permanent call elsewhere. Fresh-faced and eager, she was full of audacious hopes and plans for “doing ministry.”

  As Hannah looked into her replacement’s sparkling eyes, she caught a glimpse of her former self. She had been young and eager once too, arriving at Westminster fresh from seminary—a twenty-four-year-old sparkplug, ready to ignite the church into action. But the last fifteen years had taken their toll. These days when Hannah looked into the mirror, she hardly knew herself. Her brown hair had streaks of silver which took too much effort to conceal, and her eyes were tired. So tired. In fact, her aging seemed to have accelerated ever since Steve had told her she needed to rest. Or maybe she had merely become more aware of her weariness once she had stopped moving quite so fast.

  “Don’t worry about anything,” Heather assured her, jingling Hannah’s house and office keys. “I’ve got everything covered. And if I’ve got any questions about the house, I’ll e-mail you.” The intern smiled knowingly. “Pastor Steve doesn’t want me calling you with questions about anything else.”