Cast a Road Before Me (13 page)

These details—my nesting—would be taken care of during my first two weeks in Cincinnati. How I’d looked forward to moving in, to making that apartment my home before launching into my career and a life that would honor my mother. I had not the slightest doubt that this was the right plan for my life—the plan my mother set in motion even while beyond the grave. Nor did I doubt that God smiled on it as well, for had he not sent her in that dream to guide me when I was most bereft?

The air was hot. I kicked back the sheet and fluffed up my pillow. Outside my window, the night was clear, star-lit. I gazed at the sky, thinking that my guardian angel was up there somewhere, watching me. Did she know why I couldn’t sleep? Did she understand the tug I felt in my heart, knowing my attraction to Lee could lead no further than a few weeks’ exhilaration?

Imagining the compassionate face of my mother as she smiled down on me from that night sky, I felt a twinge of remorse, worrying that my feelings for Lee—and the ease with which I chose to overlook his admitted temper—bordered on betrayal. I prayed to her then, asking for strength when it came time to leave Bradleyville. For the first time, my anticipation of that joyous day
was dampened with the reality of saying good-bye to Lee. I didn’t like that ambivalence. I didn’t like it at all. And when I thought about it, it didn’t even make sense. I had planned the launching of my new life for seven years; and now, in just seven days, I’d allowed some of its shine to slip from my fingers. No man was worth that. I really would have to be more careful.

S
he was getting too old to pray on her knees. By the time they were done, she’d probably be so stiff she couldn’t get up. No matter. They didn’t usually kneel when the four of them met for their weekly prayer time, but under the circumstances tonight, she’d told them they should
.

They’d been talking to God for about half an hour, taking turns praying out loud. First, as always, they’d sent praises to heaven for the Lord’s majesty and faithfulness, for the many answers to prayer he’d sent them during the more than seven years they’d been meeting. Now, silence reigned as they each listened to God for his leading on how to pray for the town
.

“Dear Lord,” the man next to her began, “our hearts are heavy because of the knowledge you have given to our sister in Christ this week. Heavy and yet light, for Lord, we expect a miracle.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and the others breathed their assent
.

“We know, dear Jesus, that you are in charge. That you have called us to pray. You have heard our prayers as we have prayed for the town, for our churches and places of business, and for individual folks in need. And now you’ve sent us word that the time of your prophecy is almost upon us. We thank you, we praise you for that knowledge, Lord, so that
we can request your protection and mercy over Bradleyville when the crisis arrives.”

Her legs were beginning to numb. She shifted her weight, leaning an arm against the couch
.

“Father, we pray for the employees at the mill,” the man’s wife continued. “We thank you for the agreement in June. That was a direct answer to our prayers. Now, Lord, with all we hear ‘bout anger returnin’, we ask for your peace to descend so that agreement can last till August.”

“And please, Lord,” she jumped in, her fingers gripping the edge of the couch cushion, “please spare the lives a our people. We know you got lots to teach us; we know that as a town we ain’t let you be Lord a our lives. And we know that, like the nation a Israel, you’re gonna let this crisis come to bring us back to you. But please, dear Jesus”—tears formed in her closed eyes—”have mercy on us and don’t let anyone die. Send your angels, Lord, and protect us all.”

The third woman of the group spoke up, asking God’s “special blessin’ and protection” on the person whose face had been clear in the vision. “Lord, you know how we’ve prayed for this dear soul over the years. We ask for you to grant your strength and comfort and pray that, through all that happens, you’ll make your purpose and plans known.”

The four of them fell silent once again, listening for guidance from the Holy Spirit. Her legs had gone to sleep
.

“Lord,” she entreated, “when the crisis comes, send someone into the very midst of it to pray. Someone who is filled with your Spirit. Protect this person physically. And grant your wisdom of what to do, what to say, and how to pray….”

I
sat between Lee and Miss Wilma in church the following morning, choosing to ignore the raised eyebrows and whispers of those around us. Connie had stayed home, too uncomfortable to sit in the hard pew. The small sanctuary was stifling hot, even with all the windows open. A few elderly ladies whisked paper fans before their shiny faces. My aunt and uncle filed into their usual pew with the Matthews, Aunt Eva catching Miss Wilma’s eye and proudly slanting her head in my and Lee’s direction, as if our sitting together was all her doing. Celia Matthews looked back at me with a tiny smile, trying to hide her obvious disappointment that, for the second Sunday in a row, I would not be sitting next to her. Something about her expression tugged at my heart. Even surrounded by her family, she so often seemed sad. Beside her, Thomas threw a grin over his shoulder at us. Pressing his lips together secretively, he slid his eyes across the aisle to Jake Lewellyn, then back at me. I lifted my eyebrows, acknowledging the look.

“What’s that all about?” Lee whispered.

“Oh,” I replied vaguely, still smiling at Thomas’s back, “you know Thomas, always up to something.”

Lee grunted under his breath.

After my disquieting night, the hymns we sang that morning were comforting. I’d become familiar with quite a few hymns during my Sundays in Bradleyville. Singing about God and his goodness, I felt renewed in my calling to return to Cincinnati.
Thank you for sending the dream of my mother to me
, I prayed during the silent moment of confession.
Thank you for showing me through her what I am to do
.

For his sermon, Pastor Frasier chose a text from Matthew 19. The verse numbers sounded vaguely familiar. As he began to read, I smiled. It was a story I well understood.

“And, behold,” he read, starting at verse 16, “one came and said unto him, ‘Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?’ And he said unto him, ‘Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God….’” Pastor Frasier continued, reading how Jesus commanded the young man to keep the commandments. “‘All these things have I kept from my youth up,’ the young man replied; ‘what lack I yet?’” Jesus’ answer was the part I best remembered. It would have been my mother’s verse. “‘If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.’”

Briefly, I wondered how Pastor Frasier would approach the verses. Their message seemed a far cry from the beliefs he’d expounded in our conversation so many years ago. I’d been to church many times since then, slowly learning to respect the man, even though we obviously didn’t agree. True, my respect had been grudging at first, given the way that conversation had ended. But I’d had to admit he lived his beliefs, just as I was living mine. So who was I to judge?

Lee’s roughened hands rested on his legs, fingers spread. He looked so handsome in his blue Sunday suit and tie, the lime scent of his aftershave hanging in the air. I longed to hold his hand but
knew better. If we so much as touched shoulders, not a person behind us would hear a word of the sermon.

“‘What good thing shall I do?’” Pastor Frasier was repeating. “What
good thing?’
Do ya see, right from the very beginnin’, the wrong assumption this young man was makin’? He’d kept the commandments all his life. Leastways, that’s what he claimed.” The pastor drew in his mouth, widening his eyes. “Far better man than I. And so, you see, he thought what he needed was one more
good thing
.

“Now let’s stop right there for a minute. Why do you suppose, if he’d always kept the commandments, this young man thought he had to do somethin’ else? Anybody got a guess?” He gazed around the sanctuary. A few rows back, someone coughed. “The clue is right here in verse 20. ‘What lack I yet?’ he asks. Can you imagine that? A man with youth and health and wealth. Got everything goin’ for him. Most of all, remember, he’s
good
. Kept the commandments all his life. Even looks right at Jesus and tells him so. So
why
, brothers and sisters, should this young man, of all people,
feel he lacked anything?”

I glanced at Lee. He was listening intently, his brow slightly furrowed. I knew the answer to the pastor’s question. The man had kept all the commandments—that was for himself. But what had he done for others? That’s why Jesus had told him to give what he had to the poor—in other words, to realize his riches weren’t as important as a willingness to serve his fellow man.

Pastor Frasier’s answer to his own question was far different than mine. “Look again at verse 17. Do ya see where Jesus said to the young man, ‘why callest thou me good?’ He goes on to say only God is good. In other words, young man—you who think so much of yourself, you who say you’ve kept all the commandments—what ‘good’ is your ‘good’ when compared to God’s? Only
he
is perfect. And perfection, brothers and sisters, is what he demands….”

Irritation wiggled up my spine. Pastor Frasier was going off on one of his tangents again. I should have stayed home, claimed a headache. I could be sewing right now, finishing another dress. I
was behind in my sewing. I’d planned to make at least six outfits, but I’d spent so many hours baking and serving for those silly sawmill meetings. I needed to make up for lost time. If only I had a better sewing machine; my mother’s was sadly outdated.

Lee shifted his weight, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. I smiled at him, but his attention remained riveted on the pastor. I hoped he would offer to drive me home.

“You see, folks, we’re all gonna fall short. Just as this poor, rich young man did. ‘Cause if you try to live your life by being ‘good,’ you’ll never quite measure up. There’ll always be somethin’ more you need to do—somethin’, by the way, that you
won’t be willin’ to do
. That’s just what happened here. Jesus knew this young man’s heart. And so when he asked, ‘what lack I yet?’ Jesus came back with the one thing he knew would be too hard. Too much. And that was to give away all he owned.”

Pastor Frasier paused, placing two fingers against his chin. “But you know what? Jesus didn’t stop there. ‘Cause if he had, there’d be no hope for any of us. No, sir. He added four words after that. Four little words that are so big, so immense, that they mean the difference between judgment and eternal life. What are they? Look at verse 21. ‘Come and follow me.’ Come and follow me. That’s it. That’s salvation in a nutshell. Not just keepin’ the commandments, although that’s important. Not just comin’ to church, although I hope y’all will keep on comin’, lest I’m left with nobody to preach to. Not even givin’ all ya own to the poor. But followin’
Jesus
, that’s the key. And
that’s
what was missin’ from this young man’s life. He wasn’t willin’ to give up what he, personally, needed to give up in order to make Jesus first in his life.

“Let me ask ya somethin’ as I close, folks. What is it that you’re not willin’ to give up? What’s holdin’
you
back?”

By the final hymn, I was all too ready to leave church. I did stop to give Celia a big hug, promising I’d see her sometime that week. She’d probably tag along with her beloved granddad when we went to Tull’s Drugstore.

Lee’s truck was an oven when we climbed in. He drove slowly out of the unpaved parking lot, trying not to kick up dust through our open windows. He was unusually quiet.

“What are you mulling about?” I asked. “Problems at the mill?”

He shot me a self-conscious smile. “No. Just ‘bout pastor’s sermon.”

“Oh.” It was the last thing I wanted to discuss. “What’d you think about it?”

I shrugged. “Not much of anything. He and I have had our discussions. We don’t see eye to eye on some things.”

“Hmm,” he grunted, as if he understood all too well. Which annoyed me.

“So what did
you
think about it?”

He tapped the steering wheel, then raised his fingers in a wave to someone driving by. “Well, it got me … considerin’ a few things. Things Mama always talks to me about.”

“Giving your life to Jesus Christ, you mean,” I said bluntly.

He looked almost embarrassed. “Somethin’ like that.”

I crossed my arms and looked out the window. “Well, if that sounds good to you, maybe that’s what you need to do, then.” Why did I sound so petulant?

“Hmm,” he grunted again. I shot him a look. We pulled up in front of the house. “Later, maybe.” He put the truck in park and twisted in his seat to face me. “Right now, I’d rather be kissin’ you.”

The petulance fell away. I rolled my eyes. “Right here, Mr. Harding? In front of the whole town?”

He made a point of looking around. “I don’t see anybody.”

“That’s because they’re all hiding behind their windows. Look carefully, you’re bound to see the curtains pinched back.”

“So is that a ‘no’?”

I lowered my eyes coquettishly. “Well, only for now. For right
here
.”

“So you
will
go out with me again.” He looked pleased with himself, like a lawyer who’d just scored a major point in court.

“Who said I wouldn’t?”

“Nobody.” His expression turned. “But you are leavin’ in a few weeks.” He paused, as if waiting to hear that I’d changed my mind.

“That’s true,” I replied softly. “I am, Lee. You know I have to go. Don’t you?”

He took a deep breath, nodding his head once. “I know. You got your job, your plans.”

“It’s more than that.” I’d told him so little, really. “It’s … what I’m supposed to do. What
I
have to do to follow God.”