Devoted (26 page)

In big, bold letters on the inside of the Sunday program are printed the words
All People Are Welcome Here! No one is excluded! No matter who you are, or what you have done, God loves you and is glad you are here!

No matter what you have done. The first time I read those words I get goose bumps on my arms. I read them over again. I'm a girl who's left her family behind, and even if I know I have good reasons for that, in my heart I've felt guilty for it. For leaving Ruth and my mother and all my responsibilities behind.

I imagine God looking down on me. If God loves me and is glad I'm here, is it the same gaze of the God who looked down on me at Calvary Christian? Did that God welcome everyone? Sometimes Pastor Garrett didn't make me think so. But if God is God, it has to be the same God, doesn't it?

Soon it's time for the service to begin. A full band in the corner with a piano player, a drummer, and several men playing guitars starts up with “Blessed Assurance.” Mark sings along, following the lyrics as they appear on the screen, but I know the words by heart.

“Welcome, all,” begins the pastor, a large, middle-aged man with a full belly and a well-trimmed gray beard. He doesn't boom because he doesn't need to—he's wearing a small lapel microphone—and soon he's preaching about that morning's Scripture readings, the parable of the talents from Matthew, and about how we must use our God-given gifts to serve the Lord. I've heard it before, of course.

“We must ask ourselves,” the pastor says, stepping out from behind the pulpit and walking among the congregation, “what are we doing with our precious gifts, with the gifts that God has given us? Perhaps there's a young woman here who wants to study medicine, or a young man with a talent for teaching. How much God wants us to honor Him by using our talents. Our gifts.”

My gifts—according to Pastor Garrett and Dad—are the gifts of the homemaker and nothing more. To raise up children for Christ and to be a good helpmeet. I try to picture Pastor Garrett preaching about girls becoming doctors, and it is so amusing to me, I have to watch that an inappropriate grin doesn't slip out during the sermon.

Later, there's communion with real wine, but Mark takes grape juice and so do I. And there's a big, resounding version of a more contemporary song I don't recognize, but I try to follow along. When the service ends, we file out into a room called the Parish Hall, where the excited chatter of so many people in such a small space hurts my ears and makes me want to leave. Mark and I get pushed along until we end up by a table with paper cups full of orange juice and boxes of glazed donuts.

“So what'd you think?” Mark asks, downing a tiny paper cup of orange juice in one gulp and starting on a donut.

“It was … nice. It was different.”

“Better?” Mark asks. “Than your old church, I mean?”

I shrug. “Calmer,” I say. “More … relaxed. But fancier, which felt strange. And I'm not sure if I liked that part or not.”

“Fancier. You mean like the flat-screen for the song lyrics and stuff?”

“Yes,” I say. “And the big band and the way the donation envelopes let you write down credit card information. At my church, everyone's encouraged to live without debt, so that sort of eliminates the credit card option.”

“But what about the donuts?” Mark says, raising an eyebrow. “Don't the donuts sort of tip things in Peace Lutheran's favor?”

“Well, the donuts don't hurt,” I say, grinning.

Mark smiles. “Yeah, the donuts aren't bad. And coming here isn't terrible. It'll be harder when school starts, though. On the weekends during the school year, I just want to sleep in.”

“Until I moved in with Lauren, I'd never slept in,” I say, helping myself to a cup of juice. “Not in my entire life. Except for when I was sick.”

Mark's eyebrows dart up. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” I tell him, taking a sip of juice. “I'd gladly get up early if I thought it would mean I could spend all day learning things.”

Mark grimaces ever so slightly. “Rachel, do you know there's a chance I could have this dude named Mr. Taylor for U.S. Government class this year? The last time he gave an A to anyone, the U.S. government didn't actually exist. We were still a British colony. That's how ancient this guy is.”

“Ancient?” I say. “You mean elderly.”

“Vintage.”

“Seasoned.”

“Mature.”

“Geriatric,” I offer.

“Old,” Mark responds. “And that's all I got.”

I blush a little and look down into the bottom of my cup at the solitary swallow of juice I have left.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For what?” Mark answers. “I think it's kind of cool you know so many words. But honestly, I wish I could get you to understand how freaking boring U.S. Government is.”

I finish my juice and bite my bottom lip for a moment, trying to choose my words. “But you have … options,” I finally begin. “I don't know that you totally understand that. Like what the pastor was saying in there. You can use your gifts any way you want to. It's not just that you can read Madeleine L'Engle books if you feel like it. It's more than that. It's like … a lifetime of possibilities.”

Mark doesn't have a rapid-fire retort this time. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “You're probably right.”

My cheeks are pinking up, but I look at Mark and ask, “Are you just saying that? Or do you really think I'm right?”

“No, I really think you're right,” Mark insists. “I'm kind of an ungrateful pain in the ass sometimes, if you want me to be honest.”

“No, you're not,” I say, shaking my head. “You're nice. And funny.”

“Well,” Mark says, like he's considering my words with care, “that is true. I am incredibly nice and funny.”

“I never said incredibly.”

Mark bursts out laughing, and then I'm laughing, too. It feels so easy to stand here and drink paper cups of juice and talk to Mark Treats. As if my brain has suddenly forgotten all the reasons why it was supposed to be difficult. Or wrong.

“Do you think you have options?” Mark says. “Like now? That you've left?”

Now that I've left. For good? Forever?

“Your mom says I'm a girl who knows what she wants and goes after it,” I say. “I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it all out.”

“I think my mom's right,” Mark says, and his smile softens just a little and his brown eyes meet mine. “You're kind of tough as nails.”

“Maybe,” I answer, my heart pounding hard, insisting I pay attention to it.

“No, not maybe tough as nails,” Mark says. “Definitely, absolutely, unequivocally tough as nails. I just listed antonyms for maybe. I thought I'd switch it up this time.”

“Indubitably,” I offer. “Decidedly.”

“You're never going to let me win, are you?” Mark says, shaking his head.

“No,” I tell him, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

*   *   *

When I get home from church, Lauren is busy in the bathroom coloring her hair a new shade of the rainbow.

“How'd it go?” she asks, carefully massaging a reddishlooking dye into her scalp, oversized plastic gloves on her hands.

“It was okay,” I say, heading toward the couch. “It was nice in some ways.” When I tell her about the big screen, Lauren steps outside of the bathroom to make sure she's heard me right.

“A flat-screen? Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “And you can make a donation to the church on a credit card!”

“But Psalms says the wicked borroweth and payeth not again,” Lauren admonishes, mimicking Pastor Garrett, even waggling a dye-covered, gloved finger at me.

“I know,” I answer. “But parts of the service I liked, actually. Like the sermon.”

“That's nice,” Lauren answers, heading back into the bathroom. I hear the water turning on, like she doesn't want to talk about it anymore.

“Hey!” I shout. “Can I borrow your laptop?”

“You don't have to ask.”

By the time Lauren has blow-dried her now burgundy hair and joined me on the couch, I have half a page of notes scribbled down. Phone numbers, addresses, a list of required documents.

“What's up?” she asks.

“I'm doing this research.”

“Obviously. But for what?”

If I say it out loud to Lauren, it becomes real. It becomes something I'm doing instead of something I might do.

“I'm trying to figure out how to enroll. In school.”

For once, Lauren is speechless. Her mouth actually opens and no sound comes out. She just peers at the computer screen, apparently looking for confirmation of my announcement.

“Clayton Independent School District Admissions and Withdrawals,” she finally reads out loud, her voice quieter than normal. Maybe even in awe. “Really? Seriously?”

“When I turn eighteen, I can enroll myself.”

Lauren opens her mouth and shuts it again. She looks carefully at the computer screen and then at me.

“You're smart,” Lauren says. “You could probably enroll as a senior and graduate with a real high school diploma, not just a GED like I have.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It's probably stupid.”

“No, it's not stupid,” Lauren says slowly. Usually Lauren is ready with her opinions, but she seems to be carefully chewing over my idea. “I think it could be … really incredible for you. But…”

“But what?” I ask, frowning a little.

“It's going to be very different,” Lauren says. “You'll be with worldly kids who don't know anything about your life and Calvary. It might feel a little overwhelming. Especially at first. I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but I remember what it was like when I first started hanging out with real worldly kids. I tried to be all tough, but they could be intimidating.”

“Yeah, I know it would be strange at first,” I say, running my finger along the bottom of the laptop. Lauren's words make me anxious, but they can't completely extinguish the idea of school from my mind. I think back to Mark's SAT prep and my curiosity over how I would do in such a class.

“If you go to high school, you can go to college, right?” I ask. Some of the boys from Calvary sometimes took a business class or two at the community college branch in Healy if it could help them get their own home-based businesses off the ground, but only with the permission of Pastor Garrett. Girls were never allowed. And I'd never known anyone who'd gone to an actual four-year university.

“Yeah, if you finish high school you could go to college,” says Lauren. “I bet Clayton High has full-time counselors and everything. They could help you figure out how to apply. And maybe get financial aid. College is really expensive, you know.”

“I know,” I say, and my cheeks pink up. “Lauren, I can't believe I didn't first say that I would still keep my job at the Treats. Or get another one. I mean, even if I went to school I would still be working. I wouldn't want you to think that I…”

“Stop,” Lauren says, waving her hand at me. “We'll figure that part out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I think school could be really good for you. I bet you spend hours just reading. And learning.”

Hours spent reading and learning. Every single day.

I keep staring at the Clayton Independent School District website.
The adult student … may enroll without parental involvement.
I'm still amazed the words exist.

“I think I'm going to call them,” I say, my stomach fluttering. “The school district, I mean.”

“When?” Lauren asks.

“I was thinking Tuesday,” I say.

“Why Tuesday?” Lauren questions. Then she claps her hands together. “I know! It's your birthday. You turn eighteen.”

I nod. Eighteen. A legal adult.

“So you're sure you're ready for this?” she asks.

“I think so,” I say, not at all sure and just overwhelmed enough to want to change the topic. To my ears, it still sounds like I'm announcing that I'm going to swim the English Channel.

That night after Lauren heads to bed, I curl up on the couch and think of Ruth. Lately, I only let my mind venture to thoughts of her when I'm alone in the dark of the evening and there's no one to see me crying. Only at night do I allow myself to remember our cuddles and late night whispers. What would she think if I told her I was thinking of enrolling in school? Would she say I was committing a terrible sin? Or would she want to try and understand me?

Is she thinking of me right now just a few miles away? Or is she so exhausted by the work she's had to take on since I left that she's been dead asleep for hours, my empty bed next to her a morning reminder of all the endless tasks she must try to accomplish that day?

Oh, baby sister, I'm sorry.

And I miss you so much.

I swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. And then another.

God, help me to do what's right. Help me figure out how to live this life. To be a good person. To honor you.

It feels like years since Lauren emailed me the Mary Oliver poem—the one that's become a touchstone for my heart. My everyday prayer. My true north. Even if I haven't always understood exactly what it means.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Lauren once said that the speaker in the poem was me—that I was supposed to ask myself that question.

But now I wonder, what if the speaker is God?

What if God is saying,
Rachel, what is it you plan on doing now that I've gifted you with this mind and this heart and this itch to know about the deepest parts of the ocean and the highest crests of the mountains and the darkest edges of space?