Lost and Found (8 page)

Gerard knows nothing else.

I hesitate to make excuses for him, but I do understand Brigitte's pull. Like a magnet, if you draw close, her force is undeniable. I think of his response to the lost diamond:
I'll take care of it.
I don't know what that means, but it won't involve telling Brigitte the truth. We shy away from honest engagements with her—instead, we say what we believe she wants to hear.

We keep the peace.

As I stare into the dark, what seems so elusive in the light of day, becomes clear.

Skye was right. Brigitte is the god we bow to. But, the dark reveals no plan for toppling the idol.

I roll to my side, wrap my arm around Gerard, and rest my head on his chest. The thrum of his beating heart matches my own and lulls me back to the edge of sleep—that place where, for a time, I can close my eyes and mind to the truth and believe, with my husband at my side, that this is where I want to be.

When you meet a person whose heart is turned toward God there is a natural, or should I say supernatural, drawing between you.

JEANNE GUYON

I LOCK MY
office door and hit the pavement, pounding the uphill blocks to the cathedral. I want time to myself before Skye shows up. My gut tells me something's up. It's already been that kind of day.

"Pay"—I huff—"attention, buddy. You don't want to . . . miss out." I nod to a woman looking at me like I'm a derelict talking to himself. I laugh. There's always a conversation going on in my head and most of the time, it spills out my mouth.

After the third block a red light and traffic stops me. I turn, bounce on the balls of my feet, and look back at the bay. It's fall—the air is crisp and the view is clear. "Cool." I don't think I'll ever get tired of the view. Or of the city. People, traffic, noise, people. "This is life!"

Still bouncing, I pump my fists in the air like Rocky Balboa after reaching the top of the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. "A classic movie!"

Someone else, a man this time, stares at me as he passes.

I turn back just as the light changes and pick up my pace again. As I walk, I think through my last appointment. Blake, early thirties, molested as a child by his priest and now coming out of a lifestyle of homosexuality. He's in therapy with one of my colleagues working to heal from a painful past that, many would say, led to a confusing and painful present. "Man, life is hard." I shake my head.

I think of the blog I read this morning—one I read several mornings a week. I'm not one for staring at a computer screen, so I print the entries and read them with my morning coffee. The author of the blog, whoever it is, is the real deal—someone with a working knowledge of pain and a real relationship with Christ. The kind with skin on it. A relationship where you struggle, cry out, and then curl up in the lap of the Comforter. "That's real, baby."

I think of the verse from 1 Peter quoted in the blog today:
"In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials."
I love that verse.
In this.
In our inheritance in Christ. That's the hope we Christians hold to. It's what keeps us focused on the finish line when we're dealing with the painful realities of life.

"But, man, if you don't have that . . ." I shake my head again.

Blake is exploring spirituality and the idea of returning to the church. His therapist suggested he start by getting to know Jesus. That's where I come in. Blake wasn't ready to walk back into a church—any church—so instead, his therapist recommended me, a counselor and spiritual director. It's not a long stretch between the two. Blake is one of my directees, but he isn't a typical directee. Don't get me wrong, by typical, I don't mean normal.

I laugh. "There is no normal."

A passerby apparently agrees as she makes a wide arc around me.

No matter. We're unique. Every one of us. Created in the image of God. Meaning, we each reflect the Divine in some way. "Very cool."

I so often see similarities in those who seek Christian spiritual direction. The number-one similarity? Most are followers of Christ. So, in that respect, Blake isn't typical. But my job is to listen. To Blake. And to the Holy Spirit. Today, as Blake asked questions and I responded, I knew that I knew more than I know. Get it? I answered Blake's unasked questions. Well, not me, but God in me—through me.

And Blake got it! You could see the cogs spinnin' and the gears shiftin'. It's called dancing in the moment. And baby, that is one cool dance. "Totally cool!" I pump a fist in the air again and watch as the tourists crowding the sidewalk ahead of me part like the Red Sea.

Man, I want Blake to have the hope of Jesus. "How cool would that be?" I lift my hand and a passerby gives me a high five. "Yes!"

When I reach the cathedral, I climb the steps leading to the entrance, veer to the right, and head to the outdoor labyrinth. I grab a seat on the wall on the outside edge of the lab and remind myself to shift to inner dialogue mode.

I want to respect those who are practicing an ancient tradition by walking the labyrinth—those who may be listening for a voice other than mine. Imagine that. I smile—and sense I'm not smiling alone.

While I wait for Skye, I watch a handful of people walk the inlaid terrazzo stone circle. The labyrinth attracts those from many traditions.
Father God . . . do they know it's You they seek?
I notice the young woman sitting in the middle of the labyrinth in a posture of meditation. Legs crossed, palms open, hands resting on her knees, eyes closed. I close my eyes against the distractions in front of me—a discipline that helps me still my active mind and turn to prayer. I wait until the Holy Spirit forms His prayer in me for the young woman. I pray things I have no way of knowing.

"Matthew? Hey, Matthew . . ."

I feel a nudge on my shoulder and open my eyes.

"You're mumbling." Skye's eyes twinkle. "How long have you been sitting here?"

I look around her to the middle of the labyrinth—the girl I was praying for is gone. "Dude . . . I don't know . . . awhile, I think."

"Talking to yourself again?"

"No, I was . . . Wait, was I talking out loud?"

Skye laughs and says to the woman standing next to her. "He's a verbal processor. Very verbal!" She pauses, looks at me, and smiles. "But he's also a listener."

Listener
. That's the title Skye gave me when I added spiritual director to my vocations. It fits. She gets what I do and why I do it. And if I'm a listener, then Skye is an intuitive. She reads people like no one else I know. We're connected as friends by our innate curiosity about people.

I look at the woman she's talking to but don't recognize her. I stand and stretch out my hand. "Hi, I'm Matthew." She takes my hand and her smile reaches her eyes—the same deep blue as the bay on a sunny afternoon—and something inside me reacts. Hard to explain. But it's not what you might think. Honest.

I'm married. All in. All the time.

But there's something about this woman. Although . . . uh . . . she looks wiped out.

"Matthew, this is Jenna Bouvier. I've been wanting the two of you to meet."

"Bouvier? As in the rich San Francisco family that brews the bubbly?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I notice the chain of the Chanel bag looped over her shoulder and the exquisite cut of her slacks. Yeah, I said
Chanel
and
exquisite
. Tess, my wife, works in the fashion industry and she's trained me well. And if she were standing next to me, I'd have an elbow in my ribs about now. "Oh, uh . . . sorry."

"The bubbly isn't actually brewed, it's aged. In barrels. In caves." Jenna, still holding my outstretched hand, has a kind voice. "Nice to meet you, Matthew." She gives my hand a squeeze and then lets go.

"Have a seat, ladies." I motion to the wall and Skye and Jenna sit. I take the place next to Skye, hoping she'll explain why she wanted Jenna and me to meet. My sense is that Jenna is the "what's up?" that I was waiting for today—the something, or rather some
one
, that God told me I wouldn't want to miss. Although, experience has taught me, I could be wrong. Dead wrong. But then, that's part of the adventure.

Either way, I'm paying attention.

Skye looks from me to Jenna, then she gets up. "We can't have a conversation like this." She takes off the jean jacket she's wearing, spreads it on the concrete in front of the wall, and then plops down in front of us. Her legs hide under her vintage patchwork skirt. Yeah, it's vintage. Tess, remember?

"So, you two"—she points at me, then at Jenna—"share the same spiritual vibe." The silver ring on her index finger reflects the sunlight.

Jenna looks at me and then at Skye. "Spiritual vibe?"

Skye's golden eyes, catlike, shine. "Yeah, we carry the same Spirit within us, but I get a vibe from both of you. Like the Spirit speaks to both of you in the same way." She cocks her head to one side. "Or maybe you both interpret the Spirit's voice in the same way. I don't know. But there's some kind of Divine connection here." Again she waggles her index finger between us. "I feel it."

I nod. "Cool."

Jenna looks at me. I can't read her, but I'd guess she's as curious as I am.

Then Skye laughs—deep and throaty—which is always surprising coming from such a petite thing. "Besides the vibe, you two have nothing in common." She shakes her head and laughs again. "But that's okay, 'cause you've got a foundation to build on."

"So . . ." Jenna seems hesitant. "You want us to . . . get to know each other?"

She glances at me and I shrug. "I'm game."

"No. I mean, yes. Sort of. I was thinking you could work together." Skye looks at Jenna. "Like I said, Matthew's a listener—he's a spiritual director. He's a guide for those on a spiritual pilgrimage."

"Spiritual pilgrimage?" I roll that over in my brain. "Hey, I like that. You've never said that before."

"I just thought of it."

Jenna holds up her hand, like a traffic cop. "Wait, a spiritual director? Aren't spiritual directors Catholic or"—she waves toward the cathedral—"Episcopalian, or . . . something? Which is fine, but I'm not . . ."

She leaves her sentence hanging, so I jump in. "Yep. They're associated with some of the more liturgical traditions. But it's an ancient practice that more Christians, even those in the evangelical traditions, are embracing. Like me. I'm just a plain ol' nondenominational follower of Christ who believes God still speaks."

She nods. "I believe that too."

"Look, girl," Skye says, "you've got a lot going on in your life and you're searching for God in all your circumstances. Sometimes, we need someone to journey with us. Someone gifted to listen to us and with us—someone who will help illuminate the path. That's what Matthew does. Right?"

"Yep. That's basically what I do. Or more accurately, what God does through me."

Skye, shading her eyes, looks up, at the sun I'm guessing. Then she leans over and grabs my wrist and looks at my watch. She gets up and picks up her jacket and shakes it out.

"I have to run."

Jenna's eyes widen a fraction. "Run? What about lunch?"

"I got a gig—a paying gig—last minute. We're rehearsing in thirty minutes. Sorry. I'll leave you two to talk." She bends and kisses Jenna on the cheek. "Lunch next week?" And then she turns to leave. She holds her fingers in the symbol of peace as she says good-bye.

I turn and look at Jenna. "So . . ."

She smiles and her eyes light up like blue bulbs on a Christmas tree, erasing the wiped-out look I picked up on earlier. She's a dazzler. Even with that scar.

"What happened there?" I point to her jaw. As soon as I've asked, I can feel Tess's imaginary elbow in my ribs again. "Whoa, sorry. None of my business." I watch as her eyes shift from my face to the ground.

I know that look. I've sat across from it in my counseling office way too many times. Saw it on Blake's face this morning.

Shame.

"Uh, sorry, occupational hazard. I don't do pretense well. I'm used to going deep with people. But sometimes, it comes across as tactless."

She looks back at me and smiles. "Really?"

Her playful sarcasm surprises me. I chuckle. "Guess you already figured that out, huh?"

She nods. Her eyes meet mine and she seems to think about something. Then she nods. "I'm vain. Or"—her gaze drops to the ground again—"I was. My looks are, or were, very important to me. Too important. Anyway, I didn't like my jawline and chin. Someone told me they were too strong and suggested I have them fixed." She glances away, and then looks back at me. "So I had plastic surgery."

"Oh." Such honesty right off the bat. That's rare. "So how'd that work out for you?"

I watch as a slow smile spreads across her face. Then she starts to laugh. And she keeps laughing. Soon, tears are running down her cheeks. I laugh with her. Can't help it. Of course, I have no clue why we're laughing. When she catches her breath, she reaches into her purse, pulls out a tissue, and wipes her eyes.