A Rush of Wings (39 page)

“He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. . . . The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve
thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”

How could that be? If God preserved her, why had she been hurt? She had run to the hills. Rick said God had brought her to the ranch. Then why let Michael find her there? It didn't make sense. It couldn't be true. But when Mama was dying, she had marked these words. Did she believe them even as God was taking away her life?

Noelle pictured Rick in the airport, wanting to hold her, wanting to help—but she wouldn't let him. Had she refused God's protection as well? If she had trusted Him when Rick tried to show her, would it all have been different? God hadn't stopped Mama dying. Noelle looked up at her mother's face. Why did He take a woman so young? A mother from her child? Yet in her last days, Mama had marked these pages for her.

Noelle trembled. Shards of fear pricked her spine.
“Perfect love drives out fear.”
Rick had said it, but it wasn't his love he'd meant. It was deeper, more encompassing. Perfect love. God's love?

T
he next morning John drove her to the cathedral. Noelle asked him to wait. It might be minutes if she couldn't do it. She climbed the steps, looking up at the round, gothic stained-glass window between the towering lacy spires. She pulled the heavy arched door, but it didn't open. Nor the one beside it.

She was almost glad. But then she saw another, over to the side. She walked across and tried it. It opened. Holding her breath, she walked inside the silence that smelled of candle wax and age. A wide aisle went down the center, but she didn't take it. Her eyes had gone immediately to the window, the one nearest the back on the left.

She started to shake, but her legs drew her nearer until she stood beneath it. Overcast sunlight came through the red robe, not brilliant as it had been the last time, but dull. The face, though, was just as fierce, the leg crushing Satan as heavily muscled, the sword upraised. The wings . . . She shuddered.

“I sometimes get that feeling too.”

She screamed, spun into the wall, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“I'm sorry!” The young man in black shirt sleeves and white collar looked truly alarmed. “I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Her heart retreated from her throat, but her legs would not function. She gripped the edge of a pew and sat down.

“Gosh, I feel terrible.” He looked like it, his face drawn together in the center. “It's these shoes. The air soles are so quiet.”

She looked down at his Nikes and cleared her throat. “It's not your fault.” She drew two long breaths and stilled her shaking. “I'm . . . I have . . . actually, something happened to me under that window.”

He sank into the next pew forward. “Oh boy. And then I . . .” He suddenly grinned. “This is one of those awful situations I often find myself in.”

Noelle looked at him. His eyes were deep set beneath black brows, and his nose had a large bump and was bent to one side. It seemed only fitting his chin would also be cleft. “Are you a priest?”

“Ordained this year.”

She said, “I was looking for Father Matthis.”

He shook his head. “Retired. He still says mass, but he's not attached to the cathedral anymore.”

Noelle expelled her breath, glanced up at the window.

“Could I help you?” he said. “I'm Father Mike.”

She startled, stared back at him. “Mike?”

He nodded. “That's why that window sometimes gets to me. My namesake is intimidating.”

Noelle looked at the angel's face. “He's scarier than the devil.”

“Well, when they make it look like a poor lizard in agony. If I'd painted it . . .”

“Do you paint?”

“As a hobby. Religious themes.” He waved his hand toward the window. “I'd have made Michael's face more noble and Satan's much, much uglier.”

She smiled.

He rested his arm across the pew back between them. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

When Daddy had suggested a priest, she'd certainly not pictured Father Mike. He was probably not much older than herself, with a boyish frankness that brought down her walls. “Yes. I would.”

He listened well, dismayed when she told him she had believed her abductor was God. He shook his head. “I can see it. Of course it makes sense, but how awful.”

“It was more awful by far.” In staggering words she described the closet and what happened there. Strange that in this place where it started she could speak it for the first time. “I didn't remember any of it
until my boyfriend—Michael—” she glanced up at the window—“got violent. When he hit me, my mind started coming apart.”

She described the images, dreams of the hawk and also symbolically the window. “I accused him . . .”

He waited, then softly said, “Nothing you tell me will leave these walls.”

“I accused him of rape, and he shot himself when they tried to arrest him. Now I have this terrible ache, the fear that he's dead because of me, and I feel so guilty.”

He pulled his brows into a perplexed furrow. “He beat you up, and you feel guilty?”

His terse reply caught her by surprise.

“I'm sorry.” Father Mike's face reddened. “My father's an alcoholic. I can't remember a time he didn't beat my mother. That's where I got this.” He rubbed his nose. “Trying to protect her.” It helped somehow to know he shared the pain. His face sank. “But that's not your story. What happened to your kidnapper? The first one?”

“I don't know. I only learned of it a short while ago, but I don't think he was ever apprehended.” Then she told him how her mother died, how Daddy guarded her, how she ran to Colorado and met Rick and Morgan. How she left Rick and damaged his faith.

Hours passed, but no one came in. Father Mike admitted the side door had only been opened because he had run in on an errand. He laughingly said that was a God thing. They talked until she couldn't think of anything else to say. She shrugged. “And now I don't know what to do.”

“But God does.” He looked up into the vaulted ceiling. “Somehow, someway, He has a purpose in it all.” It might have sounded trite, until he added, “My father's in prison for killing my mom.”

Noelle felt it in her chest, a pain as deep as her own. No wonder he had responded as he did. And there it was again—God allowing atrocity. Yet this man not only believed but also dedicated his life to that Being. “If it's His purpose . . .”

“How can He be good? How can He be God?” Father Mike jumped into her thought.

“Why does He allow it?”

“Sin. God doesn't make evil happen. It comes from the heart of man and the Prince of Darkness.” He pointed up at the window. “That's why I would have made Satan uglier.”

“But can't God stop it?”

He looked at her intently. “In this world you will have trouble. But be of good cheer, for Jesus has overcome the world.”

“I don't understand.”

He opened his hands wide. “Through Jesus we have eternal salvation. But while we're in the world, there's still darkness.”

“But . . .” Noelle took her mother's Bible from her coat. She pulled it open with the ribbon. “Here. ‘He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. . . . The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.' ” She looked up.

Father Mike folded his hands atop the pew. “Nothing can happen to a child of God outside His perfect will. Whatever happens here is for a purpose.”

“So you accept what happened to your mother?” Noelle dropped the Bible to her lap.

“I embrace it. It was the worst thing in my life, but it happened for God's glory.”

“How?”

He smiled. “It brought me here. To help you.” His eyes reminded her of Rick's. “Let me tell you about Jesus. And how He set me free.”

It was as though crusted layers crumbled and fell. Rick had tried to tell her, but nothing could get through. Now, for the first time, she listened without animosity or fear. Just listened, drinking it in. Jesus on the cross was not a victim of his Father's cruelty. He was the greatest gift his Father gave. If only she could receive it.

———

Snow flurried along the highway as Rick drove. He squinted through the windshield, wondering why he'd agreed to go home for Christmas. It was Mom's voice, her need to see he was all right, that made him agree.

But he wasn't all right. At the ranch he'd managed some form of sameness. But now, driving, he imagined Noelle beside him as she'd been the last time, so fragile. He could almost feel her head against his shoulder, see her eyes turned up to him. He remembered her amazement when she'd met his sisters. He remembered her sitting in the sleigh, saying she'd be his wife.

Maybe he should have called again, tried again. But if she couldn't trust him, if she blamed him, feared him . . . His knuckles tightened on the wheel. Pastor Tom had asked if he was willing to help her even if she never returned his affection, and he was. He didn't regret trying. But he hadn't realized how much it would hurt.

The house was quiet when he arrived. His sisters must be out, and he wondered if his folks had arranged that to gauge his condition before exposing the girls. He drew a deep breath and went inside. His father's embrace showed more clearly than words how concerned he was. Rick hugged his mother, trying not to see the ache in her eyes. It was hard enough without knowing that his family hurt with him.

Rick passed into the kitchen and lifted the lid to the cookie jar. May as well face the inquiry. But the jar was empty.

His mother said, “I haven't baked yet. You'll have some tonight.” Her laugh was strained, so she reverted to plain speech. “How are you?”

“I've been better.”

“How are you with God?”

“Better than I was.” He slid the jar back to the corner.

“Meaning?”

Of course she wouldn't accept his abbreviated version. “Meaning I'm trusting and waiting and praying. That's the best I can do right now.”

She nodded, then brushed her hand over his shaggy chin. “Morgan told us you'd grown a beard.”

Rick leaned against the counter. “He told you he came out?”

His mother nodded. “And no, I didn't send him. But I thought about it.”

Rick wondered how much Morgan had reported. He would bet there'd been no mention of his old friend Jim Beam and the Cuervo Gold. Rick was glad. That had definitely been a low point. “I'm all right, Mom.”

Dad said, “Have you talked to her?”

Rick looked at his father seated sideways at the table. He had hoped, foolishly, that they could skip those questions. But of course Dad would want to know. He was fond of Noelle himself. Rick shook his head. “No.”

“Have you tried?”

“Not for a while.” Rick drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “It has to come from Noelle.” He ran his hand over his beard. He'd
trimmed it before coming, but it was still full and soft. He hadn't set out to grow it, just let nature take its course. That's how he was these days. “I guess I'll unpack.”

Morgan had not come, but the rest of them gathered around the table, lit the Advent candles, and prayed. Rick hadn't brought his guitar, not a conscious act, just an oversight. They sang a cappella, then went to praise and petitions. The prayers were playful and energetic, full of the contentment in his sisters' lives, and it was healing to hear it. But he closed his eyes and his throat tightened when Tara prayed, “Please help Noelle to come back.”

If only it was as easy as that. The faith of a child. Though he tried, his prayers had limped at best. An honest attempt, nothing more. Because while he asked for God's will, his heart still prayed to have her back. Wasn't that just what Tara had done? But she didn't have ulterior motives, and he most certainly did.

After an improvised version of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and a round of hearts in which Stephanie stuck him twice with the queen of spades, he was ready to call it a night, though not to sleep. Alone in the dark of his room he dropped to his knees. “Lord, God . . .” He gripped his hands together. “Oh, Jesus . . .” He dropped his head to his hands. He had maintained a good humor all through the evening for his family's sake, but now the grief overwhelmed him. He knew what he had to do, but it was too hard.

Forgiveness had been one thing. He'd worn himself out hating Michael. It had almost been a relief to forgive. This was different. It was releasing his will, surrendering his hope. He groaned deep inside, but there was no denying it.

Lord, your ways are not my ways. I lean not on my own understanding
. There must be a reason, something bigger than himself, something he couldn't see, couldn't fathom. Rick pressed his folded hands to his throat. He had to accept life without her, be sold out to God's purpose, embracing His will. Embracing. Not grudging. There in that house where he'd first dreamed of their life together, he had to let go of that dream. With a hoarse voice he said, “Your will be done.” And in his heart, he meant it.

———

Noelle had not planned anything special for her twenty-fifth birthday. Daddy had honored her request for a quiet dinner together,
then presented her a lovely emerald necklace. “It was your mother's, Noelle.”

But she had already recognized it from the portrait. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He fastened it around her neck. “You're so like her.”

And more so each day as she delved into her mother's faith, finding there the peace she hadn't believed possible. But she couldn't tell Daddy that. She knew too well the animosity he bore anything religious. Though in his frustration he had ordered her to see a priest, his disdain had been palpable. As her own had been, though with more personal justification—another thing Daddy didn't know: the details of her ordeal with the man who claimed to be God.

Maybe someday she would tell him. Maybe then she could tell him that studying the nature of God, learning to know the person of Jesus, was giving her the only possibility of happiness she could find. He might understand it as an intellectual pursuit, but could she ever explain the sort of surrender Father Mike encouraged in their discussions? If she took that step, would Daddy shudder at her weakness?

She had spent most of her life making him proud, soaking up the moments he showed it, performing in all the areas he approved. He would not approve her dedicating her life to Christ, calling Jesus her Lord, joining the rank and file of the “religious non-thinkers” who blindly followed “God's will.” But more and more, she believed that was the only way she could face the solitary life laid out before her.