A Test of Faith (24 page)

She could use a smoke. Man, she could use one. But she’d promised Sarah she would give them up. Along with the sarcasm. And swearing. And all the stuff that used to feel so good—

Faith pulled her eyes from the cigarettes and shook her head.

Dustin’s eyes narrowed. “You suddenly too good to smoke with me, babe?”

“No, it’s not that.” Faith looked away. She wanted to cry. Why wasn’t God making this easier? “I promised someone—”

“Someone more important than me?”

“Well, yes.” Faith’s eyes widened at what she said. Her heart sank at the sudden color surging into Dustin’s face. “I mean—no! Of course not.”

The conversation went straight downhill from there. They’d ended up arguing. Yelling. Finally Dustin told her to get lost. How did he say it? “Take your religious garbage and go find someone who cares.”

Yeah. That was it. And the memory of the words hurt almost as much as when he’d said them.

Gritting her teeth against new tears, Faith let out a muttered oath. She picked up another book and plunked it down, accompanying the action with another choice obscenity.

Amazing how good some words felt when you were really, royally steamed.

She grabbed the armful of books and stood, carried them to her still-open locker, and jammed them inside. They fell into a pile, and one slid out onto the floor. Faith muttered under her breath, grabbed it, and flung it back inside.

“Now that’s what I call hitting the books.”

She spun to find Trista and two of her buddies standing behind her. “Oh, hi.”

Trista’s finely plucked brows arched. “Don’t sound so excited.” Before Faith could reply, she looked at the floor. “You missed one.”

Faith looked down and almost swallowed her teeth.
Oh no … don’t let her notice. Don’t let her—

“Well, well, looky here.” Trista leaned down and grabbed
Faith’s Bible off the floor. She held it between her forefinger and thumb, the way Faith’s mom held limp, dead lettuce she was tossing out. “A Bible?” Trista’s smirking gaze drifted from the Bible to Faith. “You carry a
Bible
to school?”

“It’s for a class.”

Faith couldn’t believe she’d said that. Couldn’t believe she’d lied.

Oh yeah, Sarah would be really proud now
.

Trista wasn’t buying it. “Ain’t no class in this school that teaches Bible, and you know it.”

Faith snatched the book from Trista and tossed it into her locker, slamming the door shut. “Yeah. Whatever.” She turned to leave, but Trista stood there, blocking her way.

“So what? You gonna be on TV?” She glanced at the two girls flanking her and grinned. “You gonna start asking us for money to feed orphans?”

As the girls giggled, Faith blinked back the tears burning her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. No way. Trista would nail her to the wall if she cried. Calling on all her reserves, she pulled herself to her full height, crossed her arms in front on her, and put on her best smirk.

“Ask you? For money? Get real, Trista. All I need to do is look at your clothes to know you can’t afford to feed yourself, let alone a bunch of orphans.”

The giggling stopped, and Trista’s friends stared at Faith, mouths agape. For a moment, Trista looked as if she was going to let Faith have it. Faith braced herself, waiting.

But what came wasn’t a punch. It was a slow smile, easing its way across Trista’s face. “So, you haven’t gone all Goody Two-shoes on us, huh?”

Faith didn’t have to fake the snort. It rushed out of her, a mixture of relief and self-denigration.

Goody Two-shoes? Hardly
.

She’d thought she was. Thought she could be like Sarah. Now she knew better. She wasn’t anything like Sarah. Not a bit.

Trista reached out to link her arm with Faith’s. “Glad to hear it.” Her gaze bored into Faith, as though she was trying to
read her soul. “Dustin said you were … being weird.”

Faith fell into step with Trista, heading for the exit. “Yeah, well, not anymore.” Something deep inside her ached as she said the words. For one horrifying moment Faith thought she would start bawling right there, but she tossed her head and forced herself to keep walking.

Away from her locker.

Away from the book it hid.

And no matter how much that ache inside tugged at her, crying out for her to turn around, to stop, she refused to give in.

She was done with that book. Done with Sarah and all her talk about God. It had sounded good at camp, but this wasn’t camp. It was real life.

And in real life, what you needed wasn’t God.

It was friends. The right kind of friends. Friends who kept you from getting hurt. And from doing stupid things.

Like thinking you could change.

Anne leaned in the doorway of the living room.

“You remember tonight is my Bible study night?”

Jared lowered the paper and winked. “I remember.” He put on a sad puppy dog face. “Tonight is the night you abandon me.”

“Poor baby.” Anne crooned her insincerity. “It’s terrible how I make you order in pizza once a week.”

“Nope.” Jared snapped the paper. “Tonight’s going to be Chinese.”

“Yum. Save me an egg roll. And save Faith some sweet-and-sour chicken.” But Anne didn’t have time to talk longer. She and Faith were going to be late if they didn’t hurry. She went to tap on Faith’s door. “Faith?”

No response.

She tapped again. “Faith? Come on, sweetie.”

“She’s gone, Annie.”

Anne turned a questioning look to Jared. “Gone?” The sympathetic regret on his features made her heart plummet.
“Gone.” She looked down at the floor. “When?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

Well, maybe she was going to meet Anne—

“She said she and Trista were going to a movie.”

Ah.

Jared lay his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, hon.”

The hurt crawling through her was enough to make her want to stay home, but she was taking the refreshments. With a quick nod to Jared, she gathered her things and hurried out the door.

Chattering women’s voices, reminding Anne of an aviary full of birds at feeding time, filled Marge Clark’s living room.

Normally, she joined in the Bible study’s conversations. Tonight … she didn’t have the heart. Or the energy.

Actually, she was exhausted.

All evening something had been nudging her to ask the women for prayer. To tell them what was happening with Faith, to seek their counsel and guidance. But every time she tried to open her mouth, the words caught in her throat.

What would they
think
of her?

Many of them knew, of course, that there had been problems. Anne had asked for prayer a few times over the last few years. No specifics, of course, just, “Please pray for my family. We’re having a little trouble with Faith.”

A little trouble. Talk about putting a spin on something!

Marge Clark and her sister-in-law, Anita, had never been fooled. They’d known Anne for nearly twenty years. They’d watched Faith grow from infancy. Their children had gone to Sunday school together, played together, had birthday parties together. They’d cornered Anne, asking her what was really going on. And she told them. It had been such a relief to tell someone.

So why couldn’t she do that tonight?

Because they’ve prayed for us already
. They
had
to be sick of hearing about Anne’s problems, listening to her litany of misery. So Anne sat through the study, pushing down the urge
when it popped up again. And again. And again.

Now, thankfully, the Bible study was over. While the others gathered their things, talking away as they readied to leave, Anne slipped into the kitchen to wash coffee mugs. Let the gang clear out, then she’d grab her cookie plate and go home.

She heard the front door close and seized the hand towel. Time to make her escape. But suddenly she was flanked on one side by Marge, and on the other by Anita. The two women stood there, arms crossed, pinning Anne with insistent looks.

“Okay, Anne. Time’s up. Spill.”

She felt like a prison escapee caught with a shovel in the tunnel! She should have known she couldn’t keep her pain from these two. She folded and hung up the hand towel.

Anita shooed her hands away. “For heaven’s sake, forget the towel! What’s up?”

No more stalling.
Okay, Lord. You win
. “It’s Faith.”

Marge nodded. “Well, we figured that. So what happened?”

“First—” Anita took Anne’s arm and ushered her toward the living room—“let’s get comfortable.” She studied Anne’s face as they sat. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”

Anne settled in the middle of the couch; Anita and Marge sat on either side of her. Grabbing one of the soft, decorative pillows, Anne hugged it to her.

Marge eyed the pillow. “I have one of the kid’s old security blankets in a trunk, if you’d like it.”

“Hush!” Anita patted Anne’s arm. “Ignore her. Now, start talking.”

The laughter at the two women’s teasing died, and Anne finally gave in. She told them everything. All the struggles. Her battle with the diabetes. Her fatigue. Her hurt when she found out Faith had accepted Christ and not told her. Her jealousy. How God confronted her, revealing her own failures and weaknesses. Her hope after the wonderful talk with Faith.

And then, tonight.

“I wish I understood what was going on in her mind. One minute she seems to be back on the right track, then boom!
She does something like this.” Anne gripped the pillow. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Maybe it’s not about you.”

Anne frowned at Anita’s soft words. But Marge was nodding. “I think that’s true. I think it’s more about Faith herself than about you, Anne.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Anita took Anne’s hand. “I’ve known Faith all her life. And I’d be willing to bet she’s feeling some of the same things you are. Confused. Rejected. Even like she does everything wrong.”

“Insecure,” Marge added, and Anne sat back.

Insecure? Faith? “But she’s so confident! Faith isn’t afraid of anything.”

“Actually—” Anita’s words came out slow and thoughtful—“I get the sense she’s afraid of lots of things. Especially not being liked.”

Her daughter? The social butterfly? Not liked? “By
whom
?”

“By anyone,” Marge said, “and everyone. The kids at school. The teachers. The cool crowd.”

“You. And Jared.”

Marge built on Anita’s comments. “Maybe even God.”

Anne let their words roll around in her mind and heart. Let them penetrate deep, testing them. And like the beam of a flashlight cutting through the night, understanding dawned.

They were right. And that realization brought a wave of regret and sorrow crashing down on her. Tears sprang to her eyes, overflowing. Anita grabbed a tissue and handed it to her.

“So what do I do?” Anne crumpled the tissue in her hand. “I’ve told Faith how much I love her, but if she doesn’t believe me, what can I do?”

“You go ahead and cry.” Anita handed her another tissue. “And then we fix what’s wrong.”

Anne blew her nose. “How on earth do we do
that
?”

Marge patted her arm, her lips lifting in a small, warm smile. “You know, Anne, you’re a wise lady most of the time. But when it comes to your daughter, you seem to forget the basics.”

The basics? Anne looked from one woman to the other, then her eyes widened.

Oh.

The basics.

She shook her head. What a fool she could be sometimes. “We pray.”

“See there?” Anita looked around Anne to grin at Marge. “I
told
you she was smarter than she looked.”

Anne lifted the pillow and delivered a light, albeit much-deserved, swat to the back of Anita’s head.

The women laughed, and Anne gripped their hands. “Thank you.”

They smiled.

“That’s what friends are for, Anne.”

Marge’s words sunk deep into her heart. That’s exactly what friends were for. And she would take extra time tonight thanking God for these two friends in particular.

And for not letting her escape as she’d planned. He really did know best, after all.

Among
Thorns

“Other seed fell among thorns that shot up and choked out the tender blades so that it produced no grain.… The thorny ground represents those who hear and accept the Good News, but all too quickly the message is crowded out by the cares of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for nice things, so no crop is produced.”

M
ARK
4:7, 18–19

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