A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace (30 page)

But still, he was gone. And right now that seemed like second best.

A preacher took the podium and unfolded a sheet of paper. “I didn’t know a lot about Joe Chapman,” he began. “So I acted on the suggestion of his daughter Abby and contacted the Christian church where Joe was a member for nearly thirty years.” He paused and let his eyes fall over the small gathering of people. John liked the way the man talked, slow and friendly, as if he’d known them all for years.

“You might be surprised with what I found.” The pastor shrugged his shoulders and smiled in a sad way. “I’m not sure he’d like me telling you, but I think it’s okay just this once. So you might know what an amazing man Joe Chapman really was.”

Peering down at his notes, he began. “Joe Chapman was a teacher, a football coach. He did not make a great deal of money. But every fall from the first year he taught until he retired, he purchased a complete Thanksgiving dinner and had the church deliver it to one of his players. A boy and his family who would otherwise have gone without.”

John cringed inwardly.
What had he ever done for others? In that
moment he could think of nothing . . .
Beside him, Abby cast a curious glance down the row at her sister. Abby’s father had never talked about the dinners, never mentioned them at all. Obviously even Abby hadn’t known about them. John focused his attention back on the pastor.

“Until Parkinson’s disease got the better of him, Joe spent the early hours one Saturday each and every month raking leaves or planting flowers or doing whatever he could to keep the church grounds clean. Joe’s pastor tells me even his family didn’t know about those acts of service. Why? Because Joe didn’t want anyone but his Lord knowing about it.”

John felt his insides melting.
We wasted a lifetime talking about
first downs and passing plays and missed out on the real victories. Why
didn’t I take the time to get to know him better, Lord?

There was no response as the pastor looked down at his notes and shook his head once. “Here’s the kicker, though. When Joe’s wife died in the tornado of 1984, eight other people died, too. Among them was a man with no insurance, no worldly means but to work by the sweat of his brow. He left behind a wife and four kids destined to spend the rest of their days on welfare.

“Joe found out about the lady at his own wife’s funeral and the next day he called a banker friend of his in Michigan . . .”

A banker friend? John sat up straighter in the pew. That had to be his father. What other banker friend did he have in Michigan?

“Turns out the banker friend was the one who led Joe Chapman to the Lord years earlier, and now Joe wanted to give him another chance to invest in eternity. The widowed woman and her kids needed a place to live, he told his friend. And Joe combined half the money from his wife’s insurance with a donation from his banker friend and together they asked the church to buy that family a house. Maybe you don’t know it, but money donated to a church for a specific cause is not tax deductible. In other words, the only reason Joe and his friend asked the church to be the middle man was because they wanted their act to be totally anonymous.”

John heard Abby’s breath catch in her throat. Neither of them knew anything about the woman or her orphaned children or the house that their fathers had provided. A house built with a kind of love John had all but forgotten about. The goodness of their act was too much for John to bear and his eyes grew wet. No wonder he’d made such a mess of his life. When had he ever given that way, selflessly, at the expense of his own personal ease?

The pastor was finishing his message. “Until the day he died, Joe Chapman helped that woman, arranging his pension so that a hundred dollars went through the church into her bank account every month, year in, year out.” He paused. “Anything else I could say about Joe Chapman—details of his coaching career or how he is survived by two daughters or that he had hundreds of students who loved him—all of it seems like an afterthought compared to the way he loved his Lord.”

John felt hollow, as though he had failed to furnish a room in his heart reserved for Joe and his father.
God, why didn’t I know before?

“I do want to read one more letter. Abby found it in a drawer by his bed when he died. It’s an essay written by one of his students.” The pastor looked at the paper in his hands and hesitated. “‘Mr. Chapman is my favorite teacher because he never forgets what it is to be a kid. He doesn’t bark at us like some teachers, and yet everyone in class listens to him and respects him. A lot of us want to be just like him when we grow up. Mr. Chapman tells us corny jokes, and in his classroom it’s okay if we make a mistake. Other teachers say they care about their students but Mr. Chapman really does. If someone’s sad or lonely, he asks them about it and makes sure that when they leave his classroom they’re feeling better. I’m a richer person for my time in his class and no matter how long I live, I’ll never forget him.’”

John felt like falling on his face, crying out that it wasn’t fair, that God should have taken someone like him instead and let someone as good and generous as Abby’s father live to be a hundred.

The pastor cleared his throat. “Now, just in case you’re thinking that Joe was somehow robbed, that after a lifetime of giving he wasn’t given a fair shake by God Almighty, let me tell you this. Some people store up treasures on earth . . . houses, cars, illicit relationships . . . and every day they wake, they move one day further from their treasure, one day closer to death.” He smiled broadly. “Ah, but then there are people like Joe, people who wake every day one step closer to their treasure. One day closer to leaving this lobby and entering the main ballroom. Closer finally to being home in the place that was created for them. So don’t grieve for Joe, people. Believe that, as C. S. Lewis once said, for Joe life here on earth was only the title and cover page. And now he has begun the greatest story of all, one that no one on earth has ever read in which every chapter is better than the last. Believe that, if given the chance, he would have agreed with D. L. Moody, who said in his dying days, ‘In a little while you will read in the newspaper that I am dead. Do not believe a word of it, for I will be more alive than ever before.’”

John felt like the wind had been completely sucked out of him. The pastor’s words, the picture he’d painted of heaven, was like none John had ever heard. It felt as though his entire perspective had shifted in a single sermon, and suddenly John grieved for the hundreds and thousands of sermons he’d missed over the years.

Jo Harter sat near the middle of the church hanging on every word the preacher said. For weeks, months really, she’d been feeling a calling, something stronger than anything earthly, stronger than her desire to fish or shop. Even stronger than her hope that someday she’d find new love with Denny.

It was the very thing Matt told her to watch for. A holy longing, he called it.

“It’ll happen one day, Mom, wait and see. You’ll wake up and have a feeling of want so big and bad nothing in the world’ll be able to fill it. Nothing but Jesus.”

Well, here she was at this funeral feeling a want every bit as big and bad as Matt had described it. Throughout the service she fidgeted in her seat this way and that until Matt leaned over and whispered at her. “You all right?”

“Fine.” She reached out and patted her son’s knee, grateful he’d chosen to sit by her instead of Nicole just this once. “I’ll tell you later.” She didn’t want to talk about it yet. Not when every word the pastor uttered seemed handwritten for her alone.

At the end of the service the pastor did something Jo had never seen done at a funeral. He told them he had an invitation for them. At first Jo thought it was an invitation to the potluck at the Reynoldses’ house after the service, but then the pastor asked them to close their eyes.

Okay, God, my eyes are closed. What’s happening here, anyway?

Come, daughter. Come to Me.

Jo opened her eyes and sat straight up in the pew. She poked Matt in the ribs and whispered, “Who said that?”

He looked at her like she maybe needed a little more sleep and put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. No one said anything.”

Fine. Now I’m hearing things
. Jo closed her eyes again and listened hard to the pastor’s invitation.

“Many of you may already have the assurance that Joe did, assurance that your name is written in the Lamb’s Book of Life, assurance that you are saved from your sins because of what Jesus did for you on the cross. Assurance of heaven. But I believe there may be some of you out there who have never made the decision to trust Jesus Christ for life. You have a hole in your heart only Jesus can fill and you want to know your future is safe with Him. If that’s you this morning, could you please raise your hand? I’ll make sure I talk with you after the service, give you a Bible, and help you get started on the right path.”

He hesitated, and Jo could feel the longing grow with each passing second. There was a hole in her heart all right. No doubt about it.

“Anyone?”

It made no sense to wait. If walking with Jesus had filled the holes for Matt and Denny, then just maybe they would fill this one for her. It was time she stepped down from her high horse and did something about it. Without another moment’s hesitation, her hand shot into the air.

I do want You, Jesus. I do. Show me the way, God . . .

Beside her, Matt reached over and squeezed her knee, and as the prayer ended, she hugged her only son. It was then that she noticed something she hadn’t before.

For the first time since the funeral started, Matt had tears in his eyes.

Nineteen

B
ETWEEN THE SCENE AT HER FATHER’S DEATHBED
, and the way John had kissed her later that night, Abby had moments when she wondered if maybe, just maybe, John was having second thoughts about their divorce. Could a man fake the trembling she’d felt when John had his arm around her, promising her dying father that he would love her forever? Could he manufacture tears of regret for the hours and days he might have spent with the man who had been his own father’s best friend?

Could he really have kissed her that way out of some obligation?

Abby didn’t think so, but for all the emotion that surrounded them that week, time passed like always and nothing changed between her and John. The proof came just one week after the funeral, when Nicole burst into Abby’s office, her face stricken.

“Why’s Charlene Denton hanging out with Dad at practice?” She was angry and her mouth hung open while she waited for Abby’s response.

Before Abby could come up with something witty and believable, she let loose the first thing that came to mind. “Why don’t you ask Dad?”

The reaction on Nicole’s face made Abby sure she had said the wrong thing. Nicole’s eyes grew wide, and a flicker of raw fear flashed across her face, like heat lightning in a summer sky. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

In that instant, Abby had the first glimpse of the nightmare it was going to be to tell Nicole and the boys the truth. She tried to cover up with an innocent-sounding laugh. “Relax, honey. I’m kidding.”

“Well, Matt wasn’t. He saw them together and asked me why.” She shifted her weight, her eyebrows lowered. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

Abby released a controlled sigh. “Obviously they work together, honey. Ms. Denton’s been friends with your father for years.”

“Yeah, and I don’t like it. She flirts with him.” Nicole clenched her fists. “And Dad spends more time with her than he does with you.”

Abby couldn’t think of anything to say. She angled her head and resisted a shudder as she thought again of how hard Coach John Reynolds—father, hero, and friend—was about to fall in the eyes of the children who loved him most. “What do you want me to tell you, honey?”

Nicole huffed in response. “Tell me it’s a coincidence; tell me it’s my imagination; tell me Dad’s acting the same as always.” She hesitated and her eyes filled with tears. “Tell me everything’s okay between you guys.”

Abby’s heart plummeted. She stood up and pulled Nicole into her arms. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Nicole held on tighter than usual and Abby desperately wanted to ease her fears. “Everything’s—”

Don’t lie to her, daughter.

The voice rang clear in the inner places of Abby’s heart, and she stopped short.

“Everything’s what?” Nicole pulled away slightly, meeting Abby’s eyes, searching for any sign of the security she had always taken for granted.

God, give me the words.
“You know how much we love each other.” Abby hugged Nicole again as her insides contorted in a wave of sadness so deep and strong it shook her to the core. “Our family’s always loved each other.”

Nicole drew back again as though she wanted to say something, but before she could speak, Abby bent close and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “How ’bout some tea, huh? Why don’t you go start a pot of water and I’ll join you in a minute.”

The diversion worked, and Nicole smiled at Abby, clearly convinced that her comforting words were proof that everything was, indeed, all right.

Like enemy soldiers easing their way across a minefield, Abby and John survived the next several weeks without anyone bringing up Charlene’s name. It was Monday night, the last week of school, and Abby was making brownies—part of a longstanding Reynolds family tradition. Every year just before school let out, the kids took plates of brownies to their teachers and shared them with their classmates. As they got older, the ritual became almost silly, but the kids still loved it. Even as a senior football player, Kade had asked her the night before if she was going to bake this week.

Abby pushed the wooden spoon through a bowl of wet brownie mix and thought how next year at this time the kids probably would have adapted to their new life, the one where their dad was no longer married to their mom. She dumped the batter into a buttered pan and slipped it into the oven. Abby gazed out the window across the expanse of green, rolling hillside and out over the lake.