Devoted (9 page)

“I love you, girls,” she says.

Her words are enough to keep me going until everyone is asleep and Ruth and I can finally brush our own teeth and slide into our own beds. But once I'm in bed, I shift repeatedly, unable to get comfortable.

“Rachel, can I come over?” Ruth whispers.

“Sure,” I say.

Ruth snuggles up next to me. She pushes my bangs out of my eyes and offers a hopeful smile.

“Rachel, why were you crying tonight?” Ruth says. “You seemed so upset.”

“Oh, Ruth,” I start, my voice on the verge of cracking again. There are too many reasons to name. And none I can identify clearly. “I'm not sure. I'm just … I'm tired. I'm worried about Mom, I guess. I don't know.”

“But Mom got up today,” Ruth says. She always sees the bright side of things.

“Yes. But … I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“I feel like … do you think maybe we should pray?” Ruth asks. “That always helps me feel better.”

“Maybe it would help,” I say, willing to try.

Ruth clasps my hands in hers and whispers, “I'm thinking of that verse in Jeremiah that I like. The one that says, ‘Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not.'”

I smile in spite of myself. I've always liked that verse, too. I think it's because of the phrase, “great and mighty things, which thou knowest not.” I'm pretty sure God isn't referring to the entries I like to read in the encyclopedia about what animals swim in the deepest part of the ocean and how electricity works, but still, I like the idea of knowledge as some sort of gift from the Lord.

“Ruth,” I ask, “is this how you pray sometimes? You just think about your favorite Scripture?” It seems silly that I've never asked her this question before.

Ruth shrugs. “Well, sort of. I mean, I guess. I just think about the verses I like and I try to figure out why my brain has come up with them in that moment. It's like they're secret messages from God.”

“And when you pray, the words make you feel better, right?”

“Yes,” Ruth says, frowning. “You mean, they don't for you?”

“Mostly,” I say. Not usually. But I can't say that to Ruth. It would trouble her too much.

“So Father God,” Ruth continues, “please help Rachel. Please guide her with your love and grace. Call to her and she will answer you, and you will show her great and mighty things which she knowest not. Amen.”

Ruth grins at me, and I kiss her forehead, and soon she's drifted off. I watch her sleep for a little while, counting the freckles on her little turned-up nose. When I'm sure she's in a deep sleep, I carefully crawl out of bed and head for the bathroom, and once inside, I lock the bathroom door and start the hot water. I slip my nightgown up over my head and step out of my underwear.

With my feet planted firmly on the ancient yellow bath mat, I stare at my naked upper half in the mirror on the medicine cabinet. My face looks like a deflated balloon. Shriveled. Empty. I look at my chest, spotted with a few dark moles. My breasts aren't as big as Faith's, but I've had to wear a bra since I was twelve, just before I started my cycle. That's when my father gave me my Titus 2 bracelet to serve as a reminder that my future husband was waiting for me and expected a woman of virtue on his wedding day.

But reading Lauren's blog and forgetting to be modest when I should have makes me as bad as Eve, naked in the garden. If my father had found me on the computer, he'd have had every right to send me to Journey of Faith, just like James Fulton's parents sent him. There's nothing different between what he's done and what I've done. And the thought of going to Journey of Faith terrifies me because it marks you. Shames you. Everyone looks at you differently after you return, no matter how much you promise that you've been redeemed.

I press my fingers into my bare thighs hard, leaving red marks.

I'm sinful. Dirty. I shouldn't even be staring at my own body like this when I'm not wearing any clothes. It's vain.

Climbing in the shower, I let the water pour over me and think about Ruth's sweet prayer for me. I've got to do better. I've got to be better.

Warm water pours over me, and it feels good. “Cleanse me from all unrighteousness,” I whisper. This is a fresh start. I'm not ever going to use the computer again for something against the Lord. Tomorrow I'll be as good as Faith. As sweet as Ruth. My father won't be disappointed in me again. I'm pure of heart now. And this time for good.

 

8

The next morning
I head downstairs early, eager to start the coffee for Dad and my brothers before they're awake, ready to show off what a godly girl I am.

I enjoy about fifteen minutes of perfect calm before the younger ones join me and everything falls apart. Isaac spills milk all over the clean laundry, Sarah goes missing, and Ruth and I are in a panic until the twins find her chasing bugs in the garage. And when my father and brothers get ready to head out to work, I realize I forgot to print out that day's invoices like I usually do—I've so committed to avoiding the computer that I forgot I was actually supposed to use it this morning.

And my mother is in her room, her one-day escape forgotten.

“Dad, I'm sorry,” I say, as I race to the computer, searching for the files I need to print the invoices.

“The Book of James reminds us to be patient,” my father says, “and to establish our hearts as the coming of the Lord draweth nigh.” I search his face for a half smile to go along with his recitation of Scripture, but there isn't one. He just nods, waiting for me to do what I should have already done.

I can feel my resolve from last night vanishing, slipping from my soul. My mind flashes on Lauren's smiling picture from her blog and how it made me smile back. It flashes on my humiliation the night before and the way I cried in front of all the women and girls at church. It flashes on the countless tasks piling up in front of me like a tower of Isaac's wooden blocks, about to collapse at any moment. And it flashes on Journey of Faith, looming in front of me like the real threat it is. I grit my teeth and print out the invoices.

The day keeps on. I fake my way through lessons with the little ones, too tired and mixed up to keep focus. When suppertime approaches and I realize I have to start planning a meal, I head for the kitchen. As I pass my parents' bedroom door, I pause. Slowly I push it open just enough to peek in. The lights are off and the blinds are pulled.

“Mom?” I say.

Nothing.

I wait for some piece of Scripture to come to me, like Ruth's secret messages from God, but my mind blanks. I try to use my own words—
Lord Jesus, I ask you to come and
 … but I can't find the right ones. I need to begin again.
Lord Jesus, please restore your servant, our mother …
But I've tried that before, and it's not working.
Father God, I come to you with a servant's heart …

I squeeze my eyes tight and give up. Either my late night baptism wasn't enough for God or He's still trying to test me. I can't decide which, and I just want to go upstairs and scream in the closet again, like I did after Faith reprimanded me. But I don't.

When Dad gets home, he heads into his bedroom and shuts the door. I hear some muffled conversation but can't make out what's being said. But Mom joins us for supper like she did the night before.

“This all looks so nice, girls,” Mom says, running her fingers over the small white flowers that dot the edge of her plate, but her voice sounds hollow. Her skin is pale, and she's noticeably thinner.

After Dad says grace, we pass the bread basket and the bowls of macaroni and cheese, the easiest thing to whip up without much time. Normally during supper, Dad and my brothers talk about difficult jobs or unusual clients, or Mom shares the silly things Isaac or Sarah said during the day. But Mom's absence and presence are equal forces that loom over us and seem to shape everything. So none of us talk much.

Tonight, Mom tries to smile at us and instead tears up, wordlessly pressing a napkin to her eyes to dry them. Isaac pats her hand, which only makes her tear up more. My dad shifts in his seat and serves himself a second helping. My older brothers chew their food. The twins sip their milk. Everything happens like it's in slow motion. Everyone moves like we're stuck in molasses together.

I push my food around on my plate. I don't have any appetite, and my mind is full of questions. If Dad took Mom to a psychiatrist, would everything go back to being normal? If Mom hadn't gotten sick, would I have looked up Lauren's blog? If I prayed in the right way, would I be sitting here, coming up with unanswerable questions?

I'm tired of asking myself questions. I want answers. The Bible says it is not for us to know times or seasons that God has fixed by his own authority. So wouldn't it be easier for God to stop letting me have so many questions he won't answer for me?

I've just asked myself another question. I put my fork down and give up on supper.

After Bible time and nightly prayers and getting the little ones to sleep, I crawl into bed.

“Rachel?” Ruth says, her voice barely audible.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to snuggle up tonight?”

“Sure.”

Ruth crawls into bed with me, and I kiss her forehead.

“I'm so tired, but it's like I can't fall asleep,” she says. Her voice comes out in whispers. I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face.

“I can't sleep lately either,” I answer.

“Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“When will God heal Mom? I thought yesterday she was getting better, but now I don't know. She went right back to bed after supper.”

I feel the tug of two answers battling it out inside of me.

“Well,” I begin, “Scripture tells us that whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”

Ruth smiles. “You're right. I guess we just have to keep praying.”

I nod and smile back. Soon, Ruth drifts off. Her face is placid. At peace. I prop myself up on my elbow and look at her.

“Ruth,” I whisper. There's no response, so I keep talking, my voice so low I can barely hear it with my own ears. “Ruth, the truth is, I don't know. I don't know when God will heal Mom. I don't know if God will heal Mom. That's what I wanted to tell you, but I didn't want to break your heart.”

Ruth doesn't move. I wriggle down under the covers and wait for sleep to come.

*   *   *

“And so, my brothers in sisters in Christ, I ask that as you walk out those doors today and confront all that is worldly, that you not forget what Scripture tells us about following the will of God,” says Pastor Garrett from the pulpit, his voice like thunder. “‘Therefore to him that knoweth to do good and doeth it not, to him it is sin.' ‘For the wages of sin
is
death, but the gift of God
is
eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'”

There's a chorus of amens, and we stand to sing our closing hymn. I join in, trying to say the words without thinking about them.

Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin

Each victory will help you some other to win

Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue

Look ever to Jesus, He'll carry you through

The part about yielding not to temptation makes me think about The Great Escape—the one link on Lauren's blog that I never clicked on. The one I promised myself I never would. As I mull over this, I catch James Fulton out of the corner of my eye, standing with his parents and mumbling over the lyrics, his face down. His hair has started to grow in a bit more since he left for Journey of Faith, but he still seems marked to me.

I look over at Mom, little Isaac clutched to her chest. Her eyes are shut tight, and she's swaying back and forth to the music. It's the first time she's come to church since losing Joshua. She's been eating supper at the table with us these past few days, too, and I think she's trying, but it's still as if every smile she offers has to be found somewhere deep inside her.

When services are over, we make our way out. Mrs. Garrett comes over and lightly touches my shoulder. “Thank you again for attending our fellowship on modesty, Rachel.”

“Oh, thank you,” I answer, managing a smile. “It was such an encouragement.” We don't mention my crying. It would only make us both uncomfortable, and anyway, my careful smile hopefully suggests to her that my episode that evening was just a silly moment of feminine insecurity.

My family loads itself back into the van, and I strap Isaac into his seat. Faith, Paul, and Caleb come over shortly after we arrive home. It's the first time they've joined us for Sunday dinner since Mom lost the baby, and Faith rushes in all energy and good cheer. The kitchen is instantly her domain again, and I'm grateful to just follow her orders.

“Rachel, will you…?”

“Rachel, can you…?”

“Rachel, might you…?”

Mom wanders in, and Faith doesn't skip a beat, doesn't coddle or question—she just hands her a bowl of strawberries to wash and slice. Mom follows Faith's commands, and I think I even see a little smile on her face as she joins in.

I can hear Paul in the family room, relating to my brothers how he spent hours with an inmate at a correctional facility in Houston the week before and brought him to Christ.

“As Matthew 28:19 tells us, go ye therefore, and teach all nations,” Paul intones, as if he's saved the entire continent of Africa and not just one man in Houston.

Finally, the food is ready. Dad prays over the meal. “Father God,” he says, “it's so wonderful to feel your presence as we sit down to eat this good food. Let us live to please you, and give glory to your name.”