Tying the Knot (23 page)

So she groaned.

She groaned for all the years that she hadn’t escaped, fifteen years of personal grief reflected this afternoon in the glares from forty hard, suspicious eyes.

Why, Father, why?

The question took her back in time to a twelve-year-old voice, inconsolable and filled with fury.

“Why, Father, why?” she’d asked as she leaned over the oak kitchen table around which her family had spent hours praying. The late-autumn sun glazed the table pure gold as her father sat across from her, his features as calm and gentle as they were on Sunday mornings in the pulpit. “Why?” she repeated, and this time, tears broke her words.

“Sit down, Anne.” Her mother, always pragmatic, spoke with a hint of warning in her voice. Anne reined in a glare and sat, not mannerly, on her chair. She made sure everyone—Mother, Father, and Ellen—knew that this decision would not be received with grace by the way she folded her arms across her chest and harrumphed.

Her father didn’t even stop smiling. “God wants us to move, that’s why. He doesn’t want us to simply reach in from the outside, but to be His hands, His feet inside the battleground.” Her father had a way of explaining things, even from the pulpit in his small rural church, that made everyone nod.

Anne would do almost anything for her father—sing at the nursing home, teach a Sunday school class, even clean pews, but this—

“But why us? Why didn’t He choose someone else?” Anne blinked back a fresh wash of tears. Spend the rest of her life in a drug-ridden neighborhood, dodging drive-by shootings? Had her father completely lost his marbles?

“Because we’re willing.” He continued to smile but closed the Bible, from which he’d read Matthew 28, like she didn’t know that chapter by memory in three versions.

“No, we’re not!” She had him there and smiled a little back. No
we
involved here. She glanced at Ellen, sure she would take her side. Three years her senior, certainly her fair-haired sister would join forces and help her father see logic. They weren’t willing.

Ellen smiled, like of course she would be happy to sacrifice her high school years on the altar of service. Sure. No problem. It’ll be fun.

Anne felt the air puff out of her. Outmanned, triple-teamed. She resorted to pleading. “Please, Father. I’ve read about the Phillips neighborhood in the paper. I know what kind of people—”

“And don’t they deserve a chance to know that there is a different way? that God can change their lives?” For the first time, her father’s smile dimmed.

Anne gulped.

“Anne, Jesus died for these people also. They’re broken and alone. They feel hopeless, and we are called to show them His love. His grace.”

She managed a whisper. “Why us?”

“If we don’t, who will?”

Anne had buried her head in her folded arms, listening to the roar of pain in her heart, the resounding crunch of the great commission stomping on her hopes and dreams. Then she felt her father’s hand, soft yet firm on her arm. She took his hand in hers and let the tears flow. When she opened her eyes, tears sheeted his.

“Philippians 1:20-25. Say it with me, honey. Say it with me.”

“‘For I live in eager expectation and hope that I will never do anything that causes me shame, but that I will always be bold for Christ, as I have been in the past, and that my life will always honor Christ, whether I live or I die. For to me, living is for Christ, and dying is even better. Yet if I live, that means fruitful service for Christ. I really don’t know which is better. I’m torn between two desires: Sometimes I want to live, and sometimes I long to go and be with Christ. That would be far better for me, but it is better for you that I live. I am convinced of this, so I will continue with you so that you will grow and experience the joy of your faith.’”

Anne could still hear her father, his gentle voice an echo in the barren cavern of her heart. She wrapped her arms around her knees, folding herself into a ball, and sobbed until her cries punctuated the sounds of the twilight. She didn’t care. No one but the loons and night owls, her faithful dog, and the Almighty would hear. Only God knew the battles she’d waged, inside and out, as her father had moved their family to a ramshackle bungalow in the inner city of Minneapolis, with a drug lair on one side and a family of warring immigrants on the other. Only God in heaven knew the abuse she weathered in high school—words she’d never, ever heard in her school in Waconia. She’d entered a new world, a dangerous, dark world, and had survived.

Survived and escaped. Or so she thought. Anne let her tears chap her cheeks, not caring that she felt puffy and bloated and raw. The wind rustled through her windbreaker, bringing with it the smell of dirt, leaves, and lake. A loon called, and the sound echoed off the slivers of twilight bobbing at her feet.

Finally, in the still of the moment, she heard the voice of the One at whom she wanted to shake a fist:
“I will continue with you so that you will grow and experience the joy of your faith
.
”

Joy of your faith.
Anne touched her lips, willing her heartbeat to slow. It had been years since she’d experienced real joy of her faith. Perhaps since that agonizing day in her family kitchen when God had reached in with the sunshine and turned the altar where they’d made their commitment to pure gold. What did she have to be joyful about? The fear that stalked her like a shadow? The scars on her body? The anger that made her shove the one man she’d wanted to trust out of her life?

No, faith and joy didn’t occupy the same place, at least not in her heart.

In fact, at this moment, as she stretched out her legs and ran a hand through Bertha’s fur, she knew exactly what her faith gave her. A guilty conscience and bitterness that embedded her bones.

Perhaps she’d turned into the very person her father had spoken of when he’d used the words
hopeless, broken,
and
alone
.

Perhaps she had become like one of Noah’s campers—an inner-city kid with a heart of stone.

The dark swatch of pine made him invisible as she, his prey, stepped from her SUV. She opened the door to let her dog out, something he hadn’t counted on. The animal didn’t sense him, at least he hoped it didn’t, for it ran in frenetic circles around her legs. She opened the back hatch and pulled out a bag, locked her arms around it.

Perfect.

He’d been waiting for days, stalking, planning. Fighting the wrong moments, the heady thrust of desperation.

Until now.

Yes, now.

She turned her back to him so that the night outlined her frame. The dog ran out ahead, away from her. Leaving her undefended.

His heartbeat roared and filled his ears. His system finally absorbed the synthetic boost and kicked in pure adrenaline. He relished the way the world seemed sharper, choppy, the angles and colors severe.

It deadened his feelings, focused him on a singular moment, one task. His fists clenched, manic to be unleashed.

He lunged. Felt no pain when he took her down and shoved his knee into her spine. She screamed but it kindled his strength. Cleansed his soul. Filled him with triumph.

He pinned her to the ground. Ran his hands over her, searching. She writhed, rolled, clawed at his arms and hands.

Fantasy and reality mixed and he wouldn’t stop it if he could.

He’d waited for her and won.

Strike first.

Noah leaned against the railing of the lodge porch, stretching his calf muscles after his morning run, trying not to look too winded in front of twenty winded campers who glared at him as if they wanted to shoot out his knees. Some of them still wore their pajamas or what looked like them. Cutoff shirts, fraying gym shorts. The kids littered the yard in various stages of recovery after their 6 A.M. jaunt along the shore.

He wanted them challenged, tired, and even sore. He wanted them to reach beyond their borders and find potential waiting there. “Everyone who wants to take a dip in the lake, run to your tents, change, and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes!” He saw very little movement. Obviously they didn’t hate the stench of sweat on their bodies enough to dive into an ice-cold lake.

He, for one, couldn’t wait. After a restless night of listening to Anne’s words haunting his brain, he felt wrung out and groggy at best. He’d risen early, greeted the dawn in prayer, and dug into God’s Word, hoping for wisdom. The verses that he’d meditated upon, Philippians 2:3-4, seared into his brain, offering indictment: “Don’t be selfish; don’t live to make a good impression on others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourself. Don’t think only about your own affairs, but be interested in others, too, and what they are doing.”

He hadn’t missed Anne’s barb, her not-so-hooded sarcasm that reminded him of how he’d stiff-armed her into working for him.
Yes, I know how much you need me, Mr. Standing Bear.

Now that he had his campers here, he had even more to lose. If Anne changed her mind . . . after seeing the death hue on her face last night, he knew without a doubt that his selfishness had landed her in the middle of a nightmare.

He let the door of the cabin bang behind him.
Trust Me, Noah. My grace is sufficient.
Noah listened to the soft voice in his heart, wondering which direction trust should take him. He’d been in this place two weeks ago and surrendered Anne to God.

And God had returned her.

He slicked off his track pants and dragged his shirt over his head. Perhaps God had plans in mind for Anne bigger than Noah’s camp. Bigger than Noah’s vision. Hadn’t he once accused Anne of running from her fears? Little Miss Thundercloud. She not only ran from her nightmares; she saw others looming on the horizon.

He refused to think her forecast might be on the money.

Noah tugged on his swimsuit and threw a towel over his shoulder. God had certainly brought Anne’s storms right back to buffet her in the face. Noah winced at that thought. Sometimes God’s ways could seem so harsh, especially in light of Anne’s history. But personal history of God’s character told Noah that mercy permeated the Almighty’s actions. Somewhere, despite Noah’s crude bobbling of Anne’s feelings, God meant it for good. For everyone.

He heard the kids assembling, a few hearty souls who esteemed cleanliness above comfort. Noah paused a moment inside the cabin door. Trust meant he had to pursue communion with God to conquer this fear, and the next . . .

He turned and knelt beside his bed.
Lord, I am sorry I pushed Anne into this, but I know You are at the helm and have good purposes for all of us. Please help me to trust You. Help Anne to trust You. And please, use me somehow, not to hurt but to bless
.

The year-old memory of his own voice singing a hymn of faith and the way Anne had stared at him, her gaze filled with pain, riveted into his thoughts. She’d needed him in that moment. He wanted her to need him again. His eyes burned.
Lord, Your ways are higher than mine. Thank You that when I don’t understand why, I can understand who. I can trust in You. And what You are capable of.

Noah might have coerced Anne to Wilderness Challenge, but God wanted her to stay. If that meant keeping a distance from the woman who made him want to dance and sing just by walking into the room, well, then he would.

For his sake and for hers.

He groaned at the despair that pinged his heart. Anne had turned him inside out, and his very breath hinged on her smile. He put a hand to his chest. How was he supposed to work beside her for the next month and keep his distance? When all he wanted to do was make her grin?

Trust.

Noah rose and headed for the door. He froze, watching Anne stride down the road, backpack over her shoulder, Bertha at her heels. Gorgeous in a pair of jeans and an orange windbreaker, the sun turning her hair copper. His heart did a rebellious jig. He wanted to call out, run to her, but the sight of her straight shoulders, her jerky movements as she walked to her car, opened it, and climbed in, rooted him to the spot.

She was leaving.

He didn’t blame her.