Monday Morning Faith (33 page)

At the moment I didn't have the strength to reassure him again. Moments later he left, issuing one last order that I send Poo for him should I need anything. The child recognized her name and looked from him to me and back again. I took her hand and smiled at her, and she relaxed.

I dropped off to sleep, into a nightmare where I fled from one monster after another, dashing headlong through dark shadows, aware that something terrible was chasing me. I woke, suffocating heat surrounding me. My heart pounded above a raging fever. Sam had left a full canteen beside my cot; I drained it and craved more.

“Poo?”

Though I'd barely managed a whisper, she materialized. I held out the canteen and pointed outside to the water barrel. Her face lit up, and she refilled the container and held my head as I drank in long gulping swigs. I downed the cool liquid, letting it run off my chin, until she jerked the jug away and shook her head, eyes filled with caution. I grabbed for the canteen and shouted at her.

A haze filled my mind; my fevered gaze roamed the hut, and I frowned. Where was I? Why didn't anything look familiar? And why was I here?

My head throbbed, my bones ached, and I was in the “bathroom” every few minutes, sometimes crawling on hands and knees to the jar to avert disaster. Poo helped me off the cot and supported my weight to the makeshift water closet, a steady companion when I crawled.

The child was an angel sent to minister to me.

Sam came every hour, worry etched on his forehead. I felt a needle prick. I didn't know or care why. The afternoon wore on, and I tossed and turned on the cot, unable to get comfortable. My clothing was drenched, as if some maniacal demon stood above me pouring water over my fevered body. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Once I opened my eyes and saw Poo standing over the cot, tears rolling from the corners of her eyes. I reached out, touched her arm, and murmured something — but even I couldn't recognize the words. I drifted on a troubled sea under a moonless sky, darkness surrounding me like a velvet curtain. I sank down, down, down …

Bright light seared my eyelids. The darkness had loosened, giving the impression I was rising, fighting my way upward, away from the black depths that had held me prisoner. My eyes fluttered open to find Sam and Poo standing over me. Poo was sobbing.

Eva and Mary hovered in the background, and I could hear Frank and Bud talking. I wanted to comfort them but I was powerless to move. My voice when it came was barely audible. “What is it? What's wrong with me?”

Sam's voice came to me in a tunnel. “You've very ill, darling. I've sent for the plane.”

The plane? I sat bolt upright, memory flooding me. That single-engine menace. That horrible runway. “No! Sam, I'll be fine!”

Hands urged me back to the pillow. Sam's voice soothed me — then everything faded into silence.

TWENTY-ONE

I
came to, fighting to shake off a lethargic stupor. I drifted in and out of consciousness but was able to piece together some of what was going on. By the grave tone of the voices that filtered through my fog, I realized I was ill, very ill. All four of the missionaries, plus Sam and Poo, were crowded into my narrow cubicle. Eva bent at my bedside, sponging my face and arms.

Calm, unflappable Eva wore a grim expression. “Gentlemen, if you will wait outside the curtain. Mary and I will take care of Johanna.”

Sam protested, and I almost jumped when Eva snapped, “I
mean
it. You can pray for her as well on the other side of the curtain. Now
move
!”

Eva and Mary began a new form of treatment. They stripped me of soiled clothing and removed the sweat-damped sheets. Then they bathed my heated body with cool water. Mary knelt beside my cot, wiping my face with a damp cloth, coaxing me to drink from the glass she held. She and Mary were so good to me, caring for me as though I were an infant. As they worked, they murmured encouragement. From the other side of the curtain I could hear the men's voices raised in prayer. For me. Johanna Holland. Saginaw, Michigan, librarian. Disgraceful missionary.

Poo stood at the head of my cot, stroking my hair. Eva motioned for her to leave. “Wait in the other room, sweetie.”

The child gripped my hand, shook her head. “Jo.”

Eva smiled. “You can say her name.”

“Let … her stay.” It took great effort for me to speak, but I needed this child. Small caring hands stroked my hair, comforted me.

“If that's what you want.” Eva moved away.

I drifted off again. I was in a canoe floating down a gentle river toward a distant shore. A light appeared on the shore and a soft breeze ruffled my hair. I saw a rainbow and hills covered with bright flowers. I could hear the most beautiful music, music so sweet and pure that tears pooled behind my lids. I strained toward it, yearning for what lay just out of reach. I started to float forward out of the canoe. Then something — or someone — took hold of my arm and pulled me back into the vessel. A dark veil dropped between me and the beautiful scene.

“No … Let me go.” The music. It was incredible. I wanted to blend into the sounds, to be a part of whatever or whoever was performing.

I opened my eyes and there was Poo, holding my arm, tears rolling down her dirty cheek.

“Jo.
Jo.”

I reached over — or I think I did — and pulled her face down onto my chest. Later I realized that was the exact moment I understood what Sam said to me on our flight to Papua New Guinea: “You can teach love and preach love, but the true message of love is never completed until you give love.” Even in my groggy state I knew I had somehow reached a new plateau of loving.

Poo drew in a deep gulp of air and whispered my name again, “Jo.”

“I'm here. It's all right.” I didn't know where I found the strength to answer her, but it must have come from God. At that moment it could have come from none other than the Almighty.

I drifted again, slipping into oblivion. The dreams returned. I heard Mary say, as clear as day, “I thought she was gone.”

“Poo's love brought her back.” Eva's voice penetrated my feverish mind. “God must need Johanna here on earth for a while longer.”

“I believe he has great plans for this woman, though convincing her is difficult. She seems to base her worth on her calling. If only she knew she has nothing to prove. God loves her as she is, and her worth is great in his eyes.” A cool glass rim touched my parched lips. “Drink, Johanna. You're dehydrated.”

I tried to swallow, but darkness claimed me. I sensed the women's concern, but I wasn't worried. I was aware of a presence, a warm, comforting someone or something hovering just beyond the edge of my consciousness. My concern at the moment wasn't for me, but for Mom and Pop. And Sam. Poor Sam. He would always hold himself accountable for my demise.

Your rod and your staff, they comfort me … You are with me.

My eyelids drifted opened, and I stared through my window at the sky, orange rather than blue now that the sun was setting. My cot rocked. I heard a splash and then the sound of oars rising and falling. My groping hand touched a hard surface that curved around me like a shell. Not a cot. I was in the cool bottom of the rowboat. Sam sat in the bow, his familiar shape sturdy and reassuring. Funny how I always felt out of harm's way when he was near. Someone, Bud maybe, sat in the back and manned the oars. A lone bird flew overhead. Going home? Did birds have homes? I giggled. Tiny little jungle town houses with two bedrooms, two-car garages. I laughed out loud at the images going through my mind.

Plasma televisions, treadmills to keep their teensy little legs slim and attractive for male birds … Male birds.

Mail birds.

Do birds get mail? Do they have tiny mailboxes with infinitesimal little stamps — maybe with pictures of people on them?

Sometime later — maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour, maybe a day — I woke and lay staring up at the canopy of branches overhead. I was on something neither hard nor soft, just a surface, like a piece of canvas swaying back and forth in an unsteady rhythm. A stretcher? Someone was carrying me through the jungle. Fear coursed through me and my body started shaking. I struggled to sit up.

“Lay still, Johanna.”

Sam? He was with me? Then I was safe. I sank back down and let the rhythmic swaying pacify me.
Sam is with me … Everything is fine. I love you, Sam. Everything is fine. Honest. I' ll be fine …

Mail birds? I don't think so.

Do birds build people houses and put out hamburger feeders? Do they sit in microscopic town houses with miniature binoculars and watch people flit in and out of the feeders on snowy days?

I giggled.

A dull roar filled my ears, growing louder by the moment. A bee? Buzzing around my head? No, the sound was too loud, deafening me. I wanted to clap my hands over my ears, but they wouldn't move. Somehow I'd lost control of my faculties, not just my mind but my limbs and my speech.

Oh, wait. It was the airplane. What do you know — the engine
did
sound like a growling beast. I should have been worried but I wasn't.

Do birds have teensy little aircraft? Miniature cockpits and itty-bitty bags of birdseed and sugar and red food-colored water to snack on — Itty Bitty.

I miss that pooch. Is Nelda taking good care of him?

The heat from the plane's engine washed over me in waves. I curled in a fetal position, arms curved around my head.
Shoot. I'm dying. I must be or Bud wouldn't have called for the plane. I don't want to die now. I'm only forty and I still have so much to do. Sam! There's something I need to tell him!

I summoned the strength to reach out and grasp a hand. Warm, reassuring fingers curled around mine. I adored Sam. I needed him to know that time was imperative. The most important thing in the world — the only thing in the world at this moment. I had to tell Sam how much I loved and needed him.

“Sam?”

“I'm right here, darling. Save your strength — we'll be in Port Moresby soon.”

“Sam.” I struggled to form the words in my dry mouth.
I love you. I adore you. I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you, no matter how I've acted.
But words wouldn't come. I opened and closed my mouth, holding to those fingers.

I realized Sam was kneeling beside me, his hands clasping both of mine. “Johanna, don't leave me. I love you.”

I wanted to tell him it was all right, that I loved him too, we could work this out. His voice lowered, filled with pain. “I'm sorry I brought you here. I prayed so long and so hard about it, and I thought this was what God wanted, but now I realize it was wrong. This is my fault. If I hadn't insisted you come, you would be home in Michigan.”

I heard each word with a bell-like clarity, even over the roar of the engines. He bent low, his mouth pressed against my ear. Wetness. Was he crying? No, Sam didn't cry.

I had to comfort him, had to look into his eyes, those wonderful Tom Selleck eyes, one last time. With tremendous effort, I opened my lids, and what I saw almost broke my heart. There in his expression, mirrored in his eyes, I saw defeat. Pain. Love.

Incredible love.

But there was something more. Something troubling. Signs of wavering conviction. Sam was having doubts about his calling, and I was the reason for those misgivings.

His voice rang in my heart like a death knell. “I don't know, Johanna. If it means losing you, I will give up my work here.”

No, God. He doesn't mean it. Please, he doesn't know what he's saying. It's my fault.
I'd done this to him! My stubborn determination to have the world's comforts; my quibbling about the villagers; my selfish, rebellious, bullheaded nature. My rock-hard determination to make Saginaw more important to him than the mission field so I could have my old, comfortable life back.

I clung to him. He must
not
give up his work — not for me, not for anyone.