Cast a Road Before Me (3 page)

You can’t serve the poor enough
. The minister had actually said that. He might as well have accused my mother by name. He might as well have spat,
“Never good enough!”
like her horrible father. Anger caught fire and burned in the pit of my stomach. By the time his sermon was finished, my arms were crossed against my chest, my jaw set. After the final hymn, I informed my aunt and uncle they could go on home; I’d walk.

“But chil’, there’s snow on the ground!” Aunt Eva protested.

I tossed my head. “I don’t care; I’ll be fine in my coat. I have to speak to the pastor,
right now
.”

Uncle Frank placed his large hands on my shoulders, his gray eyes warm. “You hear some things that disturb you?”

I was too incensed to answer.

“That’s all right, Jessie.” His lips curved. “You go on and talk to the pastor. I’ll take Eva home and come back for you. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Jeffrey Frasier was a tall man in his late fifties with an amazing head of silver hair. His hazel eyes were enlarged behind thick-framed glasses, his complexion dark. He sat behind his wide oak desk clasping long fingers, regarding me with a kind expression that
I was in no mood to reciprocate. On one corner of the desk lay a well-thumbed Bible; on the other were scattered framed pictures of his wife and grown children. I perched across from him on the edge of a worn leather chair, my throat tight with defensiveness. Now that I was in his office, I regretted my impulsive request to talk to him. I should have waited a day or two, when I wasn’t so upset.

“Well, Jessie,” he said as he leaned back in his seat, “I’ve had lots a folks come into my office over the years, and I’ve seen that look you now wear on your face more than a few times. It seems I’ve offended you in some way.”

I swallowed hard, resisting a sudden impulse to cry. A moment passed before I could answer. “It’s my mother,” I managed finally, twisting my hands in my lap. “You said something about Jesus being the only way to salvation. That serving the poor isn’t enough. I just don’t understand. I know Jesus was good and all that. But my mother always taught me there are many ways to God, and that each person has to find his own way. Mom’s way was through serving others. And, besides, I know Jesus helped others all the time.” A picture of Mom gently guiding the withered arm of a frail elderly woman into her coat sleeve flashed through my head. Tears bit my eyes. “My mom
died
on her way to a center for the homeless where she’d volunteered for years. She tended the lambs, just like Jesus on your stained glass window. She was such a good person, I
know
she’s in heaven. So now you’re telling me she’s
not?
”

Sadness spread across Pastor Frasier’s face. “Ah, young Jessie. The Lord has given you much to handle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand his purpose.”

I brushed at a tear with impatience. I did not care to hear more platitudes. “You’re not answering my question.”

He placed two fingers against his chin, his gaze drifting to a snow-dusted oak tree outside the window. Then his eyes closed, and I sensed he was praying. He turned back to me with an apologetic smile. “I did not preach this sermon to purposely speak against your mother, you know,” he said gently. “Even if it might seem that way to you right now.”

The compassion in his eyes surprised me. “I know.”

He nodded briefly. “Okay. Well, then. Seems to me there are two issues here. One is your mother. But the most important is you. What do
you
need to do to find salvation?”

“No, it’s the same issue, because I can’t separate us like that. She was everything to me, and she did nothing but give to people. You don’t know how much she was respected at the Center; you just don’t know.” My words began to tumble over themselves. “And she was very loving and patient with me. I’ve always wanted to be just like her. She worked really hard at the Center because she always felt like she wasn’t good enough, that she had to do more. She never said it, but I think she felt she had this stain on her soul. It wasn’t really there, of course, but she thought it was. I think it’s because of the way her father treated her.”

My mouth shut abruptly, and I eyed Pastor Frasier with a vague wariness. I’d never intended to say so much.

“We all have ‘stains on our soul,’ as you put it, Jessie. Even the best among us. Not because someone here on earth tells us we’re not good enough, but because God says through his Word that we’ve all sinned and fallen short of his plans for us.” He gazed at me, judging my response. “Is that somethin’ you can agree with?”

“Well, I guess. Otherwise, I suppose we wouldn’t need to seek God.”

His face creased into a smile. “Well, see there. We’re not on complete opposite ends of the pole.”

My resentment lifted a little. It was hard to stay angry at this man.

“Let me ask you somethin’.” He shifted in his chair, searching for the right words. “Do you think that by her service to others your mother was able to cleanse that stain away?”

His question took me by surprise. I leaned back slowly, pressing my arched shoulders against the cool leather. “Absolutely.”

He showed no response to the indignant tone of my voice. “What tells you that?”

“Because she kept
doing
it. If it hadn’t worked, she’d have … done something else.”

“I see.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Suddenly, he seemed weighted, tired. “Will this also be your ‘way to God,’ Jessie?”

I thought for a moment. “I plan to help people, if that’s what you mean. I’ll never be as good at it as Mom was. Probably never work that hard. But as for finding God, yes, I think that’s what it will take for me.”
If I was ever ready to talk to him again
. “I do believe in him,” I added, as if I’d spoken the thought aloud. “I’m a good person. Now I’m even coming to church every Sunday. What more could you ask?” I lifted both shoulders in a deprecating shrug, smiling ruefully. “But that’s not the problem, anyway. I didn’t come here to talk about me. I came because I felt you’d attacked my mom, and I just … I couldn’t let that be.” My throat tightened. “I can’t believe the things you said in your sermon, because if they are true, all her work—even her death—would be for
nothing
.”

“Jessie,” Pastor Frasier leaned across his desk, “please understand me. Nothin’ I ever say—in a sermon or anywhere else—will be aimed against your mother. Only God can judge how she lived her life. So I leave her in God’s hands. All right? My sermons are preached for those of us still on this earth. For myself, for you, for the person sittin’ in the front pew and the back. And I’ll tell you somethin’, Jessie. I believe God brought you in here today for both of us. First—you. He’s placed within your heart a yearnin’ for the truth—a yearnin’ that you may not even fully discern yet. I pray he’ll give me the words you need to hear so you can find that truth. As for me, it seems he’s brought you here to reinforce my burden for this town.”

I frowned, uncomprehending.

He regarded me thoughtfully. “I’m not quite sure what God has in mind, but I feel he’s promptin’ me to tell you this.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Although you’re a newcomer in Bradleyville, Jessie, you—with your view of salvation—are a lot like other people in this town. I suppose you’ve heard how Jonathan Bradley pulled up stakes from Albertsville and moved
here when it was nothin’ but countryside? He was a wonderful Christian man, fed up with the immorality around him. He said God told him to build a town, and by gum, that’s what he did. This was a town whose very foundation was Christian. My own father was the first preacher, here in this church. Later, the Baptist church was built as more folks came. In the young days of this town, folks lived their lives centered on Christ.” Absently, he rubbed a nick on the edge of his desk. “But now that a generation’s gone by, things have changed. People still go to church and talk about bein’ Christian. And they still raise their children under strict biblical principles. The problem is, Jessie, they think this is enough. They’ve lost sight of what it means to have Christ as Lord of their lives. Now, I’m not talkin’ ‘bout everybody. Your aunt and uncle, Alice Eder, Martha Plott, and others are still firmly centered. But many more are not. That’s why I preached my sermon today. And that’s why I’m in deep prayer over this town. Because, Jessie, I’ll tell ya somethin’ I’ve learned. Bein’ good and servin’ others and goin’ to church are all things we should do. But when the fryin’ pan meets the flame, these things alone won’t sustain you. For in choosin’ to do
only
those things and not embrace Jesus Christ as our own Savior, we’re choosin’ to remain lords of our own lives.”

Two minutes ago I’d been nearly mollified. Now, fresh defensiveness rose within me. How dare this man make such judgments. “Uh-huh.” I managed a stiff smile. “Okay. I see where your beliefs are. But as I told you, Mom saw the good in many different ways to God. And so … I’ll respect your beliefs, as I hope you’ll respect mine.” I stood, abruptly ending the discussion, then felt a twinge of remorse as disappointment flicked across his face. “I’m sorry to leave,” I added, my back still stiff, “but my uncle’s waiting for me so … I better go.”

“All right, Jessie.” The pastor rose gracefully. “I’ve filled your ear enough for one day anyway.” He ushered me out of his office, then walked me down the hall and back into the sanctuary, where Uncle Frank sat with his head bowed, praying.

T
hat afternoon in Bradleyville, an elderly widow fussed over the ivy plant on her kitchen table, watering it with care and wiping imagined dust from its leaves. That done, she shuffled across the black-and-white checked floor, her plastic watering can cradled in both hands. Humming the chorus of a hymn under her breath, she drew up before her small pots of herbs lining the window sill. A flash of red out in the street caught her eye, and she turned to set the watering can down on a nearby counter. Peering through lace curtains, she saw two neighbor boys throwing a ball back and forth. “Crazy kids,” she chuckled to herself, “out in the cold.”

She picked up the watering can in her right hand, gently pulling aside the leaves of a basil plant with her left to allow room for watering. She smiled, thinking how much she enjoyed the savory taste of sweet basil in spaghetti. Without realizing it, she started humming again
.

What happened next came without warning. The cheery kitchen and plants faded, and a vision sprang to the widow’s mind, as clearly as though the horrifying scene was spread before her. A vision of blackness. Violence. Death. Amid the raging bodies, she could see the features of
only one face. The presence of this face, and the expression upon it, stunned her with fear and disbelief
.

A small gasp puffed from the widow’s parted lips. She froze, her back still bent over the plant, the watering can suspended. What on earth? Why had such a crazy thing entered her mind? She pondered it until her back began to ache, and then she straightened, shaking her head. Must have eaten too much Jell-O salad at lunch; the sugar was acting up on her again. She took a deep breath, mentally shaking herself back into place, then lifted the can to water her mint plant. Next, she moved to the parsley. After a moment, her humming resumed. A heater vent was in the wall below the window, and she took her time, relishing the warm air on her legs
.

She was just about to water the rosemary when the vision flashed a second time into her brain, with double the clarity. “Oh!” she cried, nearly dropping the can. She froze again, mind reeling. Then, slowly, a new expression spread across her wrinkled face. With a slight frown, she set the watering can on the counter and turned her back to the window, facing the empty kitchen. “Lord?” she said aloud. “Is that you?” She listened intently, eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”

She stood for what seemed a long time, until her legs started to get stiff and her right hip throbbed. She headed for the kitchen table, pulled out her wooden chair with the handmade red padded cushion tied to its back slats, and fell into it with a slight sigh. That’s when the vision leapt into her head for the third time, clinging to her thoughts so forcefully that she could not pry it loose
.

“Dear God Almighty,” she breathed, shaken to her bones. “Please tell me. Is this fearful picture from you?” She tried to still her pounding heart, awaiting the reply, and the answer came as surely as though God had spoken aloud
.

Yes.

“Oh, help us, Jesus.” Automatically, the widow clasped her hands, leaning over the table to talk to God. It was a long time before she arose
.

When she did, she walked purposefully into her small, neat living room and toward the phone. As she had prayed, she’d begun fully to grasp the
meaning of the vision. A terrible crisis was going to befall Bradleyville. She didn’t know what or when or how. Only that God had called her—and a few others she was to tell—to intercede in prayer
.

Lips moving silently, she picked up the phone and dialed Pastor Frasier’s number
.