Rain Dance (8 page)

Driving away, relief washed over me. She had not tried to convert me.

Chapter
6

Jonica

Is Della right? Am I harboring a sin,
and is it hindering me from conceiving?

Sitting in the window seat, I hugged a pillow to my chest, trying to hold in the pain. It didn’t work.

Her words echoed through my mind and my stomach somersaulted in response.

Until that morning, I’d enjoyed helping clean up the coffee and rolls after the fellowship time between Sunday school and the church service. Then Della clobbered me with her cruel message.

“Jonica, the Lord has a message for you and I am compelled to deliver it. God revealed to me there is a sin in your life hindering you from conceiving. When you repent, He will reward you. Children are a blessing from Him. Something in your life is holding Him back.”

“No!” I raised my hand like a crossing guard with a stop sign, hoping to hold back her words, as tears filled my eyes.

“Denial will not help you. Mark my words.”

As she opened the door to leave, I watched her floral dress float around her slender legs. She said to Ben who waited for me in the hallway, “You two better hurry or you will be late for church.”

“Joni, what’s wrong?” Ben asked.

“Can we please go home?”

Without any questions, he took my hand and led me outside to the car. He pressed the unlock button on his key ring and opened the passenger door for me.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Silent tears rolled down my face and cooled on my collarbone. “Not here. Please.”

I heard the click of my seatbelt locking into place, felt the leather seats warmed by the sunshine, and shuddered as a deep sadness settled into my soul. As we pulled into our driveway, the tears became sobs.

Ben got us inside and steered me toward the couch, then sat with his arm around me. My sobs became dry gasps for air.

He got up. The sound of the ice clinking and water pouring over it calmed me.

“Here, take a drink.”

I took a few slow sips, hoping I wouldn’t choke. The heaving in my chest slowed and stopped.

Ben handed me a tissue. “Blow.

I obeyed. His simple directions beckoned me out of my shock and grief.

He sat back down and took my hands. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

As I repeated Della’s words, my eyes released another wave of hot tears. Ben got up and paced. I watched a quiet anger build in him. His neck turned red and his left eyebrow crooked up. He bit the inside of his mouth, and his normally gentle hands clenched into fists lined with white knuckles.

“I can deal with almost anything—except when someone is intentionally cruel to you. Not being able to have kids isn’t about our sin—it is about God’s will for us. I don’t know how to prove that to you, but I have to believe it or my faith will be crushed. I can accept infertility and the pain that goes along with it until a person causes you to suffer more or gives you a message that is contrary to the God I love. I’m angry. I’d fix this if I could. Please tell me how.”

We were helpless, vulnerable, and singed by the fires of disappointment. We looked nothing like the bold and courageous Christians we’d once thought we were.

Then something ugly turned in my gut. The ache morphed into a deep anger. The tears stopped and a searing energy flowed into my veins. Pulling my shoulders back, I clenched a wet tissue in my hand. It felt better than the pain and I decided to hang onto it for a while.

“You know what? Right now I’m angry too. Let’s change our clothes and eat.”

Upstairs, I put on my jeans and one of Ben’s old flannel shirts.

“Why don’t you throw this old thing away?” he asked, fingering the faded black and blue plaid.

“It smells like you and feels like one continuous hug when I wear it.”

Downstairs again, I heated up dinner rolls and poured chilled raspberry juice and ginger ale into crystal goblets. The smell of baked chicken and rice beckoned. In the freezer a chocolate almond ice cream pie waited. We loaded our plates, and for the first time in our marriage neither of us wanted to pray.

After a moment of silence, Ben bowed his head. “Lord, thank You for this food. Amen.”

We tried to eat but spent more time pushing our food around on the plates. Both of us passed on dessert. While I cleared the table, Ben ran the pie to our neighbors. We knew seven-year-old Brady next door loved chocolate.

I heard the kitchen door slam and Ben kicking off his shoes. “Brady says thanks.” Ben grinned and added, “I think he has a crush on you.”

“He’s a sweet boy.”

“What are your plans for now?”

I shrugged. “Read for a while, I think.”

“I guess I’ll watch the races.”

Curled up in the living room with a new book and my goblet of bubbly juice, I heard Ben turn on the big screen television in our basement. Racing was meant to be experienced in surround sound with the volume turned up.

I got up and put an instrumental CD on hoping the simple music might revive my parched soul.

“Lord, I know Your Word says we are all sinners and fall short of Your glory. But where does it say You punish sin this way? What about the millions of babies aborted each year? Isn’t there sin in their mothers’
lives? Many of them get to conceive again later. What about the mothers who abuse their children? They still get to have them. Even good mothers sin—don’t they?

God remained quiet. No verses of wisdom or comfort eased across my mind.

Through the window I watched the wind move a single oak leaf hanging onto its branch. The others had fallen when the frost loosened their grip or the snow weighed them down. My conversation with God changed directions.

I’m going to hang on to You the way this leaf is hanging on this branch. I don’t understand,
but I refuse to let go of You.

Monday morning I woke up angry again and decided to clean house. I spared no room, drawer, cupboard, or closet. Sweating, I turned off the furnace and cracked a few windows open. On the CD player, Charlie Daniels sang about redemption. His passionate, Cajun Christian country struck a tender chord in my heart and started to thaw the icy edges.

“Shoot!” I murmured. I’d wanted to stay angry a little bit longer.

I walked through the house later, admiring the shining furniture, polished wood floors, and sanitized bathrooms. I took a deep breath. Lemon wax, scrubbing bubbles, tropical breeze cleanser, and vinegar glass cleaner mingled with the cool air from outside. I enjoyed the smell of a clean house almost as much a dozen roses or fresh brewed coffee.

A little later as I poured myself a hot cup of Colombian roast, I thought,
Two out of three ain’t bad.
Then, the doorbell rang, and a delivery guy dropped off a dozen yellow roses. The card read,
Just because. Love, Ben.
Some days you just can’t lose.

My peace was short lived.

Tuesday morning I went to Bible study even though I knew Della would be there. Every week I hesitated about going. The women in the study were either young mothers or older women—mothers of adults and grandmothers. All of them had delivery room war stories. The whole group relived them every time someone else got pregnant. Even though I dreaded these announcements, I wanted to connect, and so I went. Our pastor’s wife, Janice, led the study, and her wisdom and gift of teaching made it worth the effort.

Life blind-sided me on that gray and blustery day. I entered the library, jiggled loose a Styrofoam cup, and poured some coffee. I settled in at the long table we used and watched rain spatter the window. Della and her best friend, Bernice walked in and went to the coffee table.

“I think you might be right, Della. Although I wonder . . . maybe the Lord knows Jonica wouldn’t be a good mother so He is withholding a child from her.”

Things moved in slow motion for a moment. Raw, untamed, and unfamiliar emotions swept through me. I wanted to hit something—or someone.

Instead, I gripped my cup, crumpling it. Hot coffee and tears hit my skin at the same time. I jumped up, staring at the spill.

I heard Bernice say, “Jonica, we didn’t see you.”

Looking at the two of them, I wanted to hurl swear words at them. A few choice ones crossed my now not-so-pure thoughts. A rumble followed by a blinding shaft of light at that moment would have been nice. I’d have enjoyed seeing the ladies cringe when God chose not to accept their judgment of me. Although the rain continued outside, no thunder rolled and no lightened bolted.

I hoped I could keep my mouth shut. They didn’t need anything else to use against me in their court of condemnation.

Neither one was even embarrassed that I’d heard them gossiping about me. I grabbed my purse and walked past them toward the door, my lips pressed tightly shut. As the door swung shut behind me, I heard Della say, “Well! At least she could clean up her mess.”

Again I fled my church crippled by the verbal blast of two women honored in the congregation. A strange homesickness flooded my soul. I knew it would be a while before I came back—if I ever did. I started my car and stared at the building where I loved to worship the God I believed in with all my heart.

This is sad God. And wrong.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, the anger settled in as if making itself at home—again. I knew it was the dangerous kind of anger—the kind that breeds bitterness—by the awful taste in my mouth.

I wanted God to answer my internal shouts.
Is this how your people are supposed to behave? Isn’t Your house to be called a house of prayer? A place of refuge? Right now, it feels like the residence of betrayal and rejection.

Instead of going home, I went to the park. Its only inhabitants were the giant Canada geese. I bought some corn from a bin and sat under my umbrella on a bench. The sound of the metal door of the corn dispenser slamming shut had alerted the geese to a treat and the loud, pushy birds soon surrounded me.

I watched them shove and bite each other over the kernels I spread before them. If it looked like another goose was getting a nugget more, the jealous birds honked and pulled out a feather or two from the competitor. When the cup was empty, they turned and waddled away.

“At least I know what to expect from you,” I commented to their feathery behinds. “You take and leave. You don’t act holy, and then turn on me.”

My discussion turned into a prayer. “I expect compassion and mercy from believers. I don’t need more pain heaped on me by Christians. In spite of everything, I know You’re walking through this barren place with me. You never leave or forsake me. But why do you allow us to hurt each other? We are a family—bound by the sacrifice of Jesus. This is the blood that should be thicker than water.

“What did I ever do to these women? Do I deserve this punishment? If Stacie had been with me, this would have turned her away from You for good. She already sees most of us as self-righteous, harsh, judging hypocrites. And You know what? I’m not sorry yet for those nasty names I wanted to call them earlier.”

My growling stomach interrupted my talk with the Lord. I looked around the park, glad I was still the only one there. All I needed was for someone to see me, alone, talking out loud. I had already been labeled a sinner in denial—I didn’t need to add “crazy” to my list of titles.

I went through the drive-thru at Juan’s and picked up some lunch—a crunchy taco, a bowl of beans, and a large cola. Ahead of me, a blue car sported an Eve Dunbar bumper sticker. I wondered where Stacie was and hoped her day was going better than mine.

Eating my lunch in the parking lot, I felt a deep loneliness settle into my soul.

Stacie

Is she right? Am I out of control? Weak?

My mother was in town for a couple of days. Before she flew back to D.C., we met at the country club for lunch.

In the dining room, seated by the bay window overlooking the pond, I took a moment to appreciate the way the soft candlelight danced off the delicate crystal goblets and the ivory china bowl with pink roses arranged in a small, elegant mound.

“Isn’t it pretty, Mother—I mean Eve?”

I didn’t usually slip. My memory of her voice the day she requested that I use her first name stood out.
I prefer you call me Eve at all times now, Stacie. Then you won’t slip in professional situations.
I was twelve at the time.

She chose to overlook my mistake but I couldn’t miss the sarcastic edge when she responded, “Lovely.”

I’d forgotten this kind of elegance was her daily experience.

When she spoke, her voice washed over me like cold water. “There’s an opening in my office that will make maximum use of your education and research skills. The position includes a generous wage and the opportunity to make important connections for the future that will give you considerable advantages in most political circles. If you insist on staying with your husband, you can commute.”

I watched her scan the room, one shapely brow raised. That was part of her job—to seek out opportunities to recognize a constituent, shake a hand, compliment a potential donor, or catch a competitor on what she considered her turf. Something she saw didn’t pass her inspection and a frown crossed her brow. I pitied the manager.

In my lap, my hands grew damp, and I bunched the linen napkin into a tight ball. My pulse throbbed and a line of sweat broke out across my upper lip
.

Why do I always feel this way? She’s my mother and will understand.

I took a drink of ice water. My shaking hand caused the ice cubes to tinkle a bit louder than normal. They sounded like church bells in my head. Setting the goblet down, I shook out my napkin and touched it to my lip, wiping away the perspiration.

“Eve, I need to tell you something.”

“Of course. What?”

“Mike and I are separated.”

A slight smile curved her lips. “I’m not surprised. What is his problem?”