War Room (7 page)

Walking into Clara’s house
felt like coming home to Elizabeth, in a way. The two of them sat in the dining room as Clara waited for her coffee to finish percolating. The smell of the fresh brew permeated the house. The old woman sure loved her coffee.

Elizabeth put a folder in front of Clara. “I ran a sales report from the area and wrote down a suggested asking price for the house.” She pushed the page across the table.

Clara picked it up, adjusted her head to see the writing clearly, and gave an “Um-hmm.” Elizabeth let her read and waited. It was important not to rush people who were mulling contracts and legalese and especially the asking
price. Everything was standard, but older people in particular had a harder time with change and feeling like someone was trying to fool them.

“Well, what do you think?” Elizabeth said after a few moments.

More sounds from the woman’s throat, but no words. Studying the page like a surgeon looking over a chest wound, Clara said, “What did you say your husband did for a living?”

The question took Elizabeth aback. She thought the woman would ask something about the house, how fast she thought they could have an offer, how she’d come up with that price.

Elizabeth quickly composed herself and answered, “Well, we actually haven’t talked about that, but he’s a sales rep for Brightwell Pharmaceuticals.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Clara said, still glued to the pages. “And where did you say you attended church?”

“We occasionally attend Riverdale Community.”

“Uh-huh,” Clara grunted positively, like she was pleased to hear it. She looked up. “So you would say you know the Lord?”

Elizabeth felt confused. Was this a counseling session or were they trying to sell the woman’s house? But she smiled and put on a good face. “Yes, I would say I know the Lord.” When Clara didn’t respond, Elizabeth leaned forward. “Do you think the Lord is okay with this asking price?”

Clara ignored the question and it almost sounded like
she was humming some kind of holy tune to herself. “And you have children?”

Elizabeth was both annoyed and amused by the questions. She’d been through a lot of these meetings, but this was the first time she’d been grilled by anyone about her spiritual and personal life before signing off on the asking price.

“Miss Clara, my husband, Tony, and I have been married sixteen years. We have one daughter, her name is Danielle, and she’s ten. She enjoys pop music and ice cream and jumping rope.”

The woman’s face lit from the glow of the new information. “Well, that’s good to know,” Clara said, nodding and smiling. Instead of being satisfied with the information and moving back to the contract, she doubled down on Elizabeth’s spiritual life. “Now you say you attend church occasionally. Is that because your pastor only preaches occasionally?”

What had been amusing and a little cute coming from an older woman was moving toward offensive. Elizabeth took a breath and tried to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want the sale to sour, but she had to draw a line in the sand. She had to be clear.

“Miss Clara, I really would like to help you sell your house. That’s why I’m here. As far as my faith is concerned, I believe in God, just like most people. He’s very important to me.”

The woman dipped her head and with hands folded
gave a pained grunt. “Ummm.” She rose from her chair, saying, “Let me get our coffee.”

Elizabeth watched her move slowly past and wondered if that would be the end of the spiritual grilling.

From the kitchen, Clara’s voice rose to carry through three rooms. “So if I asked you what your prayer life was like, would you say that it was hot or cold?”

Why in the world would the woman want to know about Elizabeth’s prayer life? Clara kept stepping over the line Elizabeth had drawn. But she was sure Clara didn’t mean to offend. She was amiable and kind. It was certainly easier to work with her than with some of the other clients who were hyper and asked Elizabeth to cut her commission in order to make the sale. Instead of placating, Elizabeth decided to answer truthfully. Just go with the flow.

Elizabeth spoke up so the older woman could hear, though she didn’t seem to have any problems with her hearing. “I don’t know that I would say it’s hot. I mean, we’re like most people. We have full schedules. We work. But I would consider myself a spiritual person. I’m not hot, but I’m not cold either. Just somewhere in the middle.”

She felt proud of the answer. It was honest and forthright. She’d made clear that she was serious about spirituality
 
—but not to the point of fanaticism. She hoped that would get the conversation going in the right direction.

Clara returned to the table with two cups. “I’ve got cream and sugar if you need it.”

“Oh no, thank you. I like it black.” Elizabeth took the cup as Clara sat. She took a sip and set the cup down again. “Miss Clara, you like your coffee room temperature?”

The woman cradled the mug in front of her. “No, baby, mine’s hot.” She blew across her mug and took a satisfying sip.

Elizabeth stared at her as if she were crazy, and then realized what the woman had done.

Clara leaned in closer and looked straight into Elizabeth’s eyes. “Elizabeth, people drink their coffee hot or cold. But nobody likes it lukewarm. Not even the Lord.”

Something ran through Elizabeth
 
—a mix of embarrassment and humility, she guessed. She remembered something about a verse that said the Lord would spit you out of His mouth if you weren’t hot or cold. It was a good word picture, but still a bit disconcerting.

“Point taken, Miss Clara. But why do you feel the need to examine my personal life?”

“Because I’ve been where you are.” She said the words forcefully but kindly, like she knew what she was saying was hard but good. “And you don’t have to step on the same land mines that I did. That’s a waste of time.”

Elizabeth felt the air go out of the room. What land mines had Clara stepped on? What did she know about Elizabeth’s life?

Clara pointed at the paper. “And this asking price . . . is just fine.”

She stood and moved toward the kitchen again. “Let
me get you a hot cup of coffee.” She cackled as she walked. “I was a little sneaky the last time.”

Elizabeth felt like she had whiplash. Clara had gone from her personal life back to the house without any signal. With the woman out of the room, Elizabeth had a chance to think. More curious now than hurt, she spoke up.

“What land mines do you think I may step on?”

“You tell me,” Clara said. “Now, if there was one thing in your life that you could make better, what would it be?”

Such a good question. Like one of those things a seminar leader might throw out to a small group to get them talking, to get underneath the surface to something real.

“Just one?” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I’d probably have to say my marriage. If there’s one thing we do well, it’s fight.”

Clara returned to the room, put the hot coffee mug down, and sat. “No. I don’t think you do.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just because you argue a lot doesn’t mean that you fight well. Every couple has some friction every now and then, but I’ll bet that you never feel like you’ve won after you’ve had an argument with your husband.”

Clara was exactly right. No matter how certain Elizabeth was about some issue that came up, no matter how many zingers she got in at Tony’s expense, even if she felt like she was 100 percent right and he was 100 percent wrong, she never felt good after the argument. There was always a sense of loss after a confrontation. She sat back
and thought about the argument over Cynthia and the money she’d moved to the checking account.

“Can I ask you how much you pray for your husband?” Clara said.

Prayed
for Tony? She gave the woman a nervous look. In that moment she was unguarded and exposed, as if her whole life were being put under some Clara Williams microscope.

“Well, very little,” Elizabeth finally said.

Clara looked at her tenderly, her eyes full of something close to empathy. She placed a hand on Elizabeth’s and leaned forward. “Elizabeth, I think it’s time to show you my favorite place in this house.”

Elizabeth followed her up the staircase to the bedroom at the top. Clara swung her arms to give herself momentum when she reached the landing and her breathing became a bit labored. The bedroom was small, with a twin bed nicely made and a picture of a young man on the nightstand. Miss Clara’s footsteps made the hardwood sag. She entered the room, opened the small closet door, and switched on the overhead light. Elizabeth peered inside what appeared to be an empty closet except for the small chair in the corner. There were no clothes or items stored above, no ironing board or umbrellas. Just a pillow, the chair, a Bible, and notes taped to the walls.

“Now this is where I do my fighting.”

“A closet,” Elizabeth said.

“I call this my war room.”

Elizabeth stepped inside and felt a sense of peace waft over her. She glanced at the pieces of paper taped to the walls, the neat handwriting spelling out names and phrases. Some pages with verses of Scripture on them. Others had pictures on note cards. Some of the notes looked like they had been there for years.

“So you wrote prayers for each area of your life?”

“A prayer strategy. Yes. I used to do what you and your husband are doing, but it got me nowhere. Then I started really studying what the Scriptures say, and God showed me that it wasn’t my job to do the heavy lifting. No. That was something that only He could do. It was my job to seek Him, to trust Him, and to stand on His Word.”

It was like stepping into some holy place, a shrine of sorts, and pulling back the curtain that separated the everyday from the holy.

Elizabeth walked out of the closet, her arms crossed, and turned. “Miss Clara, I’ve never seen anything like this. And I admire it, I really do. It’s just that I don’t have time to pray that much every day.”

“But you apparently have time to fight losing battles with your husband.”

The woman could be brutal. But she was right. They frittered away their relationship with angry words that led to bitterness and distance. Elizabeth looked down, not knowing how to respond, how to cut to the heart with the insight of this old woman.

Clara spoke up again, her voice filled with passion.
“Elizabeth, if you’ll give me one hour a week, I can teach you how to fight the right way, with the right weapons.”

Elizabeth didn’t answer. She just stood there in thought, looking at Clara. Then she led the way down the stairs, holding on to the banister to steady herself. She gathered her purse and the documents and walked out the front door, thanking Clara for the coffee.

On the porch, she turned. “Since you’re good with the asking price, I’ll go ahead and list the house,” Elizabeth said. “I’d like to think about our other discussion.”

The old woman’s face was etched with concern. “Elizabeth, please forgive me for being so direct. I see in you a warrior that needs to be awakened. But I will respect whatever decision you make.”

“Thank you, Miss Clara. I hope you have a good day.”

“You too.”

Elizabeth got in her car and drove away, but she couldn’t help looking back at the woman on her porch, the flag flying above her. She looked like some kind of soldier on duty, watching the walls of the fort. Elizabeth couldn’t shake the image of her war room, as she’d called it. And the fact that she’d seen her own name on one of the notes taped to the wall.

Elizabeth went to the office and made a few calls, then had a showing on the other side of town. By the time she got home, she was exhausted, and not just physically. The time at Clara’s house had taken something from her. She sat on
the end of the bed, unable to change into more comfortable clothes, deep in thought. Her cell buzzed and she checked the message. It was Jennifer’s mom confirming that Elizabeth was home. She texted back,
I’m here.

Elizabeth rubbed her foot and stared at the wall, a sort of spiritual and emotional paralysis setting in. Funny how a few words from an old woman could press so deeply against a person’s heart, against her soul. She glanced at her Bible on the shelf, a study Bible that had rarely been studied. So much information in there, so much content that sat unattended.

She heard the front door open and Danielle and Jennifer walk in. Jennifer’s mom had promised to drop them off so they could practice jumping rope.

“If they do that stunt in the competition, they’ll win,” Danielle said.

“Hey, why don’t you ask your dad about helping us get uniforms?”

“He’s not here. It’s not like he would care anyway.”

“Can you ask your mom? My mom already gave part of the money.”

“She’s not here. She’s out selling houses. Come on, we can go to my room.”

Elizabeth went to greet them, but the two were upstairs already, on to some other conversation.

“So I told my dad that he could jump with us, and he totally started laughing,” Jennifer said. “He said he would
only do it if Mom did it with him, which of course she would never do.”