Everything’s Coming Up Josey (5 page)

This is where my testimony really picks up speed, and for a second I wonder if I should gloss over the two years where I chucked religion into the street, opting for the party life. But, this may be important, so I sum up. “After high school, I spent about two years wondering if my parents' faith belonged to me. I admit, I did a few things I wasn't proud of.” Wow, I got a hint of a smile with that confession. I lean into my story. “In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be alive right now if God hadn't intervened.”

He nods, and his expression gentles. Maybe Skin-and-Bones has a past of his own.

“I guess it was in my junior year that I hit the wall. I got depressed and wondered why we were all here. What is the meaning of life?” Good grief, I sound like Forrest Gump. Life is like a box of chocolates….

“I guess God used that emptiness to remind me that when I was following Him, I didn't feel so empty. I felt useful and whole. And by this time I was keenly aware of my sins—”

He chuckled! It was small and guttural, but I definitely heard it. I smile, wipe my palms on my pant legs and lean back.

“So I asked God to refresh my life. Forgive me of my sins and help me be His girl.” There. Done. That wasn't so painful. Not quite as eloquent as the application, but it did have inflection, and angst. And I made him laugh.

So, did you find the meaning of life?

Arrgh! Blindsided! Dwight and my mother—partners in the CIA! I'm suddenly feeling tired, desperately hungry and fat. “Um…well…”

He smiles, as if he didn't really expect an answer and rises from his desk. I hear his knees crack. “I think that is enough for today. Why don't you head over to the barracks and settle in.”

The word “barracks” hits me like a two-by-four and I barely make it to my feet.

He puts his bony hand on my shoulder and I'm suddenly wondering if he arrived here fat and full of humor ten years ago and they slowly sucked it from his unwitting soul. The receptionist is gone. As is everyone else. We go through the door into the heat and it nearly scoops the breath out of my chest. Please, God, let the barracks be air-conditioned. To my happy discovery I see that the pansies are wet and glistening. I have a feeling the receptionist cares.

I somehow wrestle my bag out of the car while Dwight watches. He doesn't offer to take it, but then again, I'm doubting he can carry it. Thankfully it has little wheels and I trolley it down the sidewalk, around the back and down a cement trail to another long shed. There is a teeter-totter and a rusty swing set out front, and a giant plastic turtle holding sand set off to the side. The lawn has been recently mowed, and the smell is fragrant and reminds me of home.

“We have two families staying here at the moment, going through the application process. The walls are thin, but I don't think they'll bother you.”

Walls? Phew.

The barracks are air-conditioned and redolent with the smell of cleanser, which I take as a good sign. I tread down a brown, carpeted hallway, grateful there are no stairs, and he opens the door to a numbered room.

Inside is a twin bed covered in an orange bedspread, a small dresser, a chair and a darkened bathroom.

No television. So how am I going to keep up with the
Lost
gang?

“Get some sleep. We'll see you in the morning.” Dwight smiles at me, not showing teeth, and closes the door behind him.

Dwight is not the warmest coat in the closet. I dig out a romance novel (see? handy), plug my earphones into my MP3 and listen to Point of Grace. I'm not real hungry, having eaten a bag of Cheetos—the crunchy kind—on the way down. But that was the only thing I consumed, so maybe I'll lose a pound by the morning. I flop onto the bed and the last thing I do before diving into my book is put Chase's picture on the bedside stand.

Just as a reminder.

 

The competition is wearing dresses. Oh, boy, am I in trouble. I know their names, even without meeting them because the walls aren't thin. They're rice paper. They're vapor. Thank you, but I didn't need to know how Ken's stomach was feeling this morning, nor did I need to hear Janice tell Junior to make sure he goes tee-tee before they leave.

Come to think of it, that was actually a good reminder.

And now I'm standing in the barracks lobby in my really cute capri jeans, a sleeveless pink tank and friendly mules, rubbing my arms as I realize I am way, way,
way
out of my depth.

I follow the crew as we hike over from the barracks to the office. It's always good to survey the contenders. Here's the rundown: Janice and Ken Moose and little Ken junior from Belleview, Nebraska. And Patty and Bruce Abramson and their three precious daughters (all right, I did mean that sarcastically, but truthfully, they are kind of cute, in their blond pigtails, flouncy dresses and white patent shoes) from Wyoming, Minnesota.

Mission HQ is serving us breakfast in the lounge, a plate of fresh fruit, granola bars and yogurt. I was kind of hoping for low carb, but I grab a banana and find a place at the U-shaped table. We spend the first hour in Bible study and, wouldn't you know it, I left my Bible in the barracks. Well, nobody told me we were going to use it. I know, I know, some missionary I'm going to make. I sneak out after the Bible study, race down to the barracks, grab it off the desk and return sweaty and hungry. The cheese and strawberries on the snack tray are gone. Figures.

We then spend about four hours on the history of Mission to the World. I find out they have missionaries all over the world, most of them teaching English, but many helping plant churches and some in medical missions. Would that, by any chance, include doctors? I raise my hand and ask if there are any in Russia.

None, of course.

We break for lunch and I take my milk, whole-wheat sandwich and chips over to the Moose table. After all, I already know about Ken's stomach problems. I figure I have insider information.

I find out that Janice is nurse, Ken has a Ph.D in missions and little Junior (age 4) can already say all the books of the Bible as well as a wide repertoire of verses. I'm feeling trumped—a heathen, basically—as we take our places for the afternoon sessions.

While we're learning strategy of missions, we're called, one by one, like patients in a dentist's office, out of the room. It's piqued my interest and I'm having trouble focusing, waiting to see how the victims return. My blood pressure rises just a bit (or maybe that is my sugar level dropping) when Patty returns with mascara treads down her face.

They call me next.

I follow the receptionist (whose name is Lisa, by the way) through the maze until we stop at yet another conference room. She smiles but reveals nothing about my fate as she opens the door.

I feel like a convict meeting the parole board. Before me, behind a long table, sit five souls who will decide my fate. I see Dwight at the far end, looking tall and pasty and he gives no flicker of recognition. A white-haired woman near the center, her wire rims on a chain and resting on a bosom that annihilates my visions of mission-induced starvation, is flipping through a folder. It is a fat manila folder containing nearly a ream of paper—no, that can't be my…it is! I recognize my picture paper-clipped to the top. Yikes. Everyone has a folder. They've been studying me. Like an insect. Like a gypsy moth. Learning my habits, delving into my past.

These people know more about me than my own mother does. (Actually, there is some relief in that thought.) Still, my breath is thick, rapid. Or maybe that is the air conditioner, which hums in the corner. Since there is a folding chair in the middle of the room I walk over, sit down, cross my legs. Force a smile.

Dwight stands, as if suddenly he's figured out that yes, he talked to me yesterday. In fact, we had a riveting conversation and I even made him laugh. He's smiling as he introduces me. “We're glad you could join us today,” he says to me as if I had a choice.

“This is the review board,” he continues. (See, I told you!) “Marilyn Chadder, our review chairman,” (he points to the woman perusing my darkest secrets) “Todd Benedict,” (short, wide—think: Danny Devito) “JoAnn Bush,” (now, I could like her. She has long brown hair and black wire rims. I have the feeling that if I look under the table, she'll be wearing Birks.)“and Frank Bemouth. He's in charge of our psychological review.”

Dwight sits down as my eyebrows go up. Yes, I remember filling out that psych test, but we're actually going to talk about it?

Frank clears his throat and I grip the seat of my chair. In my defense, I should speak up and tell them that a few of the questions on the test they gave me just didn't make sense. Like, “Do you feel like people are watching you?” If I answer yes, it makes me paranoid, but a no makes me naive. Or maybe, “Are you often afraid of touching doorknobs?” How often and what kind? A little elaboration would have been nice. I didn't even think when I answered yes on “Do you sometimes wish you were a person of the opposite gender?” I'm not going to explain why, it just felt right.

The one I pondered a long, long time was “Do you fear falling off cliffs that aren't there?” Well, if they weren't there, the question wouldn't come up, would it? But if the cliff felt like it was there, then it would be reasonable not to want to fall off it, right? At what point do I realize the cliff is delusional, and if I do, do I stop fearing falling off? And is just seeing the cliff a sign that I'm delusional? Or is the fear of falling delusional? That seems sane to me. I answered no, but it still haunts me.

“Josey, you seem like a well-put-together young lady with a lot of depth and maturity,” Frank says.

I like this Frank fellow. He reminds me of Harrison Ford. Brown hair, soft eyes, sort of a tenderness wrapped up in uncertainty. I smile at him.

“But the one thing we see lacking in your application is a definite sense of calling.”

Calling? Calling who?

He leans forward, his lips are pursed and he nods like this is a real problem. I don't recall making any calls since arriving, although I would have done so on my cell phone. They can't trace that, can they? Can they read my need to call in the cliff question? Maybe it was a metaphor for leaping out and waiting for someone to answer—

“We just don't see a passion to serve the Russian people.” He's nodding again. “Josey, has God called you to serve Him in Russia?”

 

I love my cell phone. I got it on special in Minneapolis at a cell phone kiosk in the Mall of America and found a cover that has daisies in multicolors. I sometimes hang it from neck gear, but it also has a snap that I clip to my purse. I play games on it, change the ring tone every month and have my entire list of friends on it, in speed dial. H is #3. Chase is #2, although I very rarely call him, but the most important person, the big dog, my very best friend for life, is #1.

She might have married the guy I loved/thought I loved, but she's still my confidant, and the one person I turn to in times of serious trouble. And I definitely feel like I'm in it up to my ears right now.

“They asked you if you had a calling?” Jasmine asks.

Oh, good, she sounds as incredulous as I felt sitting there, gaping at the parole board. I stammered something about wanting to help the Russian people, but I felt scooped out and raw, and it took all my Minnesota nice not to run screaming from the room.

The afternoon dragged out in agonizing microseconds. I choked down lasagna for dinner (I've lost track of the carbs) and, at the moment, I'm missing comfort popcorn and a showing of
The Princess Bride.
Which attests to my need. Anybody want a peanut? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't help it. The words, “I mean it,” out of my mother's mouth got me grounded more often than I truly deserved.

“So, don't you have a calling?” Jas asks, bringing me back to the inadequacies in my life.

“No, I mean, do you?”

“I'm not going to Russia.”

I sit there in silence for a second, conjuring up a comeback. “Well, okay. But, do I have to have one? And what does it look like?”

“I dunno.” I picture Jasmine sitting on the green floral sofa that used to take up space in my parents' living room. It is now in the apartment over the restaurant where she and Milton have set up housekeeping. Another place I will never again clean. “Have you ever seen
The Mosquito Coast?
About that guy who wants to bring refrigeration to the Indians in South America? Maybe it's like that.”

Harrison Ford and River Phoenix. I always loved that movie. But I admit to thinking the Harrison character was downright nutso, even from the beginning. “No, I don't think that is it,” I say quickly. Then I slow my words, roll the thought around in my brain. “I think it is something…more. It's deeper. In your gut. Or your soul. Something that you can't dodge. Something that you must do or you won't be able to breathe or look at yourself in the mirror. Something you'd regret forever if you ignore it. Maybe even something you've been thinking about all your life.”

She's silent.

I have the weird sense I've answered my own question. Do I have this feeling? I close my eyes and feel around inside, checking every corner of my soul. No burning, but I do feel a simmer. Something alive.