Hearts at Home (28 page)

She moved into the bathroom, then turned on the faucets full force. Golden sunlight streamed through the tiny window and spangled the new floor, and tears swelled to her eyes when she thought of all the work Win and Stanley had put into this room last month. They had suffered, too, through the remodeling, but the result was worth it. Wasn't her diet the same kind of thing?

As steam began to mist the mirror, Edith slipped out of her robe and stepped into the warm stream. The pressure of the water on her neck and shoulders felt wonderful, easing away worries and tenseness. She tilted her head back and felt rivulets stream through her hair, rinsing away the thick shampoo she'd applied.

This shower had been a good idea—she felt hopeful again. And presiding over today's nuptials would remind Winslow of the preciousness and sanctity of marriage. After the wedding, they'd come home and make up. They'd never been able to stay mad after a tiff.

She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and slipped into her robe. As she picked up her toothbrush, her hand began to tremble so that the brush slipped from between her fingers.

“Clumsy,” she murmured, bending to pick up the toothbrush. The room spun as she bent forward, and she saw the pretty new floor rising up to meet her when suddenly the world went black.

“You didn't eat a bite of your lunch,” Cleta berated the pastor as he stood at the kitchen window, peering toward the church. He saw no sign of Edith, but surely she'd be along soon. No matter how upset she was with him, she wouldn't back out on her promise to help with the wedding decorations.

From across the room, Cleta continued to nag at him. “You're liable to keel over in a faint during the ceremony, Winslow, and won't that be a fine how-de-do? You need to eat something.”

“I'm not hungry.” Winslow had never spent a more wretched morning. He missed Edith, missed the security of knowing they were in tune with each other.

Cleta cleared the lunch dishes off the table. “Winslow, I don't know why you decided to eat lunch with us today, but I've a hunch all's not well between you and your missus. So take it from me—you need to go home and make things right. You look like a sick goat, and Birdie won't want a goat presiding over her wedding ceremony.”

At the mention of the ceremony, Winslow glanced down at his shirt. He'd picked up his suit coat and trousers as he went out the door, but he'd forgotten to grab a tie. And until Edith left the house, the parsonage was anything but neutral territory.

He turned to the table, where Floyd was sipping a cup of hot coffee, fortifying himself, he said, for his last ferry run before the wedding.

“Floyd, can you run over to the parsonage and get me a tie? There's a nice black one hanging from the hook on the back of the bedroom door.” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “You'll need to pick up my electric razor, too.”

Floyd shot Winslow a look filled with meaning, then nodded. “Ayuh. I can.”

At least Floyd understood what was going on.

In the cooler light of hindsight, Winslow realized he'd been hard on Edith this morning. He shouldn't have been so angry; after all, he knew what it was like to look in the mirror and be unsatisfied with the reflection. A few months ago he'd undergone a similar crisis, but he'd been preoccupied with hair, not weight.

Maybe his own insecurities had fueled his anger this morning. In any case, he'd come down hard on his wife when she most needed understanding and sympathy. He'd go home and apologize as soon as he saw her begin to bend a little.

Cleta dropped a pot into the dishwasher, then slammed the door. “Floyd, sit down and enjoy your coffee. I'll go get the tie and razor. Unless I miss my guess, Edith could use a sympathetic ear about now.”

Winslow threw Cleta a grateful smile as she moved toward the back door. “Tell her . . . tell her I'm sorry I was so harsh this morning, okay? And I'll see her at the wedding.”

Cleta paused, her hand on the knob. “You could go tell her yourself.”

Winslow shook his head. “Not yet. She's got to meet me halfway.”

Cleta opened the door, sending a blast of frigid air into the cozy kitchen. “Hold your horses, fellers, I'll be back in a jiff.”

Not yet. Edith shook her head as she fell deeper into darkness. She couldn't die yet; she had to apologize to Winslow. She blinked and opened her eyes, but saw nothing but distant pinpricks of light.

Good grief, was she having a near-death experience? Surely not! She hadn't been stupid enough to really do damage . . . or had she?

Gradually the darkness faded. Edith rubbed her head—a miracle she hadn't hit it on the bathroom counter during her fall—and looked around. What she saw made her mouth go dry.

She was in a large room with white walls and gleaming stainless steel fixtures. A shriveled, blue human body lay on what looked like an operating table across the room, and her heart froze when she recognized the sleeping face— Hers. The body was hers, but if not for the shrunken facial features she would never have recognized it. Someone had cleanly cut down the chest and opened it like a book, two walls of flesh lay neatly on the left and right, leaving the bloody chest cavity open and exposed.

An autopsy?

“I am dead!” The words flew off her tongue—if she still had one—then the sound of gentle laughter filled her ears. She looked up to see a tall man standing before her, a surgeon, from the look of him. He had long white hair, tied neatly in a ponytail, and he wore a spotless surgical gown and plastic gloves. The eyes above his mask were smiling down at her.

“Where am I?” she squeaked.

The man tugged on his mask, then smiled. “You're dreaming.”

“I'm not dead?”

He shook his head. “It's not your time.”

“Then what—” she pointed to the dissected body on the table—“is that?”

“Ah.” He glanced toward the body and smiled. “That is a visual aid. A lesson the Father wants you to learn.”

A lesson? Edith stared at the stranger in bewilderment, then bit back a scream as his hand approached, growing larger and larger. The hand kept coming until it loomed over her, as big as a house, then it closed around something and lifted, sending her off-balance.

“Look,” the stranger said, moving to a mirror. “Look at your true self, Edith.”

She looked. And in the mirror she saw the surgeon reflected, shining and bright, and in his hand he carried a lidded glass jar in which a tiny light gleamed.

Shock caused words to wedge in her throat. She was . . . Tinkerbell?

“No,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “You're looking at your soul, through which the light of Christ shines. This is the eternal part of you, the part that can travel from an earthly plane to the spiritual.”

“I
am
dead,” she whispered, “and you're taking me to heaven.”

The man laughed. “I would not lie to you, Edith. The Father does not deceive his children.”

Instantly, a dart of guilt pierced her soul, and the light in the glass jar dimmed slightly. She had deceived Winslow . . . oh, may God forgive her!

“He will and he has,” the surgeon continued, returning her to the shelf or whatever her bottle had been resting upon when she awakened. “He forgives you because he loves you. And now he wants you to walk with knowledge.”

In a weak voice she barely recognized as her own, Edith whispered, “I want to.”

“Good.” The surgeon nodded, then tugged his mask into place like a thousand doctors she'd seen on TV. He moved to a stainless steel tray on a stand and lifted out a pinkish organ the size of his fist. Edith remembered enough biology to recognize it immediately—a human heart.

He held it up. “Do you know what this is?”

Edith nodded.

“Would you like me to place it in your body?”

Stunned by the question, she looked at him. “Well, of course.”

“Then I will. But tell me first—do you trust the Father to care for it? Or would you rather regulate its beating yourself?”

Regulate it? What good would that do? Was this man implying that a heart attack lay in her near future and maybe she should take control to keep it beating . . . no, surely not.

“How can I control it? I have to sleep, and I couldn't possibly regulate my heart while I'm sleeping.”

“So you'll let the Father be responsible for your heart?”

She squirmed, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Sure.”

The surgeon turned, then lowered the heart into the body. She couldn't see the working of his hands, but after a minute the limbs had plumped with life. They were still blue, but they no longer had that shrunken look.

The surgeon swiveled toward the tray and lifted out two shapes Edith immediately recognized as lungs.

“Would you like your body to have these?”

“Of course,” she muttered.

“Would you like to control them, or will you yield their control to the Father?”

Edith released a sour laugh. “He designed them, didn't he? I'd be a fool to try to work them myself.”

“You are a quick learner.” The surgeon dropped the lungs into the body cavity, fiddled a moment, then stepped back and nodded in satisfaction when the body pinkened with oxygen-rich blood.

Edith smiled in relief. The body looked healthier now, rosy and pink. Surely this was the end— But no. The surgeon turned to the tray once again, and lifted out another fleshy object, this one shaped vaguely like a half-moon.

“Recognize this?”

Understanding flashed through Edith like a thunderbolt. “Ayuh.”

“Good. Do you want it?”

“I'd be dead without it.”

“True. Now—do you want to control it, or do you want to trust the Creator's design?”

Indignation flashed through her. “That's easier said than done! It's not easy to control your stomach when you're at a party, or a buffet, or traveling—”

“The stomach does not go out of control during those times—on those occasions I suggest you address the hands that wield the fork, or the tongue that lusts after flavor.” He held up the stomach again, lifting it higher. “I ask you—do you want to control it, or do you trust the One who designed it?”

Edith closed her eyes. “I don't know how to control it. But I don't know how to let God take charge, either.”

“Do you worry about your lungs?”

“No.”

“If you are holding your breath, what happens after a while?”

She thought a moment. “Your lungs burn.”

He nodded. “Even so, if you neglect your stomach, after a while it will tell you it is empty. If you eat too much, it will complain because it is overfull.” The surgeon's dark eyes softened. “The Father's way is simple. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light.”

Edith remained silent as his words froze in her brain. He was right—God's ways were always simple, always the best, always liberating. For the last month she had been following one set of man-made rules after the other, stuffing her stomach with things it did not want, much less need . . . and she'd remained unsatisfied.

“I'm so stupid,” she said.

“No.” The surgeon lowered the stomach. “You have been swayed by the wisdom of the world, the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life. Repent of those things, and all will be well.”

She closed her eyes as the truth resonated in her spirit. The lust of the eyes—hadn't that peach dress enticed her? The lust of the flesh—she had eaten because she wanted food; she had drunk thousands of calories of diet shakes because she craved flavor. The pride of life—she had wanted to look good for Winslow, yes, but mostly she had wanted to look good.

She had coveted praise and attention. And she had wanted to accomplish her goals on her own.

Such independent pride wounded the heart of God.

Again the gleaming surgeon held up the stomach. “Do you want this?”

She nodded.

“And do you want to control it?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I want to be healthy.”

“The creator designed your body to be self-regulating. Trust him.”

He held the stomach aloft, his brows silently lifting the unanswered question, and finally Edith nodded. “I'll trust him.”

And with that promise, the stainless steel table upon which her body rested began to glow. Edith bowed her head as the truth struck her—that was no table, but an altar. She had wrested control of her body from God, preferring to rule it herself, when all she was and possessed rightfully belong to God.

As she wept, beloved and familiar phrases filled her head:

And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to
give your bodies to God. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice. . . .

Don't worry about everyday life—whether you have
enough food to eat or clothes to wear. And don't worry about
food—what to eat and drink. Don't worry whether God will
provide it for you. These things dominate the thoughts of
most people, but your Father already knows your needs. He
will give you all you need from day to day if you make the
Kingdom of God your primary concern.

“I will,” she whispered, lifting her gaze to the brightness hovering above her. “I will trust you, Father, body and soul.”

Cleta stepped to the parsonage door and knocked. No sound from within the small house, but Edith had to be home.

She walked to the living room window and peered inside. Nothing moved, but a light shone from the bedroom. Edith was home, then, probably running the hair dryer and hadn't heard the knock. Might as well go on in and do a bit of neighborin' while she fetched Winslow's tie.

“Edith!” she called cheerily, half-hoping she'd get the scoop about the couple's spat while she was running her errand. She walked into the house, crossed the living room, and moved down the hall, noticing the rumpled bed in the guest room.