Monday Morning Faith (30 page)

“Have you noticed the sunrises here?” His voice was calm and gentle, showing none of the stress I was experiencing.

I sat for a moment and then nodded. “The sunrise is a sunset backward.”

He laughed, and I sensed his relief that we were speaking to each other. Shame engulfed me. Dear Sam, so gentle and compassionate. How could he put up with my temper tantrums and still be so nice?

“Are you feeling better today?”

“Better now, thank you.” A headache still bloomed at the back of my neck, and a general malaise stayed with me, but I had less than a week left to stay in this tropical sauna. I could make it. I stared down at the water lapping against the stilts.

“Sam, what's wrong with me? I love God, and serving him is important to me, but I'm in over my head here. I realize you and the others think serving here is a privilege. I'm very fond of Poo, and I know the children are innocent victims, but — ” I shook my head.

“It's okay, Johanna. I understand.”

How could he? His first wife, Belinda, had worked side by side with him, enthusiastic. Supportive.

And then there was me.

He sat for a moment while I watched a brown bird skimming the surface of the water, gliding in a rhythmic ballet. Finally he released a sigh. “The Bible assures us that we each have different talents. I don't resent the fact that we don't share the same passion. Only that we're not working together to solve the problem.”

“How can we? There's no ready solution. You'd never be happy without your work and I … I don't know
where
I fit.”

“There is an answer to every problem.”

I lifted a warning hand. “Don't you think there is
something
I should be able to do? If God has given me a gift, I've failed to find it — except caregiving. I thought that was what God wanted of me — to take care of Mom and Pop. But they're doing better than they have in a long time, and I haven't a thing to do with it. Most days I walk around in a spiritual fog. If God's leading me somewhere, don't you think I should have an inkling of where it is? Look at you and the others. You
know
what God expects from you, and you're content knowing you're in his will. Other than the library, I don't know where I belong.”

Sam reached over and took my hand, his expression sobering. “You belong with me, Johanna. I've no doubt about that. You make it sound like we all think that everything we do is Spirit-led. The truth is we don't always know what to do. We have our spiritual fogs too. We spend a lot of time in prayer, asking for wisdom and guidance, and sometimes we make mistakes. We're feeling our way through the situation here too — and, yes, we have more patience with our circumstances than you, but we've been here longer and had time to adapt. You haven't allowed yourself enough time to adjust. But none of that is a final indication that you are or are not called to this particular ministry.”

Maybe so, but I had a hunch my chances of fitting in wouldn't improve, no matter how long I stayed.

Eva, followed by Mary, grasped the wooden ladder and pulled up out of the water. The women frolicked, spraying us with water when they walked past to their respective huts.

“Don't let us bother you two lovebirds,” Mary tossed over her shoulder.

I locked my arms around my knees, staring at the clouds in the west, flushed with gold and crimson and peach. “I wish I had their outlook.”

“God has given you many talents. You've been faithful in your church, and to your position at the library. I've heard people talk about how helpful you are, and how you live your faith through your work. Never feel that God isn't using you if you want him to do so. Maybe your place isn't on the mission field, but trust me — he's at work in your life.”

“I want to work beside you.” I bent over so my head touched my knees. “I love you, Sam. More than life itself, at times, but our situation seems hopeless.”

“There is a solution to every problem,” he reiterated, his voice firm and sincere. For a split second I almost believed him. “I love you, Johanna. And I'm proud of you.”

“You yelled at me.” I'd never heard Pop lift his voice to Mom.

“Well — ” he chuckled — “I didn't say I didn't get irritated with you. I'm human and sometimes I speak before I think, but I am and will always be proud of your accomplishments.”

Tears stung the backs of my sunburned eyelids. I didn't deserve this man. It all poured out then, my frustrations with the living conditions, my homesickness, the way I missed Mom and Pop and Nelda. The dangers I perceived at every turn, my frustration with the villagers and the thefts.

He nodded with each complaint as if he understood, but how could he? He didn't have a selfish bone in his body.

“Is it possible you're too attached to possessions?” The tone of voice was gentle, but the words were a sharp whip across my heart.

“Yes.” I'd considered the thought. “But taking care of what is given to you isn't selfish. God expects us to be good stewards.”

“Everything we own belongs to God. Possessions, in and of themselves, are worthless. You'll never see a hearse pulling a U-Haul. When we leave this earth, as we will, we take nothing with us.”

I clenched my teeth to keep from lashing out at him. Of course everything I owned belonged to God. That was basic Christianity. But back home, we had laws against theft. Here, no one was held accountable. Was that right teaching?

Sam shifted. “You're angry over something you don't own.”

“These people don't understand a word you say. What's the purpose? You can't present the gospel. Look at how long the Millets have been here, and they have yet to break the language barrier. Don't you ever feel like giving up?”

“They understand our intentions. They know love when it's shown — and they recognize resentment.”

My anger. That's what he meant. “I'm not a bad person, Sam Littleton. I may have my weaknesses, but if I can't get along with these people it's
their
fault. I've always been able to get along with anyone.”

“Sure, as long as you're in your own element.”

His words gave me pause. That was part of the problem, of course. In my library I could — and did — take charge. But here I had no idea what to do next. There wasn't even a trace left of Johanna Holland, head librarian. Just a very tired, discouraged woman sitting beside the man she loved and must give up, watching the sun sink over the horizon of a hostile, harsh land.

“Johanna, I feel what I do because I care for their souls.”

Though there wasn't a trace of criticism in Sam's tone, I reacted. “
I
care for their souls — ”

My next words caught in my throat. I couldn't believe I'd almost said them: “… as long as they leave me alone!”

Johanna! How could you have such thoughts?

It was the headache. A miserable nagging at the base of my skull.

“It's not the possessions, Sam. It's this way of life. It's so … foreign.” I was spoiled: the recognition tightened around me like a cobra. Mom and Pop had me late in life — years after they'd given up on Mom ever conceiving. I had been pampered and sheltered and the princess of the Holland clan. Was it any wonder I hated to share?

He sighed, and I realized I wasn't telling him anything he hadn't already figured out. Reaching over, he pulled me close, and I gave way to my emotions. I buried my face against his chest and broke into wrenching sobs. He held me in his arms, a strong, protective shelter from the raging storm inside me.

Finally my tears ceased and I rested in his strength, drained from my emotional meltdown. One look at his stoic features and I knew that his heart was as heavy as mine. Two people in love separated by God's calling. How could this be? God loved us both, and I'd been taught all of my life that he wanted the best for each of us. So why had we met and fallen in love only to struggle with different ambitions in life?

We sat wrapped in silence. Suddenly a slim young man ran down the village slope and waded into the water.

“Something's wrong.” Sam released me and got to his feet as the villager swam toward us.

When he was close, he shouted something and Sam lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The swimmer turned and swam back to the shoreline. Sam helped me up.

“What was that all about?”

“There must be some sort of trouble.” He hurried to the huts, calling to Bud and Frank. The three men held a hurried conference, then got in the boat and started for the shore. I went inside the Millets' hut to seek Mary and Eva. Drums sounded in the distance.

“What could it be?”

“Unless there's been an accident, I would guess that old Macu, the former village chief, has passed away.”

Of course. The village elder had lain near death for days.

“There'll be a
warap
, a large feast.” Eva pulled thread through a cross-stitch pattern.

“The custom is interesting,” Mary offered. “Unique. I've seen one once — in a neighboring village. The ceremony is given for a prominent leader, and it also serves to commemorate the leader's deceased kin of lesser importance.”

“Will we be invited?”

“We hope so.” Mary bit off a thread. “There will be invited guests, many from surrounding villages. The natives will come bearing gifts of food that will be dispersed among the villagers here.”

“How do they go about distributing the food in a fair manner?” I winced at how materialistic that sounded.

“I'm not sure how it works,” Eva admitted. “It seems to me that no one comes out richer or better fed than anyone else.

It's a rather odd custom, but the villagers seem to celebrate death.”

Mary frowned. “I think the ceremony must confirm or increase a villager's status — strengthen their social ties and mutual obligations. It seems to be a time of coming together and sharing what one has to offer.”

So these people I'd dismissed knew something I didn't: the importance of sharing and showing compassion. They had little, and yet they withheld nothing.

The moon came up and crept higher in the sky. We sat in the huts, waiting for the men to return. Eva sighed and got to her feet. “I suppose we might as well go to bed. We don't know what's happened. The men could be gone all night.”

Since I lived in her hut, I stood too. “Eva, I've taken the last of my aspirin. Do you have more?”

“Headache still bothering you?”

“It's better, but I want to discourage it from coming back.”

I trailed her across the walkway to her hut and waited while she lit the kerosene lamp. “When you first came here, was it Frank's calling you obeyed or yours?”

She moved to the box where she kept sundries. After a moment she lifted her hands to her face and rubbed her eyelids. “I suppose it was Frank's — at first. I'd pledged my life to him, promised to go where he went, make his people my people, the whole bit. And I meant it. If he came here, I wanted to be at his side.”

“Have you ever regretted it?”

“Sometimes.”

Her answer surprised me. “Really?”

She smiled. “Regardless of what you may think, I am not a saint. I have my frustrations and breaking points, and no, I don't like the stealing and the dirt and the heat and the insects. But I've learned to let go of possessions, and the elements no longer disturb me. We've come to serve the villagers, and if that means handing over a can opener once in a while, then so be it. The important thing is we're building trust for future missionaries. Through them, the gospel will be taught here in this remote place, where one sometimes wonders if God has forgotten these people. But he hasn't! Wherever there is a necessity, he will meet the need.”

“But you see so few results.”

“Results are not always apparent. And God doesn't grade us on results, but on obedience.”

I took my aspirin and retired to my cubicle to prepare for bed. I froze, unable to believe what I was seeing, or rather what I didn't see.

My Nikes.

They were missing.

When had I seen them last? I couldn't recall. Maybe I'd taken them off at the clinic … So while I was running around flying an imaginary kite, stumbling over my own two feet, somebody was pilfering my overpriced shoes.

I sighed and lay back on the pillow. Well, here's hoping whatever dirty-footed villager had my shoes would enjoy them. I'd soon see them again — on somebody's feet.

So what?

I yawned, closing my eyes, both surprised and pleased to find my anger was much less intense than in the past. I could always buy another pair of shoes. No problem. (Or at least less of a problem than before.)

My relationship with Sam. Now
that
was something worth losing sleep over.

NINETEEN

A
s Sam predicted, trouble was brewing. The old chief, Macu, passed away during the evening. The men didn't return until the moon was high in the sky; Sam said they'd remained behind to help with the grieving wife and children.