Pascal's Wager (26 page)

“How've you been?” I said, patting the bark. “How loony is that? I'm talking to a tree.”

It's no loonier than you taking your mother out of a perfectly good facility and playing Nurse Nancy with her at home
, I told myself.

No crazier than you assembling that motley crew you've got running your house
.

No weirder than you talking to God
.

I looked up at the sky. The sun was heading down behind the hills, leaving them warm and golden. It wasn't weird, I decided. I was doing it, and it was working. Maybe it wasn't changing the things I really wanted God to change—but it was changing me.

I shifted my weight on the tree trunk and tried to get comfortable, but I was restless. It was as if I didn't fit here anymore.

I slid to the ground and, dusting off the seat of my shorts,
headed back to the main path. There was no one on it, and as I went into a gentle jog up the hill, I remembered how much I'd loved the silence at one time. No one in my face. Nobody to prove anything to. And then there had been the space of time when I couldn't stand the aloneness—and I'd call Sam and that would always make it right.

I pressed my hand to my chest.
Okay, God
, I thought. I
think I've learned all I'm supposed to learn from this particular pain. Could we move on, please?

I heard a noise on the path ahead of me and my insides jumped.

It was just a large jay, swooping down to inspect the shells of someone's dropped sunflower seeds, but I knew why it had startled me. This was the spot where I'd seen Sam emerge from prohibited territory, long before I really knew him. I stopped and looked beyond the fence. There was a path there—like the one to my tree—that led over the top of a rise in the same way. Beyond that, I could see branches just over the rise, wavy branches that seemed to be beckoning to me like teasing fingers.

I leaped over the fence and jogged up the path to the top. Before me was a tree straight out of a Dr. Seuss book. Its base was broad and stood staunchly in the ground, and the primary branches that stemmed from it had grown out and up in a firm and sensible way, like the prongs on a candelabra. But from there, its offshoots sprang up in wavy twigs, ever more whimsical-looking as they stretched and wiggled toward the sky. Toward God.

It was so Sam, I laughed out loud.

“All you need is a big goofy grin,” I said to it.

And then, of course, I had to climb it. It wasn't a thing I'd done much in my life. Climbing trees had been right up there next to hanging out the side of a cable car in my mother's recollection of ER days. But I did manage to get myself up far enough to see all of the Loop in silhouette against the blazing sunset.

“A night of fire,” I said to it. “Blaze Senior would be in his element.”

I swung my legs and looked up into the wavy branches that danced happily above me. Maybe I was in my element too. It was surely the most peaceful I had felt since…since ever. In spite of the pain of losing Sam, in spite of the heartbreak that might be ahead with my mother, in spite of the mist of uncertainty that now hung over my plans for the future, I was quiet within. And I knew why.

Well, Pascal
, I thought.
I don't need to wait for the coin to fall. I've made the toss, I've acted as if, and I know how it has landed
.

I knew because I'd loved and I still loved and I was always going to love—God, myself, the unlikely assortment of people in my life. And for a person so cold, so rigid, so rational, so terrified, that could only have come from the source of all love. It could only have come from God.

The sun was making its final descent, leaving a burning rim above the Loop's silhouettes. “This must be
my
night of fire,” I whispered to the blaze.

Like Pascal's, my moment was immediate, interior, intense. But in that moment, I felt a stunning sadness. I did know love, in all its exaltation and pain, but it hadn't been love that had been too stubborn to tell Sam that I was coming to know the Christ he so wanted me to. It had only been the remainder of my old self-hate.

It was almost completely dark, but I couldn't leave until I'd let that go. I could never allow that to stand between myself and love again.

I leaned against a solid branch and closed my eyes. Even as I did, I could hear footsteps on the main path—probably Deputy Dog coming after me, citation book in hand. I pressed harder against the tree and waited for them to pass. They didn't. The footsteps went dull against the dirt path as they came toward me. And then I heard the voice.

“Hey, you.”

My eyes came open. “Sam?”

I looked down. I could barely make out a figure in the dark, but I would have known the tall, lanky frame anywhere.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah. I went by the house. Max told me you were up here somewhere.”

“I thought you were gone. I thought you went to Illinois.”

It was absurd, of course—the two of us making small talk while I sat in a tree gaping down at him and he stood on the ground gaping up at me. And somehow acting as if we
hadn't
once had a love that had ached inside me.

I should go down
, I thought.

“I'm coming up,” he said.

He had obviously done it a number of times before, because he was beside me before I even realized my hands were shaking, much less had a chance to stop them. As he pulled himself up onto the branch, I could see that his face was taut and that his eyes were intense behind his glasses. He dispensed with the pleasantries.

“Jill, why didn't you tell me you believe now? I just need to know why. If it's because you found out you didn't love me and it was easier to just let me go, I can deal with that. But I need to know.”

I was shaking my head. “No, that's not it.”

“Then why?”

I didn't even hesitate. “Because you didn't ask me. Because you seemed to assume I couldn't do it without you. Because I'm stubborn, proud, selfish. And because I lick the earth.”

He opened his mouth.

“I'm not finished,” I said.

He closed it.

“But according to Pascal—you know Pascal?”

He nodded.

“According to Pascal, I may be absolute scum myself, but my
soul has the capacity for good, because my soul is of God. You know God?”

He nodded again.

“So do I.” I let the debate voice drain away. “I should have told you what was happening with me. After all you did for me, you deserved at least that.”

He was watching me, and his eyes were shining even in the dark.

“Okay,” I said, “I'm finished now.”

“You're sure.”

“Yes. Except why come looking for me now? How did you find out?”

He leaned toward me. “My men's group gave me a going-away dinner tonight. There I am sitting next to Nigel Frost, and I can't help myself. I ask him if Jill McGavock has finished her dissertation. He looks at me like I have two heads, maybe three, and says, ‘Do you know Jill?' I tell him I do, and he says, ‘I'm surprised Jill didn't come to you with the questions she's been bringing to me. You two would have made a good team. She's like you—a very intelligent believer.'” Sam looked at me soberly. “I shouldn't have had to have Nigel Frost tell me. I should have asked you. No—I should have known by looking at you that day.” I could see him swallowing. “I'm sorry, Jill.”

I nodded.

“That's it?” he said. “You're not going to tell me how arrogant I was?”

“I'll tell you I think you lick the earth too,” I said.

A grin was twitching at his lips. He knew before I said it, before I nodded, before I moved toward him, waiting for him to reach behind me and pull me to him—he knew I still loved him.

“I am so sorry, Jill,” he said. “I want another chance. Please.”

“I can't leave here and go to Illinois,” I said. “Not right now.”

“I know.”

“I can't tell you how long it will be before I can.”

“I know that, too.”

“But I do love you, Sam. I really do.”

Then he did pull me to him, his hand on the back of my neck, and he kissed me until I could barely breathe.

“Is this Pascal's payoff?” I whispered.

“Nah,” Sam said. “This is God's.”

I wish to express my sincere appreciation to the following people, who helped to make this book a reality:

• Dr. Bill Newsome and Rev. Zondra Newsome, for far too many gifts to enumerate.
  

• Bill Jensen, for introducing me to Pascal.
  

• Kristen Boyd, Jessica Purcell, and Dana Roland, for their insights into the Stanford experience.
  

• Keith Wall, for sensitive, intelligent editing.
  

• Greg Johnson, for being my agent and friend.
  

• Rev. Anne Wolf, for spiritual guidance and theological expertise.
  

• Dr. Michael Torre, professor of philosophy, University of San Francisco, for unveiling the mysteries of philosophy, and Marijean Rue for putting them into terms even I could understand.
  

• Dr. Steven Foung, director of Clinical Laboratory Services, Stanford Hospital, for giving his valuable time.
  

• Betty Morse, for sharing her painful firsthand knowledge of Pick's Disease.
  

• Kelly Gordon and Tracy Lamb, my personal assistants, for maintaining order along the way.
  

• Jim Rue, my husband and friend, for twenty-eight years of life-passion.
  

God bless all of you.

ADULT FICTION

Retreat to Love

YOUNG ADULT FICTION

Row This Boat Ashore
The Janis Project
Stop in the Name of Love
Home by Another Way
The Lucas Secret and Other Stories by Nancy Rue
Boys and Other Things That Fry Your Brains
Bringing up Parents and Other Jobs for Teenage Girls

RAISE THE FLAG SERIES:

Don't Count on Homecoming Queen
“B” Is for Bad at Getting into Harvard
I Only Binge on Holy Hungers
Do I Have to Paint You a Picture?
Friends Don't Let Friends Date Jason
How Perfect Is Perfect Enough?

YOUNG ADULT NONFICTION

Handling the Heartbreak of Miscarriage
Learning Guides for The Christian Series

CHILDREN'S FICTION (AGES 8–12)

CHRISTIAN HERITAGE SERIES:

“The Salem Years”

The Rescue
The Stowaway
The Guardian
The Accused
The Samaritan
The Secret

“The Williamsburg Years”

The Trick
The Stunt
The Discovery
The Rebel
The Thief
The Burden

“The Chicago Years”

The Misfit
The Ally
The Threat
The Trap
The Hostage
The Escape

“The Charleston Years”

The Prisoner
The Invasion
The Battle
The Chase
The Caper
The Miracle

“The Santa Fe Years”

The Capture
The Pursuit

THE LILY AND FRIENDS SERIES:

Here's Lily!
Lily Dobbins, M.D

CHILDREN'S NONFICTION (ages 8–12)

It's a God-Thing: The Beauty Book
It's a God-Thing: The Body Book

For Faith Evans, an up-and-coming newscaster. A woman of honor and integrity, who finds herself making a stand against the one man she never imagined would be her enemy…

For Jordan Riley, a powerful attorney dedicated to fighting for human rights—and against God. A man still reckoning with the boyhood loss of the three women who once meant everything to him…

For Bethany, Pennsylvania, a small town no one ever dreamed would become the center of national attention. But it has. All because of a beloved, hundred-year-old statue of Jesus Christ that stands in Bethany's park. A statue that some say is a clear violation of separation of church and state. A statue that has to come down. A statue that suddenly becomes the focus of a bitter conflict—one rife with political intrigue, social injustice, and personal conflicts. Before it's over, everything that Jordan, Faith, and the town of Bethany stand for will be challenged.

Will love be enough when the battle rages on every side?
ISBN 1-57673-868-X