Seasons Under Heaven (12 page)

The Smoky Mountain fog had lifted early today, and the mountain range on the other side of the valley of Breezewood was green and majestic. Sylvia felt energized after riding her mare, Sunstreak, through the undeveloped back acres of their property. She trotted back to the stables, her hair mussed from the wind and her cheeks pink from the heat.

Gently, she removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, and brushed down the horse before returning her to her colt in the corral. Then, dusting her hands off, she headed around the house to check her mail. Again, the sight of the hills took her breath away. She had been born and raised in Breezewood, and when she left for any length of time, her eyes yearned for the sight of those hills. She wondered if Sarah missed their mountains yet, or if Jeff ever thought of coming back. If they did, they hadn’t mentioned it to her.

She opened the mailbox, hoping one of them had written, even though she’d talked to each of them on the phone just
yesterday. She pulled out the bundle of bills and letters and advertisements, and fought disappointment when she saw that there was nothing from them.

“Sylvia!”

She looked up and saw Brenda coming. She waved and waited for her neighbor to cross the cul-de-sac.

“Time to visit?” Brenda asked.

“On a gorgeous day like this? I’ve been riding all morning. Just look at those mountains. Let’s sit on my porch where we can see them.”

Brenda followed her onto the porch and sat down on the swing. Sylvia took the rocker next to a pot of azaleas.

“So how’s Joseph?” Sylvia asked her as she flipped through her mail.

“Okay, I guess.”

Sylvia looked up. “You guess?”

Brenda’s smile was uncharacteristically weak. “Well, Dr. Robinson isn’t that sure. We’ve been seeing him twice a week for four weeks, and he keeps changing doses of medication. I thought Joseph would be better by now, but he always seems so tired and out of breath.”

“He’ll get better,” Sylvia said. “Just give it time. Be patient.”

“I’m trying.”

She flipped through the rest of her mail. The return address from Masaya, Nicaragua, startled her. “Carlos!” she said, picturing the man they had met last year.

“Who’s Carlos?” Brenda asked.

“A man in Nicaragua. Didn’t I tell you about Carlos?”

“I don’t think so.”

Sylvia looked off toward the mountains and smiled, remembering. “Well, last year, when we were there, Carlos’s wife Maria brought their son to Harry. He was having serious abdominal pain, and Harry diagnosed it as a ruptured appendix and operated on him.”

“Harry saved his life, then,” Brenda said.

“He sure did. And Maria was so grateful. After it was all over, Harry led her to Christ. Then she started weeping and telling us about her husband Carlos.”

“She wanted Harry to witness to him?” Brenda asked.

“Well, yes, but frankly she didn’t see any hope of Carlos’s conversion. He’s a baker, owns his own shop, and at the time, he was a real womanizer. Very handsome. Of course, Maria is very beautiful, too. But that didn’t matter. Carlos kept mistresses and spent a lot of time with them.”

“Poor woman.”

“Yeah. Only we started praying for him with her, and I shared with her all the Scripture I could find about being a godly wife. I helped her memorize the passage in First Peter about keeping her behavior excellent so the unbelieving husband could be won without a word. She was determined to have a gentle, quiet spirit, and to be a model wife instead of the victim he used to come home to.”

Brenda’s eyes misted over, and Sylvia suddenly realized that Brenda could relate to Maria, even though David had never been unfaithful.

“I hope you told her it takes a long time,” Brenda said. “The Holy Spirit has to do it.”

“That’s the thing,” Sylvia told her, leaning forward with enthusiasm. “The Holy Spirit
did
do it. About ten days later, Maria convinced Carlos to come to church with her so he could thank Harry for healing their son. The missionary who preached that day delivered a sermon that shot right into Carlos’s heart. He
ran
down to the altar and fell to his knees, sobbing.”

Sylvia saw the emotion in Brenda’s eyes as she pictured the scene, probably imagining David in Carlos’s place, and she remembered why she hadn’t told Brenda this story before. She had feared it would frustrate her spirit and make her question God’s silence to her own prayers.

“What a beautiful story,” Brenda whispered. “Did it change his life?”

“You bet it did. He’s very active in the church there, and Maria has kept in touch with me to let me know what a wonderful husband he’s become.” She looked down at the envelope and tore it open. “Carlos has never written to us himself. Harry will be so thrilled to hear from him.”

Her eyes scanned the first few lines. “Oh, Brenda! He’s committed his life to full-time Christian service. His church is raising money for him to come to the States to study in a seminary, so that he can go back to Nicaragua and start his own church.” She read further. “He wants to know how much money we think they’ll need to raise altogether for housing and food and tuition, and anything else that might come up that he hasn’t thought of. And he needs help deciding on a seminary.”

Brenda grinned. “What a miracle. It gives me hope.”

Sylvia dropped the letter on her lap and stared off into the breeze. “Yeah. That’s the joy of mission work. That’s why Harry wants to go back there.”

“Think of all the fruit Carlos is going to bear,” Brenda said. “All because Harry was there to save their son’s life, and you were there to teach Maria how to be a godly wife.”

Sylvia gazed down at the letter again.

“So have you made up your mind about the mission field?” Brenda asked.

Sylvia shook her head. “I’ve prayed about it. I’ve told the Lord that I don’t want to go. But I’ve asked Him to change my heart if He wants me to.”

“That’s fair,” Brenda said. “I’ll pray that for you, too.”

That afternoon when Harry got home, Sylvia gave him the letter. He shed a few tears of his own and started praying immediately for Carlos and Maria and the plans they were making. Then he got out his calculator and began figuring what it would cost them to come to America to study. He would be on the phone for days, Sylvia knew, trying to line up scholarships and grants and donations from people who could help put Carlos through school. They both knew that the little Nicaraguan
church Carlos attended would not be able to raise the kind of money Carlos would need.

Sylvia found her own mind racing with possibilities—and she knew that God had put those thoughts into her mind. He was showing her things she needed to consider, things she needed to offer, priorities she needed to acknowledge—but she knew she wasn’t ready yet. Sweetly, generously, Harry continued to give her the time she needed, and nothing more was said.

It had been five weeks since Joseph’s birthday party, and the medicine had not helped Joseph’s condition. They’d had twice-a-week visits to Dr. Robinson, and at every visit Brenda saw the strain and tension on the doctor’s face as he changed the medication or juggled doses, hoping to help things along. She’d kept Joseph as quiet as possible for the past few weeks. Even though she normally didn’t homeschool during the summer, she’d continued it with Joseph just to keep him still and focused on anything other than his failing heart. He slept much of the time, and during those quiet moments, she would sit on the bed and pray for him. She could see in the pallid color of his skin and the deep circles under his eyes, in his shortness of breath after any exertion at all, in the dizziness that came more often than it went, and in the swelling of his ankles, that he was only getting worse.

All this week he’d been moody and depressed, and she knew that he needed to get out, so yesterday she had made the
announcement that they would be taking a field trip today to the Adventure Museum—one of her children’s favorite places. Joseph’s tired eyes had danced with excitement, though that seemed to be the extent of his celebration.

She had invited Tory, Brittany, and Spencer to come with them, hoping Tory could help by dropping them off at the door so that Joseph wouldn’t have far to walk. She planned to borrow a wheelchair when they got there, and she would push Joseph around so he wouldn’t have to exert himself as they went from one hands-on experiment to another.

But when she went into his room to see if he was ready, he was sitting on the bed with tears on his face and his sneakers in his lap.

“Joseph, what’s wrong, honey?”

He rubbed the tears on his face. “I can’t get my shoes on.”

“Well, I’ll help you, sweetie. You don’t have to cry.” She took the shoes and stooped down in front of him. When she lifted his foot to slide it into the shoe, she saw how swollen it was. No wonder the shoe wouldn’t go on.

“Joseph, do your feet hurt?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “They’re just swollen. I can’t get them on. But I want to go, Mama. I can’t go without shoes…”

“Wear your flip-flops,” she said, going to his closet. “That’ll be more comfortable, anyway.” She got out the flip-flops and turned back to her son. He was wiping new tears as they ran down his face. “Honey, it’s okay. This is nothing new; your feet have been a little swollen every day. The doctor knows about it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you crying?”

He shrugged again, and hiccuped a sob. “I don’t know.”

But she knew. This constant sickness, all the medication, the doctor visits—they were taking their toll on her son. He needed this outing. He needed to get his mind off his problems and have a little fun.

When they arrived at the museum and Tory let them out at the door, Joseph argued weakly that he didn’t want to be pushed
around in a wheelchair because it was too much like a stroller and he wasn’t a baby. But by the time they’d gotten through the ticket line, he’d given in without a fight.

When Tory came in from parking the car, she let go of Brittany and Spencer and they hurried to their favorite exhibits in the art section as fast as they could, as if they feared someone would reach them before they did and suck all the fun out of them. Rachel pushed Joseph’s wheelchair into the art room, and Brenda and Tory followed behind.

Tory was dressed in a matching shorts outfit that complemented her trim figure, and her hair and makeup were impeccably done. Brenda had only had time to run a brush through her hair and pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She felt frumpy in comparison.

“So how’s Joseph doing on his medication?” Tory asked softly.

Brenda struggled to maintain her smile for the sake of the kids. “Not well,” she admitted.

“I didn’t think so,” Tory said. “He doesn’t look like he feels well at all. So what are they going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Brenda whispered. “The doctor seems to think that as long as his heart is functioning at fifty percent, that’s good enough. I just keep thinking that sooner or later this has got to get better. But I’m really worried.”

“You worried?” Tory asked. “I never thought that was possible.”

Brenda knew Tory meant that as a compliment, but she almost resented it. Sometimes, she was just weak, and she hated for people to be shocked by it. She went to a bench against the wall and sat down. Tory followed, still searching Brenda’s face.

“You know, it
is
human to worry,” Tory offered.

“But what’s the point?” Brenda asked. “God knows what’s going to happen tomorrow, ten years from now—He knows the very day that we’re going to die. What’s the point of worrying when He’s got it all under control?” She felt Tory’s eyes still upon her as she watched Joseph in his wheelchair, having fun for the first time since they’d rolled their yard with toilet paper.

“I know you’re right,” Tory said, “but worrying is one of my worst faults. I’m trying to give it up, though. That, and writing.”

Glad to be off the subject of her worry, Brenda shot Tory a grin. “You’re not giving up writing.”

“Yes, I am. Already have.” She raised her right hand as if making a vow. “I’ve written my last word.”

“Well, you can’t do that,” she said. “You’re called.”

Tory laughed sarcastically. “Yeah? Called to do
what?
”

“You have a gift. The stuff you’ve let me read, it was wonderful. I don’t know if you have a right to give it up.”

Tory’s smile died, and she frowned thoughtfully at Brenda for a moment. “I’m not sure,” Tory said finally, “but that might be one of the nicest things anybody’s ever said to me.”

Brenda laughed. “Oh, come on.”

“Really,” Tory said, still serious. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. As an obligation, I mean.”

“Well, you should. Just because it didn’t work out that one time doesn’t mean it’s not meant to be. For heaven’s sake, how is God ever going to teach you if things go perfectly well all the time?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He could send books. I could read the lessons He wants to teach me.” She winked, and Brenda laughed. Brittany flopped by with ponytails wagging and both shoes untied. Tory stopped her and tied them, then with a pat on her bottom, sent her on her way.

Brenda’s eyes followed the comical child. “So is Brittany getting excited about starting school?”

“Oh yeah,” Tory said. “We’ve been shopping for school clothes and supplies. I never dreamed I’d have a baby in school this soon. Seems like it’s flown by. But I have to tell you, I’m looking forward to it a little. Maybe I’ll have more time to think.”

“And write?” Brenda asked with a smirk.

“No, not write,” Tory said stubbornly. “I told you. I’m through with that.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Brenda said. “So you’re going to send them to public school?”

Tory nodded. “I feel pretty good about our school district. And by the time they get into junior high and high school, I’m counting on Cathy having worked out all the sex ed problems.”

“Maybe,” Brenda said, forcing herself to keep her mouth shut about the virtues of homeschooling over public education. It was something she felt passionately about, but she didn’t want to sound condemning or heap guilt on Tory. They’d had this conversation before, and Brenda knew that Tory thought she was a little paranoid.

Though Brenda chose not to say anything, her silence spoke volumes, and Tory responded. “I know, I know. Homeschooling is the best way. But you have to have a certain temperament for that, and I just don’t have it.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Brenda said. “It’s not that hard. I get to stay home and do something important for the four people I love most in the entire world. I don’t have to let anybody else’s crazy ideas and influences get pounded into their heads. I’m guarding their hearts and teaching them what’s important, and I get to learn all over again. What greater calling could there be?”

“I see your point, and I admire it,” Tory said. “I really do. But if everybody took their kids out of public schools…”

“I know the argument,” Brenda said. “Then the schools would really go to pot. And you’re right. I’m not suggesting that everybody take their kids out.”

Tory smiled. “Just the Christians?”

“No, not even them.”

“Because a few minutes ago you told me that I’m called to be a writer, something I can’t do as long as I have two kids at home all the time. Plus, there are millions of women who work because they
have
to, who don’t have the option to pull their kids out of school and teach them at home. Besides, I loved the school experience. I loved all the friends I had and all the functions and events…I don’t want Britty and Spencer to miss that.”

“I’m just saying that if they go, you need to stay on top of things. Watch carefully what they’re taught, what they’re
learning. Get involved. And then when they get home, spend a lot of time teaching them the important stuff.”

“Like the Bible?”

“Yes, like the Bible.”

Tory gave her a contemplative look, then asked, “Does that bother David? That you spend so much time teaching the kids Scripture?”

“Not really. He feels like the lessons there are good moral lessons. Of course he doesn’t believe there’s anything more there.”

“Do the kids get confused? I mean, since they know their dad doesn’t believe, do they ever question it?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “It’s a problem, but I’m praying for him.” She paused and considered whether to confide in Tory. “David was taught the Bible as a child—but in a real distorted way. The Christians who influenced him growing up probably meant well, but they sent him running the other way. That’s just a reminder to me that what my kids are taught, and who teaches them, is critical. You can be taught the right things by the wrong people, or the right things in the wrong way, and have it turn out worse than if you’d never heard it.”

Tory seemed to process that as she kept her eyes on Brenda. “Do you ever regret marrying a non-Christian?”

The question almost startled her. “I wasn’t a Christian, either, when we married,” she said. “David’s a wonderful husband and father. I just wish…” Her words trailed off, and she averted her eyes.

“That he had your faith,” Tory prompted.

“It would be really great to have that in common,” Brenda said, meeting Tory’s eyes again. “But it’s okay. I’m praying hard, and I know the Lord will answer. After all, it is to His glory.”

“If a man could love God just by being around you,” Tory said, “I’m sure he would.”

Tears misted in Brenda’s eyes, and she hugged her neighbor. “That’s sweet, Tory. Wish it was so.”

“No, I mean it,” Tory insisted. “You’re an exemplary wife, a wonderful mother, a model Christian. If you could twirl a baton I’d have to hate you.”

Brenda laughed. “Well, thank goodness I can’t.”

“Really,” Tory went on, leaning her head back against the wall. “I wish I were more like you. If I were one of the Israelites, I’d be grumbling about the manna and quail. I’d keep complaining that the pillar of fire just kept leading us in circles. I’d probably even be one of the people to melt down my jewelry and contribute to the golden calf.”

Brenda sighed. “I think there’s some of that in all of us.”

Spencer came running. “Mommy, they’re about to start the art class. Can I go? Please, can I go?”

“Yeah, but I have to come with you.” He grabbed her hand and pulled. She winked at Brenda and followed her skipping son to the art room.

Brenda went into the room where Joseph was and stood at his wheelchair. She wondered if the other kids ever resented the fact that she spent so much time with him. It was just maternal instinct to hover over the one who needed her the most. Daniel, Rachel, and Leah were so self-sufficient, and they seemed to understand that their brother was in trouble.

Joseph got out of his wheelchair and took a few steps into the photographic booth where he could make faces, freezeframe them, and print them out. It was his favorite thing in the museum, and it produced something he could take home and put on his bedroom wall. She glanced back at the other kids. Leah and Rachel were playing with the ink and stamps, and Daniel was creating some elaborate masterpiece they would hang on the refrigerator door. Smiling, she looked back in the booth at Joseph.

He had stopped making faces at himself and was leaning against the wall in the booth.

She ducked in. “Honey, you ready to come out?”

“Just a minute,” he said, breathless.

She could see that something was passing over him—dizziness, light-headedness, perhaps. She waited for it to pass, but it didn’t.

“Honey, come get back in the wheelchair and we’ll go get you something to drink.”

He continued to sit, limply leaning against the wall, so she reached in, took his arm, and tried to coax him out. His right hand came up to cover his chest.

And her own heart seemed to stop.

“Honey, does your chest hurt?” The tremulous words came out on a rush. He nodded slightly, got up, took a step toward the wheelchair. “Come on,” she said. “Just sit down. You’re going to be all right.”

But before he could reach the wheelchair he fell and hit the floor like a rock.