The List (27 page)

“That should be interesting.”

Renny turned onto Billy Graham Parkway, and the Charlotte skyline rose into view to the east.

“Are you going back to the church?” Jo asked as Renny shifted into a higher gear.

“Probably.”

“Maybe we could go together sometime.”

“If I can convince you to stay until Sunday, we could go this weekend. When do you have to be back at work?”

“I am off duty until Saturday night, but that could probably be changed to Sunday night. I told another nurse about the trip, and she offered to help if I needed her.”

“I can call the travel agent tomorrow and change your return ticket.” “I just got here. We'll see.”

Along both sides of Queens Road, the main access road into the Myers Park neighborhood, huge oaks mingled leaves forty feet overhead and created a green canopy that blocked most of the sun's rays from the street below.

“It's beautiful,” Jo said as the car entered a long stretch of green tunnel. “Somebody eighty years ago planted these trees for people to enjoy today.”

“It was before electricity, that's for sure. The utility company agreed to build its lines behind the houses so that the trees could be spared.”

“Is this close to your house?”

“Yes. I often run through this area on Saturday mornings. Sometimes there are more joggers and walkers than cars.”

Renny turned into Mrs. Stokes's driveway and turned off the engine.

“This is it.”

Jo got out and walked over to the backyard fence, an old chain-link completely covered by English ivy. Brandy was on the other side, barking and turning in circles.

“Brandy, meet Jo, that's J-o not J-o-e,” said Renny, carefully spelling the two names.

“So she's a good speller.” Jo reached over the fence and let Brandy sniff her hand. After a few seconds, the dog gave her knuckles an approving lick.

“Mr. Ed has nothing on Brandy. You'll see.”

Renny opened the trunk and carried Jo's luggage to the side entrance. “Mrs. Stokes is nice, but don't expect her to run in circles and give your hand a lick.”

Daisy Stokes opened the door. “Come in where it's cool,” she said as she ushered them into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Stokes, this is Jo Johnston.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stokes. Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

“A little hospitality is my pleasure.” Renny noticed the always neat kitchen was more sparkling than usual, and Mrs. Stokes had an arrangement of fresh flowers on the table in the breakfast nook. “Have a seat for a minute. Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have some iced tea?” Renny asked.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Stokes makes the best iced tea.”

“I'd love some,” Jo replied, choosing a seat that provided a view of the backyard. “You have a beautiful yard. Do you have many hummingbirds? I see at least three feeders.”

“Yes, there are two pairs zipping around from spring to fall. Sometimes I wonder how they ever finish a meal. Every time one comes to the feeder, another one dives down to run him off. It's been a little better since I put in the third feeder, but I don't think anything will convince them to tolerate one another.”

“My mother is a bird-watcher. Do you have a lot of different birds visit?”

“Quite a few. I feed the local varieties all year, and they're loyal to me. I can recognize my long-term guests, and they add color, sound, and personality to my corner of creation.” Mrs. Stokes set down two glasses of tea.

Jo took a long drink. “This is good. I didn't realize how thirsty I was. What did you put in it besides tea?”

“A little grape juice. I stir it in after brewing the tea and pouring it over ice and sugar in the pitcher.”

Renny just sat at the table smiling. Everything in his world was right.

“Renny tells me you're a nurse.”

“Yes, in the cardiac section of the main hospital in our area.”

“I roomed with a missionary nurse for five years in Taiwan in the early 1950s. She was from Michigan, too.”

As Jo and Mrs. Stokes talked, Renny let his mind wander, daydreaming about things he and Jo could do over the next few days.

“Renny, what do you think?” Mrs. Stokes said.

“About what?” Renny came out of his fog without knowing where the conversation had gone.

“I was suggesting we eat around six-thirty. That will give Jo time to rest a little bit.”

“Sure, sure. I'll take your luggage into your room.” Renny led Jo down a hall lined with black-and-white photographs of people and places from Mrs. Stokes's many years as a missionary. “The bath for the room where you're staying is on the left, and here's the blue room,” he said.

“She's a sweetie, Renny,” Jo said as he put her suitcase on the white chenille bedspread. “This room is perfect. I'm going to enjoy it here.”

“I knew you would hit it off. I'll see you later.”

Jo took her clothes from the garment bag and opened the closet door to hang up her things. The closet was not the small cubbyhole typical in older homes built before massive walk-in closets became common. It was more like a long, narrow room extending at least ten feet to the back wall. There was even a tiny window two-thirds of the way up the wall toward the ceiling. A beveled-glass Star of David the size of a man's hand was suspended on a string in front of the window. The little room was totally empty except for a clothes bar, a narrow chair facing the window, and a deep blue cushion on the floor in front of the chair. There wasn't a speck of dust or hint of a musty smell in the little enclosure. Jo hung up her clothes and stared curiously at the chair and cushion for a few seconds. Then it dawned on her
—It's Mrs. Stokes's prayer closet.

She could imagine the elderly woman, isolated and insulated from outside distractions, sitting in the chair with her Bible open on her lap as the early morning sun sent its first rays tumbling through the beveled glass of the star, which diffused cascading colors against the wall and floor. Then a passage of Scripture would speak to the old woman's heart, and she would carefully slide to her knees on the cushion and bow down with her face to the floor. Motionless, her lips moving in silent petition or intercession for others, she would wait before her God. Jo guessed the tiny window faced east—toward Jerusalem. It had to. She stepped back, whispering, “This is a holy place; there must be angels in this room.”

After unpacking her suitcase, Jo showered and changed. The house was quiet, and she took a few moments to study several of the old photos as she walked back to her room. One in particular caught her attention. Two Western ladies, one of whom appeared to be a much younger Mrs. Stokes, stood with a Chinese woman in front of a primitive-looking wheelbarrow. Jo made a mental note to ask about the story behind the picture.

It was an hour and a half until supper, and Jo wasn't sleepy enough to take a nap. She opened the closet door again, and the feeling of awe and reverence she had felt earlier returned. She wanted to sit in the chair and kneel on the cushion, but she hesitated, wondering if she should ask permission. No, the right to enter the closet was part of staying in the room.

A King James Bible sat on the nightstand. Jo picked it up, slipped into the closet, and closed the door. Sitting carefully in the chair, she opened to Matthew 6:6 and read: “But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.”

An unexpected tear rolled down Jo's left cheek. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she couldn't think of a reason to be sad.

Then, suddenly, the undeniable inner Voice came into the tiny room and exploded in her spirit:
“Jo, I am thy Father.”
And a dam broke. Through the blur of tears now cascading without number, she saw the verse again, but this time the only words she could bring into focus were, “thy Father.”
Thy Father, thy Father, thy Father
echoed inside her. She wept until the corner of her robe was soaked.

“Father, what is this?” she asked, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands as the tears slowed.

The answer came in a thought whose origin was not in her conscious mind.
“I'm healing your heart.”

Jo breathed in and out slowly several times, then asked, “From what?”

“The absence of a father's love.”

A new wave of weeping swept over her as the enormity of her need opened before her understanding. She'd thought her stepfather's acceptance filled the void of abandonment created when her natural father left her life. Now she knew it had not. In fact, she had a need for fathering beyond the capacity even the best earthly father could provide, a fathering that could only come from “thy Father,” the One who would never leave her nor forsake her, who was forever faithful in everlasting love.

The second wave of tears subsided. She continued to sit, immersed in the divine love that saturated the tiny room. Then, unbidden, another wave, less intense than the previous ones, demanded a release of emotion. Another wave, another pause, another wave, another pause; however, the tears began to have a different meaning. Beyond healing, she felt a profound gratitude; a deep appreciation for what the Lord had done filled her heart and overflowed through her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured, slipping from the chair to the cushion on the floor. “Thank you, thank you.”

It was not a moment to be hurried or rushed. Finally, Jo's eyes lost the capacity for tears. Their work was done. Sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, she let the Presence fill her with peace.

Opening the closet door, Jo looked at the clock. It was six. Through the open bedroom door she could faintly hear Mrs. Stokes clattering pans in the kitchen. Walking down the hall to the bathroom to fix her hair, Jo looked in the mirror. Two swollen eyes and puffy cheeks returned her gaze. Her appearance couldn't be helped, but she had no regrets. She splashed water on her face and spent the next few minutes getting ready for supper.

Renny was sitting on a stool with Brandy lying at his feet on the kitchen floor when Jo came into the room. “Did you rest any?” he asked, then blurted, “You look like you were hit by a truck.”

“Thanks, Renny. Do you recognize the tread marks?”

“No, I mean, what happened? Are you OK?”

“I'm better than OK,” Jo said, smiling.

Mrs. Stokes glanced up from the sink where she was draining some vegetables and studied Jo's face. “You look fine to me. I'd even say you have a little glow about you.”

“I don't want to talk about it right now. Let's wait until after supper.”

“OK.” Renny knew he didn't understand women, but it was always unsettling to have his ignorance revealed.

They ate informally in the kitchen. Renny told stories about his growing-up years in Charleston. Both Mrs. Stokes and Jo were especially interested in Mama A and her friendship with Renny's mother.

“Your mother and Agnes Flowers had a remarkable relationship,” Jo said. “You know, how they were friends both inside the home and outside in the community.”