Rain Dance (11 page)

After she left, I got scared. “What if she never believes in God because of my outburst?” I asked Ben. “What if in my anger I sinned?”

His response surprised me. “She needs to see the real you—the whole woman. True friendship demands honesty and the freedom to share your life experience—even the hard stuff. It’s part of who you are. You don’t need to protect Stacie from you.”

I chose not to listen to Ben’s words of wisdom and instead continued to anguish over my behavior. I hated letting her see my unhealed wound. It was one thing to listen to her struggles, but I was the Christian, the victorious one. How could I put the garbage in my life on display like that?

Ben saw the determined look on my face and knew I wasn’t done fretting. “Jonica, no one comes to Christ because of you. God is working these things out in Stacie’s heart. You are His instrument, but you cannot save her. It’s also possible she won’t believe if you aren’t transparent with her. By not letting her see all of you, your relationship will always be surface level. If you keep this space in your life away from her, she may always see God as distant too.”

After hours of worry I called her.

“No. You didn’t sound wimpy or whiny,” she assured me.

Then in typical lawyer fashion she asked, “So what did Ben do for you today?”

“How did you know?” I sniffed.

“It’s his way with you.”

Her confidence in us gave me courage—maybe I hadn’t ruined everything. Tears burned my eyes as I remembered his gift to me and his declaration earlier in the day.

“Good morning, my love—Happy Wife’s Day!” On the card he gave me, he’d whited out the word “Mother’s” and had artistically drawn in “Wife’s.” Then he stepped back into the hall to get something. He brought in a tray with cinnamon sugar bagels, walnut honey cream cheese, and coffee.

On the tray rested a rectangular box. It held a new pen, my favorite brand. It wasn’t the pen—although thinking back I know he meant it to re-affirm his faith that my writing was a vital part of me. This went beyond a material gift. His sweet act of marriage carried our relationship around a new corner. I took ownership of the fact that I was Ben’s first choice for all time. No more doubts about us. In its place, the truth filled up the whole in my heart as I believed both God and my man loved me.

And yet later the same day I gave a great big blues bash in my honor in front of Stacie.
Good going, Johnson
, I chastised myself.

Then I heard Stacie say, “Jonica, I have to tell you something I couldn’t say to your face and I need to tell you right away.”

My hopes sank. I’d disappointed her and jeopardized our friendship. Then her words tilted my world slightly off center again.

“Please try to understand. This is hard for me to say. I don’t want to make life any harder on you.”

My spirits continued to sink even lower. “You can tell me anything,” I said, trying to sound strong.

“I want a baby.”

“Oh,” was all I could muster for a second. The pause left her free to talk about her desire and her fear of judgment from her mother—and from me.

She started to cry and said, “I woke up feeling so empty today, and for the first time Mother’s Day meant more to me than a day to make sure I did my duty and called Eve. Is it wrong for me to want this after what I did?”

Only one word came to mind. “No.”

“I need this to be okay with you.”

“I’m fine. Just because I can’t get pregnant doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

When we said goodbye, I was exhausted. This emptying myself out to her left me feeling vulnerable to the point of naked. I’d have preferred keeping my mask on a little longer—like until after she’d become a believer. I knew it had taken a lot of courage to admit her desire for another baby.

While I respected her for that, when I hung up I still had one question for God.
Why today?

Stacie

I didn’t intend to trip Jonica up with a trick question.

When she slammed her glass down on the table, it was like seeing a volcano erupt from a long sleep without warning.

“I despise the day,” she blurted out as she squeezed more lemon into her iced tea, then stirred it, the spoon clanking on the glass and the ice cubes swirling as if trying to get out of the way. My silent shock allowed her to continue. The words came out sharp and staccato.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love honoring my mom and Ben’s, and we do. In our own way—at home. Not in church. We don’t go to church on the ‘parent’ holidays. I don’t want to stand up to be honored as a ‘spiritual parent’ although I might well be. It shines a spotlight on those of us struggling without children—or parents. There are a lot of grieving people in the pews on these two days of the year.

“Parents fit the normal profile. When invited to stand with them or stop in at the welcome center in the foyer and get a flower, I feel like a glitch in the system. Standing with the parents is not my place. I am Jonica, childless woman. Aunt to a few, mother to none. The day is all about women who have kids—not women who don’t. If I join the moms, I stand as an imposter. I can’t—I won’t do that anymore. I will not pretend it isn’t uncomfortable or that I am honored.”

Sheesh. Who knew?

Then she told me about the ladies at church. They didn’t surprise me—this was the kind of behavior I expected from Christians.

“Finally,” I whispered with pride. Thankfully, she missed it.
The old bats!

A new emotion caught me off guard as she let the truth rip. I wanted to protect her from any more harm. Of course, not having any other close friends, I had no idea how to go about doing such a thing. No one can protect her friends from mean people, but I was suddenly capable of wanting to punch out the two old biddies who seemed to think they could say anything they wanted to Jonica in the name of Jesus.

She tapped the tea off her spoon and slammed it on the table. “Anymore questions?” she demanded.

There was no way I wanted to probe any further. Her anger made me realize I’d never asked her how she was feeling. Other than Ben and her mom, I knew it was possible no one else had either.

For the first time, Jonica was uncomfortable and unsure of herself with me. In every other conversation we had, she said all the right things at the right times, always soothing and encouraging me. Now I watched her fidget, and she didn’t look me in the eye.

I left shortly after she presented her case against the parent holidays. On the way home, I started to worry. Had she noticed I never asked about her pain before? Was she sick of listening to me dump my problems on her without giving a second thought let alone a first to hers? Did she ever resent my neglect? I’d treated our friendship like it was all about me. And up to that day, it was.

I knew our relationship had changed. She got real with me and that took courage. She shed some of the “victorious Christian” veneer I’d started to resent. I saw something beyond the anger that shocked me to the core: her wound.

I acknowledged something else. Until that day Jonica had still been on trial with me. When she let loose with the truth, I liked her more. As she poured out her frustrations, I began to respect her on a new level. She said all the right things this time too—she just didn’t know it.

After berating myself for a while longer for not being a better friend, I decided to call her, but she beat me to it. Hearing her voice and her worry over how I’d taken her “outburst” as she called it, reassured me. I could count on my friend to do everything she could to make it right. She tried harder than anyone I knew.

Comforted by her call, I decided to take a risk and be totally open with her too. I told her about my deep sadness and my secret yearning to have a baby.

So in typical Stacie fashion, when my friend was most vulnerable, I put my burden on her. I tested her again, and she passed. I knew I was safe with her—at the very least, her religion demanded it—but it was more than that. Nice was as much a part of her as her DNA.

I was confident in one person I knew she’d been with that awful Mother’s Day. Ben. Those two kept teaching me lessons in real love.

Later, as I considered the high cost of friendship, I realized that even in her hurt and anger, she didn’t blame God. Her religion wasn’t a surface thing. It seemed ocean deep.

I wished I could put her God on the witness stand. I had one question for Him:
“Why Jonica?”

Chapter
10

Jonica

Going back to church was easier than I expected. Sort of.

We headed for the pew we often occupied—middle section, middle row. Several people stopped to say hello and that we’d been missed the past few weeks. We smiled and let them know it was good to be back and that we had missed them too. I was comfortable with surface comments and had no desire for anyone to go deeper.

I’d known several of them since Bible camp and youth group. But our lives had changed direction after they started having kids and we didn’t.

The organ music started, and I opened my bulletin. As the swelling music surrounded me, I read the prayer request insert. Descriptions of job losses, cancer, deaths of loved ones, and sick babies filled a page . . .
Lord, the needs of our people are so many and so great. Help me to remember to think more of them than about myself.

The pastor stood, greeted the congregation, and made an announcement. “Today our service will be different. We have folks who want to share what the Lord is doing in their lives. Mixed in with the testimonies we will sing praise songs and experience a drama.”

The praise band opened with “How Great is Our God.” We stood to sing, and I listened to the teenage girl who sat beside me—a perfect alto. Behind us Della’s and Bernice’s soft sopranos filled with vibratos floated on the air. A writing idea came to mind, and I grabbed an index card and a pen out of my purse and wrote myself a note:
the voices of
yesterday and tomorrow blending in perfect harmony—just like the Old and New Testaments.

People shared how obedience to God had changed their lives. Some spoke about mission trips, others about their marriages, and still others about issues of purity. Then one woman stood up and shared how God had used one person’s act of forgiveness to bring an entire family to Christ. My shoulders tightened and my jaw flexed as I resisted the Holy Spirit.

The drama portrayed the need to forgive others if we expect to receive forgiveness from God. Behind me two old ladies sniffed and I knew they held lace-edged hankies to their noses. The cotton drip catchers were legendary in our church. Della and Bernice made them and sent them in get well cards or handed them out whenever they saw a need. Lace always peeked out from the pockets of their handbags and the sleeves of their sweaters. The ladies always came prepared.

Oh crud, I feel something for these two and I don’t want to.
I wondered if maybe conviction about the way they treated me was the reason for their tears.
One can hope.

My attention returned to the stage as the main character of the drama asked the congregation, “What about the plank in your own eye?”

Mine? Lord, they don’t even think they did anything to me. Can’t they see how wrong they are? Can’t they at least try to understand?

A still small voice asked me,
Do you understand them?

My stomach churned, and I reached in my purse for a tissue. A new lace trimmed hankie fluttered over my shoulder. As I dabbed away my stray tears with the fresh cotton, I smelled Della’s gingersnap scent.

Shoot! I do like
some things about her. She has wonderful soft white hair. She is part of a vanishing breed. Grandmas nowadays don’t look like her. They play golf and run marathons; she makes hankies and puts up preserves. They wear shorts; she wears print dresses and aprons. They tan; she wears cornsilk powder. They have long acrylic nails; she buffs her short ones to a natural shine. They drink lattes; she drinks Earl Grey—properly prepared. There just aren’t many like her left.

“I love her. She is my child. My Son died for you both.”

Father, when two of Your children don’t get along is it called sibling rivalry?

Movement interrupted my discussion with the Lord. I’d missed the closing prayer and hymn.

As I exited the pew, I reached for Ben’s hand. He wasn’t there. No, he stood where we’d sat—holding Della’s hand in his. Bernice’s was in his other. He bent toward them as if not wanting to miss a word. I watched him woo them with kindness. Their eyes sparkled at him from wrinkled faces. Rhinestone earrings glistened as their heads bobbed in agreement with everything he said. I found myself moving back into the pew to avoid the crowd.

He is conspiring with the enemy. He is way too charming for my own good.

Letting go of their hands, Ben stepped toward me and both women greeted me in unison, “Jonica.”

Neither of them made any attempt at an apology. Seemed like a waste of a good sermon to me.

“Ladies.”

Before I could utter another syllable, Ben put his hand on my elbow and guided me out of the pew. When I shook hands with the pastor, he held both of mine in his and said, “Welcome back, you two. Jonica, my wife told me what happened at Bible study. I know this is a rough time. Is there anything I can do?”

Looking into his caring eyes, I said. “Please thank Janice for calling. I didn’t return the calls, but I knew she was praying. And no, I just want to let it go for now. If I need to speak to them, I will when the time is right.”

“I think you need to. The damage will always linger and the distance between you expand if it isn’t settled.”

“I know, but to be honest, Pastor, I have some things to work out in myself first. It’s going to take time.” Like how I was going to get past their bad behavior if they were never sorry.

He smiled and said, “God bless you, Jonica.”

I was glad he couldn’t read my mind.