Color the Sidewalk for Me (49 page)
When we were done crying, we collapsed, exhausted. “Oh, now my head hurts,” I moaned and she said, “Mine too.” She fetched aspirin from a cupboard and doled out two apiece. We washed them down with cold tea, smiling weakly.
A voice in my head told me very clearly that Mama was rightâthis was a miracle from God. This time I could not push that voice away.
It was nearly dawn before we trailed off to bed, hoping for a few hours' sleep. I paused in the kitchen doorway, fighting with myself. “Mama, mind if I take a drive while you and Daddy are at church?” I hoped I sounded nonchalant. “I have a lot of things to sort out. Can you get him up the porch steps?”
She smiled at me and my conscience twinged. I told myself that going to see John had nothing to do with the miracle that had happened tonight.
“'Course I can. You go ahead; you've been stuck in this house too long.”
“Okay.” My hand lay against the doorpost, which still smelled vaguely of fresh paint. A bird hailed the new morning in one of our front yard oak trees. Before I slept, I would thank God for all he had done. “I love you, Mama,” I said, feeling the words on my tongue.
“I love you, too, Celia.”
M
ama had unveiled so much to me that I'd only begun to grasp it as I sank onto my bed that dawn, crooking my arm around Cubby as if I were six years old again. My perceptions of past years shifted inside me as I replayed her words over and over. One revelation after another filled me, until I thought I would burst. One of those revelations was about Granddad. Thoughts of him were painful; he'd always been my hero. To hear he had deep faults that a young granddaughter could never see was hard to accept. His medals, his victoriesâthese were some of the things I cherished most about him, and these were the very things that had hurt Mama most.
Mama.
Thank you, thank you,
God, I breathed,
for giving her the strength to come to me. Thank you that we narrowed the gap between us so much with just one conversation.
Mama and I had already wasted so much time. Just as Danny and I had wasted so much. But with Mama, God had given me another chance.
Please don't let anything hurt our new relationship now, Jesus. I couldn't bear it.
I hadn't talked to Jesus in so long, yet the words seemed to flow from me. I hugged Cubby tighter as I began to see God's plan. In rapid succession the pieces of this plan sifted through my being, each one more awesome than the last. First, that God had been the author of my conversation with Mama. Second, that he had brought me back to Bradleyville for that express purpose, just as Carrie had declared. And third, that God had planned this healing long agoâbefore my flight from Bradleyville, before Kevy's death, before I lost Danny. Even before those tragedies, God had known. Known enough to promise Granddad on his deathbed that he could rest easily, for one day I would heed a call beyond the self-centered, guilt-ridden world I'd built in Little Rock and return to the town of my childhood.
My mind could barely hold these revelations.
How amazing, Jesus,
I prayed,
that you could show me so much in just a few short hours.
I, who had held a dead brother in my arms, knew all too well that a cataclysmic moment could alter a life forever. But as the sunrise of thirty-five years cast an ever widening ray through my curtains, I felt the impact of an internal life-changing event designed by God. At the mere raising of his finger, new meanings, ancient discernments, tucked among the shadows of everyday occurrences, had suddenly revealed themselves, emerging to gleam brilliantly like fragments of gold. Even as I marveled at this discovery as one would hold glimmering ore to the light, I marveled at the planning and time he had taken to create it. The sands of minutes, days, and years, of conversations, events, and choices, funneling, hardening into nuggets of wisdom yet to be revealed until the moment he enabled me to distinguish them from the sediment of dreams gone awry.
Now that you understand, God nudged me, will you let me lead you?
What was I going to do with my life now? I asked myself. Continue down the same dark path or allow Christ to light it for me? For some reason God's invitation did not bathe me in emotion. Perhaps I'd been drained of tears already. Instead it was gentle, quiet. Considering it, I saw how hopeless my future would be if I turned him away after the mercy he'd shown me. So ultimately I made my choice. I prayed from the depths of my neediness, giving Jesus Christ my life, asking him to guide me from that moment on. I needed his help in so many areas. Further healing with Mama, energy to help Daddy, release from the guilt I'd borne for so long. I was so tired of the guilt. I wanted to just take it off, like taking off a lead coat. But the heart clung to what the mind would shed.
God, I prayed, I give the guilt to you. Please heal this too.
And, most pressing as the sun rose higher, I needed God's help with John. For I knew what I should do, but the right action seemed more than I could bear. “I don't know how to do this, Lord,” I whispered. “I'm like a newborn, and you're asking me to make an adult's decision. Please show me another way. Please let John and me be together. Please. . . .”
Finally I fell asleep.
E
xhaustion sat as a lump in my chest as I drove out Route 347 toward John's cabin a few hours later. A gentle breeze blew through my open window, like the breeze the night I had returned to Bradleyville. Following the narrow road with one hand on the wheel, I held John's directions, lips moving silently as I read. I turned from 347 onto another Kentucky back road, which looked much the same as it wound through the forested hills. Five more minutes and I should see the private road that led to his cabin. “If you pass a large red barn on your left, you've gone too far,” he had written. My veins flowed with a thick, sleep-deprived adrenaline as I thought of seeing him, of what I would say and how he would respond. For the hundredth time since early that morning I asked God for strength. I pictured John waiting for me and felt my arms tremble.
I rolled to a stop underneath dense trees, the shade cool. Turning into John's long gravel driveway, I'd had to close my windows against the dust. He had heard my approach and was standing in front of his small porch, his A-frame cabin of natural wood nearly blending into the forest. He smiled, expectant, clad in jeans and a red knit shirt. I'd never seen him in jeans before and he looked wonderful. I felt my heart turn over.
“Hi,” he called, opening my door. “You found me!”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “But John, we have to talk.”
He paused, studied my face. “Okay.”
“I . . . I can'tâwould you just sit in my car for a while?”
“Sure.” He walked around the front, patting the hood, and got in, rolling down his window. “Good thing we're in the shade.” He started to reach for me but stopped at my expression. Leaning against the passenger-side door, he rested a hand on each knee, concern creeping across his forehead. “What is it?”
He looked so handsome in his jeans and shirt, arms tanned and strong. I could almost feel him kissing me, his chest filling my arms. God, I prayed,
I can't do this.
“I have a lot to say,” I began, “and it's not easy. So I just want you to listen. And I hope you'll understand.”
“Okay.”
I took a long breath. “Something happened last night between Mama and me. We talked deeply for the first time. I . . . don't know where you are with God, John. But I know without a doubt that he made that conversation happen. Now I understand the hurts in my mother's life. And in understanding those hurts, I can finally begin to forgive her past coldness to me.
“After we talked, I lay awake most of the night, thinking about lots of things. And I realized some incredible truths. I realized that all my life I'd judged Mama when I didn't know the whole story. I could only see my little piece of it. Then I thought about my granddad's life, his mistakes. And my choices as a teenagerâsome of them terrible mistakes that I'm still paying for. And I realized that Granddad's wrong choices and Mama's and mine were all made because we only focused on our little perceptions of what had happened and what was to be done. When we focused on our hurts and wants, we all did foolish, foolish things that caused other people pain. And we all knew better. We all knew that Jesus was there and willing to lead us, but we just didn't want to follow.”
I paused, amazed at the words flowing from me. John remained silent.
“What I'm trying to say is that for the first time in years I have finally promised Jesus that I'll listen to him. Because I know if I don't, I'll just mess things up again, and he gave me too much understanding last night for me to want to chance that. So here's the hardest part.” My breath caught. “I can't feel at peace about what you and I are doing. Even with my promise to God, I tried to deny that uneasiness. I can't tell you how much I tried. I want to see you, John. I want so much to be wanted. But my conscience won't be quiet. It's telling me that the way we're going about it is deceitful and that God's got a better plan for us.”
“I see.” His voice held a defensive edge. “And just what would you suggest?”
I gathered myself. He wasn't making this easy. “I think we should hold back for now and pray about what to do.” Pray. The word felt so rusty on my tongue. “There's a lot to consider. I won't be in Bradleyville much longer. It would be hard to see each other once I'm gone. Maybe we're just not meant to be at all. On the other hand, maybe you're not supposed to marry Sharon. But we need to ask God about this, because if we rush ahead, all of us could get hurt. And even if you and I worked out, our relationship would have started in such a negative way.”
He gazed at me intently. “Do you want us to work out?”
“So much.” My throat tightened. “I'm very needy, John. Maybe too needy for you.”
“No. No, you're not,” he said gently, taking my hand. “But come inside with me now, out of the heat. We'll talk about this more.”
I knew I couldn't. I knew I dared not even get out of the car, because if I did, no matter the sincerity of my promises to God that morning, I wouldn't have the strength to keep them. I wanted John too much. And in my frailty it was all too clear what would happen once we were inside his cabin. “You're not hearing me, John,” I replied softly. “We can't do this today.”
“I am hearing you, Celia.” He gripped my fingers. “And I know you're right; you're not telling me anything I haven't thought about many times over. I know I have to tell Sharon. But just . . . not yet. It'll break her heart.”
“It'll break her heart more if she hears it from someone else.”
“She's not going to. No one knows you're here today.” His words were tinged with disbelief. “It'll probably be the only time we have before you leave; let's not lose our chance.”
Lord, help me!
“John, I
can't
. I want to so much, but . . . I just don't feel it's the right thing to do.”
“Yes, it is. Of course it is. Because of the way we feel about each other.” I gazed at him sadly. “What we feel doesn't change what's right and wrong. Can't you see you're just rationalizing?”
He dropped my hand and stared at me. “I'm not rationalizing; I just want to be with you. I want to hold you and be near you. I want you and you need me, and that's all that matters at this moment!”
“And forget God and everybody else, right?” My voice grew thick. I couldn't bear to hear how much he wanted me. “That's exactly what I'm talking about.”
“I know you want to be here today. Don't deny us this.”
“I have to, John. It's not what God wants.”
Sudden anger rolled across his face. “How do you know what God wants? And what makes you so pious all of a sudden?”
I looked away, heartsick at his defensiveness.
He lowered his head, scrubbed his face. “Why did you come here anyway? Why did you drive all the way out here?”
“Because,” I said slowly, praying that he would understand, “I had to face you and make this choice. And I knew we wouldn't have another opportunity to talk like this.”
He surveyed me for a long moment. “I don't believe that's the reason,” he said finally. “You came because you wanted to see me. Regardless of what you're saying, deep inside you want me to talk you out of it.”
“Please don't try.” My throat had begun to hurt. “This is hard enough as it is.”
He spread his hands. “So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to think aboutâpray aboutâwhat to do. And if you decide you still want to see me, you'll need to tell Sharon first.”
“Yeah, well, by that time you could be gone.”
The words were meant to sting and they did. “Maybe,” I replied, my head hung. I pictured myself alone again at home in Little Rock and my heart twisted. “But if God wants us together, it can still happen.”