And the Shofar Blew

by Francine Rivers

  He thought everything was fine until he awakened later and found himself alone in bed, the sheets cool where Eunice should have been. A line of light shone beneath the door to the master bathroom. He rose. He was about to tap when he heard Eunice’s muffled crying. Not soft, but anguished sobs stifled against something soft. A towel? An image of Christ washing His disciples’ feet came to him. Paul shut his eyes for a long moment and went back to bed, careful not to make a sound.

  She came back to bed an hour later and curled beneath the covers away from him. He could feel her warmth.

  Paul lay awake in the dark. He tried to pray, but his mind kept wandering. When had his life gotten so out of control? Why couldn’t he seem to manage anything anymore?

  It was probably just something he ate at the club. Maybe he was getting the flu. He needed to stop worrying all the time. God said he wasn’t supposed to worry. It was a sin. Everything was under control.

  Paul drifted, his mind wandering back and forth like waves on a shore-line. He was swimming in the ocean and the water was cold. No matter how hard he swam, the current kept pushing him closer to the rocks. He could see the violent splash, the white foam. Helpless against the power of the sea, he hit the rocks. He couldn’t get a handhold. Each time he grabbed on to something, the current yanked him away. He was swept into a forest of seaweed. His legs became entangled, and still the waves beat him, pushing him, pounding him, covering him with a crushing weight. He couldn’t get to the surface for air. He fought, clawing to be free, the light shining through the thick, slippery fronds of seaweed above him. Air! He needed air! His lungs were bursting, his heart exploding! A hand reached down to him, but he was more afraid of taking it than drowning.

  He awakened abruptly. It was still dark and his heart was pounding. He reached out and found Eunice gone. The clock said 5:30. She was up, probably making the morning coffee.

  Shaking, gulping, he tried to relax. He tried to tell himself it was just a nightmare. It didn’t mean anything.

  But he couldn’t get away from the feeling that God had been trying to tell him something for a long time, and he couldn’t hear what He was saying.

  CHAPTER 15

  STEPHEN WAS working late on the conceptual design for an office building in Roseville when he heard a soft tap at the front door. It was eleven. Maybe it was Jack. Those first months of sobriety were rough. Stephen left his stool and headed for the door.

  The front windows were covered with wooden venetian blinds now, so that people couldn’t peer in anymore. And the beveled glass of the new front door gave some semblance of privacy and elegance. He could see through the glass that it was someone smaller than Jack.

  Turning the dead bolt, he opened the door and found a stranger wearing a multicolored knit cap, an army jacket, ragged, dirty jeans, and black military boots. Dumped on the sidewalk was a grimy canvas bag. The stranger didn’t say a word, but stood head down, shoulders slumped.

  Though he couldn’t see a face, Stephen had a gut feeling. “Brittany?”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Oh, God! Oh, Jesus, thank You.” He pulled her into his arms and felt her stiffen. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” She was shaking, probably from the cold night air. He loosened his hold. “Come on inside.” He picked up her bag. It weighed no more than a couple of pounds.

  “Rockville,” she said dryly as she walked into his workroom and looked around. “I thought maybe you moved back to Sacramento.”

  He set her canvas bag on the leather couch. “You went to Centerville?”

  “Yeah. Then I called Mom.” She wouldn’t look at him. “Her husband answered, and said he thought you’d moved to Rocklin or Rock Hill or Rockville. He couldn’t remember for sure. He said to try the yellow pages under Decker Construction.”

  He was getting a piece of the picture. “You didn’t talk to your mother?”

  “Jeff said she wasn’t home.” She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  If Kathryn had gotten the message, she hadn’t passed the information along to him. He heard Brittany’s stomach growl. “Come on upstairs. You can take a look around while I fix you some dinner.” He walked ahead of her, but when he glanced back, she kept her head down. He left the back lamp on and pushed the dimmer for the stairs. The strip of carpet up the center muffled the sound of her military boots. Were they steel toed?

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yeah.” She gave a grim laugh. “How about a martini?”

  It was more a wisecrack than a question. He wasn’t sure of her motivation, and decided to be straight with her. “I don’t drink anymore, Brittany, and I don’t keep booze in the house.”

  “Afraid you might fall off the wagon?”

  Again, the edge. “I take things one day at a time, and I don’t pretend it’s not an ongoing battle.”

  She lifted her head enough for him to see her black eye, cut and swollen lip, and scraped cheek. Everything inside him went wild. He wanted to pull his little girl onto his lap and rock her and ask her who’d hurt her, but he didn’t move. He didn’t say anything either. Her posture, her silence, her clenched fists told him to keep away, to rein in the questions pounding through his head.

  Opening the refrigerator, he ducked his head so she wouldn’t see his face. “I’ve got milk, orange juice, club soda.” He was glad he had grilled two rib-eye steaks earlier. One was left. He had a bag of tossed salad, plenty of dressing. It’d take two minutes to microwave a potato, dab on some butter and sour cream.

  “Milk,” she said. “Please.”

  He poured a tall glass. Her fingers trembled as they brushed his. She didn’t meet his eyes as she thanked him. He returned to the kitchenette, washed a potato, punched holes in it, and put it in the microwave. As the machine hummed, he dumped a portion of salad into a bowl and set it on the small table overlooking Main Street. He put out silverware, a napkin, blue-cheese dressing, salt and pepper. The microwave pinged. He forked the steak onto the plate and set the timer again. Brittany had finished the milk and was holding the glass in both hands. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty seconds, honey. Take a seat.”

  She moved as though she were so tired she could hardly stand. Slouching into a chair, she put the empty glass on the table. He set the carton of milk on the table. “You’ve only got one place set,” she said.

  “I ate earlier.” He stood near the microwave. “How’d you get here? Bus?”

  “I hitched a ride.”

  He wished he hadn’t asked. “Did your ride give you the black eye and split lip?”

  “No.” She didn’t elaborate.

  The microwave pinged again. Swallowing down a hundred other questions, he took the plate out and set it in front of her. She lifted her head. The look in her hazel eyes brought a memory surging through his mind: Brittany, age three, standing in the living room between him and Kathryn as they had a screaming fight. His little daughter staring in fear and confusion, tears streaming down her white face as she yowled like a wounded animal. He shut his eyes tightly.

  “Can I wash my hands first, Daddy?”

  He looked at her again, grief rising up and bringing a heavy burden of guilt with it. “Sure. Sorry I didn’t think of it.” His voice was gruff. “The bathroom’s back there, through that door. Take your time.”

  His chest heaved as soon as the door was closed. Turning away, he braced himself on the kitchen counter. How much of what’s happened to her is because of my sins, God? Shaking himself, he turned on the tap and rinsed his face in cold water. Brittany was here, alive, safe. For the time being, at least. He needed to keep his head or she might run again.

  When she came out of the bathroom, her hair was wet. It was short-cropped, bleached white-blonde with dark roots, and smelled of his bar soap. He noticed the tattoo on the back of her hand as she set the knitted cap on the table beside her place setting. Her ears and nose were pierced with small silver hoops. She picked up her fork and knife, hesitated,
and rested her wrists on the edge of the table. “Are you going to stare at me the whole time?”

  “It’s just so good to see you.” He stood. “I’m going to put some things away downstairs. I’ll be back up in a few minutes.”

  He flicked the lamp on as he settled onto his work stool. He tried to check over his work, but couldn’t concentrate. He put his notes into a file cabinet and slid the drawer closed. Turning the goose-necked lamp off, he headed back upstairs.

  Brittany was still sitting at the table. She was asleep, her head resting on her crossed arms, the empty plate pushed away. She’d eaten everything, even the skin of the potato. Stephen stood beside her, crying silently as he lightly touched her hair. It was still baby fine. What had happened to her over the last six months while she lived on the streets or wherever she’d been all this time? How had she managed to survive? Did he really want to know?

  As he leaned down to lift her, she struggled and made a sound that broke his heart. “It’s okay, honey. It’s Daddy.” Brittany relaxed as he carried her. He gently laid her on his bed, removed her camouflage jacket and military boots. Her socks had holes and bloodstains. He removed them and brought a pan of warm water. He washed her feet tenderly. Then he covered her with his blanket, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, honey. You’re safe.”

  It was after midnight, but he called Kathryn anyway. If he were in her shoes, he’d want to hear Brittany was safe, no matter what the time. She answered on the fourth ring, her voice bleary.

  “Sorry to wake you, Kathryn.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. If it’s more bad news, I don’t want to hear it.”

  He knew it was booze and not sleep that made her sound befuddled. “It’s good news, Kat. Brittany is here. She’s safe.”

  She started to cry. “Thank God,” she sobbed. “I wanna come see her. I wanna see my baby.”

  That was the last thing Kathryn should do. “She’s asleep. Worn-out. Get a good night’s sleep, Kat, and come tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow I have to go to my lawyer.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “Divorce lawyer. Tell Brittany I’m divorcing Jeff. She’ll be happy about that.”

  Was she casting blame again? He was in no position to judge.

  “Jeff ’s in Soho with his new girlfriend. Probably taking her to a Broad-way play.”

  “Ouch,” he whispered.

  “Yeah.” She cried again. “You could say that.”

  “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

  “What do you care? What does anyone care?”

  He found he did care, but knew telling her would do no good. He didn’t want to probe her pain or hypothesize. Instead, he held the telephone and prayed for her silently.

  “You still there, Stephen?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.” He heard the clink of a bottle against glass.

  “You’re the one who started me drinking. Did you know that?”

  It wasn’t true, but he wasn’t going to argue with her.

  “Just makes things worse,” she added.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “I wish I knew what went wrong. And when it went wrong. I keep thinking. I keep looking back. Way back. My life’s been a mess so long I can’t even remember if it was ever right. Know what I mean?”

  “I know.” She needed Jesus, but this wasn’t the time to tell her.

  “Brittany’s there?”

  “Asleep. Safe.” Battered and bruised, wounded deeper than either of her parents could fix. They had done enough “fixing” over the years.

  “She might not wanna see me.”

  He wanted to ask why not, but didn’t.

  “Ask her. Okay? I don’t wanna drive up and have her run away again. You know?”

  “Yeah, Kat. I know.”

  “Gotta go,” she said in a little-girl-hurting voice. She fumbled the telephone as she hung up.

  It was the first time Stephen had grieved for his ex-wife rather than over her.

  Eunice was sitting in her mother-in-law’s living room having tea when Timothy walked in the front door with his friends. He looked different, wonderfully different.

  “Hey, Mom!” He came to her and embraced her tightly. “You look great!”

  She put her cup down, her throat closing. “So do you.”

  He was tan, eyes bright and clear. He seemed to have grown an inch in the last month and was filling out with muscle. His friends were all talking at once, greeting Lois. They were clearly at home in the condo.

  One of the boys punched Tim on the shoulder. “Whoa, dude. You never told us your mother was such a fox!”

  Eunice’s face went hot.

  Another leaned close to Tim and said in a stage whisper all could hear, “Why don’t you ask her to come along and be a chaperone?”

  “Enough, you guys. You’re embarrassing her.” Tim laughed easily. “Don’t let them bother you. They’re just kidding.”

  “All right, boys and girls.” Lois stood. “Into the kitchen. I made cookies this morning.” They all followed like over-sized chicks after a tiny mother hen.

  Eunice touched Tim’s hair. It was down to his shoulders. He shrugged as he searched her eyes. “I know,” he drawled. “Dad would have my head if he could see it.”

  “Jesus had long hair.”

  He grinned. “Yeah. As far as we know, anyway.” He sat down beside her. “Did you come down to check on me?”

  “I miss you.” She couldn’t say more. She was proud of the young man he was becoming, thankful and grieving that it was her mother-in-law’s wisdom and love that was guiding him toward Christ.

  “I’m heading for Mexico day after tomorrow.”

  “So your grandmother told me. Building houses, she said.”

  “We’ve got a crew together and a carpenter who’s willing to tell us what to do and how to do it. Young guy who can take the heat.” He detailed the venture, the preparatory work, the early-morning meetings, the goal to serve the poor and bring the light of the gospel message.

  She could hear the others talking and laughing in the kitchen. “Are they going?”

  “Every one of them.”

  He had good friends to lift him up instead of pull him down.

  “Do you think you’ll come home after your trip to Mexico?”

  His eyes shadowed. “I don’t think so, Mom.”

  “Not even to visit?”

  “I think I’d better stay here.”

  Her heart sank. She looked down so he wouldn’t see the tears coming. She knew he was right, but it hurt all the same. She wanted to say Paul had asked him to come home, but he hadn’t. He told others he missed Tim. He told her, too. But he never talked about changing the arrangement with Lois. He talked to Tim on the phone, but not often and not long. He had too many other people on his mind. But she was Tim’s mother, after all. She had nursed him. She had helped him take his first steps, taught him his first prayer, taught him how to ride a bike. Not once in those early years had she thought there would come a day when she would willingly give up her son to someone else to raise, even Lois whom she loved like her own mother.

  “I pray for Dad all the time, Mom.” She saw the hurt in his eyes, still alive, fresh whenever she came to see him and his father stayed home. Why should he want to come back to Centerville? “And you.”

  “I pray for him, too, honey.” Constantly. “He loves you, Tim.”

  “As long as he can have it his way.”

  He didn’t say it with any bitterness. It was just a simple, painful, hard-learned fact. She was the slow learner.

  The others laughed loudly in the kitchen. Tim turned toward the sound, leaned toward it. She relinquished him again. “Why don’t we join them?” Though she longed for time alone with Tim, life intruded.

  She sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and listened to the rush of conversation. Four boys and two girls excited about serving the Lord. It was heaven to hear. She soaked it in like dry earth after a long drought.


  Lois smiled at her and poured more tea. “You look a little more relaxed than when you arrived.”

  “It’s good to be here.”

  “Sometimes the condo feels a little small.”

  “I used to dream my home would be like this. Packed from floor to ceiling with children.”

  A strange look came into her mother-in-law’s eyes. “You can stay as long as you like, Euny. You’re always welcome. Anytime.”

  Lois didn’t ask questions or press her regarding her feelings. Eunice was thankful. She didn’t really know what she was feeling. There was no foundation for the depression that hung like a dark cloud over her, or the feeling that her life was falling apart around her and she didn’t know why. She didn’t know the what or the how, either.

  Sunday morning, she attended the neighborhood church. Tim sat on one side of her, Lois on the other. She was close to tears during the entire service. The aging pastor reminded her of her father: gray haired, thin, eyes bright and alive with passion for Christ, every word out of his mouth concerning the gospel, love for his flock spilling over. Paul would’ve hated the music. The congregants sang with thanksgiving about Christ’s blood. They sang about Jesus’ suffering and death on the cross with sorrow and His resurrection with joyful abandon. They didn’t care if the hymns were politically incorrect and might offend someone visiting. Let it be heard! Let us rejoice in Christ our Savior! Sing to the Lord a new song of celebration!

  When the service was over, they filed up the aisle. The pastor was at the door to greet them before they left. His handshake was firm, his eyes kind. No need for introductions. “It’s good to see you again, Eunice.” He didn’t mention Paul Hudson. She thanked God for that. She had her own identity here. She was a sister in Christ. No more, no less.

  They went out to lunch at a hamburger joint owned by Christians. Everyone knew Lois and Tim, and they were pleased to meet her. Eunice wasn’t hungry. For all the bad reputation of Los Angeles, she felt more at home here today than she had felt anywhere in years. Even in her own house with her own husband.