Goodnight to My Thoughts of You

by Chelsea Rotunno

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Vancouver

  I had my own room in the intern house I shared with Sophia and two other women. We spent our mornings volunteering in the local elementary schools, meeting with mentors, and exploring the city.

  Every afternoon I went to the local school and picked up 20 kids, ages 6 to 12, and walked them back to the church for the after-school program. Sophia and I gave the kids a snack and helped them with their homework. Then we led art projects, games, and singing. By 6 o’clock, the kids went home and we cleaned up the camp.

  One little boy in grade three made a strong impression on me the first time I met him. Quentin pounded on the door of the church, yelling, “Open the stupid door!” When I opened it, he screamed “Bye!” to his bus driver, slammed the door, turned, punched me in the stomach without even looking to see who I was, and ran down the stairs to the basement.

  Of course, he eventually became my favorite kid at camp. I learned that if I gave him a hug or a pat on the shoulder, he would calm down and not inflict pain on me or any of the other children. Sophia and I also learned that if we fed the kids fresh fruit—apples, oranges, and bananas—right after school, they behaved much better during camp.

  One day, Sophia and I heard Quentin and a little girl talking underneath a table.

  “Touch it!” he said to the little girl.

  “Eew, no!” she said.

  “No really, touch it! Look it’s hard!”

  “No, Quentin!”

  Sophia rushed over. “What are you guys doing under there?” she demanded.

  “Look, Sophia!” he exclaimed. “There’s gum under here!”

  He had been talking about the hard gum that was glued to the underside of the table. Sophia and I looked at each other and laughed, and promised that one of us would have to put that story in a book one day.

  My evening activities were the most relaxing part of each day.

  Monday: Hip-hop class at a dance studio in Richmond

  Tuesday: Office work (stuffing envelopes and editing newsletters) and Bible study in Surrey

  Wednesday: Bible Buddies, a discipleship group with four 10-year-old girls

  Thursday: Out of the Cold, a dinner for the homeless at a local church

  Friday: Dinner with Rose, my Vancouver “mom”

  Saturday: Chores, laundry, and sightseeing

  Sunday: Church and lesson plans for the week ahead

  I longed for the easy days of going to class and doing homework. College could never have prepared me for this life. Directing the summer camp had been nonstop work, as well as a lesson in loneliness and displacement. I had chosen to leave my boyfriend, my family, and my country to be in Vancouver, but I didn’t know exactly why. While I had hugs from the kids every day and a lot of love and support from the directors and leaders in the ministry, there was no one who really knew me. I missed my friends. I missed Charlie’s touch and his sparkling brown eyes. I missed my mom and dad and my mom’s cooking.

  In my isolation, I felt a sense of poverty—of spirit, emotion, and community. I found myself looking for little sanctuaries: small, ordinary things that brought me joy and hope. The first simple thing I had to do each morning was make my bed. I sang, “Lord, prepare for me a sanctuary,” as I tucked the sheets and fluffed the pillows. I changed the lyrics of the song we sang in chapel at APU because I desperately needed rest in my heart, and for some reason, making my bed and singing those humble words made me feel like I had a place to fall. My bed was a place that was mine—the only thing I could call my own, the only thing I could control.

  Next I put my forehead to the floor, my arms stretched out in helpless desperation. I guess you could call it prayer. Would I make it through another day, or would I break down? Could I handle the energy of the kids in the program? Would I know how to discipline them, help them figure out their problems with their friends, and guide them toward Jesus? Was I doing a good job? Was I making any difference in their lives at all? The name of Jesus became a song I had to constantly sing, or else the dirge of failure and resignation would crack my efforts.

  I’d continue to sing his name on my morning run. Running around Trout Lake was one of my lonely sanctuaries. It was a beautiful, peaceful run with tree branches crossing above me like canopies in a fairytale and just enough distraction to set me free from my own self-consciousness: dogs jumping into the lake to chase tennis balls, couples strolling peacefully hand in hand, dads and sons playing soccer, old men in fedoras resting on benches.

  After my run, I’d go to Starbucks. The smell of Starbucks was exactly the same as it was at home, and I would go there daily to write in my prayer journal or write a letter to Charlie while I sipped a venti water, which always had the subtle flavor of espresso dust. It was another lonely sanctuary, familiar enough to temporarily satiate my yearning for friendship. The workers became familiar faces and the tall chai tea lattes, which cost me most of my allowance, were my once-a-week splurge.

  In the evenings after camp, whenever my parents would call me at the Manse, as we called the large house where we lived, I remembered that I was loved. It humored me to realize that I still needed my parents, my mom especially, whom I had always criticized for being selfish, cold, and harsh with her words. Now her voice was soft and gentle, and her words rejuvenating and refreshing. I didn’t know how that could be, but it cleansed me and gave me a peaceful night’s sleep whenever she called. My dad’s wisdom was also a source of comfort. He would listen to me talk about my day and then have the perfect encouraging words to help me make sense of how I felt.

  Nevertheless, after a few weeks in the ministry, I was emotionally tired and spiritually broken. I remember our Thanksgiving prayer and fasting assignment. Our Urban Promise team committed to 24 hours of continual prayer and fasting. I sat alone on a beat-up, brown velour couch in the cold basement during my half-hour time slot to pray. I was reading the Bible by candlelight, feeling tired and half-heartedly spiritual, when I had a vision:

  I was running into God’s arms at full speed—and he pushed me away. I was shocked. I pouted. I thought he would cradle me and hold me, offering me comfort, peace, and rest. I tried it again. I ran to him and leaped into his arms. Again, he knocked me to the ground. Then he told me to get up and stand on my own two feet.

  I was devastated. If I couldn’t run to God, then I had no one to run to. I was absolutely alone. I thought about my vision and wondered why God would do such a thing. This vision must not be from God, I thought.

  I sat on that couch by candlelight with a fresh idea: I was an adult, but I wanted God to treat me like an infant. Adults don’t need to be cradled. It was time for me to stand on my own feet. It was as if God was telling me, “You can do it! Look at you, you can do it. Don’t you dare try to act like a baby when you are a grown woman.”

  At first, I didn’t like this vision. I didn’t like it at all. I wanted Jesus, the mama hen. It took me 20 minutes to see the wisdom in the Father-God’s action. It was not rejection. I tried to turn it into that, but it was not rejection. It was empowerment.

  Things began to turn around after that. My sister Anna sent me a care package with a blanket she had knitted for me. It was a beautiful light brown color and perfectly soft and warm. I slept with it every night, and I called it my “Sissy Blanket.”

  Charlie and I talked on the phone almost every night and emailed love notes every day. Because I had Charlie’s guitar, I would play his songs over and over when I was alone in my room at night. My favorites were “Goodnight,” “Heavenly,” and one of his band’s songs, called “Pardon Me.”

  Just before Christmas, Charlie sent a care package that contained a purple scarf with his cologne all over it. I showed it to my Bible Buddies, the group of 10-year-old girls I met with weekly. They loved it. They thought it was so romantic and took turns smelling and wearing the scarf. Charlie’s and my love story had become a part of their lives.

  Whenever I walked around
the residential streets in the city, I admired the character of the Vancouver houses. They became another familiar part of my life, bringing me joy like a sister. I even called them my “sisters” in my heart and said hello to them as I walked by. I started taking pictures of my favorites. Then, in my spare time, I painted small watercolor paintings of them to give to my family as Christmas presents. For Charlie, I painted a picture of my favorite flower shop, Figaro’s Garden. The flower shop was more than a sister to me. It was a place where I could go inside and walk around, get a cup of water, enjoy the growing plants, gardening tools, hanging lanterns, and greeting cards designed by local artists. Figaro’s was like a best friend.

  When my real sisters emailed and asked what I wanted for Christmas, I said, “warm socks.” Nothing else mattered to me. Warm socks were literally all I wanted for Christmas.

  Finally, after our kids sang Christmas carols at a retirement home and I finished my last painting, it was time to fly away from the snow for Christmas break. Charlie met me at LAX, and I wrapped my arms around him. I was home again.

  During the next two weeks, Charlie and I tried to spend as much time together as possible.

  One afternoon, when Charlie and I were driving to my house, we stopped at a red light and I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Wow,” he said. “You can do that again.”

  So I did. He had a huge smile on his face. He looked so cute.

  “Maybe we should have our first kiss on Christmas day,” I suggested.

  “Don’t you want to wait?”

  “I do want to wait, but I want to kiss you. I’m so bad!” I said, sitting back and putting my feet up on the dashboard.

  “Let’s pray about it and decide what’s best,” he suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. But I had already made up my mind. I wanted to kiss him before I went back to Vancouver. When I prayed about the situation, I didn’t ask God what I should do. I told God what I was going to do. And I asked him to bless my decision. I had waited such a long time. Plus, I was starved for affection while I was away. The only human touch I received was hugs from the kids at camp. Being with Charlie compelled me to soak up all the attention I would need for the next six months.

  We planned to spend Christmas morning with our families and Christmas evening with each other. He came over to my house after dinner, and we opened our presents. I gave him the painting of Figaro’s Garden in Vancouver. He loved it.

  Then he gave me my gift. It was in an envelope. I tore it open and looked at the piece of computer paper inside. It was a flight itinerary from LAX to Vancouver and back—for Charlie Castagnoli.

  I yelped out of delight. “Are you coming to see me?”

  “I’ll fly with you when you go back in January. I’ll stay with you for a week. I already talked to Sophia, and she said it’s OK.”

  “You can meet my kids! You’ll meet my Bible Buddies!” I jumped up and down. “We can go to Figaro’s!”

  I jumped into his lap and kissed him—on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You always give the best gifts.”

  It was a big deal for us to fly together to Vancouver. We didn’t have to say goodbye at the airport. We had a whole week alone together before we had to say goodbye.

  Over the next few days I gave Charlie a tour of the city of Vancouver. I showed him my favorite houses and shops. We ate at Café Calabria, my favorite Italian café, which served delicious sandwiches, coffee, and Italian cookies made with figs and chocolate. I made him try garlic ice cream at the gelato parlor. We walked through Stanley Park and took pictures of the beautiful totem poles. We rode the tiny Rainbow Ferry to Granville Island, bought Chinese lychee fruit, which look like alien eggs but taste delicious, and watched a street show at the farmer’s market.

  On the night before camp started, Charlie and I rode the ferry to Lonsdale Quay. After walking through the market, we bought pumpkin ice cream with fudge in a waffle cone and stood by the railing at the edge of the dock. The night sky was dark, and it started to rain. As we stood under one umbrella with our ice cream, we laughed and then stopped and looked at each other.

  “Listen,” Charlie said.

  The pitter-patter of rain on our umbrella. Lights on the water. Sweet ice cream. His dark eyelashes and warm hands. I closed my eyes to savor the moment. He leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips. They were the same lips that had brushed across my forehead, the same lips that sang “Goodnight,” the same lips that smiled at me across the desk in the library. Now they touched mine, and I knew his love was perfect for me.

  The next day, our first day back at camp, Charlie experienced a typical day of chaos at Camp Peace. The kids begged him to play his songs on the guitar. He let them take turns strumming with his guitar pick. I watched him interact with the children, and I saw something very special in his character. I always knew he loved people, but I saw that he loved children and the poor. He loved people who were important to me.

  Amazing, I thought to myself. He is amazing.

  That was our last night together. We sat on the floor, alone in my bedroom.

  “In 12 hours you will be on a plane to LA,” I said. “Do you have to go?”

  “If I want to finish college, I have to go,” he said, smiling. “I have class tomorrow night.”

  “This is crazy! I won’t see you for six months. That is such a long time.”

  “We can do it, Miriam—you are meant to be here right now. You are the most adventurous girl I know. I love that about you.”

  I smiled. “You’ll write to me? You’ll call me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you pray for me?” I asked.

  “I’ll pray for you right now.”

  We sat together on my bed and prayed. Then we kissed. And kissed and kissed.