Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Marty nodded. Her teeth had ached for hours afterward from the cold air they’d sucked in with their wild laughter, but it had been worth it.

  “That was a sweet glimpse of joy.” Brooke gazed past Marty, seeming to drift away to somewhere inside herself. “But I want it for more than a moment. I want—” Her voice broke. She set the paper aside and grasped Marty’s hands with a desperation that was palpable. “Help me, Marty. Please? Help me.”

  33

  Anthony

  The uncomfortable weight of inadequacy drove Anthony from bed long before the sun came up. He braced one hand on the wall next to the calendar and stared at the bold November at the top of the page. Where had September and October gone? How could he have let so many weeks go by without reaching Brooke with the truth of her need for a Savior? Some missionary he’d turned out to be if he couldn’t lead one seeking woman to the Sustainer of Life.

  He stepped away from the calendar, crossed to the window above the kitchen sink, and looked straight across the gap between trailers into Brooke’s kitchen window. The light shining from inside the smaller trailer seemed especially bright since night’s heavy shadows hadn’t lifted. The shadows matched his gloomy thoughts.

  Marty was over there with Brooke—again. She’d spent the whole night. Anthony hadn’t liked the idea, but yesterday’s chemo treatment—Brooke’s fifth—had been rough on her. More than likely, he’d be taking Brooke’s band of investors through the buildings for their second inspection. Would they find fault with him and his team? He’d never questioned his construction abilities before, but these investors were all big-city professionals, wealthy, with high expectations. The kind of men who looked down their noses at simple men like Anthony.

  Marty had told him about the doctor saying Brooke would grow progressively weaker with each treatment since chemotherapy wore down the body over time. He’d seen evidence himself at their weekly Bible studies. With every infusion, Brooke’s skin seemed paler, her steps slower, her shoulders more slumped. But he never heard her complain. Where did she get her strength? It wasn’t from God, that much he knew.

  Frustration carried on a tide of uselessness sagged him forward. “When, God? When will she choose to believe?” If he closed his eyes, he could still see Marty’s excited face when she’d dashed into their trailer and exclaimed, “Brooke wants to go to service with us this morning. She asked me to help her find joy. You’ll show her how, won’t you?” The deacons had sent him here with the hope that, like a real missionary, he would lead someone to salvation, so even though he’d wondered why Marty didn’t tell Brooke how to find salvation, he’d agreed.

  Every evening since that Sunday, when Brooke wasn’t too sick to sit up and listen, she’d joined him and Marty for Bible reading, discussion, and prayer. They invited the whole team to join on Wednesday evenings, studying together the same way the fellowship members back in Pine Hill did. Even Elliott joined them on Wednesday evenings. And Anthony preached with as much fire and enthusiasm as any of their fellowship leaders ever had from the pulpit in their chapel in Pine Hill.

  After two months of him reading, explaining, and praying, Brooke still hadn’t made a profession of faith. Neither had Elliott. Little wonder God hadn’t called him to a mission field. He didn’t have the gift of evangelism. Should he quit? Today was Wednesday. Tonight after supper, when the sun was low and the temperature cool, everyone would gather around the brick fire pit on the large patio that the Brooke-hired team of workers had constructed last month. Lucas especially liked roasting marshmallows over the pit, and all of them enjoyed the warmth of the fire as evening fell. Maybe he should ask one of the other men to lead. Nate could do it. Or even Myron. Myron’s father was a deacon, and the young man’s faith was solid.

  He squinted at the square of light and toyed with the idea of handing the responsibility of Bible study leadership to one of his team members. Part of him wanted to let it go, and part of him resisted. The selfish part, probably. He wanted to be the one to bring Brooke and Elliott to the Savior. Maybe one more night of reading, sharing, and praying. If he couldn’t get through to them tonight, then he would pass the responsibility to either Nate or Myron. They’d been making their way through the book of Isaiah and were ready for chapter fifty-five, which contained one of his preacher’s favorite verses. Anthony had heard it quoted so often he knew it by heart.

  “ ‘So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.’ ”

  His voice almost echoed in the empty room. Like someone else had said the words and he only heard them. He frowned, a prickle teasing the back of his neck. “…shall accomplish that which I please…” Who was meant by I? Would the words accomplish what Isaiah pleased or what God pleased? Were the words spoken by the prophet his own, or were they words given to him from God? He pressed his forehead to his palm, groaning under his breath. Of course they were from God, just as all the words found in the Holy Bible were inspired by the holy God of Israel.

  His heart seemed to bounce against his rib cage. He turned from the window and stared across the quiet kitchen. None of the words he’d shared with Brooke or Elliott seemed to make any difference. Was it because he’d been delivering his own instruction? Had he asked the Lord to speak through him? He grimaced, realization stinging like a slap. In his eagerness to win Brooke’s and Elliott’s souls, he’d let his pride get in the way, thinking about how he could report his success to the deacons. He’d done everything backward. The prophet had shared God’s instructions. Isaiah had no power on his own to change anyone, but God’s words were powerful. They accomplished exactly what God wanted them to, and His Word could prosper the soul.

  Anthony dropped to his knees on the cold linoleum. “God, forgive me for losing heart and thinking about giving up. It’s Your will that none should perish. Help me speak what You want me to say, words from Your Book and not from my stubborn head. It will never be my words that change someone. It’s all You. Let me share and then get out of Your way so You can reach Brooke’s heart and Elliott’s heart.” And the hearts of many others.

  He gave a jolt, as if someone had jabbed him with a pin, and opened his eyes. Had he said the last words out loud, had they been inside him, or had someone else said them? He didn’t know, but the heaviness of failure lifted. He pushed to his feet. Charlotte would be in soon to start breakfast. He needed to dress for the day. But he didn’t turn for the bedroom. He looked at the spot on the floor where he’d been kneeling. Something important had happened there. He couldn’t explain it, because he didn’t understand it yet. He’d have to wait for the Lord to reveal His purpose.

  He strode for the bedroom. “I’ll be patient, Lord. I can wait.”

  Brooke

  Brooke tossed aside the afghan and glared at Marty. “No, I wouldn’t rather stay in my bed. Stop patronizing me. You know I’m not a patient person.” To Brooke’s further consternation, Marty snickered. Brooke narrowed her gaze. “What’s funny?”

  “I’m sorry.” Marty’s sugary tone made Brooke grit her teeth. “You’re being an impatient patient. It just struck me funny.”

  Brooke saw absolutely nothing funny about being impatient or being sick. There wasn’t enough lotion in Kansas to moisturize her perpetually dry, itchy skin. She went from sweating to shivering to sweating as if her temperature were controlled by a pendulum. The bitter taste ever present in her mouth ruined the flavor of any food she managed to force herself to eat. Her entire head contained not one single, solitary strand of hair. Worst of all, Marty had started talking to her as if she were a preschooler instead of an intelligent, mature thirty-six-year-old woman. Which tempted Brooke to throw a tantrum the likes of which no three-year-old in existence had mastered. She wanted these treatments done. Today. This minute. She wanted her independence and her vitality back.
>
  A shiver shook her frame and she reached for the afghan.

  “Do you want me to turn up the furnace?”

  Brooke snapped, “No, leave the furnace alone.” The hurt in Marty’s eyes pierced Brooke. She turned her gaze aside. Why was she so grouchy today? More than she’d been since the cancer treatments began. She didn’t want to take her irritation out on Marty—after all, she’d essentially put her life on hold for Brooke. But aggravation simmered under her skin, and it would explode soon if she wasn’t careful.

  She picked up the glass of ginger-ale-spiked apple juice Marty had poured for her and took another sip. She grimaced. Awful. “Turn on the television, would you? I need some noise and distraction.” She didn’t add, Before I bite your head off.

  Marty wrung her hands. “Wouldn’t you rather have some music?”

  For the first time since she could remember, Brooke did not want music. The melodies had ceased to soothe her, and it frightened her more than she wanted to admit. Would this cancer steal even that pleasure from her? “I’m sure. Noise, Marty. A news channel. See if something catastrophic happened somewhere in the world. It’ll take my mind off my troubles.”

  Uncertainty marred Marty’s brow, but she took the TV remote from the little basket and pushed the power button. The screen came to life—a game show. Brooke waved her hand. Marty tapped buttons, and images flashed of commercials, talk shows, sitcom reruns. Brooke flicked her fingers until two men and a woman behind a desk filled the screen. Then she thrust her palm outward. “Stop. There. Turn up the volume, please.”

  Marty dropped the remote into the basket and hurried to the kitchen, probably to escape seeing and hearing the television. She’d have to leave the trailer to avoid the sight and sound, since the space was so compact, but if she felt better staying on the other side of the eating bar, Brooke wouldn’t berate her for it.

  The woman reporter, who sat between the men, was talking. “Sharing a laptop led to the arrest of thirty-four-year-old Anniston Bailey on multiple counts of sexual exploitation and molestation of a child. The woman loaned a friend her computer to play the online game Land of King Tut. When he logged on, a chat box opened, asking for the latest video. The friend exchanged a few messages with the individual and eventually became concerned. He took a screenshot of the entire conversation and turned it over to police, who began an investigation. Ms. Bailey confessed to taping herself and a male friend with a neighbor’s children and selling the videos because, as she explained it, she needed the money and didn’t want to disappoint the person who requested the tapes.”

  The man on the woman’s left shook his head. “We tend to think of sexual exploitation as a problem in poor or developing countries, but researchers affirm it’s prevalent in every country across the globe, including the United States. It’s been reported in every state in America.”

  Brooke reached for the remote. She’d wanted distraction, but this was too depressing. Marty rounded the counter and moved slowly toward the television, her gaze glued to the image. Brooke’s finger stilled on the button, and she shifted her attention to her friend.

  “Yes,” the second man said, his tone solemn. “Between one hundred thousand and three hundred thousand children have been forced into prostitution, child pornography, or trafficking in the past year.”

  Marty gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “And some resources give even higher numbers. Here in Kansas in the past four months, we’ve seen—”

  Brooke clicked off the television before the woman reporter finished her sentence. Marty whirled to face her. The horror in her eyes matched the sick feeling in Brooke’s gut. This time the nausea wasn’t caused by chemo. She tapped the remote on her knee. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t take any more of that. Let’s listen to music instead. How about a little Cat Stevens? I wouldn’t mind singing along to ‘Morning Has Broken.’ ”

  Marty wrapped her arms across the attached cape of her dress and gripped her elbows so tightly her knuckles glowed white. “I’ll tell you what’s broken. Human morality. Compassion. The Golden Rule.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and her chin crumpled. “None of these deplorable practices would happen if people did what Jesus commanded. ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ That’s what He taught. But these people”—she flapped her hand at the silent television—“only think about what they can get. They don’t care a bit about who they hurt as long as they get their money.”

  Brooke knew it wasn’t intentional, but Marty’s comment stung. This resort was to be her money tree, but the money would come from the pockets of gamblers. Was she hurting others by putting a casino in easy reach? She tried to stifle the thought, but it remained, pricking like the stickers she used to pick up in her socks when she walked through the empty lot across from the grade school. No matter how much she tugged on the cockleburs, somehow she always left a few spines that poked her ankles. The uncomfortable pricks to her conscience made her tone tart. “Well, you can’t change the world, Marty, so there’s no sense in worrying about it.”

  Marty turned her frown on Brooke. “I know I can’t change the world. Leapin’ lizards, I can’t even change my small corner of it. I can’t change the fact that I’ll never have Anthony’s child. I can’t change the fact that cancer invaded your body. I can’t change the fact that sin will run rampant until Jesus brings it to an end.”

  Brooke wished she could tease Marty about saying “leapin’ lizards,” but she couldn’t manufacture even a hint of humor. “So why rail about it, then? If you can’t change it, you’ll only make yourself nuts worrying over it. Believe me, I know about making yourself nuts over things you can’t change. All the worrying and trying in the world never changed my mother. All the worrying in the world won’t stop man’s inhumanity to man. It’s been in the world from the beginning of time, and it’ll be with us until the end of time. That’s just the way it is.”

  Tears ran in rivulets down Marty’s pale cheeks. Brooke groaned. She hadn’t intended to make Marty cry. She patted the sofa and waited until Marty perched next to Brooke’s feet.

  “Listen, instead of getting yourself all worked up, think about those two little kids who won’t be filmed anymore.” Brooke pointed at Marty with the remote. “For that matter, think about the prostitution ring you helped break up with your phone call. Sure, there are lots of bad people out there, but there are good ones, too. Ones like you, who want to help. Think about them.”

  Marty sat silently for several minutes, her lower lip between her teeth and her brow puckered. Finally she swished her fingers over her cheeks, erasing her tears, and sighed. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate it. I really do. But somehow, after hearing what we just heard…” She turned a sad look on Brooke. “I’ve been too sheltered, Brooke. Too unaware of the ugliness taking place in the world. But since we came here, I’ve had to look at it face to face, first with Ronnie and then with that girl at the mall. Now thinking about how other people help isn’t enough. I want to…do more.”

  Brooke’s heart rolled over. She bumped Marty’s hip with her foot. “You’re a good person, Marty.”

  Marty shook her head. “I’m a sinner saved by grace. I’m a woman who was raised by parents who loved and nurtured me instead of mistreating me or exploiting me. I’m a fortunate person. And I need to take my own advice about loving my neighbor as myself.”

  The grumpiness that had sealed itself to her that morning seemed to have melted in light of Marty’s distress and subsequent admissions. Brooke wasn’t unhappy to see it go. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing by taking care of me?”

  Marty didn’t smile. “Maybe. In part. But…”

  Brooke allowed several seconds to tick by before she nudged Marty again. “But what?”

  She pressed her palm to her chest. “I don’t know yet. But there’s something. I can feel it, in here. I know wha
t’s causing it, too. It’s God.” Tears swam in her eyes again. “It’s been a long time since I felt like God was speaking to me. Maybe because I refused to listen. But I feel it now. I can’t hear the words yet, but I feel Him.” The corners of her lips tipped upward into a smile. “It feels good, Brooke. It feels…so right.”

  Jealousy struck Brooke, the last emotion she expected in light of Marty’s tearful confession. Joy breathing deeply…She saw evidence of it in her friend’s face. Would she ever experience it herself?

  34

  Marty

  Marty donned a sweater and loaded the men’s midmorning snack into her little rolling wagon to take to the worksite. Brooke wanted to sleep, Charlotte wanted to do some laundry, and Marty wanted a few minutes with Anthony since they’d spent the night apart. She chuckled to herself as she thought about his dismal response to her request to stay with Brooke. “I don’t like being in our bed without you,” he’d said with his arms looped around her waist. Had he forgotten how many nights she’d spent in their bed in Pine Hill while he was away on a construction job? She’d considered reminding him, but she decided it was better left unsaid. They were inching their way back to the relationship they’d had before the doctor’s verdict shattered their world. Why stir conflict if she could avoid it?

  The wagon’s rubber wheels crunched on the gravel at the edge of the street. Two finches burst from the bushes and winged to the trees. The foliage looked so different than it had upon their arrival in Eagle Creek. The trees’ leaves, which had changed from green to glorious oranges, yellows, and reds, now mostly littered the ground instead of clinging to branches. Even the last of the wild asters and sunflowers had dried up, leaving brown stems with a few withered petals. The nip in the air promised cooler days ahead. Might they even get their first snowfall before Thanksgiving arrived? When she was growing up in Kansas, they’d had a few snowy Thanksgivings. If it snowed, would the group travel to Indiana to spend the holiday with family, as they’d planned?