Any Dream Will Do

by Debbie Macomber

  This woman was a joke.

  In the end, I didn’t mail the letter. Why waste a stamp? Elizabeth had this mountain of faith, and my own resembled a pothole in the road. She’d been kind and it felt wrong to lash out at her for not understanding my situation.

  I stayed on the bus for three hours until it hit Fourth Avenue in the heart of downtown Seattle. It took that long for the warmth to seep into my bones after my long wait in the December cold.

  My first day of freedom and I had nowhere to go. I had nowhere to sleep that night and no one to ask for help. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and drew in a deep breath. A homeless person was asleep on the sidewalk, tucked up against the bus shelter. That could well be me in a matter of hours.

  Breathing in the taste of freedom, I had to admit it frightened me more than anything ever had, including my father’s fist. To my surprise, when I looked up I realized the bus had let me off in front of a church.

  It was almost comical. A church. Really?

  Not having anyplace else to go, I decided to step inside and hope it was warm and that no one would kick me out. I had a list of shelters in Seattle, but spending the night in one was my last resort. From what I’d been told, shelters didn’t take people in until nightfall, which was hours away. A church would be a relatively safe place to hang around until I could find someplace else.

  I walked up the steps to the church, and thankfully the door opened. I’d half suspected that it would be locked up tight. I wasn’t there to pray. All I wanted was to stay out of the cold.

  Once inside, I went from the lobby into the interior, which was dark and empty. As I stood in the back and looked toward the altar, the sanctuary felt cavernous. I was sure if I were to call out, my voice would echo back at me. Row upon row of wooden pews lined each side of the center aisle.

  I had been inside a church only a few times in my life. Once with my mother, who took my brother and me on Christmas Eve; I must have been four or five at the time. Dad got mad when he found out about it, shouting at Mom. I remembered his anger more than anything that happened while we were at church. They gave me a little Bible, but Dad took it away. I’d wanted to keep it and cried because I’d never had a book before. Mom said I could get another someday, but I never did.

  I stood in the middle of the church aisle. It didn’t look anything like the church of my childhood memory. The church of my youth had been a small neighborhood one. This was a large city church. Stained-glass windows allowed meager light to flicker against the floors. Unsure what to do next, I slipped into the back pew and sat down. A nativity scene was set up close to the altar and I focused on the figure of the baby. I felt as helpless as a newborn, alone and desperate.

  Tears pricked at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I was tough by this time; emotion was a weakness I didn’t dare display while behind bars. I’d seen what happened to the women who lowered their guard and showed signs of vulnerability. I was determined it would never be me. Consequently, I’d shut down emotionally as much as possible, remaining stoic and indifferent to all but a precious few.

  After thirty minutes of sitting and staring into space, I was tempted to get up and leave. I didn’t know what I was thinking to come into a church. This was a useless waste of time, but for whatever reason I remained seated.

  While it was true I had nowhere else to go, I should be looking for a job or doing something. Anything. Sitting in church wasn’t going to solve my problems.

  “You got anything for me?” I challenged. I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, not that it mattered. It was a ridiculous question.

  This was bad. I hadn’t been free for twenty-four hours and already I was losing it.

  Sagging forward, I leaned my head against the back of the wooden pew while resisting the urge to give in to self-pity. I was disgusted with myself when tears filled my eyes. I was stronger than this. I released a slow, shuddering breath, my chest tight with anxiety and fear.

  In that moment something changed. Something in me. I experienced a sense of peace. Or something like it. I hadn’t felt peaceful in so long that I couldn’t be sure what it was. Of course, it could have been my imagination, but some of the tenseness left my shoulder blades and I felt my body relax.

  Shrugging it off but willing to test this strange feeling, I tried speaking again but then realized I had nothing to say.

  I needed help. A little guidance would be appreciated. It wasn’t like I was looking for God or anyone else to part the Red Sea or to give a blind man sight. All I cared about was where my next meal was coming from and where I would find a bed that night. The thought of sleeping on the street terrified me. A job would be helpful, too.

  The more I dwelled on my immediate future, the more tense I grew. Whatever peace I’d experienced earlier was fleeting at best. I closed my eyes and exhaled, searching to find it within myself.

  None came. No surprise there. The only person I’d ever been able to depend on was myself. If ever there was a time I needed to pull myself up by my bootstraps, it was now.

  Coming into this church had been a mistake. I should have known better. Churches like this weren’t meant for people like me.

  I started to get up, feeling a little like Indiana Jones in the movie when he had to step off a ledge in faith and hope that a bridge would appear out of nowhere. As I stood, my purse dropped to the floor, making a loud noise that seemed to reverberate through the church like an echo against a canyon wall. For just an instant I stood frozen.

  It was then that I noticed I wasn’t alone. Someone else was in the church, kneeling in the front. At the sound of my purse dropping, the man turned and looked over his shoulder.

  Then he stood and I froze in shock as he started walking toward me. Without a doubt I knew that whoever this man was, he was going to ask me to leave. I stiffened, determined to meet him head-on. If he was going to toss me onto the street I would be sure to tell him I’d been kicked out of better places than this.

  I knelt in front of the church, broken and lost.

  Empty.

  My wife was dead, my children were hurting, and my congregation was drifting away. Fewer and fewer numbers showed up each week. In essence, my faith was shot.

  On my knees, I poured out my heart in prayer, seeking guidance and help. I’d started out in ministry with enthusiasm and high expectations. My goal was to make a difference in people’s lives, to write books based on Scripture that would reach others in their faith journey.

  The problem, as best as I could describe it, was this: I couldn’t give away what I didn’t have to give. I felt bereft, hurting and uncertain. Katie’s death had taken a toll on me and the children—that was understood. My congregation had been patient with me. More than patient, but it was three years now and it was no better.

  The intense grief had passed, but I realized things were different. Something had changed.

  I wasn’t the same man any longer.

  I didn’t have what it took to stand in front of the church each week and speak to the needs of the people. I couldn’t help anyone when I seemed incapable of helping myself. I’d stumbled in my own walk, lacking faith, lacking trust.

  Simply lacking.

  Some might suggest I’d burned out, but the fact was that I hadn’t been able to start a fire. There’d been nothing to put out, especially in the last three years. I hung my head, disappointed in myself, pleading with God to guide me, show me what He would have me do.

  I was half inclined to submit my resignation to the elders. That was an option, of course, but the ramifications to myself and the children would be substantial. Mark and Sarah had been through enough, dealing with the death of their mother. The last thing they needed at this point was to be uprooted from the only home they’d ever known. Plus, in my current state of mind, I couldn’t be assured another church would be willing to accept me as their pastor or that I should even continue in ministry. Maybe it would be best all around if I sought out another career entirely.
r />   I’d talked with Linda Kincaid, one of the women in the congregation, who worked as a tireless volunteer. She had retired from teaching and played a major role in the life of the church. She’d become my right hand, along with my assistant, Mary Lou. Between the two of them, they’d kept me afloat this long.

  Linda was a trusted friend and a good sounding board. I don’t know what I would have done without her. It was her hard work that kept the volunteer programs running smoothly. As I prayed, I thanked God for her and her willingness to step in and help. She’d suggested I stick it out, give myself time. She’d once told me that if I’d felt God was far away, then I was the one who’d moved.

  Talk about hitting the nail on the head. What I needed now was to find a way back.

  As I continued to pray I heard a noise in the back of the church. I wasn’t aware anyone else was in the sanctuary. When I got up from my knees I saw a woman standing at a back pew. Even from this distance I noticed she had the look of a deer caught in the headlights. Her wide-eyed expression made me think she was up to no good.

  I started toward her with the elders’ warnings ringing in my ears, reminding me of the risk I took leaving the church unlocked during the day. They felt it was an open invitation to vagrants and vandals. I’d won the argument, but now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.

  As I drew close I saw it was a young woman. Her gaze skirted mine, which made me suspicious.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. “I’m Drew Douglas, the pastor here.”

  “Pastor?” she repeated as if the word felt awkward on her tongue.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, doing my best to disguise my reservations. The small suitcase by her side was curious. She didn’t look like a tourist, and the church, while one of the older ones in town, wasn’t exactly a Seattle attraction.

  The woman swallowed hard and offered me the weakest of smiles. “I was just leaving. Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She seemed to muster up her courage, and her eyes snapped defiantly.

  “I’m not here to ask you to leave.”

  Her steady look challenged me. She seemed to be saying she didn’t believe I’d welcome her in the church.

  “Do you need help?”

  She blinked hard, as though surprised by the question. “No…I don’t need anything.”

  Again, she spoke with a razor-sharp edge, her voice cutting, her shoulders stiff. She might claim otherwise, but I knew she was lying. She struggled to look indifferent, but I read the desperation in her eyes. This woman needed help, but pride prevented her from asking for it.

  “Can you tell me why you’re here?”

  “Ah…no, well, yes.” She fumbled with her words and didn’t seem to know where to start. “The bus let me off in front of the church.”

  “The bus,” I repeated, unable to follow her line of thought.

  She lifted her head and looked me square in the eyes. “I was released from prison this morning.” As if anticipating me tossing her out, she reached for her suitcase and started for the door.

  Years ago I’d been involved in prison ministry, but my work had always been with men.

  “Please don’t go,” I said and gestured toward the pew. “You clearly came into the church for a reason. Let’s talk.”

  She hesitated, as if that was the last thing she expected me to say. “This going to take long?” she asked, with the same brash, uncertain edge.

  “Not long at all.”

  She shrugged as if she was doing me a favor, sitting down in the pew next to me. Unsure where to start, I waited for her to speak. I was patient, knowing if I waited long enough she’d explain her circumstances.

  “You should know I’m a convicted felon.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t suppose they tossed you in the clink for jaywalking,” I said, dismissing her words. In an effort to encourage her, I smiled. “Do you have somewhere to live?”

  She stiffened and shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “How about a job?”

  It took her longer to answer this time. “No.” Her shoulders slumped forward before she quickly straightened again.

  It would be easy enough to wish her the best and let her go. She wasn’t expecting any help and appeared to resent answering my questions. Another lost soul who drifted through the church doors. I couldn’t do much for her; we didn’t run a shelter and my resources were limited. It would be best to offer to pray with her and let her go. I opened my mouth to do exactly that and found I couldn’t. Even knowing the elders were likely to disapprove, I didn’t feel I could ignore her need. “Come with me.”

  Her head snapped up as if she suspected I had some nefarious intention. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I have a few contacts who might be able to help you.”

  She stood, blinked a couple times, and then quickly sat back down. Placing her hand over her heart, she exhaled and went pale.

  “Miss?”

  “Sorry, I had a dizzy spell. I’m fine.”

  Dizzy spell? “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “They didn’t feed you in prison?” Silly question, because I knew they did.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  A more honest answer would have been that she was too anxious about being released to eat.

  “No wonder you’re light-headed.” We had a small kitchen in the church office, but we didn’t keep much in the way of food there, other than a few snack items. “There are sandwiches in the office kitchen.” I didn’t mention that she’d be eating my lunch.

  “I don’t need anything.”

  This woman was too proud for her own good.

  “Please, I hate to hurt Mary Lou’s feelings.” When she gave me a confused look, I clarified. “She’s the one who brings in the sandwiches. She makes my lunch and then adds extra.”

  “She your wife or something?”

  “No, my assistant. My wife died a few years back. Making my lunch is Mary Lou’s way of being sure I pause long enough to eat. You’d be doing us both a favor.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She thought about my offer cautiously. I doubted anyone was going to pull anything over on her.

  I started up the aisle, expecting her to follow, taking her through the side door that led to my office.

  Mary Lou looked up from the computer screen and her eyes automatically went to the young woman who accompanied me.

  “Mary Lou, I’d like you to meet…” I hesitated when I realized I hadn’t asked for the woman’s name.

  “Shay,” she supplied. “Shay Benson.”

  “Hello, Shay,” Mary Lou said, without missing a beat.

  “I met up with Shay in the church. Would you show her into the kitchen while I make a few phone calls?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  Mary Lou stood from behind her desk and led the way down the narrow hallway while I headed into my office.

  “Oh, and Mary Lou,” I called out, “would you bring out the sandwiches? Shay will be joining me for lunch.”

  Without a pause, Mary Lou agreed. She looked at Shay. “If you’ll come this way.”

  The woman was a rare jewel. Her easy acceptance of me giving up my lunch made me appreciate her all the more.

  Stepping into my office, I closed the door, sat down at my desk, and reached for my phone. The one place I felt would help Shay most was Hope Center, which was run by one of the gospel mission agencies in town. They had high standards, which meant Shay would need to pass a rigorous examination and drug testing.

  The ladies’ group at the church provided dinner for the residents once a month, and I’d known Kevin Forester, the director, for several years. We hadn’t talked in longer than I could remember. It was time to correct that. Like so much else in my life, I’d let friendships slide since I’d lost Katie.

  Within a matter of minutes I connected with Kevin. “Kevin,” I greeted, “Drew Douglas here.”


  “Drew,” Kevin sounded genuinely happy to hear from me. “How are you, man?”

  “Better,” I said, exaggerating the truth. “I need a favor.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I found a lost soul in my church this morning.” I went on to explain what I’d learned from Shay.

  Kevin listened intently and then asked, “Do you know if she has a history of drug use?”

  I hadn’t done street ministry in years but was fairly sure I’d recognize the signs. “Looking at her, I’d say no, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “She actually looks pretty good. Again, it’s difficult to tell, but like I said, she looks clean.”

  He hesitated. “She mentioned a felony charge?”

  “Yes. I didn’t ask her what it was about and she didn’t offer.”

  “I can find out easily enough. It’s all a matter of public record.”

  I was curious myself but would wait for her to volunteer the information.

  “Did you tell her it’s a yearlong program?” Kevin asked me, breaking into my thoughts.

  “No. I didn’t want to get her hopes up until I learned if you had a free bed.”

  Kevin exhaled. “If you’d called thirty minutes ago, I would have had to turn you away. We have a no-tolerance drug policy here and we found meth in one of the residents’ rooms.”

  The timing impressed me. An opening right when one was needed. “Can I bring her by for an interview?”

  “No guarantees.”

  That went without saying.

  “Got you. I don’t have any skin in this.” It was important that Kevin understand I wouldn’t take a refusal personally. Shay’s acceptance was up to her and her willingness to work 24/7 in a life-skills program. “If she’s approved, great. If not, then I did what I could.”

  “Right,” Kevin said. “Bring her by this afternoon and I’ll have my staff do an evaluation. It’ll be a few days before we’ll be ready to accept her, if we do.”