Nine minutes later I hit it again. And again. And again. By the time I finally got up, my devotional hour had shrunk to seven minutes. Yawning, I flipped my Bible open to Proverbs: “The sluggard’s craving will be the death of him.”
All right, God. I get the message. Time to get serious about this.
That night, I moved the alarm out of my bedroom. When it clattered like machine-gun fire against the tile kitchen counter the next morning, my long trek to slap it down effectively woke me up. I filled a mug with some French roast, grabbed my Bible, and curled up on the couch under a quilt, at long last ready to spend an hour with God. My newly acquired daily devotional pointed me to the fourth chapter of Philippians and one of my favorite verses: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”
I resolved to incorporate this ancient directive on a more regular basis into my daily life. Like when someone cut me off on the freeway. Or when the idiots at the fast-food drive-through gave me the wrong taco again. Or when Mom forgot and called me dumpling, the childhood nickname I abhorred.
Ten minutes after this profound spiritual resolution, however, I was fast asleep, Bible on my chest. (For what it’s worth, I was dreaming about excellent and lovely things.) But when I woke up, I only had fifteen minutes to shower and get ready for work.
I’m a miserable, pathetic excuse for a Christian, I thought as I shampooed my hair and slapped in some gel so it could dry on its own. Good Christians get up early every day of the week to have their quiet time. Mom does. Karen does. I’m positive that Mary Jo does. And so do all those faithful women who speak in stadiums around the country. Don’t they?
I toweled off and looked up. “But Lord, what if you’re just not a morning person?”
“Amy, I have a confession to make.” I shot a surreptitious glance around Books ’n’ Brew, making sure no one was in earshot. I was talking to my associate pastor’s wife, who did double duty behind the pastry counter of Barley’s only bookstore.
“I don’t think I’m a very good Christian.” I bit my lip. “I’m finding it really hard—actually impossible—to have a quiet time in the mornings.”
She handed me my mocha and muffin. “So who says you have to?”
I gasped at such sacrilege. From a pastor’s wife, no less.
“Well, all these books say it’s best to start your day with the Lord in study and meditation on His Word. That’s what all the leaders of the faith and the WOGs do.”
“Wogs?”
“Women of God. You know, those strong women with strong faith—Bible study leaders, pastors’ wives, my mom, Mary Jo . . . even my sister-in-law, who has five kids!”
“Guess I’m not a WOG then.” Amy gave me a gentle smile. “Phoebe, God’s not going to mind if you don’t spend an hour every morning in quiet time.”
“I can’t even spend ten minutes, though,” I wailed. “I keep falling asleep.”
“So pick a different time of day. Me—I kind of move it around. Sometimes I may have my quiet time at four in the afternoon, sometimes I have it midmorning, and sometimes I have it at home while dinner’s cooking.” She leaned over the counter with a mischievous glint in her eye. “And some days I don’t even have a quiet time at all. Sometimes I take a bike ride and just revel in the Lord’s creation and praise Him in a meadow.”
“Sounds like a Brother Sun, Sister Moon kind of thing you’ve got going there.” The seventies-era Zeffirelli movie about Saint Francis of Assisi had had a lasting spiritual impact on me—that and Chariots of Fire, with its missionary Scotsman with the great accent, who ran like the wind.
Amy looked confused for just a minute, then laughed. “Oh, yes—I remember that one. We saw it on video when Jeff was in seminary.
Beautiful film in a hippie-dippy kind of way—and I loved the part near the end where the pope kneeled before Francis to show his humility. But seriously, Phoebe. Our relationship with God doesn’t have to be rigid and tied to a set of rules. In fact, it shouldn’t be. That’s why they call it grace. I mean—watch out!”
I had stood up to get another napkin, stumbled over my purse, which I’d set near my feet, and spilled my coffee, barely missing my Manolos.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve never had a lot of grace.” We giggled together as we mopped up the mess. Then, setting my muffin and purse on a table out of the way of my klutzy feet, I began browsing the racks of books. Bookstores are my second favorite kind of place in the world—right after movie theaters. And though I’m a rabid cinemaphile—very rabid, my family says, pointing to my frothing mouth whenever I talk about movies—I can even think of ways that a bookstore is better than a theater.
The movie’s over after a couple of hours. A bookstore doesn’t have such constraints. You can lose yourself in a good book and not come up for days !
Scanning the glossy jackets of the hardcover best sellers, my eyes were caught by the hot-pink, in-your-face cover of the latest offering from one of the hip, sarcastic, contemporary female authors I enjoy. I picked it up and read the back cover. Intrigued, I opened to the first page and was instantly hooked. But checking the price tag, I groaned. Too steep for my small-town reporter budget.
Next came the classics. I’m determined to read at least three a year to become more of a Renaissance woman. Since I began this higher literary quest on my thirtieth birthday, I’ve read A Tale of Two Cities (Can you say long? But such great beginning and ending lines.), Pride and Prejudice (If I was Elizabeth Bennett, I’d have smacked Mr. Darcy.), Wuthering Heights (I wonder if Heathcliff might have been bipolar?), and Oliver Twist (Whenever I eat oatmeal, I always want to say in a forlorn English accent, “Please sir, I want some more.”).
My fingers trailed across the paperback classics, trying to decide what to read next: Anna Karenina, The Brothers Karamazov, Jane Eyre, Moby Dick, or War and Peace. Since I hadn’t read any of the great Russian ones yet, I picked up War and Peace.
And nearly sprained my wrist in the process.
Note to self: Remember not to read books that can hurt you. And work out more so as to be able to lift heavy, important literature tomes.
In a more romantic, English frame of mind, I finally selected Jane Eyre. Although I’d seen part of one of the movie versions when I was younger—with George C. Scott and Susannah York—I’d fallen asleep partway through and never found out how it ended.
As usual, I quickly bypassed most of the nonfiction titles. I’ve always preferred to lose myself in a story rather than submit myself to a barrage of facts or nosy advice. I have to confess, however, to having bought one or two—or fifty—of those Christian dating or how-to-be-content- in-your-Christian-singleness-while-not-succumbing-to-lust books. But now that Alex and I were together—I cast a reassuring look down at my Manolos—I didn’t feel the need for the how-to-be-content-without- a-man scenarios. And since my particular man was in a whole different country for who knew how long, steering clear of lust wasn’t exactly an issue.
I sighed and headed to the counter to pay Amy and order another mocha to go with my muffin. On my way, I passed by the animals section and noticed a book on emus. Ugh. Thanks to a recent assignment at a nearby farm, I now know more about those distant cousins to the ostrich than I ever wanted to.
That’s the one downside to my job.
I thought of my salary. Okay, one of the downsides. The way things were going this week, most of my life was a downside.
When I majored in journalism, I never dreamed I’d be writing about emus, pigs, goat roping, and pigeon racing. (Yes, pigeons race. And if you really want to know more about that sport, although I can’t imagine why you would, Google it.) Loving His Girl Friday, Teacher’s Pet, and All the President’s Men, I’d always fantasized about being an investigative reporter going after a big scoop.
What I got was a job writing obits. Then I’d graduated to covering livestock . . . and craft fairs
. . . and restaurant openings. And I was fast learning that politics wasn’t really my thing either—at least not the small-town variety. You try attending water boards, school boards, and cemetery district board meetings on a regular basis and tell me they’re not boring with a capital B.
What I really longed to write were movie reviews and “lifestyle” columns. The movie reviews I was already doing, though on a limited basis, and they were my favorite part of my job.
Next to seeing Alex every day, of course.
Which was so not happening at the moment.
Back home, I powered up my laptop and checked my messages. Nothing from the man I loved. Heavy sigh.
But wait, what was this?
To: Movielovr
From: Etraveler
Hi, Phoebe, I’m writing from an Internet café in Munich. How’s Barley? I’d say I missed you all, but I’d be lying. Having too much fun. Although Millie, my traveling buddy, is about to drive me up the wall. She’s the slowest person I’ve ever met. Never knew it took so long for a body to get ready in the mornings. The time she spends on her hair and makeup is enough for me to have finished my breakfast and then some. But aside from that, my trip’s been WONDERFUL. Don’t know why I waited all these years. Had some schnitzel with mushrooms—called Jaeger schnitzel—that just melted in my mouth. The country is beautiful. So clean. Tomorrow we’re off to Austria. I’ll think of you when I’m eating my Sacher torte.
Auf Wiedersehen, Esther
I tried not to be jealous of my globetrotting, seventy-something friend, but it was difficult. Of course, everything seemed difficult these days. Something to do with the man I adore being so far away, and now Esther too, while I was still stuck in Barley. Oh, and let’s not forget my best friend grabbing the happily-ever-after engagement ring either . . .
Envious, much?
Sorry, God. Guess I really need those quiet times to help me with such unchristian attitudes as envy and resentment and discontent.
But the quiet times were difficult too!
Thinking back on my conversation with Amy, I decided I’d try an after-dinner quiet time. I closed my laptop, pulled out my devotional and Bible, and curled up in my chair to read. But I just couldn’t concentrate. After fiddling around for fifteen minutes, I finally gave up and flipped open my computer again.
Hooray! Finally, a reply from Alex.
To: Movielovr
From: Filmguy791
Hi, Barley girl. Sorry to be so long getting back to you—things have been impossibly hectic here. I already knew about Phil and Lindsey. Phil e-mailed me to tell me he was going to propose.
What? How come Phil didn’t tell me? We’ve been friends longer.
Now don’t go and get all in a huff that he didn’t confide in you. Phil knew there was no way you’d be able to keep it from Lindsey—she’d have heard it in your voice. So he decided the info had to be classified FMO—for men only.
Dad’s doing better. Thanks for asking. Our colleague George is a huge help at the office. Delia, too. Don’t know what we’d do without them.
I miss you too, Phoebe. I miss everyone there in Barley. Every time a bell rings here, I think: An angel just got his wings, and somebody just opened the door at the Barley Bulletin.
Must run, though—lots going on. Talk later.
I signed off the Net with a smile on my face. Whenever a bell rings here—he really was thinking of me. For a few minutes I lost myself in a dream of the time when we’d finally be together again. I’ll meet him at the airport, and he’ll run when he sees me, and I’ll finally get my kiss . . .
But the next minute my smile slipped a little.
He forgot to say when he’s coming home.
Two weeks later, Alex still hadn’t said.
He e-mailed often, but mostly about work-related stuff, letting Gordon and me know he still needed to stay and help his Dad out with the business and entrusting us to keep the Bulletin running smoothly in his absence. Over time, his personal e-mails to me grew less and less personal and more and more brief. He was always having to rush off to a meeting or family event or something.
But I understood. Or tried to. After all, Alex was a busy, important executive with a major newspaper empire to handle. He didn’t need selfish, neurotic me hanging on his every e-mail. Right?
The trouble was, Lindsey was e-mailing me daily. Several times a day, in fact. And she was driving me crazy.
To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog
Hey maid of honor, what do you think would be better for the reception—a sit-down dinner or hors d’oeuvres?
I’d give her my two cents:
To: LinsRog
From: Movielovr
Depends on how many people you’re planning to invite. Dinner can get pretty expensive per plate. So you’ve decided definitely on an evening wedding then?
But by then she’d have moved on to something else.
To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog
I’m thinking of going with magnets with our name and wedding date on them and bubbles for the wedding favors. They have these cute little bubble containers in the shape of two hearts. What do you think?
Before I’d even have a chance to respond to that, another e-mail would arrive:
To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog
Definitely going with the bubbles. But I saw the coolest favor on this celebrity wedding special recently—cookies with a picture of the bride and groom on the frosting for each guest! (That way you could bite Phil’s head off and not get in trouble.)
I’d like to bite your head off.
Bad maid of honor, bad, my best-friend self said.
I can’t help it, my distressingly single, boyfriend-across-the-ocean self whined.
If Lindsey didn’t e-mail, she’d call. About more wedding stuff. Often she’d call and e-mail the same day. Every conversation, every e-mail, every single word out of her mouth revolved around the wedding—which just served to highlight all the more dramatically how unengaged I was.
But the day my best friend took the wedding cake was when she told me she’d be doing the traditional bouquet toss.
I couldn’t believe it. Whenever we’d attended weddings together—and we’d attended a lot of them, usually of couples who’d met at Lone Rangers—she and I had always escaped to the ladies’ room when it came time for the ritual throwing of the bouquet. No way were we going to be a part of the pack of desperate, shoving single women all elbowing each other to participate in the passing of the floral bridal torch.
Now Lindsey had bought into it! It made no sense. The only thing I could figure was that she’d had a wedding lobotomy. I’d done my best to share in all her bridal excitement, but after several weeks of nonstop wedding discussions, I was a little weddinged out.
And tired of my job.
And missing Alex.
And envying Esther.
And still not doing so great with quiet times . . . at any time of day.
To be honest, January was not turning out to be my best month ever.
But then something happened that drove even my own misery out of my mind.
[chapter five]
Straight on ’til Morning
i’d stopped by Mom’s on my way home from work to show her a postcard Esther had sent me from Italy:
Hey Phoebe,
The Sistine Chapel is one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. You can’t believe the colors! Glorious. Such reverence. Also saw the Pietà. Brought me to my arthritic knees. If man can create such glory, how can there not be a Creator who created man? I said that to one of the purple ladies who doesn’t believe. Got her to thinking. Next stop, party time in the City of Lights! After that, London and you know what. Can’t wait! (I’m going to make one of those stiff-upper-lipped English guards crack a smile if it’s the last thing I do.)
Ciao from Esther, the old world traveler
I tapped the postcard on the kitchen counter and grinned.
“Do you realize Esther’s seen more in the past couple of weeks than either of us have seen in our entire lives?”
“I know. And at her age too. Puts us to shame, daughter.”
There were times I was sure my Mom was part Amish. Or at least stuck in a fifties domestic time warp that her mom had placed her in. Not that she had ever done the Donna Reed thing with housedresses, heels, and pearls. Denim jumpers and hippie-type moccasins had been more her style—and for years, a long gray braid down the middle of her back.
That had changed about four months ago. After a very emotional letting-down-our-hair time that had brought us closer together, I’d talked her into updating her look and treated her to a makeover at Sylvia Ann’s beauty shop, The Bobby Pin.
Now she looked more like Liz Taylor in those perfume ads. Except for the diamonds, of course. And the fact that she can cook circles around anyone in town. And her strange little Amish-like turns of phrase—like calling her only daughter “daughter.”
Mom put the kettle on. “One thing’s for sure, England will never be the same once Esther’s through with it. If anyone can get one of those reserved English redcoats to smile, it’s her.”
“Hope she doesn’t pinch him, though.”
“What in the world are you talking about, daughter?”
We were still chuckling over my explanation when Gordon’s car pulled into the driveway. Mom opened the back door for him, giggling. “Well this is a nice sur—”
She stopped short. Gordon’s expression was bleak. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Esther. She—she—” He gripped my mother’s arm. “She’s dead.”
“What?” I felt the color drain from my face, and I jumped to my feet. “That can’t be. I just got a postcard from her today.”
“I’m sorry, Phoebe. Alex just called. Esther died last night in her sleep in London.” He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes.
Mom hugged him, but I stared in disbelief. “But how . . .”
Gordon wiped his eyes. “Her roommate, Millie, said Esther was usually the first one up in the morning, already showered and dressed and ready to go down to breakfast before she’d even gotten out of bed. But this morning when she woke up, Esther was still sleeping. But they’d gotten to bed late the night before, so Millie just figured Esther needed her sleep. She went ahead and took the first shower, but Esther was still in bed when she came out of the bathroom. Millie went to wake her and couldn’t . . .”
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 6
