by Tricia Goyer
Right even.
How would they be seen when they returned? Would folks consider them changed too? She picked out some apples from the bin and placed them in her basket and nodded to herself. Of course people would notice. They had changed. Difference was they'd be packing up and returning to Montana. And Marianna? Ruth would jest have to pray harder for her daughter. But it would not be easy for Marianna . . .
To fit into an old world that her expanding heart and convictions had outgrown.
Ben slicked his hand through his hair. Why did he let Roy talk him into letting it grow?
"You look more artsy," Roy had said. "Like you fit in with the other musicians." The thing was, longer hair and the right clothes didn't make things even easier. He didn't fit in. He didn't feel comfortable sitting at the table with the concert planning team. They were all nice enough, but they didn't talk to him . . . they talked about him. About his songs, his schedule, his merchandise. They didn't know him. Could care less how he liked his coffee and had no idea that when he locked up his cabin, leaving inside the photo of he and Marianna, he'd cried. He was an image to them, a voice, a paycheck.
As if reading his thoughts, Roy slid a paper across the table. "Did you read this? Four hundred and thirteen stations have had your song as their top request in the last week! It's spreading. People can picture you there, Ben, in that cabin, hoping for what you don't have."
Bernice Nutzhorn, Roy's assistant, piped up. "More than that, they feel like they're there themselves. Even if they're in a relationship, the song makes them long for what they're missing out on. That's the mark of a true hit, one the listener can identify with. One that brings tears and a wistful smile." She tapped her red painted fingernails to her lips as if giving herself kudos for coming up with something so profound.
Yet her words were like a pinprick to Ben's heart. Since he'd grown closer to God, he'd wanted to point folks to a life of peace. Happiness was as fleeting as dandelion puffs carried on the wind, or icicles on a warming winter's day. Happiness couldn't be contained, protected. There was nothing peaceful about his song—or about the longing within him.
Roy steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table. "The concerts are going well. You've been on the road three months?"
Ben nodded. "Yes, with three more to go."
The room went silent and everyone looked to Roy.
"Actually, Ben, we wanted to talk to you about extending that. We were thinking sixteen more weeks. The venues are falling into place—in fact we're getting calls left and right."
Five sets of eyes looked at him. He'd done well with the traveling, the guys on the bus, the concerts. He enjoyed the fans, but . . . he missed Montana, the mountains and the people. Then again, could he handle being there with Marianna so far away, planning her wedding, starting a new life?
"The concerts are being set up in the Midwest—Illinois, Iowa, Indiana . . .
"Indiana?" Ben ran a hand through his hair.
Bernice flipped through some pages on her clipboard, stopping on one that was highlighted. "Yes, that's right."
Ben shrugged. He was a man drowning in a massive ocean, alone and desperate, and so he reached for the hand that was offered him, no matter how thin and weak it was. "Sure. Why not."
Roy rose, tossed his car keys in the air, caught them, and pointed to Bernice. "Set it up." Then with a parting wave to Ben he hurried out of the room. "You won't regret this, Ben. I have a good feeling about this one."
Ben walked out of the studio and made a beeline to the rental car, then paused. Great. Which car did he have this week? Oh, right. The black Bentley GTC convertible. He walked over to the car and got in, then pulled out of the studio parking lot and drove toward his favorite destination in these parts: the Santa Monica Pier. Roy had taken Ben car shopping a few times, but it seemed foolish to spend money on something like that. His old truck in Montana did just fine. After a while he'd convinced Roy of that. Now if he could just convince Roy to stop renting these fancy cars. Roy, of course, said that one never knew who'd be snapping a photo and when, and Ben needed to look like a success to be successful. He'd tried to tell Roy his greatest success was who he was inside because of God, but his manager only nodded and smiled, like he always did when Ben tried to share his faith.
He turned the car west onto Sunset Boulevard, heading to Palm Avenue. Thankfully, he'd escaped the studio before rush hour. He could feel the tension slipping away as he drove. Maybe he should go sit on the sand to watch the sunset, pen and paper in hand.
Roy got Ben a smart phone, but most of the time Ben forgot the thing back in the hotel room. There was something about writing his thoughts in one of the cheap, lined notebooks he picked up. He wrote letters to folks back up in Montana, and a few more letters that would never be mailed. He also made sure to write his weekly letter to a young man or woman who was getting in trouble with alcohol. That was his mission today.
Twenty-five minutes later, Ben parked at the pier. It being a weekday, the parking lot was almost empty. Only a few people walked their dogs on the sand. One young couple sat in jeans and sweatshirts and shared a picnic lunch. There was a slight breeze, but he wouldn't call it cold. The sun hung in the sky over the horizon and streams of light rippled in from the distant waters. He strode toward the water and picked a random place to sit.
In the front cover of his notebook he'd written the name of the kid he needed to write this week.
"Jordan Marie Dyson," he mumbled under his breath. Above Jordan's name ten others were listed. Since Ben had been released from prison five years ago he had a dozen notebooks like these. He always made sure to pray for the names listed in the front covers. Maybe in eternity he'd find out how his prayers made a difference.
But right now, his thoughts were on Jordan, whoever she was.
Dear Jordan,
You may be wondering why you're getting this letter from someone you don't know. I'm writing you because I got your name from my parole officer. You see, about six years ago I did something very stupid. A good friend and I had been drinking a lot. He passed out and instead of realizing the trouble he was in, I laughed at him and went to bed. Unfortunately the next morning I woke up and he was dead.
Ben paused, and kicked off his shoes. He pushed his toes deep into the cool sand. He closed his eyes and pictured that awful moment. A heaviness settled on his chest and a tremor moved through his gut. He'd never forget the feeling of picking up Jason's cold hand, searching for a pulse in his wrist. When he didn't find one, horror jabbed a knife into his heart.
Ben picked up his pen again.
For a long time after Jason's death I thought I deserved bad things. I felt as if experiencing any happiness would be like throwing rocks at Jason's grave, but over the years God has shown me the best thing I can do for my friend is to share the memories about his life. And try to reach out to young people like yourself so they don't have to learn the hard way like I did.
In the Bible, Psalm 147 talks about God healing the brokenhearted and bandaging up their wounds. What I didn't realize until about a year after Jason's death is that I was brokenhearted long before he died. I'd pretty much decided that life wasn't fair and I was hurt God didn't do more to give me a fair shake. I buried my disappointment and anger with booze, but once I turned my life over to God, and realized that He'd be with me in good times and in bad, well things started looking brighter.
It's not that everything changed and became perfect overnight. In fact, I'm going through a tough time right now because a woman I hoped to marry some day is in love with another person. Yet, even when life doesn't turn out how I wish it would, God is with me. I can feel Him, just as I can feel the sun on my face. And I want you to know that I'm not telling you this because I'm court-ordered to do so (even though I am).
Instead, I'm sharing my heart because even though I don't know you, I believe in you. I also know that it is not just by chance that your name was sent to me. God has been trying to speak to yo
u. Maybe you should just pause for a while and think about all the different ways He has. Also, pause and think about what He wants to say. My guess is that it's something like: "I love you, Jordan. I have good plans for you."
Ben ended the letter as he always did, sharing how it was possible to have a personal relationship with Christ and writing out a simple prayer she could pray. When he finished, he tore the letter out and placed it in an envelope, addressed it, and sealed it. Then, holding it with two hands, he lifted it up, with the setting sun and the rippling waves as a backdrop, and prayed over it. He prayed that God would prepare Jordan's heart for the words to come. He prayed for the other names in his notebook. Prayed that the words he'd sent to them in the past weeks would resurrect when they needed them most.
A new thought stirred as he prayed. For so long his name hadn't meant anything. He'd just been some guy from Montana writing these letters. But now—with his songs on the radio and his face in tabloid magazines—maybe getting a letter from him would matter more.
He smiled. Wouldn't that be just like God to make him a star so one kid would pay closer attention to the words he had to share?
Ben tucked the letter into his back jean pocket and considered writing another letter. What would Marianna do if he wrote to tell her he'd be in Indiana in the coming weeks? He shook his head and stood. No, he wouldn't do that to her. She had made a decision and had chosen Aaron. If he felt God telling him to fight for Marianna he would, but he didn't feel that. Instead, he knew he needed to wait and to pray.
He put his shoes back on, rose, and headed back to his rental car. There were millions of people in L.A., but Ben had never felt more alone as he drove back to the hotel. He just had to trust that what he'd written to Jordan was true—that God would heal the brokenhearted. And as far as Ben was concerned, he was at the top of that list.
Ten days later Ben found himself in Cleveland, not that the town looked any different from any other place he'd been. They drove in at night and spent all day at the venue. To him all cities looked the same—a sea of smiling faces, mostly women.
He leaned closer to the microphone. "It's said the best songs are those that stir emotions for the musician. Music is more than chords and tempos. It's more than lyrics. Half of every song is created with my fingertips on the guitar and with my voice. The other half focuses on the heart."
"You can have my heart!" A girl near the front row shouted.
He winked at her then continued without missing a beat. "The singer must believe the words he sings to make it a beautiful song."
A man in the front row cleared his throat and the woman next to him chuckled as if understanding a private joke. A woman in row five rose and hurried out of the room.
"Stick to singing," Roy had told him over and over. "That's what they pay to see."
But if he had to be on the road, at least he could do God's work.
Ben's gut tightened and he spoke faster. They'd come to hear a song, but he couldn't let them leave without knowing his faith, his heart. "This song is important to me, because it makes me think of someone I care for. I don't have her in my life. I doubt I ever will, but God has given me the peace to walk away from her. Of course"—he chuckled—"I'd rather have her, but sometimes what we get seems like second best, especially when it has to do with matters of the heart."
A collective "oh" rose from the women in the audience, and Ben imagined numerous women elbowing the guy they'd come with as if saying, "You should be thankful."
And with that he started playing the song that the world loved, but that broke his heart nearly every time he sang it.
"Entered my cabin, all warm from the fire,
Muscles were achin', worn out n' tired
From hard work like granddaddy did—
Ever' day of his life."
Looking out in the crowd Ben saw many beautiful women, but none seemed as beautiful to him as the memory he had of Marianna. He took a breath and continued on.
"Got my cabin deep in the woods
But need somethin' more to call it all good
To fill the aching hole in my life—
Cuz every warm cabin
Needs a good wife
You're nothing alone, you're everything together
Aches all fade when someone helps you weather
the hard times,
Come fill my heart, come fill my life—
Every warm cabin
Needs a good wife
My granddaddy told me, "If you wanna be whole,
Son, find a good woman who fills up your soul.
Whose smile brings sunshine, whose laughter rings true—
'Cuz son, life ain't nothin' 'til you do."
Then came the day I looked in your eyes,
I knew granddad's words were heartfelt and wise.
Your smile, your laughter proved my grandad knew
A thing or two about life.
Your gray eyes a'dreamin', your smile so warm
could melt all the ice from the cold winter's storm,
And by the March thaw, my soul came to life
When I asked gray-eyed girl to be called my wife.
You settled my heart, you warmed up my life
The day you agreed to be called my wife.
You said:
We're nothing alone, We're everything together
Aches all fade when someone helps you weather
The hard times,
I'll enter your heart, I'll enter your life
Every warm cabin,
Needs a good wife
Baby,
We're nothing alone, we're everything together
Aches all fade when someone helps you weather
The hard times,
You entered my heart, you entered my life
Every warm cabin, needs a good wife
Got a warm cabin, got a good life,
Got all I need
Ever' day with my wife."
Ben finished the last chords and opened his eyes. The auditorium was full and all eyes were on him.
Focused on his tears.
Chapter Twelve
Ruth's hands folded and then unfolded on her lap. She cupped them again as if holding an invisible warmth inside. The Carashes' woodstove heated the room, but that wasn't the warmth she tried to grasp. It was the prayers lifted up. Words of care for each other.
Folks back home would say it's wrong. All of it . . .
Gathering like this. Talking out loud in prayer. Bringing attention to yourself by speaking what's on one's mind to God—as if He needed any guidance figuring stuff out. The problem was . . . something about it felt right to Ruth. Her heart grew warm to hear her and Abe's names on Deborah Shelter's lips. Tears rimmed the edges of her eyes to hear Deborah's daughter praying for Marianna's adjustment back to Indiana and her relationship with Aaron.
"May Marianna and Aaron's marriage be founded in truth and stitched together with faithfulness," Sarah prayed. The tears came because Ruth could think of no more beautiful prayer than that. Yet as the muscles tightened in her neck, threatening to cut off the flow of air, she realized neither truth nor faithfulness had joined her and Abe together—not at first. Over the years feelings for Mark had unraveled, and thick threads of love for Abe had taken their place—not with neat stitches but with jagged lines that came as God carried them through the hard times together.
Ruth found it easy to let her mind wander when those praying spoke of people and problems she did not know, but her senses jerked awake when Abe stirred on the sofa seat beside her. He cleared his throat.
Surely he wasn't going to—
"Dear Lord, I come before Ye a man of feeble words. I did not grow in a home that spoke words of prayer aloud, yet their love fer You was known. Help me in my own family to show them what loving Ye is all about. I'm faltering 'cause this is a new path, a different way. But it feels right. It's a way of love . . ."
Ruth waited to see if he would continue, but after a long pause an
other voice rose up. The tremble of Abe's arm pressed against hers. With slow moments, she released her clenched hands, allowing the warmth she'd captured there to move up to her heart. She reached out and placed her hands over Abe's folded ones and the trembling stopped.
His words were true. This did feel good and right, and that was the problem. Ruth had allowed emotions to overtake her before, and they led to the wrong places—places of pain. Marianna had almost done the same. Ruth had seen the way her daughter had looked at Ben Stone and he at her. She shook her head in slow increments. To let emotions run wild wasn't always the answer. Like wild horses, they pulled and raced down destructive paths.
She let out a low breath, thankful Marianna was in Indiana far away from Ben, and then attempted to refocus her mind on the prayers around them.
And as the others prayed, she silently added in prayers for her children—for Levi and Naomi and the baby to come. For their wedding. For their life together.
