Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  B.

  She sends the e-mail.

  Yes, it will be good to get Jenna away for a few days.

  What we call the "death of will" is the passing of your will into His will.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Matthew

  OPPOSITES ATTRACT. BUMMER, right? Wouldn't it be easier to be in relationship with someone who views life through the same set of lenses? Man, it sure seems like it'd be easier. Take Tess and me. She's quiet. I'm, well, not. She appreciates culture. I love a good baseball game and a paper tray of nachos—you know, slathered in the bright orange goo. She's passionate about fashion. I'm passionate about the worn flannel shirt I've had since my freshman year of college.

  Surface issues. No big deal.

  I appreciate what Tess adds to my life—a little class, for one thing. But she also tones me down, which isn't a bad thing. I'm exuberant if I'm nothing else. And sometimes that overwhelms people. I've learned from Tess to give thought to the words that shoot out of my mouth before I pull the trigger. Okay, I still pull the trigger too soon sometimes. But now, I'm at least aware that I need to apologize afterwards. Tess has made me a better counselor. A better spiritual director. A better man.

  It's when you and your spouse veer in opposite directions on the deeper issues that it's like hitting a patch of ice and spinning out of control. The thing to do then is take your hands off the wheel and surrender. Trying to force things back under your control just makes matters worse.

  Trust me.

  When I counsel couples, clients look to me for the answers. They expect that I have it all together. Sure, I have the book knowledge, but applying that knowledge in everyday life is challenging. Joining two flawed lives into one harmonious unit? That's work. Even for me.

  Or as Tess might say, especially for me.

  As a spiritual director, clients are looking to God for the answers and I'm just along for the ride. Sure, some people confuse my role—think of me as a go-between, a priest of sorts, but when that happens, I make it clear. I'm just an observer of their process. A listener. An interpreter of sorts. As a spiritual director, I'm, as Skye put it, a fellow pilgrim on the journey and I'm as much in need of grace as the next guy.

  Tess and I hit our patch of ice about a year into our marriage as we discovered that our fundamental priorities differ. Big time. Weird that we didn't see it when we were dating. Back to the lenses—those rose-colored lenses distort our vision when we're in the throes of emotional love.

  For instance, when Tess said she didn't want children, I thought, yeah right, who doesn't want kids? She's just not ready. Instead, what Tess meant was she doesn't want children.

  Period.

  Ever.

  She has her reasons, and they're valid for her. But man, I've looked forward forever to the day when I'd have a little dude or dudette holding my hand and exploring the world alongside me. I want to nurture, and love, and share what's most important to me with a little sponge who'll soak it all up. I want to offer them the love of God, to be a picture of the Father as a father. I want to toss a ball, sit at ballet recitals, and put Band-Aids on boo-boos.

  God put those desires in me. They're in my wiring. Yet, it doesn't seem He's wired Tess that way.

  So, for a time, I encouraged her. I shared my view. Often. Okay, I even tried to bribe her. Not good. Don't try that. And I hounded her. The more I hounded, the more she hid. It took awhile before I got that I was asking her to be someone she isn't. I was disrespecting who she is. I was saying, I don't like the way God wired you and I want to rewire you.

  Not only was I disrespecting Tess—I was disrespecting the God who created her.

  Heavy sigh.

  If I loved her—and man, I do—then I had to surrender.

  Not to her.

  To God.

  I had to take my hands off the wheel and let the car spin and pray for God to bring it, me, under His loving authority.

  I am not a hands-off kind of guy, you know? So this wasn't and isn't easy. But easy isn't always better.

  But see, that's the beauty of opposites attracting. In the process, when we surrender our will, God molds us and transforms us. And as a husband, when I sacrifice for my wife, I'm loving her in a way that resembles Christ's love for us. I become more Christlike.

  Awesome!

  Dude. Painful.

  But awesome!

  The printer finishes sputtering and spits out the last several www.iluminar.me entries. I gather them up, grab my Bible off the desk, and pad, barefoot, to the other side of the kitchen where our Mr. Coffee has also finished its sputtering. I grab my favorite San Francisco Giants mug, fill it, add creamer, and head for the recliner in the living room. I plop the Bible and blog entries on the TV tray next to my chair.

  Yeah, the recliner and TV tray were definite concessions on Tess's part. We're keeping our eyes peeled for an affordable side table to replace the tray. I sit in the chair, kick my feet up, and take my first sip of coffee.

  "Ahh . . . good stuff."

  "Morning, babe." Tess's velvet voice warms me. She walks by my chair on her way to the kitchen and I lift my hand for a high five. She slaps me five, grabs my hand, and then bends to kiss my open palm. When she straightens, she tosses her head and her long, auburn hair falls across her shoulders. She winks one of her gorgeous green eyes at me.

  "Yowza! You look great." I look her up and down. "Let me guess, uh . . . Tommy? No, wait. Michael?"

  "Oh, you're good. It's Michael."

  Michael Kors, in case you're wondering. The sheath, another name for the straight, sleeveless dress she's wearing, shows off her sleek figure. "Busy day?"

  "Yeah, and I'm running late." She turns her back to me and bends at the knee. "Can you zip me?"

  I reach for the zipper and pull it up the last inch or so to the top of her dress.

  "Thanks." She turns and looks at the stuff piled on the tray. She doesn't say anything, but I know she doesn't get my morning ritual.

  Another patch of ice.

  She comes back through with a thermal mug of coffee and her briefcase slung over her shoulder. "I looked her up last night." She points to the printouts on the tray. "I read several of her posts. I can see why you're addicted. I'm dying to know what happens between her and the witch she lives with." She bends, kisses me, and heads for the front door, where she grabs her jacket off the coat rack. "See ya . . . Oh, hey, I'm making lasagna tonight."

  "Yeah? What's the occasion?"

  "You're the occasion."

  "Love ya, babe." After the front door closes, I say to God, "Cool. Thanks." Not for the lasagna—though that's cool too—but because Tess decided to read the blog.

  Tess and I met—and married—young. She is my first and only love. But we've grown in different directions. It happens. We're each unique creations. Where my fledgling relationship with God shot off like a rocket in my midtwenties, hers was a slow sizzle that fizzled.

  Man, nothing hurts me more.

  Deeper than my desire for kids is my longing to share the wonder of God with my wife. But again, we're wired different. I'm a feeler, all emotion and passion. She's a thinker who analyzes the facts, and for her, they haven't added up. Yet.

  In our early years, my exuberance for God pushed Tess away. From me. Maybe even from God. Now, I hold my feelings close. Like a great poker hand, I don't announce it to the table. I let the cards tell their own story.

  And I pray.

  Lots.

  I pick up the pile of papers off the tray and begin reading. Like Tess, I'm curious to see how Lightseeker will respond to the woman whose emotional abuse she endures. In my professional opinion, the behavior is destructive. And that's just one issue this gal is facing. But there's a new strength in her—and baby, it's not her o
wn.

  If her story draws people like Tess, great! Because, as they read, they will see the heart of God in every post. Funny, but her posts are so real, so transparent, that I feel like I know this woman. I'm going to sound like a sissy, even to myself, but dude, this woman stirs my soul—my passion.

  I set the pages aside before I've even finished the first post and, as I often do, I pray for Lightseeker.

  Be assured that God does not invade the unwilling soul . . .

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Andee

  THE MOST IMPORTANT thing I learned from my adolescence was to trust my gut. My instinct developed along with my father's drinking habit. From my small room in the apartment, I could hear the ice clinking and then crackling in the glass as he poured his first drink of the day. The third time I heard the clink and crackle, I knew it was time to leave—whether it was 10:00 a.m. or 10:00 p.m.

  I downshift as I reach the Golden Gate and a clot of traffic. Thursday is the new Friday and it seems everyone is headed out of the city for a long weekend.

  Was the ice trick instinct? Maybe not. Maybe that was learned behavior. But the times I knew I needed to leave the apartment before I heard the ice and didn't? Those were the times that taught me to trust my gut.

  I learned to move, ghostlike, and slip out the front door, undetected. I knew it was better to spend a day at the library or a night on the street rather than under my father's drunken hand.

  I also learned another important skill during those years: bluffing. On the rare occasion that he caught me leaving, I mastered the art of the bluff. "Oh, I'm meeting Mr. Mallory at school to help him grade math tests. I'm his aid this semester." Or "I'm spending the night at Stephanie's. Her parents are out of town and she's afraid to stay alone." Whatever. Just say anything to appease him—to get out.

  I weave back into the fast lane and put my foot on the accelerator. The Porsche 911 GT2 RS responds and shoots past the slower traffic. This car moves!

  Heeding my instinct and bluffing are the two skills that serve me best in the business world. I get the last laugh. Whatever cosmic game was being played with my life in those years, I wound up the winner.

  I think back to my lunch with Gerard and Brigitte and my suggestion that Bill and Jason might be ready to entertain an offer for Azul. A bluff based on what my gut tells me. Sure Jason gave me his speech about what Azul means to the family, but I watched Bill the evening we met. As we discussed the economy and the impact on local wineries, his foot tapped under the table. His eyes shifted when Jason spoke of the strength of Azul's financial foundation. The vein in his neck bulged.

  Maybe Bill's hiding something from Jason. Or maybe he just had indigestion. Time will tell. But I also heard the passion in both Bill and Jason as they spoke of soil, vines, varieties, crop yield, aging, blends, blah, blah, blah.

  These two are artisans. What they are not is businessmen.

  "Hey, move it!" I slam my palm on the horn until the idiot in front of me has the sense to move out of the fast lane.

  So I'll wait and watch. Opportunities present themselves to those who are patient and attentive. And I smell an opportunity with Azul. I wouldn't do anything to hurt Jason. But if Azul's in trouble, and my gut says it is, then brokering a sale for them would be in their best interest, of course. And why not keep it in the family? It makes sense that Jenna's family by marriage would bail out her family of origin.

  And for some reason, Brigitte wants Azul. I'd stake my life on it.

  As long as it's legal, all's fair in business.

  I think of the weekend ahead. A fortuitous invitation from Gerard and Jenna for Jason and I to join them at the Bouvier chateau, as they call it. "It's Napa people, not Nice." Whatever. The timing is perfect. If Gerard says anything to Jason about Azul being on my list of recommended acquirements, I'll be there to cover myself. For every good bluff, there needs to be an equally good cover—just in case.

  A car changes lanes ahead of me and cuts me off. "What the—!" I switch lanes, pass him, and glare.

  My heart pounds and my neck and shoulders ache. I'm accustomed to stress—it comes with the job, but this evening, it seems to have the upper hand. I pull the seat belt strap away from my chest and roll my shoulders. As I do, a memory smacks me. My dad at the wheel of our station wagon with his window rolled down and his head hanging out as he yelled at another driver who'd cut him off. As he swore, his spittle blew back, hitting me in the face. We careened down the highway, him swerving, as he blasted the guy in the next car. I'd slouched behind him in the backseat, terrified. Afraid we were going to crash. Afraid of what my father might do. Or of what the other driver might do to my father.

  I shake my head. What's with all this angst? I'm nothing like him. The very thought disgusts me. But it's also a reality check. What's eating at me? Why can't I shake this feeling of doom? The thought that around the next corner it's all going to fall apart, everything I've worked so hard to construct.

  Will I ever reach a point where I can rest? Will the demons that taunt me ever lay off? How much money will it take for that to happen?

  How much money will it take to fill the emptiness?

  Drive determines destiny. At the rate I'm driving myself my destiny may be my demise.

  I shudder.

  I glance at the clock on the dash. 5:34 p.m. I'm supposed to meet Jason, who worked in the valley today, at the chateau at 6:30 p.m. I have plenty of time. "What's the rush, Andee? Ease up."

  I flip my signal and maneuver to the slow lane. I turn on the radio and search for something in the easy listening genre rather than the talk radio I prefer. I loosen my grip on the wheel and stretch my fingers.

  The music grates and the tension remains. I flip the radio off.

  Security is what I'm after. Any moron could look at my childhood and understand why financial security is important to me. I don't need a shrink to figure that out. So why don't I feel secure?

  I think, as I have a dozen times this week, about the author of the blog highlighted in Urbanity. I, like all the other suckers who read the blog, am hooked. I may not agree with the way this woman is handling her life—I'd boot the biddy who's treating her like dirt—but, even in the midst of it, she is sure. Secure. She believes God is for her. Not against her.

  I know better.

  I thrum my fingers on the steering wheel.

  Whatever.

  This weekend will be good. The way my mind is jack-rabbiting down senseless trails, it's obvious I need a break.

  A little vacation.

  I reach for the radio, turn it back on, and tune it back to KGO Newstalk but just as I get involved in the topic, my phone rings and cuts the radio. I click the phone button on the console. "Hello."

  "Hi, hey I have a message for you that I thought might be important." Cassidy's voice reverberates through the interior of the car.

  "Okay, who called?"

  "Bill Durand. He left his cell number."

  "Bill Durand? Really? What's his number?"

  Cass repeats his number and I file it in my mind.

  "One more thing, he asked that you call him when you have a few minutes alone."

  "Got it. Thanks, Cass."

  I hang up and smile. Instinct? I won't know for sure until I talk to him, but everything in me says there's only one reason Jason's dad would call me. He's in need of a little financial advice.

  I flick the voice activation button on the console and speak Bill's number. He answers on the first ring.

  "Bill Durand."

  "Bill, it's Andee Bell."

  "Andee, thanks for getting back to me. Sounds like you're on the road?"

  "Yes, I'm meeting Jason in the valley for the weekend. Gerard and Jenna invited us to stay with them."

  "Jason ment
ioned that. Listen, I hope this doesn't put you in an awkward spot, but I wondered if you'd have some time to meet and discuss a business matter. I could use some input."

  "Sure, Bill, I'd be happy to meet. What works for you?"

  "Well, Jason said he and Gerard have a few appointments tomorrow—looking at some wineries that Brigitte is interested in acquiring. Jason's always interested in seeing what other vintners are up to, so he's going along. Any chance you and I could grab a cup of coffee together while they're tied up?"

  "I don't see why not. I'll tell Jenna I have a meeting."

  "Great. Shouldn't take long."

  We discuss a time and place to meet and then Bill hesitates. "Uh . . . like I said, I don't want to put you in an awkward spot, but it might be better, at this point, if neither Jason nor Jenna knows we're meeting. I'd like to get your input before—"

  "No problem. Confidentiality is my policy. Has to be with what I do. I'll look forward to talking."

  "Thanks, Andee. See you tomorrow."

  I punch the phone button on the console and laugh. "Instinct? You better believe it!"

  So much for vacationing.

  Seasons form and mature you. Each is needed just as a year must have different seasons.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jenna

  I LIE IN bed trying not to stir, trying to let Gerard sleep. I turn my head on my pillow and through the tall west-facing windows I watch the sky turn from the ink of night to the blush of dawn. I long to greet the morning in the vineyard. I listen to Gerard's steady breathing and decide I can slip out of bed without waking him. I ease the covers off and inch my way to the edge of the bed. Once out, I find a fleece sweatshirt of Gerard's in the closet, pull it over my pajamas, and step into my shearling-lined boots. I brush my teeth and my hair, put my cell phone in my pocket, and make my way down to the kitchen for coffee.