Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  She's given the metaphor a lot of thought. I go back to her stated desire, "So, you want to rest in God's love. Is our conversation shedding light on how that might occur?"

  "I need to persevere, I think." Then she sighs. "But . . ."

  I wait and say nothing. But what comes to mind is a recent post from Lightseeker about her reliance on her own strength. I see that same reliance in Jenna. Or, I think I do. That's not a judgment, just an observation. Believe me, I get it.

  "But . . . that isn't working. I'm"—her eyes fill with tears—"so weary. So tired." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Tired of trying so hard and not succeeding."

  I reach for the box of tissue I keep nearby and hand it to her and she wipes her eyes again.

  "I just want . . . more than anything . . . I want to please God. I want to do what He wants me to do. To handle things the way He'd have me handle them."

  I lean forward again. "Jenna, what happens when you dump your weariness on God? When you turn to Him and say, 'I just can't do it anymore?'"

  She hesitates. "I . . . I don't do that." She shakes her head. "I don't turn to God during those times. Because I think I should be able to handle whatever is going on."

  Energy courses through me and it takes every ounce of self-control to stay in my seat. I want to stand up and high-five her and say, "Yeah, baby! Now we're getting somewhere!" I can feel and see the Spirit working. Instead, oh man and it's hard, I just . . . nod. I give her time to process the awareness. "How would it feel to turn to God when you've hit that wall—when you're in that place of weariness?"

  She is silent and stares, again, at the flame of the candle. I watch as tears fill her eyes and fall down her cheeks. She covers her face with her hands and cries. Her sobs fill the space between us.

  "I'm . . . sorry." She says after several minutes. She reaches for more tissue and wipes her eyes and blows her nose.

  "There's no need to apologize. This is a place to be real. To feel. To express. To just be. A place to let the Spirit move you, even if He moves you to tears."

  She looks at me and the pain I read in her eyes cuts me to the core. She is dealing with more than she is saying. "Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

  "Relief . . . and guilt. Of course God wants to carry my burdens—wants me to rely on His strength rather than my own. I just . . . I forget. I think I have to be strong. To endure. To persevere. But . . . it's Him through me that will strengthen me. I feel bad, guilty, for not seeing that sooner. I regret withholding a part of myself from God. I've known I rely on myself too much. But I didn't see it as withholding myself from Him. But now, I see it . . . and I'm sorry."

  "Guilt is condemning, Jenna. There is no condemnation in Christ."

  She looks at me and those crystal blue eyes sparkle. "Right. That's right. Oh, Matthew . . . isn't God amazing?"

  This time, I do lean forward and put my hand in the air. She responds by slapping me five and giving me one of those dazzler smiles of hers.

  When I walk her to the office door after the session ends, she turns before leaving and places her hand on my arm.

  "Thank you, Matthew. This time was a gift."

  "I'm glad."

  She turns and walks out the door. When she reaches the curb in front of the office, I call out to her. "Hey, dude . . ." She turns and looks back at me, and the wind catches her long dark hair and it swirls around her face. "See ya next time."

  She laughs, reaches up and catches her hair, and pulls it back from her face. She waves and then turns back to hail a cab.

  I watch her get into the cab. I stand in the doorway for a long time after she's gone.

  Today was a game changer for me.

  Hard to explain.

  I know, I say that a lot. But when you're dealing with God, man, there's just so much that's beyond explanation. I feel it in my gut though—today was significant for reasons I don't yet get. I turn, step back into my office, and close the door. I know I have some unfinished business. With God. We need to talk through the issue I handed Him just after Jenna arrived.

  The issue being my reaction. To her? I'm not sure. But something in me stirred when she came in the door. I need to know what it was.

  For her sake.

  And my own.

  You see, most people would rather suffer anything than allow themselves to be dethroned in the kingdom of their own heart.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brigitte

  "MUST I ATTACH a tracking device to you? I've called several times. It would be helpful if you'd answer."

  After leaving the message, she hangs up the phone and bangs the handset down on her desk. She taps her acrylic nails on the desktop and then picks up the phone again and presses the intercom to the kitchen. "Hannah, please come see me upstairs."

  A few minutes later, there's a knock on her office door. "Come in."

  Hannah enters and stands in front of the desk. "Madame?"

  "Where is Jenna?"

  "I don't know. She said she had an appointment and left a couple of hours ago. She took a cab. She didn't say when she would return."

  "She isn't answering her phone."

  "I'll let you know when she comes back."

  "Have you taken care of the task I assigned you last week? Jenna's computer?"

  "Not yet. She took the laptop with her to the valley over the weekend. I checked it this afternoon, but everything is protected with a password."

  "Figure it out. Soon. Chose promise, chose due."

  "Madame?"

  "Nothing!" As though a servant would understand the importance of keeping one's promises. She looks back at her desk and begins shuffling through a file folder.

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes, Hannah. Go."

  When the office door closes again, Brigitte closes the file folder and drops it back on her desk. Where is she? She gets up from her desk, crosses the room, opens the door, and steps into the hallway where she listens before walking down the hall and crossing to Gerard and Jenna's suite. She opens the door and heads for Jenna's laptop sitting on the desk in the alcove. She lifts the lid and the screen lights up. A small box appears on the screen requesting a password.

  She slams the lid closed and riffles through a small stack of papers beside the laptop. Nothing significant. She opens Jenna's calendar and scans the date. There's a note jotted in Jenna's handwriting that says "M—3:00."

  M? What or who is she hiding?

  "Mother?"

  She turns. "Gerard, what are you doing here?" She glances at her watch.

  "I guess I could ask you the same thing. Looking for something?"

  "I'm concerned about Jenna. No one seems to know where she is. She left without telling anyone where she was going." She takes a few steps away from the desk toward Gerard. "Do you know where she is?"

  He hesitates. "She mentioned having an appointment this afternoon. She is an adult, mother."

  Her eyes narrow. "It's common courtesy to alert others to your plans. You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

  "My afternoon meeting ended early. I decided to come home rather than go back to the offices." He walks past her and heads toward the dressing area.

  "Gerard . . ."

  He stops and turns back toward her.

  "You'd better keep track of your wife."

  "What are you implying?"

  "Il n'est pire aveugle que celui qui ne veut pas voir." There are none so blind as those who will not see.

  Gerard shakes his head. "I am not blind, Mother. Jenna isn't hiding anything."

  She shrugs and walks out.

  Gerard starts to follow her and then stops. He seems to think better of it. But then, shaking his head, he crosses th
e room and heads down the hallway. "Mother, I asked you a question."

  She stops at the door to her room, her hand on the door handle, and looks back at him. "I don't care for your tone, Gerard."

  He takes a deep breath, "You don't need to concern yourself with Jenna."

  She drops her hand from the handle of the door and takes a few steps toward him. "It isn't your place to tell me what or with whom I concern myself."

  "She is my wife."

  "Oui. And if you want to keep it that way, I suggest you keep an eye on her." She heads back to her room, opens the door, and then shuts it behind her—dismissing him. She leans against the closed door and lets out a sigh.

  It seems her weekend getaway for Gerard and Jenna didn't have the hoped for effect. Whatever is stirring this new defiance in Jenna is now rubbing off on Gerard. Well, she won't stand for it. She turns around and opens the door to her room again and leans out, catching Gerard just before he walks back into his own suite. "Gerard, I'd like to speak to you in the solarium. We'll have a drink there before dinner. Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes."

  "Mother—"

  She closes her door before he can protest.

  The Lord is always near you as you seek His will simply and sincerely. He will support you and comfort you in times of trouble.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jenna

  AFTER MY APPOINTMENT with Matthew, I want time to process, time to think and pray through our conversation and the emotions it evoked. I ask the cab driver to take me to the park and drop me off near the main gate of the botanical gardens.

  I look at my watch and my stomach twists into a knot. For the first time in eleven years of living under Brigitte's roof, I told no one where I was going or when I'd return. Fear now strangles the sense of freedom I felt when I left. But I take a deep breath, exit the cab, and let the fall sun warm my shoulders as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the gardens.

  All around me, swaying in the breeze, are the giants of the park—the eucalyptus, Monterey cypress, and Canary Island pine trees, among others. These, as I recall from my science studies at Cal Poly, are known as overstory trees—those that tower above the other vegetation. It's these giants in the park that buffet the understory crops from the winds of the coastal region.

  I head into the Botanical Garden, show my driver's license as proof of San Francisco residency to the volunteer at the admissions booth, and enter the gardens free of charge. I wander the paths nearest the main entrance, through the Garden of Fragrance and then around one edge of the Great Meadow. The scents of fresh-cut grass, soil, fertilizer, and the perfume of fall blossoms embrace me. As I wander, I think through what I said to Matthew about the garden—about the metaphor it represents to me—thriving against all odds. There are even plants here, I know, that thrive though they are now extinct in their indigenous environments.

  I think of Brigitte and how I feel on the verge of extinction when I'm with her.

  Though I've found comfort in the metaphor of the park, today, as I explained it to Matthew, I felt . . . what? I think back to my desire to make him understand. My need to make him understand.

  Defensive. That's what I felt.

  But why?

  Matthew's question comes back to me now. Did all the vegetation planted in the park thrive? And my answer . . . Only the vegetation with the strength to endure. My answer had nothing to do with the park and everything to do with me. I am determined to endure. To persevere. To thrive against all odds.

  But instead, I'm weary. Exhausted. Nearing extinction.

  I stop and look out across the meadow and a new thought, a gentle breeze, stirs in my mind.

  You're not thriving, Jenna.

  My immediate response to the thought is an apology to God. Oh Lord, I'm so sorry. I'll try harder. But even as I pray the words in the silence of my soul, I know I can't try any harder. I have nothing left to give.

  The meadow before me blurs into a smear of green and I wipe the tears from my eyes.

  The new thought stirs again. You're not thriving. But this time I realize the thought isn't an accusation, nor does it require an apology. It is simply truth—a truth I've avoided.

  A truth I have no idea what to do with.

  Stand back . . .

  Stand back? The familiar thought irritates. Stand back from what? If I knew, I'd do it. Why didn't I talk that through with Matthew today? Now it will have to wait until our next appointment.

  I think again of the park. What about the metaphor I've leaned on for so long? How do I differ from the park? I turn and head for the garden bookstore, which has a wide selection of horticulture-related books. But as I enter the store, the knot in my stomach tightens. I glance at my watch again—5:05 p.m.

  I make my way to one of the shelves, glance at a couple of books, and then decide on one about the trees of the park and another on the history of the park. I head for the cashier, pay, and then dash out of the bookstore and then the park, and back to the waiting cab.

  WHEN I SLIP IN the front door of the house, I hear voices echoing across the marble floor. They're coming from the solarium. Brigitte and Gerard. I bend and take off my shoes, as has become my habit when trying to sneak in unnoticed. I creep across the entry and up the stairs, holding the bag of books close so it doesn't rustle.

  Is it possible my absence has gone unnoticed? No. I know better. But at least they won't know how long I was gone.

  I tiptoe into the bedroom, set the books on my desk, sit in the desk chair, and bend to put my shoes back on. I sit back up, exhale, and lean back in the chair. I rub my jaw, attempting to alleviate the ache there.

  Maybe I'm not thriving because of the infection. Maybe that's all it is.

  No. It's more than that. The antibiotics have done their job. And I've floundered for much too long—much longer than the infection attacking my body.

  I reach for the bag on my desk and pull the two books out. I crumple the bag and put it in the wastebasket beneath my desk. As I do, the voices in the solarium escalate. I still and listen. Even through the closed bedroom door, I hear Gerard yelling.

  At Brigitte?

  He would never . . .

  I stand, walk to the bedroom door, and crack it open, but all is quiet. Was it my imagination? I stand there a little longer but hear nothing more.

  I sit back down at my desk and pick up one of the books I purchased and begin thumbing through it. I land on a section dealing with species selection:

  The selection of tree species for the replacement of the park's evergreen forest canopy and windbreak has changed over the years. The spread of the fungal disease pine pitch canker (Fusarium subglutinans) into the Bay Area and southern part of San Francisco has resulted in a suspension—

  The double doors to the bedroom fling open and slam against the wall. Hannah looks . . . terrified. "Come! Hurry! It's Mr. Bouvier."

  Startled by her abrupt entrance and the fear in her voice and on her face, I drop the book, jump to my feet, heart pounding, and head for the door. "What? Hannah, what is it?" As I reach the door, I hear Brigitte yelling downstairs.

  "Hannah! Did you call? Did you call an ambulance?"

  "Yes, Madame!" Hannah yells back down the stairs. She grabs my arm and pulls me behind her as she heads to the stairs.

  "Hannah? What's . . . happened?" Breathless, suffocated by fear, the words come out in a hoarse whisper and I'm not sure Hannah's even heard me.

  Again from downstairs, I hear Brigitte. This time she wails. "Non! . . . Gerard! Non! S'il te plait! Gerard, please!"

  We take the stairs two at a time. At the landing, I push past Hannah and fly down the remaining stairs and through the hallway to the solarium, where I see Gerard slumped over on one of the settees. A wine glass lies broken at h
is feet and a splash of red wine stains his white shirt. Brigitte stands bent over him, her hands on either side of his face.

  "Gerard! Gerard!"

  "What happened?"

  She doesn't respond.

  "Brigitte? What happened?" I sit on the settee next to Gerard and reach for his wrist. I lift his arm and try to feel for his pulse. Brigitte has quieted, stepped back, and I feel her eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

  "Well?"

  "I . . . I don't"—I move my fingers on his wrist. Searching. Hoping—"I can't . . . feel—"

  I press my ear to his chest, hoping, praying. Nothing. Nor does he seem to be breathing. Oh, Lord . . . "What happened?"

  "This! This is your fault!" Brigitte spits the words at me. "It's all your fault! If you hadn't planted thoughts in his mind, pushed him, told him he could do more. If you—"

  "Stop! Help me!" I stand and move the coffee table out of the way. "We need to lay him down on the floor." I reach for Gerard's legs and lift them. Brigitte doesn't move. "Help me! Hannah, help us! Hannah!"

  She is standing at the front door watching for the ambulance, but I hear her coming back down the hallway. The hollow echo of her steps brings a sense of foreboding.

  When she gets there, she takes Gerard's shoulders, but he is too heavy for us.

  She looks to Brigitte. "Madame, you must help!"

  Brigitte, dazed, steps to Gerard's side and helps us lower him from the settee to the floor. Once he's on the floor, I kneel next to him, remove his tie, and begin to loosen the collar of his shirt. My fingers shake as I undo the buttons down the front of his shirt. I hear Brigitte tell Hannah to direct the ambulance to the back entrance, where they won't have to deal with the front steps. Then she kneels at Gerard's head.

  "Hannah, get someone else to watch for the ambulance. I need you!" I shout. I look at Brigitte, but she doesn't argue.

  I pull Gerard's shirt back, though the weight of him makes it difficult. "CPR. We need to begin CPR." I place my hand on his chest, hoping, praying, that this time I'll feel his heart beating. But again, nothing. Oh God, oh Lord, help . . . help him! Help me! I think of Gerard's father. Oh Lord . . .