Monday Morning Faith

by Lori Copeland

  I shook off the sluggishness and headache that refused to go away. Well, no wonder; I’d slept in snatches, too upset by Sam and our argument to rest.

  Sam was sitting at the table drinking coffee with Frank and Mary when I parted the curtain. Our eyes connected with cold distance.

  “Morning, Johanna.”

  “Good morning, Doctor.” I poured a glass of juice, drank half of it, and pushed it aside. My appetite was gone.

  After breakfast the men and Eva and I left for the village. Mary stayed behind to rest. The missionaries talked among themselves, not ignoring me, just giving me room to sit in the bow. Eva tried a couple of times to engage me in small talk, but I remained silent, clutching the book — and my tattered pride — to my chest. I refused to meet Sam’s eyes. The moment we landed, I was out of that boat like a gunshot and striding up the incline. The others followed, keeping pace. I didn’t need them; there was nothing they could do to help me. This was my moment, and I intended to milk it for all it was worth.

  Poo met me with a wide grin. As I walked I began to gather the village children and herd them up the hill. The boys and girls followed, chattering among themselves. I paused beneath a spreading palm. It took some gesturing on my part to get the group seated in a semicircle. Thirty to forty dirty children stared up at me, the quietest I’d ever seen them. One little girl still stood in front of me, so close I couldn’t move without tripping over her.

  I stared down at her. What on earth could her problem be? Didn’t she see what the others were doing? She turned sober eyes on me.

  “Ow.”

  “Ow?” I wracked my brain, trying to convert the word to English.

  “Ow,” the girl repeated. She looked at me and then looked down at her bare toes.

  I followed her gaze and realized I was standing on her foot. “Oh. Sorry.” Mark one up for me — ow must be a universal expression of pain.

  She hobbled over to sit down beside Poo. I took a deep breath and thought about how to begin. For the first time it occurred to me that my temper might have led me to start something I couldn’t finish. But I banished the thought. A librarian could relate to children. It’s what we do best. I held up the book, a story about a monkey that flies a kite.

  I waved my hands, striving for order, which the children ignored. They jabbered among themselves like a flock of magpies, paying no attention to me. I slapped one hand against the book I held to get their attention. “All right, listen up. I’m going to tell you a story.” I mimicked words coming out of my mouth. I would have to use sign language, show the pictures, and act the story out. I could do that. It would be a matter of engaging them in the tale. My cup of tea.

  “Our story today is about a little monkey named George.” I enunciated my words and pointed to the picture, but they looked as blank as a clean sheet of paper. Okay. A kite. How to make them understand “kite”?

  I clapped my hands and then raised my arms, using both forefingers to draw a kite shape in the air.

  Poo stared, forehead furrowed. She raised her arms and copied my movements. The rest of the children sat like lumps of coal, not responding. Except for those who outright scowled.

  Okay, skip the part about the monkey’s name, and the ball, and move to the bunny house. Remember the KISS approach: Keep It Simple, Stupid. I pushed out my lower lip, concentrating on the problem at hand. A hut. They’d understand a hut.

  I pointed to the thatched dwellings, outlined a hut in the air. Eureka! They got it. I knelt in front of a pretend door to take out an imagined baby bunny.

  That lost them. Their brows curled.

  I hopped around the clearing on all fours. That proved to be a total waste of time. Okay. They didn’t have bunnies in this part of the world. We’d go fishing.

  I showed how George went fishing, using a make-believe rod to throw the hook in the water.

  They shrank back, holding their hands in front of them to ward off a blow. Too late I realized they didn’t use rods and reels to fish. They actually thought I was going to strike them.

  I skipped the majority of the story and went straight to the kite incident. I sketched the kite in the air. This time two children — one of them the girl whose foot I had mashed — copied my motions.

  Encouraged, I took the kite by its imaginary tail and placed it on the ground. Then I hunched over, trying to look like a monkey — which wasn’t as hard as it might sound, judging from their expressions. Some were doubled up laughing.

  I tried not to let their insensitivity bother me; they would come around soon enough. Even so, drastic methods were called for, so I got down on all fours, used one hand to indicate a long tail, and then pointed to the surrounding trees.

  Comprehension dawned on a few faces. All right! Now we were getting somewhere!

  I got to my feet and stood still for a moment, lower lip caught between my teeth, thinking. Then I bent over, picking up the imaginary kite. Facing them, I raised my arms and drew the kite symbol.

  This time several of the group copied my movements. I pretended to reel out a length of string, and holding the pretend kite behind me, I ran across the clearing, looking back as the kite caught the wind, lifting into the sky. The motion was so real I could almost see that kite.

  I ran back across the clearing, so wrapped up in acting out the story that I didn’t see the twig jutting up from the ground. My right foot connected and down I went, slamming into the hard ground. The breath left my body in a resounding oof.

  I lay, waiting for the sudden rash of stars to subside before getting to my feet and facing my audience. Judging from the way they were shrieking with laughter, this was the high point of the story.

  “The kite climbed higher and higher,” I wheezed. “Bill decided to bring it in because he needed to go home.”

  I pantomimed reeling in a kite. “Oh no, it’s caught in a tree! My fine new kite! Bill can’t get his kite out of the tree!”

  The children watched me, jabbering in that strange language among themselves and laughing, but not at the story.

  They were laughing at me.

  “George can get the kite.” I reached for a low branch. “He will climb the tree! No tree is too high for George!”

  I pretended to pull myself up, branch by branch, until I reached the kite. Little by little I untangled it, telling the story as I went. The kite fluttered to the ground, and I became George again, picking up the kite, letting out the string as it went up. I ran back and forth across the clearing acting like this was so much fun!

  The pretend kite jerked me off my feet and I rose with it, a difficult feat with my shoes firmly planted on soil. I threw my heart into the pantomime, leaping, looking around me wide-eyed and frightened, ducking at imaginary birds flying through the air with me.

  The adult villagers, attracted by my antics, gathered around to watch. I flapped my hands at them. “Shoo. This is for children.”

  They laughed and stayed where they were.

  A chattering overhead caught my attention, and I looked up to see six monkeys sitting in the tree, staring at me like I was the funniest sight they’d ever seen.

  I glanced back at the villagers and saw Sam standing with them, grinning and then outright hee-hawing at my bizarre antics. My glasses slid down my nose. My stomach roiled. I pushed the specs back up and looked at the laughing villagers, out-of-control children, chattering monkeys.

  And Sam.

  Okay. So much for group participation.

  I slammed the book shut and faced the crowd. “The end.” I did a swift theatrical bow, then turned and, clutching the paperback to my chest, walked away.

  Sam had laughed at me. He wasn’t my Sam anymore. He’d turned into someone I didn’t even know.

  Someone I didn’t care to know. At all.

  EIGHTEEN

  That evening, I sat alone on the wooden platform, watching the sun drop behind the mountain range. A sultry breeze ruffled the water where the Millets and the Laskes were enjoying a dip. I w
atched the happy couples splashing around in the water, laughing and creating spouts with cupped thumb and fist. Were they brave or just stupid? Fish that could sting you and take your life lived in their pool. Did this not give them a moment’s pause? Since my experience with Sam’s manufactured bathtub, I’d stuck with sponge baths. Perhaps part of my inability to adjust had something to do with my longing for a private bath with hot and cold running water.

  Sam came out of the hut. We had talked little over dinner. When he paused to admire the sunset, I noticed his forearms were still bright red. The dog incident couldn’t have been fun for him no matter how temperate he appeared. My skin resembled a chicken that’d been roasted on a spit.

  I thought about my performance with the village children today. Though my intentions were honorable, I had made a complete fool of myself. My emotions were a mass of snakes coiled in my stomach.

  After this afternoon I was sure Sam had given up on wanting me to stay. A few more temper tantrums and I could forget about our relationship. Period.

  I hadn’t made him proud of late. Safety pins and drama performances hadn’t done much to enhance my standing with either him or the missionaries.

  I just have a question, God. Why did you send me all the way here to reinforce what I already knew? Why did you let me fall in love with Sam when you knew there would be problems we couldn’t work out? I don’t want to question your wisdom, but I’m so confused! I don’t know what to do next.

  The boards vibrated when footsteps approached. Sam. Part of me wanted to see him and part of me didn’t. What did we have to say to each other?

  Boards creaked. He paused beside me. “May I sit with you?”

  I shrugged, not trusting my voice. He sat down beside me, cross-legged. He’d been around the villagers for so long the position seemed normal to him, like the way he’d bend his head and step over an imaginary threshold every time he entered the hut or clinic. I’d learned the hard way to duck — anyone with height whacked his head on the low beams.

  “Have you noticed the sunrises here?” His voice was calm and gentle, showing none of the stress I was experiencing.

  I sat for a moment and then nodded. “The sunrise is a sunset backward.”

  He laughed, and I sensed his relief that we were speaking to each other. Shame engulfed me. Dear Sam, so gentle and compassionate. How could he put up with my temper tantrums and still be so nice?

  “Are you feeling better today?”

  “Better now, thank you.” A headache still bloomed at the back of my neck, and a general malaise stayed with me, but I had less than a week left to stay in this tropical sauna. I could make it. I stared down at the water lapping against the stilts.

  “Sam, what’s wrong with me? I love God, and serving him is important to me, but I’m in over my head here. I realize you and the others think serving here is a privilege. I’m very fond of Poo, and I know the children are innocent victims, but — ” I shook my head.

  “It’s okay, Johanna. I understand.”

  How could he? His first wife, Belinda, had worked side by side with him, enthusiastic. Supportive.

  And then there was me.

  He sat for a moment while I watched a brown bird skimming the surface of the water, gliding in a rhythmic ballet. Finally he released a sigh. “The Bible assures us that we each have different talents. I don’t resent the fact that we don’t share the same passion. Only that we’re not working together to solve the problem.”

  “How can we? There’s no ready solution. You’d never be happy without your work and I … I don’t know where I fit.”

  “There is an answer to every problem.”

  I lifted a warning hand. “Don’t you think there is something I should be able to do? If God has given me a gift, I’ve failed to find it — except caregiving. I thought that was what God wanted of me — to take care of Mom and Pop. But they’re doing better than they have in a long time, and I haven’t a thing to do with it. Most days I walk around in a spiritual fog. If God’s leading me somewhere, don’t you think I should have an inkling of where it is? Look at you and the others. You know what God expects from you, and you’re content knowing you’re in his will. Other than the library, I don’t know where I belong.”

  Sam reached over and took my hand, his expression sobering. “You belong with me, Johanna. I’ve no doubt about that. You make it sound like we all think that everything we do is Spirit-led. The truth is we don’t always know what to do. We have our spiritual fogs too. We spend a lot of time in prayer, asking for wisdom and guidance, and sometimes we make mistakes. We’re feeling our way through the situation here too — and, yes, we have more patience with our circumstances than you, but we’ve been here longer and had time to adapt. You haven’t allowed yourself enough time to adjust. But none of that is a final indication that you are or are not called to this particular ministry.”

  Maybe so, but I had a hunch my chances of fitting in wouldn’t improve, no matter how long I stayed.

  Eva, followed by Mary, grasped the wooden ladder and pulled up out of the water. The women frolicked, spraying us with water when they walked past to their respective huts.

  “Don’t let us bother you two lovebirds,” Mary tossed over her shoulder.

  I locked my arms around my knees, staring at the clouds in the west, flushed with gold and crimson and peach. “I wish I had their outlook.”

  “God has given you many talents. You’ve been faithful in your church, and to your position at the library. I’ve heard people talk about how helpful you are, and how you live your faith through your work. Never feel that God isn’t using you if you want him to do so. Maybe your place isn’t on the mission field, but trust me — he’s at work in your life.”

  “I want to work beside you.” I bent over so my head touched my knees. “I love you, Sam. More than life itself, at times, but our situation seems hopeless.”

  “There is a solution to every problem,” he reiterated, his voice firm and sincere. For a split second I almost believed him. “I love you, Johanna. And I’m proud of you.”

  “You yelled at me.” I’d never heard Pop lift his voice to Mom.

  “Well — ” he chuckled — “I didn’t say I didn’t get irritated with you. I’m human and sometimes I speak before I think, but I am and will always be proud of your accomplishments.”

  Tears stung the backs of my sunburned eyelids. I didn’t deserve this man. It all poured out then, my frustrations with the living conditions, my homesickness, the way I missed Mom and Pop and Nelda. The dangers I perceived at every turn, my frustration with the villagers and the thefts.

  He nodded with each complaint as if he understood, but how could he? He didn’t have a selfish bone in his body.

  “Is it possible you’re too attached to possessions?” The tone of voice was gentle, but the words were a sharp whip across my heart.

  “Yes.” I’d considered the thought. “But taking care of what is given to you isn’t selfish. God expects us to be good stewards.”

  “Everything we own belongs to God. Possessions, in and of themselves, are worthless. You’ll never see a hearse pulling a U-Haul. When we leave this earth, as we will, we take nothing with us.”

  I clenched my teeth to keep from lashing out at him. Of course everything I owned belonged to God. That was basic Christianity. But back home, we had laws against theft. Here, no one was held accountable. Was that right teaching?

  Sam shifted. “You’re angry over something you don’t own.”

  “These people don’t understand a word you say. What’s the purpose? You can’t present the gospel. Look at how long the Millets have been here, and they have yet to break the language barrier. Don’t you ever feel like giving up?”

  “They understand our intentions. They know love when it’s shown — and they recognize resentment.”

  My anger. That’s what he meant. “I’m not a bad person, Sam Littleton. I may have my weaknesses, but if I can’t get along with the
se people it’s their fault. I’ve always been able to get along with anyone.”

  “Sure, as long as you’re in your own element.”

  His words gave me pause. That was part of the problem, of course. In my library I could — and did — take charge. But here I had no idea what to do next. There wasn’t even a trace left of Johanna Holland, head librarian. Just a very tired, discouraged woman sitting beside the man she loved and must give up, watching the sun sink over the horizon of a hostile, harsh land.

  “Johanna, I feel what I do because I care for their souls.”

  Though there wasn’t a trace of criticism in Sam’s tone, I reacted. “I care for their souls — ”

  My next words caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe I’d almost said them: “… as long as they leave me alone!”

  Johanna! How could you have such thoughts?

  It was the headache. A miserable nagging at the base of my skull.

  “It’s not the possessions, Sam. It’s this way of life. It’s so … foreign.” I was spoiled: the recognition tightened around me like a cobra. Mom and Pop had me late in life — years after they’d given up on Mom ever conceiving. I had been pampered and sheltered and the princess of the Holland clan. Was it any wonder I hated to share?

  He sighed, and I realized I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already figured out. Reaching over, he pulled me close, and I gave way to my emotions. I buried my face against his chest and broke into wrenching sobs. He held me in his arms, a strong, protective shelter from the raging storm inside me.

  Finally my tears ceased and I rested in his strength, drained from my emotional meltdown. One look at his stoic features and I knew that his heart was as heavy as mine. Two people in love separated by God’s calling. How could this be? God loved us both, and I’d been taught all of my life that he wanted the best for each of us. So why had we met and fallen in love only to struggle with different ambitions in life?