At the Scent of Water

by Linda Nichols

  He had worked all day Monday, then had come home, and now he was doing the same thing again. He was reading and thinking, and gradually truth was becoming clear, like a figure coming toward him in the fog. He had begun well. He saw that now, for his faith had been real. He had felt gifted—no, the truth was more than that. He had been gifted, and he had used his gift for God. But then he had forgotten about God and had started feeling the weight of that responsibility on his own shoulders. Had begun to feel that it was his job to alleviate the suffering of the world.

  And he had forgotten something else. He had forgotten that he had an enemy who wanted to destroy him. That was the huge awareness that had come to him Sunday morning in church as Elijah had spoken. He began looking at the events of his life as strategic movements of an enemy commander, and he could see how he had walked into every trap, completely unsuspecting.

  The biggest mistake, of course, was that he had forgotten who was Sovereign God and who was not. He had begun imagining that he, himself, could control things. Then he had made the mistakes. Those missteps had disabused him of that notion. It had become very apparent that he was not who he had thought he was, for his mistakes were so huge they could not be covered or recovered from. And then he had begun to imagine that they had been retribution, punishments for wrongs unknown and unseen. He had become bitter then and had turned his heart away. He did not want to serve a God who treated His children like that. But he had forgotten all about the Spoiler, the Destroyer, the one who mars and hurts. He cast his mind back now over the past and tried to see where misfortune and pride left off and evil began, tried to tease apart sin from error, humanity from hubris. He shook his head with frustration, for even if he had been able to do that, was not God still above all? Could He not have overruled? Why had He not done so?

  A slight tapping came from the door, and Sam startled. He glanced at his mother’s mantel clock. It was half past two.

  “Everything all right? I saw the light and was worried.”

  “Come in,” Sam said to Elijah.

  He shook his head. “I thought it might be you,” he said, and his eyes were wise. “Come on over to my place if you want. I’ve got some coffee made.”

  Sam nodded, stepped onto the porch, and gently closed the front door. He followed Elijah across the lawn and went inside the guesthouse. The smell of coffee greeted him. The lights burned cheerfully, and Elijah motioned him toward the couch. He sat down, and his host handed him a cup of steaming coffee. “Cream?” he asked.

  “It’s fine black,” Sam said. Mostly he wanted something warm. “What were you doing up?” he asked Elijah, curious.

  “Praying,” he said. “For you.” A bold look.

  Sam nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and for a minute he thought of all the people who had told him that, beginning with the old woman in the restaurant. Over and over they had murmured and whispered it to him. “We’re praying for you.” Now he saw beyond those banal words, and he imagined the reality behind them. He could almost see the heavens vibrating as those prayers began to move and resonate, their motions orchestrated. For the first time he thought of them as supernatural fuel poured on a small flame, as currents of air upon which mighty warrior angels traveled. Were they rising together and gathering force? Is that why he felt this sense of movement, of things long hazy becoming clearer? Of questions being asked rather than buried under anger and grief?

  “Why, Elijah?” he asked bluntly. “Why did it all happen? Does God hate me?”

  Elijah shook his head and took a sip of his own coffee. “He doesn’t hate you. I read something in a book one time, and I’ve never forgotten it. That God forever settled the question of His love for you at the Cross. The whys I can’t answer. The rest I don’t know. But that’s one thing I’m sure of. He loves you with an everlasting love.”

  Sam shook his head. The answer wasn’t satisfactory. And he realized then that it wasn’t an explanation he wanted from God as much as an apology.

  Elijah fixed him with a level gaze. “Here’s another why question for you,” he said. “Ponder this one for a while. Jesus never did anything wrong. Ever. He was the perfect, sinless lamb of God. He never hurt anyone, never made a poor decision, never lost His temper, or lashed out in selfish anger. He was the precious, loved son of God, and the Father looked on while they drove spikes into His hands and feet. Why? Answer me that.”

  Sam thought about that, his feelings jumbled, swinging between humble emotion and defiance. His suffering on one side. The suffering of the Son of God on the other.

  “What would you say I should do?” he finally asked, and he waited for Elijah to say receive God’s love, receive God’s healing, cry and weep and let Him mend your broken heart, but when Elijah spoke, the one word he uttered was the last thing Sam had expected to come from his mouth.

  “Repent,” Elijah said bluntly.

  Sam’s mouth was surprised shut. He stared, not sure if he felt anger or something else, but his insides were stirred up in turmoil.

  “Bitterness toward God is a sin,” Elijah said, “and as long as you cherish it, you’ll have no peace.”

  Sam went back to his mother’s house and sat and read until the morning came, gray and dry. He read Job. From beginning to end. Slowly. He read Job’s complaint and God’s answer. Where were you, the Almighty One asked His creature, when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? He saw it then. He saw how offended and cold he had been and still was.

  Will the one who contends with the Almighty correct him? Let him who accuses God answer him! Who has a claim against Me that I must pay?

  He read Job’s answer to God. I put my hand over my mouth. . . . Surely I spoke of things I did not understand. . . . My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.

  He sat and stared at the words before him, and he thought about what they meant. But he did not pray.

  Thirty-eight

  The week passed. Her departure date grew closer. She finished cleaning out the house except for Margaret’s room, for although she knew she must do it, she would leave it for last. Laurie’s husband, Jim, put up the For Sale sign and said he would list it as soon as she left. She saw Sam twice. Briefly, and she kept it that way on purpose, avoiding him whenever she knew he would be around. She had not forgotten her promise to him about Kelly Bright, but the enterprise had begun to feel dangerous. She had set it aside.

  She worked awhile on the rug she’d started. She walked the hills and filled her soul with the sights and sounds and smells of this place, for she knew she would not partake of them again for a long, long time. She spoke to Jason Niles once. He had called to “touch base.” She had assured him plans were still in place but had hung up feeling desolate, so she decided to keep her promise to Sam. That would give her the feeling of closure she wanted.

  She rose up this morning ready to complete it. She looked up Kelly Bright’s pastor on the Internet and found the address of his church. She drove to Tennessee, passed Knoxville, and finally arrived in Varner’s Grove around ten. She drove to the church, wondering if her errand would be futile and halfway hoping it would be.

  Varner’s Grove House of Prayer was a large corrugated-metal square building by the side of the highway. Annie turned in and parked in the graveled lot. She stepped out of the car, but instead of going inside, she stood there for a moment leaning against it and looking around. The church, for all its homeliness, was set in the midst of a beautiful grove of flowering trees under towering pines. She breathed in their fragrance. She let the tension drain out of her neck and relaxed her eyes, which were habitually tightened. A family of tree crickets rang in her ears, and even that soothed her. It was a gentle, melodic sound and part of this place. She look
ed around but could not see them. Papa would have been able to. He knew every kind of creature in these mountains and what kind of sound each one made, especially the birds. Just as she thought this, one flew down and lit on the branches of the dogwood in front of her. He was a comical little thing. Plain brown body with a bright red head. He fixed his beady gaze on her and sang, a sweet sharp whistle, followed by two warbles, a song he repeated several times. She smiled and stood very still, but after a moment he cocked his head abruptly and flew away. She sighed, added her own electronic chirp to the soup of sound as she locked the car door, and went inside the church.

  It was cool. The air-conditioning was on. There seemed to be no one about, so she just looked for a moment. The foyer was small. There was a coatrack along one wall and a small wooden table along the other. A handmade banner was tacked to the wall. Where Times of Refreshing Come From the Presence of the Lord it said, and she felt a sudden wave of longing wash over her. She realized something deep inside her soul felt dry and weary, and for just a moment the thought of refreshing waters made her heart yearn for . . . for what? She read the sign again, saw where the refreshing came from, and then she knew why she was so arid and parched.

  “I thought I heard somebody out here.”

  She turned and faced a tall African-American man. His wide dark face creased into a brilliant smile. “I knew the Lord was going to bring somebody along today to see me,” he said matter-of-factly, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

  “My name is Jordan Abrams,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Annie Dalton,” she answered back.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Dalton?”

  She took a deep breath and told the truth. “I want to know about Kelly Bright.”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  The purse had given her away again. She nodded. “But I’m not on assignment.”

  He seemed to consider for a moment. He met her eyes and seemed as if he might ask a question, but he did not. “I have some coffee back in my office. We could discuss it if you like.”

  She followed him through the dim all-purpose room they used as a sanctuary. The floor was concrete, and she could see basketball hoops at each end, but the folding chairs were padded and arranged in neat rows, a songbook on every other seat. A drum set and music stands were set up at the front. There was another banner there. The Christ of Calvary Still Changes Lives. She startled, remembering the question she had asked as she sat in the antique store in Santa Monica. Where is He? she had wondered, this Christ of Calvary who changes lives. He was here, it seemed, and she thought the thought with no trace of sarcasm. Instead, a fierce gladness possessed her, and she hoped it was true. She looked up to see the man watching her. She flashed him a smile. “You’re all ready for Sunday, I see.”

  “All but the sermon,” he answered. “I had it planned, but the Lord’s telling me He’s changed His mind.”

  How does that work? she wanted to ask. Did He tap you on the shoulder and whisper in your ear? But she did not speak. Because her own faith was in tatters, she would not pull and tear at someone else’s.

  Pastor Abrams’ office was a small square at the end of the building. It contained three walls of books, a metal desk, and two upholstered chairs.

  “Please, sit down,” he offered. He poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the shelf. “What do you take?”

  “Everything,” she said.

  He doctored a cup for her with sugar and powdered cream, and she sipped it for a moment, considering what to say. She set down her cup and faced him.

  “I want to know who Kelly Bright was,” she said. “I’d like to catch a glimpse of the person behind the issue.”

  “Why?” He asked it plainly, and she stared back. She had hoped he would assume he knew the answer and would begin talking. She was faced with a soul as canny as he was kind, and she supposed nothing would do but honesty.

  “My husband was the doctor who operated on her,” she said. “The one who made the mistake.”

  His eyes widened and he nodded, but he still did not speak.

  “He wanted to know who she was. Is. I thought I might be able to help him.”

  Pastor Abrams looked at her for a long moment. “I wouldn’t want you to print anything I tell you unless Kelly’s mother gives her consent. I’ve been meeting with her. I wouldn’t want her to feel betrayed.”

  “I won’t print anything without her consent,” she said. “You have my word.”

  He looked at her again, seemed to debate for a few seconds, then nodded. A slight smile lit his face. “Kelly was a great kid. Our paths crossed through our bus ministry. They live in the projects, you know. Public housing over on the east side. If her mother had sued, she could have taken the money and bought herself a house, but she said she wouldn’t do that while her baby was alive. Felt like it was giving up on her. She said that was the reason Kelly’s father wanted the tube taken out. So he could get the settlement.”

  Annie nodded. She did not write anything down. She did not suppose she would forget his words.

  “Kelly was five when she started coming here to church. She asked Jesus into her heart at Vacation Bible School, and I don’t know when I ever met a child who was so deep in the Lord. She loved Jesus.” His face lit at the memory.

  “She could pray the house down, and she knew more Scripture verses than I did.” He chuckled. “She fellowshipped with us for six years in all, and by the time of the accident, she had her sister and brother coming to church, and her mama was just about talked into it, too.”

  Annie remembered Rosalie Cubbins, the wistful look on her face.

  “You know what she told me just before the accident?” he asked Annie.

  She shook her head.

  “She said, ‘Pastor, it would be worth anything to me if my mama and daddy would come to know Jesus. I’d even die if it would help.’ That child knew,” he said with certainty. “She knew.”

  “Well, have they?” Annie asked, and she realized it sounded demanding. Angry. Bitter and rude.

  “Not yet,” he said. “But I haven’t given up.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Does that help?” he asked her.

  She shook her head, and to her embarrassment her eyes filled with tears.

  He waited for her to compose herself, handed her a box of tissues from the table beside them. She hadn’t meant to, but she told him the story. All of it. She left nothing out, and when she had finished, she looked up to see pain in his eyes.

  “Things changed between me and my husband,” she said quietly. “Even before Margaret died. He got lost in his work, and I . . . I just got lost. When Margaret died, it would have been hard enough if everything had been right. But it wasn’t. He stayed gone all the time, and I couldn’t be there anymore. I couldn’t be there alone. It was too much.”

  “I hear you,” he said gently.

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “My wife and I lost a daughter to leukemia when she was five.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He nodded his head at her words. “When Missy died, I thought I would lose my mind,” he said. “And Caroline nearly did, too. But I guess the difference was that we held on to each other. And we held on to the Lord.”

  “How did you do that?” she demanded. “When He was the one who took her from you?”

  He shook his head. “There’s no answer to the question you’re asking. The why question. I don’t think we’ll ever know the whys in this life. But I know whom I have believed.” His voice vibrated with passion and life, and her eyes filled with tears again.

  “It’s not that simple for me,” she said. “Where was God when my daughter drowned?”

  She looked into his face, challenging him, and when he replied she was surprised, for she had thought it was another question that had no answer. But he spoke, his voice firm and sure.

  “The same place He was when His son was nailed to a cross.”

 
; They sat in silence for a minute before Pastor Abrams spoke again.

  “A lot of things don’t make sense right now,” he said, “but someday our Redeemer will stand again on this earth, and everything will be right then.”

  “I want it to be right now.” A desperate hope sounded in her voice.

  “I know.” He whispered back, his eyes glistening with tears to match her own. “But just hold on a little longer, sister. Hold on to Him. One day you’ll understand.”

  She took another tissue from the table beside her and blotted her eyes. They were quiet for a moment.

  He sipped his coffee, and she dried her eyes and cleared her throat. She did not want to speak of this any longer.

  “Thank you for your help.” She rose and took her purse.

  “Anything else I can do, you just call me.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  He wrote down his address and phone number on the back of a church brochure and handed it to her. She dropped it into her purse and went back to her car. She drove home. She was tired and hungry. She would eat and rest, and tomorrow she would tell Sam what she had learned. Then she would say good-bye to him and leave this place.

  Part Three

  Let your power fall,

  Let your voice be heard,

  Come and change our hearts,

  As we stand on your Word,

  Holy Spirit,

  Rain down.

  Thirty-nine

  Mary poured the last of her dishwater on her dusty, bedraggled petunias. It was another dry, dismal, searing July afternoon with the thunder and lightning she had come to dread because there was never any rain or moisture. Just the stirred-up angry clouds and swirling heat. The reservoir had dropped. The lake behind the Fontana Dam was at an all-time low, and Buncombe and Haywood counties had declared a severe water emergency. The mites and beetles had grown stronger since their natural enemies had died off. The apples would be affected soon if it didn’t rain, and that would spell disaster for many whose income depended on the crop. The pine seedlings were dying up in the hills, the leaves yellow and crisp on the wild dogwoods and rhododendrons. The city had only sixty days of water left. The deer were wandering closer to towns, and she had seen on the news that this morning someone had seen a bear inside the Asheville city limits. The president was talking about emergency loans for farmers. The ponds were down. The creeks were dry. The lawns had begun to crisp, and there would be no more watering of flowers or grass, at least not at her house, for this morning the well had run dry. The pump had groaned once, twice, then had finally given out. She would have to call in a well digger, and for the time being they would drink bottled water and shower at Laurie’s, but that situation couldn’t go on for long. Everyone was in distress. And to be honest, her turmoil was not simply over the drought.