I get out of my car and walk to the driver’s-side door of her car and tap on the window. She jumps. Then she opens the door. I see she’s holding her cell phone.
“Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t see you. Solitaire.” She holds up her phone and I see tiny playing cards lined up on the screen.
She gets out of the car and gives me a hug. “How are you?”
I smile. “Well, I just smashed my scale into multiple pieces. So, I’d say, I’m better than usual.”
Sabina smiles, her eyes shine in the morning sun. She holds up one hand. “High five, girl.”
I slap her hand.
“What precipitated that act of emotional health?”
“Emotional health? Ha! It was precipitated by frustration and distress.”
“Well, taking out your frustration on an inanimate object isn’t always bad—especially, if, as I guess is the case, that object was the source of your frustration.”
“It was. C’mon, let’s go.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“Have you seen the cathedral?”
“Do you never stop talking about church and God?”
I ignore her quip. I take the trail toward the restrooms and then veer to the left and follow the trail into the middle of the grove of trees, which opens up onto a wide clearing. The old-growth trees surrounding the clearing form a canopy high overhead. “This is what is known as the cathedral. It’s a favorite place for local and destination weddings.”
Sabina takes a quick look around. “Nice.”
“Nice?”
She nods. “Ready to walk?”
“Wait. Look out there. Isn’t that incredible?” I point to the picnic table at the end of the clearing, where it opens onto the cliff overlooking the ragged coastline.
“Beautiful. Can we go? I’m cold. I need to move.”
My heart is heavy for her. Lord, she refuses to see You. “You need some body fat to keep you warm. I’m happy to share.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
We make our way back to the parking lot and then to the street. I keep to the street rather than taking one of the many trails out toward the cliffs. I’m grateful to walk out here this morning—I won’t push Sabina any further. We fall into a companionable stride, which is unusual. “You’re taking it slow this morning.”
“I want to hear what happened with the rat. It’s nice to talk when we walk too.”
Talking probably keeps her from noticing the grandeur of her surroundings. I don’t know if that’s intentional on her part or not, but I welcome the chance to talk this morning and take the walk at a slower pace.
“I’ll tell you about the rat, but may I ask you a question first?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”
“Do you think I . . . sabotaged my friendship with Miles?”
Her pace slows and she looks at me. “I’m not sure. It’s possible.”
I look out at the morning sun gleaming on the water and consider the thought that occurred to me earlier. “I think maybe I did. Not intentionally, but maybe out of habit, or something. Rosa says I’m terrified of becoming involved with a man.”
Sabina stops walking. “Is she right?”
“I don’t know. I may be. It just never seemed like an option for me.”
“Why?”
“Are we going to walk or just stand here?” I take off at a clip this time, although it isn’t like I can outwalk Sabina’s long stride.
“Why doesn’t it seem like an option for you? I want to understand.”
“I’ll tell you what, when I understand it, I’ll fill you in.”
“Ellyn, have you considered talking with a counselor? Talking things through with someone experienced could help you understand.”
Sabina walks a few paces beyond me before she realizes I’ve stopped again. “A counselor? You’re a counselor.”
“Yes, I am. I was. But not yours. I’m your friend.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that I’m not doing therapy with you. We have a mutual give-and-take friendship. It’s just different.”
“Oh. No, I haven’t considered a counselor. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Girl, it’s your life. How is that not a big deal?”
The same reverent fear or awe I felt the morning after my hospitalization returns. Lord? My life, in my mind, never meant much. I’m grateful for life, but most often it seems I’ve failed the exams. Haven’t passed some elusive course where others excelled. My life isn’t a big deal because I am a disappointment to God, or so I’ve let myself believe.
“Huh, I’ve never thought of it that way.” I take a few steps and Sabina falls in stride with me again. “I’ll think about it. Okay?”
“Whatever you decide. It was just a suggestion.”
“So do you want to hear about the rat now?”
She laughs. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Look into my heart, my God, look within. See this, I remember it, my hope; for you cleanse me from these flawed emotions. You direct my eyes towards you and “rescue my feet from the trap.”
Saint Augustine
Chapter Forty-Five
Sabina
I return to the rental after my walk with Ellyn and make myself a cup of coffee. As I wait for it to brew, a mental image of the cypress grove returns—bringing with it the question I asked of myself soon after arriving here: Will I allow the winds of suffering to form and shape me as it does the cypress trees? Or will I break under the battering?
Didn’t I answer that question for myself that evening at Ellyn’s, after the realization that I’d lost myself to fear and guilt? Didn’t I determine then that it was time to work at healing?
But then came the nightmare . . . and a new measure of guilt. And with it, I toppled, like one of the dead trees I noticed lying in the grove today. Or, I think I noticed. I can see the grove in my mind, but there are no trunks or logs.
Maybe I made them up.
Not that it matters.
Restless, I walk out to the living room. Another entire afternoon and evening lie ahead of me, and I have nothing to do. My self-imposed exile is becoming wearisome. I miss the activity of a purposeful life. It is the first time I’ve acknowledged this since arriving in Mendocino. Perhaps the antidepressants are finally doing their job.
And the exercise. And the friendship with Ellyn. I know she is a significant part of why I’m feeling better—especially today. I would never jeopardize our friendship by attempting to analyze her or drifting into a therapeutic relationship with her. The boundaries are clear. Yet, I see her processing—beginning to look at her life and wonder about the choices she’s made—and it stirs the counselor within me.
I loved what I did.
I’d made something of myself.
I wander to the bookshelf in the hallway and choose one of the owners’ books to read. Before sitting in one of the leather chairs in the living room, I open all of the blinds in the living and dining areas. The chairs are still turned inward, away from the view, but the sunlight streaming into the house makes for a lighter atmosphere.
I’ve wallowed in guilt and grief for too long. It’s time to push myself to make some changes.
I open the novel and read the prologue, but my mind doesn’t focus. I read the pages more than once, but to no avail. The words on the pages can’t keep my mind from the cypress grove. I set the book aside and stand, going to the window behind the chairs to look out. The large tree that the ravens favor is just across the street, and beyond the tree is the water. This is the first time I’ve really looked at the view. The swirling expanse is so close—so vast
. There’s something almost frightening about the power of it.
I leave the window and open the door off the dining area that leads to an outside deck. I haven’t stepped out here since I arrived. I walk to the edge of the deck, which is dappled with sunlight. I close my eyes, lift my face, and feel the warmth of the sun and the gentle sea breeze on my skin. I breathe deep of the salty air.
I open my eyes and lean a bit, looking for the grove. Can I see it from here? Yes.
The cluster of large trees is a dark silhouette against the sunny backdrop.
Why does the grove call to me?
I shake my head. Call to me? Ridiculous.
I go back inside, turn on some music, and pick up the book again—
And spend the next thirty or so minutes staring at the same page.
I pull into the spot where I parked this morning. What am I doing? I have no idea. I only know that I had to come—felt compelled to come. I wipe my damp palms on the pants of the same workout outfit I was wearing when I met Ellyn earlier.
Am I here because I have a point to prove to Ellyn? And perhaps to myself? Maybe. But there’s something deeper that I can’t pinpoint. I open the car door and get out.
Let’s get this over with.
I walk the trail cut through the prairie grass leading into the grove. It’s a short walk from the parking lot, but before even entering the grove, I see what my subconscious registered earlier when I was working so hard to ignore my surroundings. Several fallen cypress lie on the ground—trunks bare of bark and white-washed by the sun. They’ve fallen away from the others that make up the grove. I stop and look at one of the trunks on the ground—the outside is smooth, beautiful. But the inside, where the tree broke, is rotted, hollowed.
The tree died from the inside out.
The thought resonates.
A recollection surfaces of one of the twins, home from college for a few days, talking about the Monterey Cypress trees that dot the California coastal regions. Since earning a degree in arboriculture, Shauna’s always talking about tree diseases and the like. I have no reference for, nor interest in, much of what she tells me, so I don’t retain it. But the counselor in me related to the thought of dying from the inside out. It’s what so many people do, if not in a literal sense, then a figurative one.
It is what I’m doing.
Or have done?
I’ve been losing myself, dying bit by bit as a person, as a professional, by wallowing in guilt. But it’s more than that.
I’m dying an eternal death.
My person, my soul, who I was—I swallow—created to be.
Imago Dei.
I was created in the image of God, for God. As Twila put it, for relationship with Him. By rejecting God—rejecting Jesus—I’ve condemned myself.
For eternity.
And I’ve missed my life purpose.
I recoil at the thought. My life has been filled with purpose. I healed people.
No, Sabina. I healed them.
The thought is not my own.
A shiver runs up my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
Miles’s words in the ER, his answer when I asked if he blamed himself when his wife died, return to me now.
“To blame myself would mean that I consider myself on the same plane as God. That I see myself as omnipotent. God is the only One who holds life and death in His grasp.”
I leave the dead trees and walk a few more paces into the edge of the grove—the clearing Ellyn called the cathedral.
A breeze rustles the foliage of the cypress trees, far overhead.
These trees . . .
Move.
Breathe.
Live.
The surf crashes on jagged rocks below the cliffs. The sound I’ve worked so hard to ignore since my arrival here. The irritant that, for a moment in time, turned to serenade on Ellyn’s balcony.
I walk into the center of the clearing, though it feels more like I’m pushed there.
I am not alone. A recognition that, oddly enough, brings peace rather than fear. I have been, I know now, called here.
Summoned.
I look up at the canopy of branches—shafts of sunlight filter in through the foliage, the breeze sends patches of sunlight dancing on the earthen floor. I stand in one of the patches of light and watch as the breeze stills and one shaft of light from above seems to encircle me.
My heart swells.
I smile. It’s as though Mozart’s “Magic Flute” is the song of the surf as joy fills my empty soul. I turn in a slow circle, arms out, face upturned. The scents of salt, seaweed, and the pungent aroma of cedar waft around me. Somewhere deep within I know that what’s taking place in my spirit has little to do with me.
God, yes, God, the creator of the universe, of the magnificence surrounding me, has called me to Himself. Ellyn was right. I couldn’t see His creation, can’t see His creation, without seeing Him. I was, I am, without excuse.
I will resist no longer.
I can resist no longer.
He invades my opening soul.
The months, maybe years, of anger—my fist clenched and shaking in the face of God, and then the years spent denying His existence—melt away as I glimpse, for the first time, His mercy and grace—an inkling of more to come. So much more.
I pull my arms in and cross them over my chest, and my eyes close. I am awash in the wind, in the very breath of the Creator. It embraces me, caresses my cheek like a Father calming a frightened babe.
Shame is no more.
Guilt is replaced by grace.
“Yes, Lord. Yes.” I whisper my surrender into the breeze as it stirs again. And then I hear my mamma’s sweet soprano in my mind, singing the words of her favorite hymn:
“Come home, come home, “Ye who are weary, come home; “Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, “Calling, O sinner, come home!”
Mamma said the hymn was sung at Martin Luther King’s memorial service back home. She said Jesus had called Martin home to rest. Just like years later she’d say Jesus had called Jazzy home. The song, I see now, was her comfort.
Today, God has called me home. Not to eternity—not yet—but home to His lap, where my mother prayed I’d stay for all my years. Instead, I wandered. But today . . .
I’ve come home.
I walk out to the end of the clearing, to the picnic table that seems to hang on the edge of the cliff. I sit on the bench nearest the water and let the wind wash over me. As it does, tears come. I don’t stop them, as I’ve done for so long. Tears for Jazzy, and for Ashley. Tears for my mamma. Cleansing tears mixed with tears of gratitude.
I sit for hours watching the constant motion of the sea and wiping away tears now and then. The seascape changes moment by moment—the surf rolls in, crashes, and then returns from whence it came. Over and over. As constant and dependable as the love of God. As the sun moves lower in the sky, the water changes from aqua to sea foam to a dark gray-blue. Finally, as the sun drops to the horizon, the water reflects back the colors of the sky—the brilliant orange and peach and lavender of a perfect sunset.
I’ve grown cold, but I can’t take my eyes off the display in front of me. I’ve missed so much. The time has come to pick up the threads of my life, to reengage, to complete the work with a counselor that I began so long ago. But this time, I will leave nothing to chance. It is time to return to the roles I’ve known: wife, mother, and perhaps, one day, counselor.
But first, I will live my purpose. The purpose Twila spoke of . . . I will engage, fully, in a relationship with God. I will get to know Him. I will rest in, or at least try to rest in, the role my mama claimed for herself and her girls: daughter of the King.
I breathe contentment out on a sigh, and then reach into the p
ocket of my sweatshirt jacket and take out my cell phone. There are few places in the area where I have cell coverage, but maybe here, on the edge of the world, I can make a call. I turn on the phone, see a few bars, and then dial.
Antwone answers after the first ring.
“Sabina?”
When I hear his deep baritone, the tears begin again. “Hi, baby.”
“Are you all right?”
I nod and choke back a sob. “I’m . . . better than all right. Really. I’ve . . . I’ve come home, baby. God brought me back. To Himself.” What I was so certain of just moments ago now feels foolish when I hear myself say it out loud. “Antwone?”
“I’m here.”
“Do I . . . sound crazy?” I look around me—the evidence remains. God is who He says He is. I am not crazy.
“No, baby. You sound”—he clears his throat—“good. You sound good.”
A hush comes between us—a silence of reverence—a oneness we’ve not experienced together, ever. Yet, it also feels familiar.
It is the Spirit within us, connecting us.
I close my eyes. “I want to see you—I want you to come here. There’s so . . . much. So much to say, so much time to make up for. I want to experience this”—I make a sweeping gesture with one arm—“with you. I want to experience God, with you.”
“I’ll come soon. Soon, Sabina. I have some things to take care of, and then I’ll come. But baby, now, while you’re alone, He wants you to Himself. Okay?”
“Yes, I understand.” My words are hurried, breathless. As strong as my desire was for Antwone’s presence, just moments ago, my desire, my hunger now is for God.
And Him alone.
There are also acts which resemble a vicious or injurious act but are not sins, because they do not offend you, Lord our God . . .
Saint Augustine
Chapter Forty-Six
Twila
I love early mornings in the store, before the doors open and customers arrive. I wander the aisles making sure the shelves are stocked and check the refrigerator cases one last time. I hang out in the produce section for a few minutes just looking at the colors and textures of the fruits and vegetables. I’m always awed by the way God packed so many nutrients into the coolest colors and shapes.
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