Remember Me

by Deborah Bedford

  “This meeting is called to order,” Grant said, looking almost ill. Mary Grace began scribbling notes by hand, making scratching noises as she formed the letters with her pen. Whatever happens here is in the Lord’s hands, not mine. In spite of her apparent ease, she felt like the floor might fall away, that she might be about to fall fifty feet.

  The group sat like stones during the approval of the minutes. They had no comment during the treasurer’s report. They did not shift in their chairs during the introduction of old business. They did not frown at their reflections in the polished tabletop. They did not tap their toes in frustration or rake their fingers through their hair.

  “Next item on the agenda,” Grant said as he stared at his notes, “is reinstatement for Pastor Samuel Tibbits.” No one else initiated discussion on this matter. They deferred to Grant, to hear what he might have to say.

  Mary Grace laid down her pen, certain Grant would see the tremor in her hand. Apart from a sharp and perhaps too hasty glance at the man who sat across from her, she did not give herself away.

  Dave Hawthorne was first to pick up his water glass and take a sip. After an extremely loud swallow, he said, “Three days ago, I would have told you I believe Grant owes the pastor an apology. But now I believe I’m wrong.”

  No. Mary Grace flipped to the next page of her notebook and stared unseeingly at the ruled lines. Please let them see.

  “I believe Grant isn’t the only one to blame.” Dave steepled his fingers and pressed them beneath his nose. “I believe all of us share an equal amount of the blame.”

  Grant’s hand hit his agenda. “Now, see here. We all agreed Sam needed the rest.”

  “Yes.” John leaned forward. “But some of our motivations were different.”

  Dave examined his thumbnail. “Ministers can sometimes create enemies by the faithful discharge of their duties. A great many of them labor in vain.”

  Grant shoved himself away from the table. John held up a hand to stop him. “I agree that Pastor Tibbits needed a rest. But we gave him no choice. Had we trusted in something bigger than ourselves, the outcome might have been less . . . controversial.”

  “Or, maybe not,” Dave surmised.

  The silence extended for seconds.

  “If you think I am the one who ought to apologize,” Grant said, his voice somewhat hoarse as he defended himself, “you have another think coming. I’m not willing to leave the endowment fund here if we’re going through some sort of political upheaval. And there will be upheaval if the homeless man continues to attend services. I can easily place the fund elsewhere, another church perhaps . . .”

  Dave’s mouth had gone tight with strain.

  Mary Grace started to speak, but could not.

  John thrust out his chin in a gesture of disapproval. He held out his hands, palms up. “We are all responsible for the well-being of the man who serves us. He has returned in faith and during Casey Boyd’s service, he showed us his heart. I see no reason not to go ahead as planned and welcome him back with open arms.”

  Grant stammered, “But I don’t think you are listening to what I have to say.”

  “If you leave, Grant, then you leave.” There was no way John was going to let the man derail him. “God is calling people to his house. All people. And I aim to welcome them when they come. Unwashed. Unclean. Just like the rest of us.”

  “If you go, I believe Pastor Tibbits will regret it,” Mary Grace said, startling herself. “He has respected you as a leader and loved you as a friend.”

  “I’m sorry it has to come to this,” Grant said.

  He left the room with no further sound.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The letter arrived in the mailbox, at Covenant Heights, stuck between the pages of a choir robe catalog. It lay beneath an electric bill and a stack of monthly newsletters, which had been returned for address updates.

  Mary Grace didn’t begin sifting through the mail until after 5:00 p.m. She put the bills into the treasurer’s box, and piled the newsletters beside her computer to input the new information in the morning. She pitched the catalogue in the trashcan. They’re ordered choir robes recently because the choir had been growing. They wouldn’t need new ones around Covenant Heights for a while.

  But just before she got ready to switch off her computer and shut the lights off for the day, she lifted her mug and took a last sip of tea.

  As she sipped, she happened to glance at the floor. Something caught her eye. An envelope had fallen beneath her desk. She picked it up and read the return address. Hum. Nothing familiar. Someone from Portland.

  The envelope was long and cool in her hands, light blue with splotches of white woven in like linen fabric. It was addressed to Sam but, you know, these days that could mean anything. Mary Grace sliced it open with her official church letter opener, its pewter handle shaped like a cross.

  She read the first line, and the second. She read the signature. She picked up the phone and called Sam at home.

  “I think you’d better get over here. I know you’re not officially back on staff yet, but I have something you need to see.”

  Sam held out his hand and Mary Grace put the letter in his hand. He examined the return address, the postmark, the pretty stamp with a picture of a boat. When he saw the handwriting on the envelope, he recognized it immediately. Aubrey’s script had not changed since she’d been in her teens.

  Dear Sam,

  I think you already know how much it meant to me to see you again. I wasn’t going to write and, if I get brave enough to mail this, you do not need to answer. I won’t wait to hear from you. Hope it’s okay I wrote you at your church. It was the only address I could find.

  Gary came home from the treatment center last week. You should have seen the way the kids fussed over him. Billy wouldn’t stop sitting in his lap and Hannah gave Elephant to him. Can you believe that? After all the money to ship that animal across two states, and she gives it away to her father first thing! He was trying to figure out how to give it back to her and then he looked at me. We were so in tune with each other, all I had to do was nod. He turned to Hannah and thanked her and said he would keep it always.

  Children can be so much smarter than adults sometimes.

  I am writing mostly to tell you that Gary made it home and to tell you “thank you” for praying for us. I know it’s going to be a long road, but I feel like something beyond myself has given me the strength to carry on. I was walking into the bedroom last night because I was angry Gary had forgotten to give me a message from Channing’s high school office and, all of a sudden, something else got hold of my mouth and I couldn’t open it. All of a sudden, I knew what I was supposed to say. It came out like just like that! Something I hadn’t even been thinking. Gary, I said. I want you to know how proud I am of you. I want you to know that I admire the person you have worked to become over the past two months. I want you to know that I’m going to stand beside you and help that person become as strong as he can be. He said, I’ve been waiting to hear you say that ever since I got home.

  Then he said, I just need to know you’re standing beside me as an equal, Aubrey. I don’t need you to help me become stronger. I’m the one responsible for that. I’m not going to be a husband who takes from you and doesn’t give back. I’m finished with living my life like that.

  Until then, I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear that.

  Someday, I may tell Gary about our time together. Or, I may not. I’m going to pray about that, too. I just wanted you to know how much I cherished seeing you, Sam. Being in the seaside cottage changed my life. I am convinced this turn of events with my husband would never have happened if you had not showed me the way to your Father’s heart.

  I will never forget you, Sam. I will think of you often. I will remember you well.

  As always, Aubrey

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sam’s call to pastor had been a moment, he would still insist years later, that was mu
ch easier felt than talked about. As he stood on the ladder at his sister’s house, craning his neck so he could paint a second coat on the trim over the garage door, Sam might as well have been that college student again, lying in the rusty dorm bed, craning his neck to stare at the bricks in the ceiling. Trying to breathe. Remembering the words he’d once heard in his spirit.

  You have been chosen by me to feed the ones I love.

  That night so long ago, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d leapt out of bed and turned on his light and his roommate had moaned, “Sam, what are you doing? Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No,” he’d insisted. And he’d gone digging through his closet, throwing everything frantically out of the way, his shoes landing in hollow thumps behind him, his high school yearbook coming to rest with its pages splayed like wings, the tangle of dirty clothes ending up in a knot in the middle of the room. Then he had it in his hand—the blue-leather book inscribed with his name in small gold letters: SAMUEL JAMES TIBBITS.

  The cover was peeling off the Bible because he had once carried it with him to read in the sand. A church bulletin fell out and he saw the date of the last time he’d played Hangman with a friend in the pew. Amazing, that he could have taken any of this so lightly!

  He began thumbing through, trying to find the Scripture. Him. Sam Tibbits. Who never got stickers in third-grade Sunday school because he couldn’t remember to return his memory verses to class. He guessed that, probably, when he found the page he was searching for, it wouldn’t mean anything. But he was wrong. When he found it, he stared at the page. He read the words over and over again.

  And go to the land that I will show you.

  Reading that Scripture so long ago, something inside Sam Tibbits had soared. The words seemed to lift and move and glimmer on the page. They became alive and personal and enfolded themselves around his questioning heart.

  Those had been the days he’d spent living on hope, feeling both afraid and inadequate, believing his heavenly Father to prepare the way before him, swept along by a glorious current, something beyond himself.

  He understood so much about himself now, because the Father had showed him firsthand.

  Those who have left their first love behind would do well to consider. Where is the blessedness they once spoke of?

  “Thank you, Father. Oh, thank you for not giving up on me,” Sam whispered as he wielded the paintbrush high overhead.

  What, then, is healing if you have no intention of going to visit the sick? Why do you need love if you’re going to distance yourself? What is a gift from the Lord if you’re going to hoard it for yourself and not give it away again?

  He had arrived once more at Covenant Heights. The land which his Father had shown him. Oh, how good it felt to be certain again!

  Sam stands at the edge of a path, enjoying the maple leaves. They sift slowly from black branches above his head. The sky is so blue it makes his head throb.

  The heat has cured the grass until it’s the same color as Ginny’s fur. The dog is skittish today. When she steps into heaps of maple leaves, they crackle beneath her feet. She doesn’t remember that she loved playing in them last year. She hops sideways in distress and Sam laughs at her for forgetting what each new season will bring.

  Another three months and, crazy dog, she’ll have to remember snow.

  Sam didn’t expect so many Covenant Heights church members to drive this far for the antique car rally in deep Iowa farm country. Exploring the countryside is something he’s never taken the time to do for himself before. The autumn sun bathes the curves of the old automobiles in a gold wash of light. Everywhere he turns, he sees someone he knows.

  He and Mary Grace sit on the grass eating ice cream from the old creamery, and John McKinley catches him with a mouthful of banana walnut. “Good to have you back at the helm, Sam.” John pats him heartily on the back.

  When they browse in the Old World Lace Shop, Dottie Graham waves from across the aisle, her eyes darting from Mary Grace to him, and from him to Mary Grace again. She holds up a doily and (as if it would block any noise at all!) stage whispers behind it, “Well, isn’t this just the nicest thing?” to her friend.

  Hunter, of course, is fascinated by the cars. Most of them are polished to perfection, the gleam coming off their fenders enough to signal someone stranded on another hill. The signs in their windows say DO NOT TOUCH. But there is a Cadillac convertible from the 1960s with a black and white paint job and red leather interior that doesn’t have a sign. Hunter has been inside that car three times.

  Sam hasn’t heard from Aubrey again since her letter, and he knows he never will. She will always be a part of him because loving her helped make him who he is. She taught him to dig for clams. She taught him that there are parts of human love, too, that never end. That love doesn’t always die and that, sometimes, love becomes stronger when it changes.

  Sometime when the wind kicks up and the cool breeze floods across the Iowa hills, something about it makes him imagine the smell of salt air. He’ll glance up and see a gull. He imagines he can hear the sea.

  He thinks of Aubrey then.

  He knows he won’t go back. He will go forward, press closer, to his own life instead.

  Sam does not often ask Mary Grace what she thinks of them as a couple. It has been easy to keep their new friendship quiet through the heated end of summer, because he has been on leave. Once he takes over his office again, first thing Tuesday morning, he knows everyone will give him advice like family. He and Mary Grace will both have plenty of opinions coming their way.

  Sam has taken too long dreaming by the maples. He hears Mary Grace calling his name. She is at the furniture exhibit, standing beside an enormous handmade chair.

  A cotton candy stand grabs his attention. He fumbles with Ginny’s leash as he tries to get the change in his pocket. Even though Mary Grace is waving her hands, mouthing no, no, he buys her a bouquet of it anyway. Not just one puff of cotton candy for his girl—absolutely unthinkable! They have orange. And pink. And blue. That is something new these days. She must have all the colors. He loves that about Mary Grace. She is brilliant color, all the time. How could he have missed it all these years?

  Sam sometimes catches a look in her eye when the two of them are together, a glimmer that seems to reflect his soul. He knows to pray, to seek the Lord’s face about what he might be feeling. Today, very cautiously, he asks Mary Grace: “How would you feel if we began to think of our future?” He could also say, “Because I am finished thinking about my past.” But he doesn’t.

  She laughs. “Only if you’ll let me clean out your freezer.” She props her hands on her hips like a truant officer, her fingernails flashing orange, her smile illuminating his day. “I’ve never seen so many casserole dishes with phone numbers in all my life. From now on, no one puts casseroles in your freezer but me.”

  Sam laughs too, wraps his arm around her and draws her against him. He knows now, in God’s plan, she will be the one.

  Overhead, the clouds always drift westward. Very soon, they will rise over the mountains. Eventually, they will sail forth over the sea.

  Dearest Reader,

  What joy it has been to write this book for you! I’m scribbling this letter while the book is still four days from completion, knowing that the Father will be faithful to provide the ending that will touch your hearts for Him. I set out to write a book about a universal story. What would happen if we happened upon an old love? How would we respond? What would we say? And would we be able to walk away satisfied without wishing to regain our pasts?

  No two writers work the same. I begin with a character and, with a lot of prayer, let that character guide me. As Sam Tibbits struggled as a pastor in Remember Me, his journey taught me so much about my own views of people. It is easy to name the idols that we often live by in our lives. Our careers. Our time. Our appearances. Our belongings. Our plans. But never before had I thought of people being idols.

  As I beg
an to understand that Sam had placed Aubrey above God in his life, it became apparent that (1) the Father brought these two back together so Sam could offer Christ’s healing hope to her; and (2) the Father wanted Sam to see the truth about his own life. How often I do the same thing that Sam does! It is so easy to look to people to fill the emptiness that only the Father can fill.

  Tinsley Spessard is a beautiful young mother who authored the discussion questions in Remember Me. Tinsley and I are in a women’s covenant group together. When the time came to submit these questions, I was too close to Sam and Aubrey’s lives to step away and be able to see clearly. Tinsley volunteered to read the book and see what questions the Father would put on her heart. I think you’ll agree that God moved through her in a powerful direction. Blessings on you and your study group as you consider the questions Tinsley poses. Her thoughts bring me so much joy! Oh, how I’d like to be a fly on the wall and listen to your insights, too.

  Know that I’m praying for you and your journey with the Father, especially as I’m writing these final pages. My dear one, may your every breath be filled with prayer to the Father to guide you. May your every struggle end with new, personal insight of His providence and plan. May you always return to Jesus, because His love is always first love!

  Deborah Bedford

  www.deborahbedfordbooks.com

  Box 9175

  Jackson Hole, WY 83001

  Reading Group Guide

  Composed by Tinsley Spessard

  1. Sam’s childhoood memories from Piddock Beach had a tremendous impact on him. Think back over your childhood. What experiences and memories helped shape who you have become? Can you see God’s hand in your past, helping to mold your present and future? What do you believe about God using your past before you were committed to Him?