The Five Lives of John and Jillian

by Greg Krehbiel

  “See,” he said, “we don’t even have to sit at a picnic table.”

  “But it’s still got a plastic table cloth, and she’s still gonna call me ‘hun,’” Jillian replied in only half-serious protest.

  “And since when are you such a snob,” John said in a playful voice.

  “Okay, it’s ... homey,” she admitted, scanning the two-page paper menu. “If you live in a barn,” she muttered.

  “I say all you can eat,” Amy replied to Wayne’s question. “Right?” She looked at Mary, Wayne’s wife, who seemed to have more doubts about this place than Jillian.

  “Whatever you say,” Mary agreed.

  “But first things first,” John announced, signaling to the waitress and ordering a pitcher of beer.

  In a few minutes they were settling down with plastic tumblers filled with MGD and digging their hands into a steaming pile of Chesapeake Bay blue crabs, smothered in the traditional orange seasoning. Mary held back, even after Wayne gave her a quick lesson on the ways of the famous crustacean, and Jillian picked at hers with some hesitancy. Wayne, Amy and John dove right in with practiced ease, seeming, to Jillian’s eyes, to pull large chunks of white meat out of the most unlikely places.

  “So I understand you’re going to be adopting,” Mary said to Jillian after she managed to retrieve an intact piece of meat from a claw, only to find as she tried to bite it that a large piece of cartilage ran right through the middle. “That’s great.”

  “We hope so,” Jillian said. “It looks like things will be okay, but I have to go out to Columbus again next week and put up with some more legal foolishness.”

  “What are you going to do about school?” Wayne asked.

  John looked up from his crab with a look of surprise, as if he hadn’t even considered the thought. He glanced at Jillian and read all he needed to know. She’d given it plenty, and she had some ideas that she wasn’t keen on sharing. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, gesturing for her to answer Wayne’s question. It might as well come out now.

  “Before that conference Amy took us to, I guess I would have settled for the local public school.”

  “Government school,” Wayne corrected, pointing at her with a crab claw. “Owned, operated and regulated by the government.”

  Jillian shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, that conference gave me a completely different perspective on education. We’ve only got a few years to try to mold a child – to give him the right perspective on life and get a good start. And we’re going to have even less time with Karl,” she said, looking at John. “He’s already ten.”

  And it looks like we’re starting at a disadvantage at that, John thought, remembering Jack’s words about the boy’s upbringing.

  “So I want to find a way to give him a Christian education,” Jillian continued. “But I don’t know how we can afford it. The adoption is killing us already.”

  Wayne shook his head with an expression somewhere between disgust and anger. “This is what burns me up. Churches have such goofy priorities. We send money overseas to convert the heathen, and we spend all kinds of money and time to get our heathen neighbors into church, and to un-teach them all the dumb things they’ve learned from Oprah and The Celestine Prophecy, but we never think about being proactive – keeping our own kids from becoming heathen in the first place – or providing a Christian education for the kids in the neighborhood.”

  Jillian was surprised to find herself agreeing wholeheartedly. That was precisely the message she got from the conference. Christians had been too passive in trying to influence the culture. And not only that, the common, cultural well had been poisoned by unbelief and anti-Christian views while the church slept, and then, belatedly, it tried to be a hospital for the sick. Instead, it needed to be a prophet, pointing the world in the right direction.

  “Have you considered home schooling?” Mary asked. “Wayne and I looked into that. It’s not as expensive as private school. Provided you can live on one income.”

  Jillian looked nervously at John, who seemed confused, or worried. He’d read about home schooling in the paper, but he’d never thought of it as a real possibility. “I’d love to do that,” she said, still with half an eye on John, “but we’re getting ourselves pretty deep in debt, with the addition to the house and the adoption and all that, and I’m going to have to keep working ... at least for a little while.” John seemed to tense at that. “So I think it’s going to have to be a Christian school.”

  John could hear the cash register ring again. They had hoped that Jillian could work a couple more years doing custom draperies, then, after they’d used her income to pay off most of the addition, she could scale back her time and they could have a child. All those plans were out the window now.

  “Are there any good schools in your neighborhood?” Amy asked.

  “I haven’t looked, but I don’t know of any,” Jillian said. John sat back in his chair, where he could see everyone at once, and sipped at his beer.

  “What about the school at St. John’s?” Amy asked. “I’ve heard good things about that one.”

  That’s Fr. Miller’s church, John thought. “That’s Catholic,” he said, as if from a distance.

  “I went to Catholic school, and I wouldn’t want to put my kid through that,” Jillian began, “but I’ve read some interesting things about more traditional schools.”

  “Oh, Catholic schools are nothing like the way they used to be,” Mary laughed. “But I think you should look for one of those non-denominational schools. They seem to have good programs for the kids.”

  Yes, John thought. The kids have a happy time learning that Adam and Eve rode around on dinosaurs.

  “You know, there was one around the corner from us, connected with that Presbyterian church, but there was some kind of theological fight between the principal and the pastor, and things got ugly. It ended up killing the school. The parish wouldn’t support it anymore.”

  John shook his head and scooted in closer to the table, cracking open another crab. “Typical,” he said.

  “What do you expect, John?,” Mary asked. “Why should the principal defer to the pastor, or the pastor to the principal? Nobody has the final word in Protestantism.”

  There was an awkward pause, after which Wayne said, “Pardon my wife,” and cast a curious glance at her. “She’s still a little too Catholic, I’m afraid.”

  “But that’s something to consider,” Amy jumped in, somewhat perturbed at Wayne’s comment. “If we were to start a school at St. Anne’s, who would have the final say when there’s a dispute?”

  “Fr. Devlin?” John said with a laugh.

  “Mrs. Martin, more like,” Wayne added.

  “Or that limp noodle of a congregational president,” Mary added. “What’s his name?”

  “I can never remember that guy’s name, if he has one,” Wayne said, “but are we dealing with a hopeless case here? Even if we can figure out the finances, and get the facility up to code, and find enough kids and teachers, everything that we come up with is going to be laid at the feet of Fr. Devlin and the good folk of St. Anne’s. Maybe the bishop would get involved, and that would be a holy disaster. Would any of us trust our children to such a place?”

  Everyone looked down at the table, or away. They were each coming to grips with the fact that they were attending a church they didn’t trust, and wondering why in the world they put up with it.

  “It was your idea, Wayne,” John finally said. “What were you thinking?”

  “I guess I was hoping that a project like this could breathe life into the parish,” he said. “If we had a goal – a mission to change people – to have an influence on the future for the kingdom of God – maybe people would take their faith more seriously.”

  “Isn’t that still a possibility?” Jillian asked. “After all, might a school be the salvation of St. Anne’s, so to speak? And if the parish was ... revived, wouldn’t that solve the problems we have right now?”
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  Her hopeful words couldn’t shake the malaise that had settled on the soul of each person at the table. The idea of reforming Fr. Devlin, or Mrs. Martin, seemed too remote to take seriously, and who had the energy to try?

  * * *

  John was silent on the drive home, and Jillian felt no need to talk. She was certain that her chances were slim to none of getting Karl if their finances had to bear the extra load of tuition. Was it worth it? Here she had her one, great chance to make up for the biggest mistake in her life, and fate had thrown her a curve. Why couldn’t this be easy? Why did this turmoil about education have to confront her just now? Why couldn’t it have waited until next year?

  Something in her Catholic background told her that big sins require big penances. Maybe now, finally, she was reaping the consequences of her folly. A small voice told her it wouldn’t be fitting to commit such a colossal blunder and then have everything turn up roses. She owed the world some suffering as payment.

  But such thoughts set off a war in her mind. It seemed silly that God was carefully measuring out penances and manipulating the subtle details of life to ensure that everyone got their due. Wasn’t God concerned with bigger things? With joy, and peace, and wellness? And if He could really manipulate all the details of life like that, it seemed He would do a better job with the results.

  Besides, the sisters told her that if she refused to accept suffering with submission to the will of God, then it was wasted. There was no merit in simply enduring it, and in that case the lesson would be in vain.

  What kind of ridiculous, wasteful way is that to run a universe? Was God carefully crafting the minutiae of life to ensure that everyone got their due, and then watching it all turn to naught because the players didn’t have the right attitude about it?

  John would immediately ask for an alternative view, she thought. “When the available answers seem silly, look for a different one,” he had said just the other day.

  She wondered if God is unable to control the universe He created. Are the minutiae of life truly tedious and insignificant to Him? Does it take effort to manage them? Does it tire Him? Does His patience run out when His plan is resisted by His own creatures?

  The Wiccans thought the troubles in life were mostly from bad visualization, or a big case of “what goes around comes around.” But that was just a less-developed version of penance, after all, and Jillian never could understand Who was supposed to control all that stuff in the Wiccan system. The Master of Karma, whoever he is, had to sit back and work out all the bureaucratic details just as surely as the God of the nuns.

  On the other hand, it could just be chance. Maybe God does play dice with the universe. But Jillian didn’t believe that. If there was a God at all, He had to be in charge, or He wasn’t really God. And that meant that He knew ... no, that He directed that Norma would die when she did; that their finances would be the way they are; that her life of faith would take the turns that it was now taking, challenging her to be more serious about education. Maybe it was a penance for her past sins, or maybe there was some other purpose – maybe there were purposes within purposes within purposes that she couldn’t begin to fathom. Maybe everything had been orchestrated to solve somebody else’s problem.

  Just yesterday she’d seen a “de-motivational poster” that said, “Perhaps the sole purpose of your life is to serve as an example to others.”

  That still left her with the gnawing question: what to do now? Should she compromise her convictions to make the adoption work? If Karl just went to the public school, she and John were far more likely to pass muster with the agency. It would help their finances, and they would seem more “normal.” Then he could move in, and once the adoption was finalized, maybe six months to a year later, they could pull him out and put him in a Christian school.

  It seemed prudent. It would probably work. But did all these circumstances come together so that she could find a prudent way around them, or so that she could exercise her faith in the midst of them? The one path was easy. She could see how it might work. True, she needed to compromise a little, but it was a small compromise, and only for a while. It wouldn’t hurt.

  The other path was shrouded in darkness and she couldn’t see a way through. Their finances were on the edge as it was: tuition would be impossible. She would lose Karl and break faith with Norma. There’d never be another opportunity like this.

  She felt as if she was supposed to be commissioned with a great task, and she didn’t know what it was, or how to prepare for it.

  Chapter 20 – Putting out the Fleece

  Fr. Miller gently shook his head. His face wore an expression that was somewhere between astonishment and “yeah, I told you so.”

  “John, I’ve never told you this, but it’s a hobby of mine to read about Eucharistic miracles. People getting healed when they take the Blessed Sacrament. Others seeing an image of the Lord in the host. You’d be surprised. And I’ve always hoped, or wished, that I would see one, or be near when it happened. Your experience wasn’t quite a miracle, but it sounds like one of the more intense Eucharistic experiences from anybody I’ve known personally.”

  John didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t attributed his experience at St. Matthews to anything other than his own obsessions. The whole thing was some kind of theater going on in his mind, and in retrospect he was embarrassed by it. The nearness of the Eucharist had brought the matter to a decision point. It wasn’t a miracle, or anything odd. It was just a crisis point. A time to make a decision.

  “What do you think I should do now?” he asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

  Fr. Miller looked at him for a long moment, as if he were studying his face. John had the same sensation as when a doctor listens to his lungs. He wanted the expert to give him a diagnosis.

  “It doesn’t do any good for me to believe that the Lord was speaking to you, John. You’ve got to believe it. You’ve got to be convinced that His true Body and true Blood are only offered to you in His true church.”

  John couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He wanted something to do; something he could change. “Be convinced” is not very useful counsel. Fr. Miller seemed to sense his unease and raised his eyebrows, inviting the question.

  “But what do I do?”

  Fr. Miller looked away for a moment and thought. He seemed to be considering a dangerous remedy. Something that might backfire. A reckless medicine that might cause more pain, or that might cure.

  “I wouldn’t recommend this to everyone, John, because we’re not supposed to put God to the test. But you’ve read it all, and you’ve heard it all, and your intellect just won’t budge. You seem to be snagged on something, and I think you need a jump-start from another direction. You need some tangible evidence of the reality of the Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. So here’s what I suggest you do. Take some special request – something hard – something you don’t expect to be resolved – and take it before the Lord. Ask our Lord to show Himself to you by honoring your devotion to Him in the Eucharist.”

  “But isn’t that putting God to the test?” John asked.

  “That’s exactly what it is. But you’re not throwing yourself off the pinnacle of the temple, daring God not to save you. You’re putting out a fleece, like Gideon. I think it’s the only thing that will resolve your conflict, John. Otherwise, what will you do? You know too much to be comfortable as an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, or anything else.”

  * * *

  Even in the middle of the day, the inside of St. Matthews cathedral was cool and dark, with its own unique smell – a mix of beeswax candles. incense and sweaty worshippers. For the regulars, it was part of the sensory input that attuned their minds to prayer.

  Maria Galeas fasted through her lunch break every week day so she could spend time in the lady chapel at St. Matthews cathedral.

  Today, she noticed a well-dressed man kneeling in prayer off to one side, almost as if he didn’t belong, or didn’t want to be seen.
She’d seen many a man in prayer over 36 years of daily devotion, but something on this man’s face haunted her. It was the look of a man who was mentally worn to a shred. He seemed fit enough, and, were she to allow herself to think such thoughts, handsome enough too. But there was something else. He was worn out with God. He was here out of a sense of despair, as if he’d tried everything else, and now he was giving God one, last try.

  “Hail Holy Queen,” she began. “Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.”

  Chapter 21 – Tom Takes his Stand

  Jillian tried hard not to look behind her as she sat next to Max Steinbach in a small, wood-paneled court room. Karl’s father was just behind her and to her left, and she could almost feel his gaze on the back of her head and the side of her face. She was somewhat curious what the years had done to him, but she was determined not to look, and to be no more than acceptably civil.

  She kept wondering why he was doing this? She knew enough of the Ohio law to know that Tom didn’t have a case. Was it spite, or just curiosity? Or perhaps something a little more devious?

  Finally, after the strain of trying not to look behind her was taking its toll on Jillian’s neck muscles, the clerk called Mr. Thomas Henry to the bench and the judge asked to hear his petition.

  He turned and smiled at her as he walked past, and Jillian noted with some pleasure that he did not have a lawyer, and that we was not particularly well dressed. His tan Dockers and golf shirt make him look like he belonged at a fraternity party, not in a court to win custody of a child.

  The judge informed him from the beginning that he had virtually no standing in this matter, and that unless he could demonstrate a substantial reason why Jillian was unfit to adopt the child, he had nothing to say. Jillian’s lawyer looked at her and smiled reassuringly, but Jillian was not nearly so confident. She remembered Tom, and he always had something up his sleeve. Nothing was as it appeared with him, and she was sure he knew his case was weak, which meant he had something else on his side. Her stomach tightened in fearful anticipation as he smiled at the judge and made his appeal.