Two more years of teaching had brought her to early retirement, but they hadn’t been easy. Jan had mourned her husband so acutely that at times she was sure she couldn’t go on. Their finances had been a confusing mess, their friends either tried to adopt her or discarded her like yesterday’s dust rag and their home suddenly felt like a mausoleum. The pressure had been nearly unbearable.
Jan had been looking forward to this first summer in her new home with great eagerness. She would paint her favorite sayings on the walls, plant roses in the yard, read all the bestsellers she had missed out on in the past five years, take long baths and generally tend to herself. What she had not envisioned was a nosy neighbor. A messy dog. And an angry, unforgiving daughter.
And memories.
Now that she had seen those photographs of his face, Jan could not stop thinking about Thomas. Had she been wrong to keep her pregnancy from him? She would never forget the slope of his shoulders as he had walked away from her that day in the backyard. Had he truly loved her? Or had she been simply another adventure on the pathway of his life?
Even now, Jan could hardly believe Thomas had expected her to follow him to Sri Lanka. Wherever that was. But his feelings for her must have been stronger than she imagined. His letters from those months of his internship revealed a depth of thought and emotion she hadn’t seen during their casual dating and then their growing physical passion. Maybe there had been more to Thomas Wood than a handsome, physically striking rogue who wanted to wander the world.
Had Jan been right in telling Beth that they would have been unhappy together? Yes. There could be no question about that. A tea plantation in some far-off country would never have felt like home. Jan would have been miserable and Thomas resentful. Their marriage could not have lasted. And besides, Thomas was dead now—Jan had looked into that herself several years ago. Whether Jan had married John or Thomas, Beth would have lost her father.
Her heart heavy, Jan pulled her gloves back on. She had to stop her daughter from continuing to pursue this mythical image of her birth father. Thomas Wood wasn’t meant to be in Beth’s life—everyone, even his own mother, had agreed about that. Somehow Jan needed to find a way to put an end to her daughter’s feelings of anger and betrayal over the secret they all had kept. She had to help Beth see that it was over now…over and best forgotten. Resolved, Jan knelt to pat down the dirt that Trixie had scattered from around the Peace Rose.
That’s all she really wanted. Peace. She was beginning to think it an impossible dream.
If she could live anywhere in the world, Beth had concluded, she would choose Botswana. As the taxi sped down the streets of Gaborone toward Sir Seretse Khama International Airport, she tried to take in every detail of the capital city she had come to know so well in the past three weeks.
What a wonderful country! About the size of France, Botswana was landlocked in the heart of southern Africa. In compiling research for her clients, the Furman family, Beth had learned that although the Kalahari desert stretched across Botswana, abundant wildlife filled the northern Okavango Delta. She had yet to fly there, but the stories she had heard filled her with determination to see it on her next visit.
With a population of only 1.5 million people, Botswana had been one of the poorest countries in Africa before its independence in 1966. But the discovery of vast diamond reserves had brought a prosperity that enabled the new nation to build one of the soundest infrastructures on the continent. Beth found that the roads—though few—were well maintained. The electricity rarely failed except in times of extreme drought. The postal and telephone systems were kept in decent working order. Most important, the government functioned as a politically stable democracy, largely free of corruption. The people proved intelligent, kind, generous and welcoming.
In fact, the only blight Beth had been able to uncover in Botswana was the tragedy of HIV and AIDS that ran rampant in sub-Saharan Africa. Botswana and neighboring Zimbabwe had been among the hardest hit, and the government now used billboards, secondary school classes and pamphlets in its campaign to prevent spread of the deadly virus. Treatment for the disease was scarce and expensive, but it was available. Officials at Princess Marina Hospital in Gaborone had admitted to Beth that sixty to eighty percent of their inpatients had HIV, and several orphanages in the area cared for children of AIDS victims.
Despite the epidemic, Beth felt sure her clients were going to fall in love with their new home, just as she had.
“Excuse me, please, Mma.” The taxi driver spoke up, addressing Beth with the polite Setswana title of respect. Like most citizens, he spoke the capable British-accented English he had learned in school. “Did you come to Botswana as a tourist?”
“Actually, I came on business, Rra,” Beth replied. She had managed to learn a few words and greetings during her three weeks, but she regretted her inability to converse in the native language. “I’m employed by a company that moves people and their possessions around the world. My job is to help make our clients’ transition as smooth as possible. In Gaborone, I’ve been looking at housing and schools for a family from America.”
“Gaborone is a good city for new people,” the driver observed. “Did you find a house?”
“I toured several and sent the information to my clients. They selected a home in Mokolodi.”
“A fine area! I am certain this house will have many large rooms and a big yard.”
Beth smiled at his obvious pride in the city. “In fact, there are five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a wonderful kitchen and a swimming pool.”
“Ow!” he exclaimed in the Setswana expression of amazement. “How can your clients be unhappy with such a fine house? And they will place their children in the Westwood International School, of course. The school owns forty hectares of land, and all the classrooms are air-conditioned. It has a twenty-five-meter swimming pool and cricket nets. The fees there are very high, but not for Americans.”
Beth nodded, recalling the well-equipped school that provided the children of diplomatic personnel, businessmen and missionaries with a solid education. For a man like the taxi driver, the school’s laboratories, library, computer center, auditorium and gymnasium must seem like an extravagant luxury. Yet his voice held no tone of resentment. Rather, he exemplified the pleasure all Batswana seemed to take in their country’s progress and success.
“We have the Princess Marina Hospital here in Gaborone,” he was saying. “It is a good hospital. You have already seen our international airport, named for our first president, the late Sir Seretse Khama. Also, in Gaborone and even in Francis-town, we have excellent hotels, and markets for buying food and clothing.”
Beth leaned forward, arms on the seat in front of her. “I’ve been very impressed with your city, Rra. I believe the Furman family will be happy here.”
“Are they indeed Americans?”
“Yes. The husband is a scientist, a geologist. Your government has hired him to help determine where to build dams and lakes that would help supply water during droughts.”
The driver fell silent as he maneuvered in traffic. Finally he spoke again. “The droughts are brought to us by God, Modimo, who lives in the sky. His rules should not be broken, or He will send retribution. God is very kind and understanding. But He does not approve of those who disregard Him.”
Beth considered his words. Most of the people she had met in Gaborone considered themselves Christians. But their theology allowed for spirits and manifestations of past pagan belief systems. She certainly didn’t want to offend the friendly driver, but Beth had never been good at keeping her thoughts to herself.
“Do you believe God would punish people for trying to ensure they had water during the droughts?” she asked.
“God has established rules, Mma. In Botswana, we have drought and rain. These two seasons were given to us by God. Who are we to believe we can change them?”
“Perhaps God Himself has decided to send Dr. Furman to help the Batswana. If God truly care
s for His people, how could He want them to suffer during the droughts?”
“All people must die, Mma. If they have been good, God will welcome them after death. If they have been bad, they must be sent to a terrible place. This is God’s rule. It cannot be broken.”
“Rra, I believe something different about God. I believe He loves change. In fact, I believe God sent His Son Jesus to earth to break all the old rules. He came to set people free from rules.”
In the rearview mirror Beth saw the taxi driver’s eyes widen. Clearly, he considered this idea revolutionary, and therefore suspect. Oddly, his expression reminded Beth of her mother’s face when they discussed her taking the job with the moving company. Jan Lowell didn’t like change any better than this taxi driver. As different as they were, both believed God had set up a system of rules that shouldn’t be broken. If a person broke a rule, he or she must suffer the consequences.
“I do not wish to show disrespect, Mma,” the driver said. “But my church teaches that Jesus, though He is the Son of God, is the same as God. Why do you say that Jesus came to earth to break God’s rules?”
“Do you believe God is great?”
“God is greater even than Sir Seretse Khama, and he was the greatest man who ever lived.”
Beth smiled, noting again the reverence with which the Batswana regarded their first president. “Yes, God is so great and so holy and so perfect,” she told the driver, “that He could not allow people even to look at Him. He spoke to Moses from a burning bush in the desert. He killed men who touched the box where His laws were kept. And God did set up rules that people had to follow to earn His forgiveness—by sacrificing animals on an altar to pay for their sins. But God was not satisfied with the sacrifices of the people, and He didn’t like the distance that separated Him from those who loved and honored Him.”
She paused as the driver steered his taxi through the airport’s main gates. Then, praying that God would give her the words, she went on. “So, that’s why God sent His only Son, Jesus. God did away with the old rules. He said we didn’t need to sacrifice animals anymore, because Jesus took their place on the altar.”
“You are speaking of the cross on which Jesus died.”
“Yes, Rra. And when Jesus died, His sacrifice gave us new life, you see. We’re free from death. We can change and grow and become new people by following Jesus. Do you believe this?”
The driver pulled his taxi to the curb and switched off the ignition. “I do believe Jesus died on the cross and came alive again. But how can any man become a new person? This is not possible.”
“I believe it is not only possible, Rra, but it is required.”
His dark eyes assessed her. “I cannot change the color of my skin or the tribe into which I was born. How can I be a new person?”
“By releasing your own spirit and allowing yourself to be filled with the Holy Spirit of God. He will change you on the inside, Rra, and that’s how you’ll be a different person.”
The driver’s mouth widened, and his white teeth shone in the sunlight as he smiled at her. “I know what you are telling me! It is like the snake that sheds its skin. The snake may look the same as before, but after shedding the skin it is different.”
Beth nodded and gave a little shrug. “Yes. The Bible promises that if any man is Christ, he is a new creation.”
The driver adjusted his meter and took out a receipt book. “You are a wise woman, Mma,” he said as he handed her the slip of paper, and she gave him a stack of pula in return. “I hope you will return to Botswana very soon. If you come back, perhaps you will ride in my taxi, and we can talk about God again. Until that day, I will consider this situation which you have presented to me—a God of rule-breaking who wishes for His people to change.”
As Beth slipped out of the taxi, she wondered if she had made a mess of the man’s whole theology. Obviously, he had been to church, and he understood about Jesus. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut and let someone better qualified explain things to the driver.
He was lifting her suitcases out of the trunk of his car and setting them on the sidewalk. Beth pulled out the handle on her rolling bag and settled her smaller case atop it. As she started for the terminal, the driver touched her arm.
“These are fierce things which you have spoken,” he said, holding up a single finger. “Very strong and powerful ideas. If you are correct, perhaps God will be happy to permit your American client to help Botswana in the times of droughts. And…perhaps I, who carry the Slim disease in my body, can become a new man.”
Beth caught her breath. “Oh, but you must understand, Rra—”
“I understand that I will die from this illness. But you have taught me that if I replace the inside of myself with the Spirit of God, at the time of my death, only the old skin will be shed. The new man will live with God forever.”
Her eyes filling with tears, Beth clasped the man’s hands in her own. “Speak to your minister about this, Rra. He will help you understand it better.”
“Thank you, Mma. Good day to you.”
As he climbed back into his taxi and shut the door, Beth grasped the handle of her bag and headed for the terminal. Nothing had to stay the same, she thought. Not an African taxi driver with AIDS, and not Bethany Ann Lowell.
Chapter Six
Jan held her hand on the telephone receiver, closed her eyes and lifted up a quick prayer. She hadn’t been in the mood to pray much these days, but this situation called for divine help. Please let Beth answer her phone.
For days now, Jan’s calm demeanor and hard-won sense of peace had been crumbling like a stale cookie. She couldn’t put her finger on the cause. Certainly Jim Blevins played a part in her discomfort. The man always found some excuse to drop by. Trixie evidently required five or six walks a day, so the pair were always sauntering past Jan’s house, interrupting her reading, her gardening, even her painting. One day she barely resisted the urge to soak them both with her hose.
But Jim and Trixie could be tolerated. So could the air conditioner, which suddenly gave out on the hottest day of June. Then a blocked kitchen sink drain necessitated a call to a plumber. Next came the unexpected visit from the pastor of a nearby church.
One Thursday afternoon, Pastor Mark Jackson and his wife had dropped by with a box of Stella d’Oro daylilies thinned from their garden. Apparently someone from the lakeside neighborhood had mentioned Jan’s landscaping efforts. Pastor Mark thought of his overgrown lily bed and decided to take her an offering for her new garden. Although she had made up her mind that she no longer needed church fellowship or sermonizing, Jan had visited Pastor Mark’s congregation in the small town of Palestine the following Sunday and found it to be a warm and welcoming group. Unfortunately, the neighbor who had told the minister about her turned out to be Jim Blevins—which meant Jan had to sit next to him during the worship service.
Overneighborly neighbors, a broken air conditioner, a plugged drain, a persistent pastor…Jan’s life was getting more complicated than she liked. She had borne everything in stride until yesterday afternoon. She had been doing some leisurely shopping. When she and her cart arrived at the hair care aisle, Jan glanced at the central shelf, expecting to find her usual shade of permanent coloring lotion, Desert Sunset.
The brand and hue could always be found in every grocery store in the area, right between Amazon Lily and Auburn Glow. But not this time. Desert Sunset was gone. Vanished. Jan had stared at the other two boxes for a moment in disbelief. They had been renumbered, completely omitting Desert Sunset. She dug through the two rows of dye boxes for the shade she had been using at least ten years. Nothing. Feeling as though a trusted friend had just disappeared into the witness protection program, she stood gulping and trying not to cry as she gave up the search.
What could this possibly mean? Had Jan Lowell been the only woman in the world to use Desert Sunset? Had studies shown it to be unpopular? Or too brash? A silly or unnecessary color? Should she write to t
he company and beg for its reinstatement?
Trembling at yet another shift in the axis of her world, Jan had reluctantly dropped a box of Auburn Glow into her cart, waited through a checkout line and then driven back to the cottage on Lake Palestine. By the time she got home, her dismay had turned to indignation. She plopped down on her sofa and punched the toll-free number of the company into her phone.
“Where is Desert Sunset?” she demanded of the woman who picked up the line at the customer relations department. “I’ll have you know I’ve been using Desert Sunset since my first gray hair, and now it’s not in the store. You’ve renumbered all the boxes! You haven’t left room for my color!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Desert Sunset has been discontinued. Auburn Glow is the shade most women have preferred since we reconfigured our line. They’re very similar.”
“But Auburn Glow isn’t my color. It’s not the real me, don’t you see?” Even as she said the words, Jan realized she was ranting about a dye…a mask actually intended to disguise the real her, who was graying and forty-five years old and somehow attractive to a man with a portly dog and several grown grandchildren.
“I’m sorry you feel uncomfortable with the company’s decision,” the customer relations person said, “but I would encourage you to give Auburn Glow a try. I think you’ll be pleased with it.”
“I will not! How can you expect me to alter myself just like that? I was Desert Sunset one day, and I’m supposed to step out my door the next day as Auburn Glow? That’s ridiculous. Don’t you think people will notice that I’ve changed? Don’t you think they’ll see the difference?”
Leaves of Hope Page 7
