A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  When Michelle looked up, Claire started at the tenderness in the woman’s eyes. “Let me back up to something I know for certain,” Michelle said.

  “Good idea.”

  “I believe we’ve each been created with a unique purpose. We’ve been placed in this unique time, in this unique position and place, in this unique set of circumstances to do something unique. We just have to find out what it is. You need to find out what it is.”

  “And that’s why you’re here.”

  “Maybe.” Michelle took a deep breath and glanced at the front door. “When I drove up to this house I had a feeling…and when I came in and saw how you live and felt the wealth—”

  “This place is hardly ostentatious. My ex is the showy one. This place is minimal compared to—”

  Michelle raised a hand. “I’m not condemning you. Not at all. Earning a lot of money is not a sin. In the Bible, there were lots of rich people. King David and King Solomon were very rich, and God didn’t hold their wealth against them.” Her eyes lit up. She put a hand to her mouth. “Do you have a Bible?”

  “Of course I have a Bible.”

  “Get it.”

  Claire retrieved it off her bedside table and held it out to Michelle, but Michelle pushed it back toward Claire. “No. It’s for you to read. You to find.”

  “Find?”

  “The verses that will help you understand.”

  “What verses are they?”

  Michelle headed toward the door, her face drawn with a puzzled look. She stopped to answer. “Maybe the book of Mark…no. I won’t say more. Read the Book, Claire. See where He takes you.” She opened the door.

  “But the baseball—”

  Michelle shook her head. “Some other time. Prayers to you, Claire. I think you may need them.”

  Claire took the Bible to her favorite chair. She sat down and held the book in her lap but did not open it. The entire encounter had been too weird, too left field. Michelle blustered in like a storm, stirred things up, then left, leaving Claire blown away, stunned. Maybe she should just turn on the television and let the baseball game consume her, forget she’d ever met Michelle Jofsky—the strange woman whose purpose was obviously to confuse everyone she met.

  But Claire couldn’t. Not today. Not after she’d been spurred to give a week’s wages to a stranger. Not since a conversation with her ex-husband reminded her how shallow their life together had been. Not since Michelle Jofsky dropped into her life.

  What if Michelle was right? What if she’d been brought to Kansas City just to meet with Claire? Claire knew God worked in such ways—more than people knew. She had to open the Bible. She had to at least be willing to see. Maybe the verses she’d read would be nothing, and she could grab the now-cold pizza, her now-warm tea, and watch the game until she slipped into the blessed bliss of a Saturday afternoon nap.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, God, show me what you want me to see.” She opened the Bible, feeling it fall toward the New Testament. She looked down at the page. Mark 10 was laid out before her.

  She shivered. Michelle had mentioned the book of Mark. The stakes were raised. This was not a coincidence.

  She began to read: “As Jesus started on his way, a man ran up to him and fell on his knees before him. ‘Good teacher,’ he asked, ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’”

  As soon as she read the first line she knew—she knew—what verses these were: the Rich Man verses. She knew the story. But there was more to her shock than recognizing a familiar biblical event. These verses, this story—this charge—had been dogging her for the past few months. And here they were again.

  It had first come up at her Bible study. No big deal. An interesting lesson. But then she heard it on the radio, read it in a magazine, and heard a veiled reference to it on a sitcom.

  And now this…

  This could not be a coincidence.

  She took a cleansing breath and returned to the Bible to finish the passage.

  “Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not give false testimony, do not defraud, honor your father and mother.’”

  “Teacher,” he declared, “all these I have kept since I was a boy.”

  Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

  At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth. Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God!”

  Claire’s heart pounded. She put a hand on the page, covering the words. No, no… This isn’t what You want me to do. Not this.

  Claire closed the Bible with a snap. She tossed it on the table, found the remote, and clicked it, bringing the baseball game to life. It was the top of the first inning. The Royals were up. The bases were loaded. There was a pitch. Ball met bat. The crack echoed. In one moment the ordinary path of a good hit grew wings. Would it be a grand slam?

  The camera panned, following the flight of the ball. Claire held her breath. The moment was magic as the epitome of baseball perfection hung in the air: a possibility, a hope, a chance.

  At the wall, the ball was caught.

  The runner was out. The possibility dead. The hope dashed. The chance missed.

  Go, sell everything…then come, follow me.

  A possibility? A hope? A chance?

  Claire flipped the channel.

  Three

  ‘I will not sacrifice to the LORD my God burnt offerings

  that cost me nothing”

  2 SAMUEL 24:24

  CLAIRE BLINKED. The sound of the television entered her world.

  She looked at her hand and found it grasping the remote control. A glance at the screen showed Cary Grant and Grace Kelly driving on a winding road along the French Riviera. She knew the movie. Some Hitchcock flick. It was near the end, and she didn’t remember seeing any of it. Her mind was sleeping yet still consumed with a jumbled missive of five words. Variations on a theme: Sell everything and follow me.

  Every time she repeated the words, her thoughts raced around a track, returning to the place they’d started. Sometimes the crowd yelled “Go! Go!” spurring her on. But more often, the crowd sat in a shocked silence that she would even consider such an idiotic thing. Round and round she ran, never finishing. Never being done with the race.

  Sell everything and follow me.

  The idea was preposterous. There was too much at stake. Claire had started creating mosaics full-time ten years ago. Before that she created on the side, trying to fit inspiration into the other to-dos of her day. Success had not come easily. It took three years for a gallery to show interest in her work, and then only a piece or two. Finally, after one exclusive showing—and a wonderful article in Time magazine about a mural she’d done in the entryway to a renowned museum—she’d become a hot name. She’d opened the Claire Adams Gallery.

  She’d done commissions for movie stars and CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Her art provided enough income for her and Ron to build a house in the best part of Kansas City—a house that sported a four-car garage (including the corresponding vehicles), three fireplaces, a wood-paneled study, a walk-in pantry, a media room complete with theater seating, and closets large enough to house their extensive wardrobes.

  Through the years they tried to have a child. There appeared to be no physical reason they couldn’t have kids—and because the finger of fault wasn’t pointing directly at either of them, Ron refused to adopt, insisting that someday the miracle would happen. But when they neared their forties, Ron closed up shop on that dream and declared that children simply wouldn’t fit into his lifestyle anymore. He was right about that one. Dealing with children while being unfaithful would have been tricky—though not impossible—for the ever-resou
rceful Ron Adams.

  Childlessness was Claire’s oozing wound. She always assumed she’d be the mother of two or three. She dreamed of kids she could cuddle, help with their homework, sing with in the car, and read to before bedtime. She prayed fervently for a child, argued with God, made deals, cried, and even feigned apathy, hoping God would slip a baby into their lives while she wasn’t looking. But with each passing year that was a testament to God saying no, Claire felt the wound of barrenness break open, making her weaker—if not physically, at least emotionally—exposing dry places in her soul.

  Perhaps that had contributed to the demise of their marriage. Ron must have felt Claire’s capacity to love being eaten away. So he turned elsewhere. Could she really blame him? She would go to her grave wondering why God had withheld this one blessing.

  What was a blessing from God was Claire’s artistic success. She had come to realize that if God was behind her childlessness, He was also behind her financial prosperity and status. Which was why she was generous with her giving. There was a verse: “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.”

  She accepted that. Embraced it as her responsibility. But certainly God didn’t want her to give it all away? Without children, without Ron, all she had left was her work and the fruits of her labor.

  Follow me.

  Wasn’t she already doing that? Ever since the divorce she’d gone to church, read the Bible, and talked to God on a regular basis. He was her Father, her Counselor, her Savior. She gave to the food bank, the mission projects, and had even donated the mosaic altar to the church—a piece of art that was worth tens of thousands of dollars. If they needed a new roof, they only had to call her for a check. The church was a big part of her life. Wasn’t that enough?

  Everything.

  Claire zapped the TV to silence. She threw the remote on the floor. This turmoil was Michelle’s fault. What right did a stranger have to come into Claire’s home and tell her tall tales about being sent for some purpose?

  A new thought jumped front and center: Michelle wants me to give all my money to her shelter!

  Suddenly one plus one equaled two. Michelle Jofsky wasn’t some holy woman with a special God-sent mission. She was a fund-raiser in need of money. A slick shyster looking for a chump with deep pockets. Her rejection of Claire’s guilt money was a clever ploy.

  Well, she’d gone after the wrong dupe this time. This sucker was closing up shop. Out to lunch. Don’t call again.

  Claire glanced at the time. Seven-fifteen. She’d wasted the entire afternoon agonizing over some pitchman’s spiel. And to think Michelle was going to address the congregational dinner tonight—might already be addressing tables and tables of potential patsies, who were waiting to have their pockets picked while their minds became burdened with guilt trips.

  Claire pushed herself out of her chair. “Oh no you don’t, Michelle Jofsky. Not with my church, you don’t.”

  Claire was late. The dinner had started at six-thirty, so by the time she got to church, Michelle was already at the podium, her victims full and complacent, their minds numbed by tuna casserole and apple crisp.

  Claire slipped into the room and found an empty chair at a back table next to the Snyders and the Andersons. They nodded their greetings, then turned their attention back to Michelle.

  She’s probably told them the same bunkum she told me. Messing with their minds, just like—

  “So you see, the gospel message can be told even to those who have had no experience reading the Bible. That’s what we try to do at the Salvation Shelter. We meet each individual wherever they’re at in their spiritual journey. We don’t overwhelm them with too much too soon. But remember, none of us has to have all the answers. But we are asked to give the reason for our faith. ‘Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.’ We need to share what God has done in our lives.”

  Aha…this is where she’ll tell people to sell everything.

  “For most of the men and women who visit us at the shelter, a good meal and a kind word are the starting point. We can’t overwhelm them with talk of God’s love and eternal life when they’re experiencing bitterness and an aching stomach. Patience is the key.” She smiled. “You don’t beat people over the head with God’s love; you pat them on the back. And we need to keep in mind that it’s not up to us to close the deal of Jesus’ offer of salvation, but just to plant the seed. Show them someone cares. Hopefully, they’ll begin to wonder about the peace they see within us. Hopefully, they’ll want some of that for themselves and they’ll ask. And when they do, we’ll tell them the source of our peace.”

  And if you really want to help these people you will sell everything and—

  “God cares for the homeless as much as He cares for you and me. Jesus died for all. We can’t ever forget that. Thank you.”

  Applause. Claire looked around the room, frowning. People were smiling, nodding their heads. They didn’t look as though they’d been asked to sacrifice their entire livelihood.

  Ken Anderson put a hand on the back of Claire’s chair. “Sorry you missed the bulk of her speech. She’s good.”

  “What did she talk about?”

  “The usual stuff How we need to reach people by example.”

  Vivian Anderson chimed in. “She gave us some case studies of people whose lives have turned around because of help from the shelter. She was homeless too, you know.”

  “Michelle was homeless?”

  “By choice.”

  Claire didn’t understand. Vivian moved her chair closer, eager to share the story. “She grew up in a wealthy family. She earned a degree, even worked in the family business for a while. But then she gave it all up. Went out on the streets to live.”

  Claire’s stomach knotted. “Why?”

  Ken hemmed Claire in on the other side. “After saving a man from being crushed by an oncoming train she had a vision. Kind of like Paul, in the Bible, on the road to Damascus. She thought she saw Jesus and heard Him talking. The vision told her to give up everything and follow Him.”

  “There was some verse…” Vivian reached for a piece of paper she’d used to take notes. “Here it is: Mark 10—”

  “Seventeen through twenty-three.” As Claire said the words, the breath went out of her.

  “That’s it! You know those verses too?”

  Claire could only nod.

  “Anyway, it was a fascinating story. Ms. Jofsky wasn’t suggesting we all do what she did. After all, there are different definitions of everything, of the one thing that keeps us from truly following Him, but I admire her for—”

  “Here she comes now.”

  Ken and Vivian stood, and Claire turned her head in time to see Michelle reach their table. Hands were shaken all around, but Claire couldn’t find the strength to join them. She noticed Michelle’s concerned look.

  After more small talk, the Andersons moved on and Claire felt a hand on her shoulder. “How you doing, Claire?”

  She shook her head at Michelle’s question.

  “I was hoping you’d come. I wanted you to know you’re not alone.”

  Claire looked up. “Alone?”

  Michelle looked around the room, giving a just-a-minute wave to some people who were waiting to chat with her. She spoke low, for Claire’s ears alone. “Not everyone gets asked to do what we’ve been asked to do—not in this exact way. We should feel honored.”

  Claire found air enough to snicker. “That’s not how I feel.”

  “I know it’s hard, but—” Michelle looked up when her name was called, nodded, then looked back to Claire. “Give me ten minutes to do the post-talk shuffle and then we can go somewhere to talk.”

  Michelle moved into the crowd.

  Claire escaped into the church library, taking a seat facing the door so she could watch the narthex yet stay out of sight. She did not feel
up to dealing with chitchat. One comment about the weather or the Royals and she would lose it. Her mind was focused on the problem at hand and had to stay that way. Her future depended on it.

  A stream of people began to leave. No one noticed her. Finally she heard Michelle’s voice rise above some laughter. Claire stood. Her movement drew Michelle’s eyes as she walked past the library door. Michelle turned toward a couple. “I really appreciate your kind words. I’ll be in church tomorrow morning before heading home.”

  The couple kept walking but Michelle turned into the library. “You ready?”

  Claire felt as if she were going to burst. “Definitely.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  It was a deal.

  They pulled out of the parking lot. “You want coffee?”

  “I want answers.”

  “You’re upset.”

  Claire laughed. “Oh no, this kind of thing happens to me every day.”

  “This thing is wonderful.”

  “This thing threatens to ruin my life.”

  “Or save it.”

  Claire angled toward Michelle. “You knew what I’d find in the Bible, didn’t you?”

  Michelle shrugged. “I suspected. I did not know. That was between you and God. That’s why I backed off. I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. You had to seek His guidance by yourself—or not.”

  “At your talk tonight, did you ask anyone else to give up everything?”

  Michelle looked shocked. “Did you expect me to?”

  “Actually, yes. After I pulled myself out of the daze you left me in, I remembered the dinner and hurried there to stop you. I figured you to be a con artist.”

  “For telling you to read the Bible?”

  “For coming to my house and telling me I was the reason you came to Kansas City. That’s mystic voodoo stuff.”