by Nancy Moser
It did this morning, with Michelle.
Claire looked at the exit. Maybe she should skip church today, stop at the bakery and buy a dozen cream-filled long Johns and a monster hazelnut cappuccino. Go home and wallow in her confusion until the sugar and caffeine overdose zapped her brain back to reality or made her slip into catatonia.
“I don’t want to put a damper on your enthusiasm, Claire, but you’re talking like an alien being. What happened to Claire Adams, the woman who fought her way toward owning her own gallery and having showings around the world? Claire Adams who can outshop Imelda Marcos, who buys a new vehicle every two years whether she needs it or not?”
“I…I have too much. I don’t need it.”
Mandy slipped her hand through Claire’s arm. “None of us need it, darlin’.”
The statement both confirmed and horrified Claire. “Some people need, Mandy. We’ve just climbed the ladder too high to see them. But they’re there. On the ground. Maybe they’re even holding the ladder for us.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to jump off and join them. Give your 10 percent to the church. Hey, give 30 percent, I don’t care. But don’t give up everything you’ve worked for on a whim.”
“But what happened to me…those things are not whims. They’re real.”
“Real strange.”
Claire was conscious of her heart beating. Maybe she and Mandy didn’t understand each other as well as she’d thought. “What about the peace I’m starting to feel about the decision? That’s usually a sign that a person’s made a good choice.”
“A person can talk herself into anything, Claire, you know that. I can feel peaceful about buying a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes if I try hard enough. I doubt God’s behind that.”
Mandy was mixing her up, stirring a pot that didn’t want to be stirred. Mandy’s husband waved his wife over. The service would start in a few minutes.
Mandy turned to leave, then put a hand on Claire’s arm. “I’m sorry if I put a damper on your plan, darlin’. But I simply can’t believe God would tell you to do such a misguided thing. I’m concerned. I want you to be careful. Think things through. You’re known for your ability to make snap decisions, but sometimes it’s best to let things stew. Give them time to settle.”
Claire didn’t want to stew. She didn’t want things to settle. And she certainly didn’t want to doubt.
She wanted to act. And so she did. She straightened her back and looked her friend in the eye. “You wondered why God didn’t choose you to do this, Mandy? Because you would have said no.”
She walked toward the sanctuary, leaving Mandy’s chin resting on the floor.
Claire slipped into a pew for the nine-thirty service, face hot, heart pumping. She knew she had multiple chips on her shoulder. How dare Mandy deride her decision? She needed support and encouragement. After all, she was going to do something few people had guts enough to do. God had chosen her. She had been called.
As the prelude began, she looked at the people in the congregation. God hadn’t called them to make this sacrifice; He had called her. He trusted her. She needed to trust Him to give her confirmation that her decision was right.
She remembered Michelle’s directions to be open to His will. She closed her eyes for a quick prayer. Make things plain.
With a sudden thought she opened the bulletin to see if the Scripture reading for the day happened to be Mark 10:17-23. She was disappointed that it wasn’t. You missed a good opportunity to drive home the point, Lord.
The congregation stood to sing the opening hymn. Claire cleared her throat and shuffled her shoulders, trying to get the chips to fall away. If she was going to get anything out of the service, she needed to purge the anger and the I-should-have-saids from her mind. She had to make room for God.
Claire loved to sing the alto part during the hymns. It brought back memories of high school chorus, standing on wobbly risers, wearing a new dress for a concert. She was only an adequate singer. But when all the voices rose together to praise God, her voice gained strength and talent took second place to enthusiasm.
Yet today, as she sang the words to the unfamiliar hymn…
Go, labor on: spend, and be spent
Thy joy to do the Father’s will,
It is the way the Master went;
Should not the servant tread it still?
The notes caught in her throat. It was as if the words were meant for her.
She felt the eyes of Dan Hutchins, sitting to her right. She met them. He raised an eyebrow, as though to ask, Are you all right? She managed a smile, then noticed she didn’t just have Dan’s attention. In the row in front of her, she spotted Mandy whispering behind her hymnal to another acquaintance. Their eyes flitted back to Claire. Mandy’s husband also glanced in her direction and shook his head ever so slightly. Obviously, he’d already been told her big news—and judged her.
News was spreading…and from the looks on people’s faces, the reaction wasn’t positive.
I’m being deemed a crazy.
The hymn continued:
Go, labor on: ’tis not for naught;
Thine earthly loss is heav’nly gain;
Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not;
The Master praises—what are men?
Claire’s legs were weak. Go, labor on…the Father’s will…earthly loss is heav’nly gain…men praise thee not…the Master praises…
As the gossip spun around her, she realized she was living out the words of the hymn. People did not understand. Would not. Could not?
She felt a hand on her forearm. It was Dan. “You okay?”
Without consciously making the decision to do so, she edged her way toward the side aisle. She ignored the puzzled looks of the ushers in the narthex and hurried out of the church.
As Claire sped home she had to laugh. She’d asked God to “make it plain.” She’d expected an answer to her prayer that was uplifting, encouraging. Something that would make her feel the blessing of her sacrifice. Instead, He showed her the reality of it. Gossip. Ostracism. Misunderstanding. It was almost as if God had offered her a further challenge: Knowing what you know now, do you still want to do it?
Did she?
As she pulled into her driveway, she noticed something taped to her door. It was a piece of white paper, folded in half. She opened it and scanned to the end of the message. It was from Michelle.
Dear Claire:
I read a verse this morning and found it an affirmation of my own choice. Perhaps it will help you too.
“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’” (Isaiah 6:8).
Don’t get bogged down in the details—financial, emotional, mental, and spiritual. God has asked you a question. Answer. Then trust Him to handle the rest. He knows what He’s doing. Focus on Him.
I am here for you. Any time. Any place.
Michelle
Claire sank onto the front step and read the note again.
Focus on Him.
That was the key. When she thought about her sacrifice, her assignment, all sorts of unruly thoughts popped up like weeds in a beautiful garden. The only way to get rid of the weeds, and to prevent more from growing, was to keep her mind, eyes, and soul focused on the Gardener Himself He would tell her what to do. He would even take care of the weeds.
He’d asked a question and she’d said yes.
That question—and that answer—was the essence of everything.
Five
I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness
of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord
for whose sake I have lost all things.
PHILIPPIANS 3:8
IT TOOK TEN DAYS for Claire’s lawyers to work out the details of her life. Or, actually, seven days to handle the details after three days of trying to talk her out of it. Today she implemented that plan, hoping that it would give her a s
atisfying feeling of accomplishment or closure. Instead, it left her numb.
She sat behind her desk at the studio and let it sink in. She’d just had a meeting with her studio workers after spending the morning at the gallery trying to calm Regina, the director. None of them understood what she was doing. All of them thought she was out of her mind.
Was she?
Her life as an artist was over. Her employees had generous compensation packages, and the proceeds of her art was set to go to Michelle’s Salvation Shelter, so Claire was now out of the entire process. She was a nonessential, a minor detail, as her existing art went on without her and any future art died before it was born.
“Claire?”
She looked up. Darla stood in the doorway.
“I wanted to wish you well.”
Darla had the most to lose. She’d been with Claire since the beginning. “Thanks. I’m so sorry—”
She took a step into the room. “Don’t be sorry. At least this explains your odd mood the other day. And though I can’t say I completely understand, I’ve always respected your faith. I even started going to church because of you.”
Claire snapped out of her daze. “You did?”
“Sure. When you were going through your divorce it was completely different from how my divorce played out. You seemed to find an inner calm—even when your world was going crazy. I wanted that.”
Claire touched Darla’s hand. “I just wish it hadn’t taken a divorce to get me there. I wasted so much time being a casual Christian.”
Darla laughed. “That’s an interesting term.”
“Interesting, but apt. For years—decades, actually—I believed the basics but took them for granted, not giving any more effort than necessary. Basically I figured I could handle things on my own, and when I couldn’t, I’d send up a quick prayer, expecting a quick answer. It was a very one-sided relationship: God gave and I took.” She snickered. “Pretty dumb, huh? Rude even.”
“Pretty normal, I’m afraid.”
“Funny how the blessing of my divorce has been a stronger faith.”
“For both of us.”
Claire shook her head. How could she have been so blind? The most important person in the studio had built her faith right before her eyes, and she hadn’t noticed? Her work was demanding, but had she let the logistics of the business overshadow the people in it? Perhaps it was good she was getting out.
On impulse Claire asked, “Darla, would you be my contact here at home? I’d like to have someone I could call—if I need to.”
“Sure, but…” Darla shifted her weight to the other foot.
“But what?”
“Don’t you want your contact to be someone…maybe your best friend?”
The fact she didn’t have a best friend was pitiful. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“We’ve known each other for years, haven’t we?”
“Years.”
“Then be my contact. You’re the only one who knows about my personal life and my art.” She drummed a pencil on the desk. “It’s quite a privilege, you know. You’ll be privy to all sorts of inside information.”
Darla grinned. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
Darla nodded. “I’d be honored, Claire. And I wish you the best. You’re one brave lady.”
Or a stupid one.
Claire needed to clear her head, which meant a visit to an art gallery. Strolling through other artists’ creations was a comfort, proof she was not alone in her work.
Work she was leaving behind.
The Nelson-Atkins Art Gallery always had something to grab her interest. But today, she didn’t feel like seeing the works of Pollock, Calder, Titian, or even Rubens. As soon as she entered the columned portico, she was drawn to a temporary exhibit, “Midwest Masters: Paintings by and About the Midwest.” She strolled before paintings of all styles and mediums, finding comfort in the familiar scenes of open fields, sprawling lakes, and soldierlike rows of trees framing family farmsteads. But the exhibit didn’t just capture the pastoral beauty of the area. There were paintings of bigger cities too: St. Louis, Kansas City, Lincoln. And still others of the small towns that dotted state after state.
Then a small-town scene captured her attention, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. It wasn’t extraordinary. The picture depicted a town square, featuring a courthouse in the center and an old-fashioned library across the street. Both buildings were made of tan stone. A flag flapped in the wind, while benches dotted the common area in front of the courthouse. A dozen people strolled through the scene. Smalltown, USA. It was a setting that could be replicated a hundred times across the area. Maybe that’s what drew her to it. The stability, the promise of calm. The never-changing steadfastness.
She glanced at the title plaque: Steadfast, Kansas.
Steadfast.
She held her breath, her eyes darting across the paint strokes one more time, searching, claiming the scene as her own as if she had a stake in its colors, lines, and forms.
Claire backed up until the back of her calves found a bench. She sank onto it, her gaze glued to the painting. Her painting. Her opportunity.
Her future?
A shiver confirmed the idea that had taken root.
She was going to Steadfast, Kansas.
As soon as Claire got back to the studio she went to her computer and searched the Internet for information on Steadfast. There wasn’t much. The town didn’t have a website, so the only information she could gather was generic. Founded in 1886 with a current population of 3,386.
Could she actually go to a town based on so little information? For one thing, she was not a small-town type of woman. She’d lived in Kansas City her entire life and enjoyed the constant activity of the big city. What would she do in a town that wasn’t much bigger than her neighborhood?
And yet the memory of the painting haunted her. There was no denying she had been drawn to it, mesmerized by the feeling it invoked. By the peace it represented.
Peace. Was that what she was searching for? Not exclusively.
Since she was giving up everything, she assumed God would have a big assignment for her. A heaven-inspired project only she could accomplish. Something worthy of her sacrifice. And that meant work. Not peace. And not sitting around in a town where she’d be pegged a stranger with her first stroll up Main Street. They’d ask questions she couldn’t easily answer. Wouldn’t it be better to fade into the anonymity of a city where whos, whats, and whys were ignored?
She logged off the Internet, more confused than ever. Maybe she was rushing into this. The business end was set, and she’d put her townhouse on the market. But maybe she needed to slow down. The only sense of direction she’d received had been in regard to Steadfast, Kansas, and that didn’t seem to fit. So maybe she should just hold off a bit and—
The intercom rang. Lana’s voice said: “Your realtor on line one, Claire.”
Good timing. Though she and her agent, Angie, had talked about lowering the price on the townhouse, Claire could now tell her that she was going to remain firm on the price. Best not to be rash.
“Hey, Claire. Want to hear something amazing?”
Sure.
“I had a couple come into the office looking for a townhouse. They were very specific about their wants, even which direction the house would face—west. Plus, they wanted oak woodwork in the hearthroom and kitchen area, and you know that most of the newer homes have the enamel-white trim and—”
Claire felt a now-familiar stitch in her stomach. “And my town-house would be perfect for them.”
Angie hesitated, but only for a second. “They’ll pay full price.”
Claire’s breath left her.
“Plus, they want immediate possession.”
“No, no, no.”
“What do you mean no?”
No, no, no collided with yes, yes, yes. There was no turning back. It was a do
—
“It’s a done deal if you say yes,” Angie said.
Claire laughed. “Been there, done that.”
“What?”
“Yes, Angie. I say yes.”
So much for holding off. Steadfast, here I come.
The buyers of Claire’s townhouse liked more than the west entrance and the oak moldings. They liked Claire’s furniture, and the pictures on the walls, and the gewgaws on the mantle…
Sold!
It was disconcerting how fast—and effortlessly—the trappings of her life were jettisoned. Two weeks from first look to closing. She felt like Jonah’s shipmates in the storm, throwing everything overboard to lighten the load that was her life. She only hoped she wouldn’t be thrown over too. Or, if she was, that God would provide a nice big fish to swallow her up. And spit her out?
The proceeds from the sale of her home, vehicles, and possessions were being divided between twelve charities. Her lawyer suggested narrowing it down to six, but Claire decided to give some to many, rather than a lot to a few.
She stood in the entry and looked back at her home. Although the buyers had wanted most of Claire’s possessions, she’d singled out a few items of sentimental value and passed them out to family members. A niece received her grandmother’s silver tea set; a nephew was given her father’s fishing trophies; and Claire deemed her sister the caretaker of the family photographs and Grandma Morris’s wedding china, including the soup tureen with the chip on the handle.
Once she started going through her possessions, she was amazed at how little was truly important. She’d filled an entire house with pretty things that pleased the eye but did nothing for the heart or soul.
And her wardrobe…Claire loved clothes. In her youth she bought in quantity, but in the past few years she’d found that buying fewer, classic pieces was the wiser choice. She had beautiful suits, most with matching shoes. The question was, what should she give away and what should she take with her? She vowed to whittle her belongings down to one small suitcase and an oversized bag that she could carry on a bus easily. But what kinds of clothes would she need in Steadfast, Kansas?
