Divine

by Karen Kingsbury

  There was still so much to say.

  Mary dried her eyes and turned her car into the parking lot of the cemetery.

  That's when she saw him.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and without meaning to she lifted her foot from the gas pedal. He had come, he really had.

  Nigel was here, and now she wouldn't have to get through this saddest day alone.

  She squinted in the glare of the sun. Nigel was leaning against the hood of his rental car, his back to her as he stared at the sea of tombstones. Mary took the first parking spot. Her eyes never left him.

  Nigel.

  She had called him the hour after she got the news. It had been early evening in Portugal, and his response had been immediate. He would be there for her, no questions. His flight had landed at Dulles Airport a few hours ago.

  She studied him, and her heart hurt for all the years of missing him. More than a decade had passed, but he had the same broad shoulders, the same proud stance.

  She cut the engine, and he turned around. Their eyes met and held while she stepped out of her car and as she closed the distance between them. He took her hands in his, and they came together in a hug that bridged the years in a handful of heartbeats.

  His embrace told her what his words did not, what they could not. He had never stopped caring for her—not for a week or a day or even an hour. But it also told her that the decision they'd made had been the right one, that devoting their lives to Jesus was more than enough. The love they shared was God's love, a deeper love than anything they might've found otherwise. Even if time hadn't dimmed their feelings for each other.

  Nigel drew back and searched her eyes. "How are you?"

  Mary tilted her head, holding his gaze. When her emotions gave her permission to speak, she managed the slightest whisper. "Sad, Nigel. So sad."

  "I know." He brought his hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry."

  She nodded. "Walk with me." She led the way through the small Virginia cemetery. The sun shone brightly that day, warm against her face, and Mary found it strangely fitting. No matter how many tears she'd cried or how much she'd grieved for Grandma Peggy, the despair she expected to feel never came. Sadness, yes. Longing and a desire to have one more day, one more conversation. One more hug.

  But not despair.

  The greatest tragedy wasn't her grandma's death. It was the years they had missed together. Years when Mary had suffered horrors no little girl could ever overcome without Jesus.

  Mary looked over her shoulder at Nigel, the way his broad shoulders filled out his suit coat. She pointed toward a clump of trees. "It's this way."

  Nigel nodded. He wore sunglasses, so it was impossible to see his eyes. But the muscles in his jaw flexed often, and Mary figured he was fighting tears. Tears on a lot of levels maybe. Her grandmother had been special to both of them.

  They moved past various-sized tombstones beyond a small hedge. On the other side, Mary stopped. Two rows of chairs were set up, and her grandmother's pastor stood in hushed conversation with the cemetery caretaker.

  Mary felt her heart sink. It was really happening. She was going to bury Grandma Peggy, even if all she wanted to do was turn and run back to Orchard Gardens, back to her grandma's cozy room and big bed and Grandma Peggy there waiting for her.

  She stopped, and Nigel did the same. "Here it is."

  The casket sat above a hole in the ground. The freshly turned dirt to the side was covered with dozens of flower arrangements—gifts sent from people across Washington, DC—both on Capitol Hill and from the shelters. One bouquet was even from the group of older kids who hung out on the street and came to the teen center for the weekly Bible study Mary led there.

  A few blades of grass poked through the brown dirt, proof that life would always have the last word—at least for people who chose to accept Christ's offer.

  Side by side, she and Nigel looked down and read the words on the temporary grave marker, the one propped up near the front of the casket: Peggy Madison, beloved grandmother. Then it gave the dates that showed she'd been just sixty-seven. Too young. The last line read simply this: She loved Jesus.

  "That says it." Nigel knelt and brushed the dirt and grass clippings off the stone.

  Mary folded her arms and clutched her sides. She hated being here, hated saying good-bye. A dozen times since she'd gotten the news she had reached for the phone, anxious to share details of a political battle or another victim with her grandma. There would always be more to say. The loss cut her to the core, made her wonder if she'd walk the rest of her life with a limp.

  Nigel seemed to sense her struggle. He reached out and took her hand. He said nothing, but no words were needed. His touch, his comfort were the same as they had been so many years earlier. As if Jesus Himself were standing beside her, helping her through, reminding her that somehow . . . some way she would survive this loss.

  She didn't want to think about the obvious—that soon she would have to say good-bye to Nigel too.

  "I miss her so much." Mary squeezed Nigel's hand. Sobs overtook her, and for a long time she couldn't speak.

  She had missed so many years with Grandma Peggy, and now . . . what family did she have? Who would be there to know the truth—that Mary Madison—strong and successful, educated and powerful—was really just a girl who sometimes got lonely and tired, a girl who would go to sleep crying on the nights when there would be no one to talk to and when missing her grandma was a physical ache?

  Finally she blinked back the tears and looked at Nigel. "You know what I realized today?"

  "What?" He searched her face, waiting.

  "Heaven . . . never felt so far away."

  "Hmmm." Nigel leaned closer to her, supporting her. He looked at the casket and nodded. "I never thought of it that way."

  Mary had a tissue in her other hand. She dabbed her eyes before the fresh tears could reach her cheeks. "I mean, 1 believe, of course. I know she's free now. No more pain, no more exhaustion. She's happy and healthy and home. I know all that in here." She spread her fingers across her chest. "But all I want is to go to her and hug her. Talk to her one more time."

  Nigel put his arm around her and held her close, stroking her hair. "I know."

  In some ways this was a good-bye on many levels. A final good-bye to that chapter in their lives when the three of them had been drawn together by circumstances and prayer and God Himself.

  Mary turned at the sound of voices behind them. She released Nigel's hand and faced the group of people coming toward them. A smile lifted her lips. "Emma . . ."

  Emma Johnson was surrounded by her girls and a woman Mary guessed was Emma's mother. And someone else ... a handsome young man who stayed close to Emma's side.

  Mary held out her hand. "Hello . . ." Even in her sorrow, seeing the group of them made her heart sing. They came together in a hug. Mary studied Emma. The cast and the bruises were gone. A softness filled Emma's face, and her eyes glowed. Mary smiled. "You have Jesus eyes."

  "Really?" Emma's voice was soft, humble. The hint of a smile played on her lips.

  "Really." The young woman before Mary was nothing like the one who had hung on the guardrail, threatening to jump into the Potomac. Emma was changed, a new person entirely.

  She touched Mary's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your grandma. I know . . . how much she meant to you."

  "Thanks." Mary felt a lump in her throat. She looked at the woman standing a few feet away, and she went to her. "I'm Mary. You must be Emma's mother."

  "Yes." The woman's smile was subdued but warm. "I'm Grace." She brought her fingers to her mouth and hesitated. "How can I ever thank you? I have my daughter back."

  Mary understood. She let go of the formalities and hugged Grace. "I'm so glad." She spoke softly, the undertone of tears still in her voice. "Now—" she looked at Emma—"it's her turn to tell others."

  Emma's eyes glowed with sincerity. "Yes."

  Mary dabbed at her eyes. "T
hanks for coming. It'll be a very small ceremony. The way my grandma would've wanted it."

  Emma linked hands with the young man beside her. "This is Terrence Reid." Emma gave him an adoring smile.

  "Terrence—" Mary held out her hand—"nice to meet you."

  He said the same, and then he turned his attention back to Emma.

  Mary watched them, and something strange stirred in her heart. She knew about Terrence. The boy who had always been there, the friend. Mary thought of Nigel, and she understood the strange stirrings. They were more of a longing really. She was content in her life, deeply satisfied. But how wonderful that God had allowed these two to find each other, that out of the ashes of Emma's shattered past might come this new sprig of life.

  Emma nodded toward Nigel. He was facing her grandma's casket, his head bowed, his back to them, giving them their space. She looked at him and then back at Mary. "Is that. . . ?"

  "Nigel," Mary whispered and let her eyes find him again. "Yes."

  Emma raised an eyebrow. She gave Mary's arm a gentle tug. "Introduce me."

  They walked to him, and he turned and removed his sunglasses as he heard them coming. Mary looked to the eyes of the man. "Nigel, I'd like you to meet Emma Johnson. The young woman I told you about in my last letter."

  Nigel smiled and politely took Emma's hand. But nothing more—no questions about her faith or curiosities about how she was doing. Mary saw the difference. Nigel was kind and warm to everyone he met. But he had always felt differently about her.

  It was part of the struggle, the reason he wrote only once a year. His feelings for her were deep and complicated, the way hers were for him. That was why they had to hold on to the truth. God brought them together, yes, but only so Nigel could introduce Mary to Jesus. She had to remind herself of that fact often. Christ and His undying love, His work, His ministry would always consume their days.

  Still . . . times like this Mary wondered.

  Emma returned to her young man, and the group helped the children to seats in the second row. A few more people— nurses from Orchard Gardens, two volunteers from one of the shelters—filed in and quietly took seats.

  Mary and Nigel were last to sit down in the front row, closest to the casket.

  The minister said only a few words, making it a brief service in keeping with what Grandma Peggy had wanted. Mary closed her eyes, and she could hear her grandma's words, something she'd said in one of their last conversations:

  "When I'm gone. . . remember me in a sunset or in the smile of a friend. Remember me when you think of my favorite Bible verses. But don't spend a lot of time and money on me after I die. I'll be celebrating with Jesus by then, and I want you to celebrate too."

  Mary opened her eyes and focused on the minister, his words.

  "'As the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.'"

  The Scripture was a familiar one, a verse Mary could relate to deeply. She could picture her grandma smiling at her, giving her that knowing look that told her the Bible was true, that the comfort would be there. Even now.

  When the service was over, the others said their good-byes until finally it was only Mary and Nigel. They remained in their seats near the casket, silent for a long while. It was still hard to believe. Every year for more than a decade Mary hadn't gone a day without talking to her Grandma Peggy. Even when she was going through the nightmare of their years apart, she always had the comfort of believing her grandmother was out there, praying for her, looking for her.

  Nigel must've known what she was thinking. He folded his hands in front of him and looked at her. "God's plans aren't always our plans."

  "No." Mary's arms ached, the way they did sometimes. As a prisoner in Jimbo's basement and all the years before her rescue, she had longed for the chance to be in her grandma's arms, safe and protected. She could picture herself and her grandma sitting in the pink bedroom, reading together. Sometimes—when the sadness was its greatest, as it was now—the loss was a physical hurt. She ran her fingers over the scars on her wrist. "Life can be very hard."

  Nigel looked up. His eyes seemed to take in all of the heavens above. "I don't know why, but this loss is harder for me." He squinted against the sunlight. For a moment he didn't speak, probably couldn't speak. Finally he coughed and tried again. "I wanted God to reward you." His eyes met hers, and she saw more than his goodness. She saw his humanity. "All those years without her ... I guess I wanted God to give you three more decades with Peggy. Something to make up for the ugliness of all those years when you were apart."

  Nigel was a strong man, a missionary known for his spiritual strength and wisdom. The admission he was making now couldn't have been easy. Not any easier than the time in his office, twelve years earlier, when he had admitted his feelings for her.

  Mary gave his arm a gentle squeeze. It felt so good having him beside her. So safe and warm and right. She exhaled slowly. "We will have those years together. And a whole lot more than that." She looked deep into his eyes. "It's the waiting that's so difficult."

  Nigel nodded and looked at the tombstone again. "Peggy's whole life was about loving God. It was . . . the most beautiful picture."

  "And it will be for all eternity." Mary released Nigel's arm. She stood and touched the casket. "Her final years might not be remembered by anyone else." She closed her eyes. When she opened them she looked at Nigel through her tears. "But I'll remember. My grandma prayed for me all the time. She prayed about women like Emma and the political challenges and the responsibilities I face."

  "Hers will be a very great loss."

  She returned to her seat beside him. For ten minutes they sat there in silence, lost in their own memories. Then Nigel turned to her. "I have to go, Mary. My flight leaves soon."

  "I know." Their eyes held.

  Then, tenderly, she fell into his arms.

  He whispered into her hair, "I will pray, Mary. Every day. I will be there in Portugal lifting you and your work here in this nation's capital to God." He drew back and searched her face. "I promise you."

  "Nigel . . . you haven't changed. You still love me." She rested her head on his chest for another few beats. Then she forced herself to draw away from him, to distance herself from him. If she stayed in his arms another minute, she would question her ability to ever let him go.

  "Yes, Mary." He took her hands in his. "1 still love you." He hesitated. "The way Jesus loves you. The only way I can love you and still return to the place God has called me." His voice fell, and in his exhale, his struggle was clear. "Still ... I don't want to say good-bye."

  "I know." Mary understood everything he said, everything he felt. Because she felt the same way. "Let me pray for you, Nigel."

  He nodded. The hold he had on her fingers doubled in intensity.

  "Jesus, be with my friend Nigel." She sniffed, finding more of the strength she hadn't known she'd had until he came into her life. "This chapter—the one with Grandma Peggy—is closed. But You have so much ahead for both of us ... in the separate places where You've called us. I feel it in my soul, Lord. Keep Nigel safe, keep his eyes open, so that the next time a Mary Madison walks through his doors, he'll be ready—once again—to show her Your love." She smiled even as tears fell onto her cheeks. "Because that sort of love changes everything."

  They hugged, and Nigel's voice was strained by emotion. "I'll miss you."

  Mary couldn't believe he was already leaving. She felt her throat grow tighter, and she nodded. "Me too." For a second, she wanted to shout at him. Didn't he see? He could do his mission work here, in Washington, DC, and they could be together every day. Best friends at least.

  But Nigel was already drawing back, studying her eyes, her face, as if he wanted to memorize her. "Mary . . . walk me to my car."

  She did, and when they reached the parking lot, Nigel hugged her one last time. With a final look first in the direction of Grandma Peggy's grave and then at her, he climbed into his c
ar and drove away.

  Mary watched him leave,- then she turned and slowly made her way back to her grandmother's grave.

  Only then did Mary take the small red-beaded purse from her sweater pocket. All those years, through the horrible things Mary had been through, she'd kept the purse. The message Peggy had written to her granddaughter was still tucked inside. She opened the yellowed piece of paper carefully and read the words out loud:

  '"I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.' —Jeremiah 29:11

  "Mary, I will always be here for you. I love you. Grandma"

  The message was as true now as it had been then. They were words that had been a lifeline to Mary during her years in the wasteland. Now they would be a lifeline to her until she drew her final breath. Until heaven, when she and Grandma Peggy could again sit for hours talking.

  She had thought of placing the little red purse in the casket with her grandma. But she had changed her mind. She would keep it in her office, a tangible reminder of her grandmother's concern for her. But more than that, a reminder of the love of Christ.

  Mary lifted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. Jesus hadn't only loved her. He had sought her, pursued her, called out to her day after day, year after year. All along He had known the plans He had for her, and when she stopped running long enough to listen, those plans had unfolded like a miracle.

  The red purse would always be proof of that.

  She thought about Nigel again. Something about letting him go, watching him drive away—maybe for the last time— was causing a gradual dawning in her heart. She reached the casket and sat near it once more. The sunshine felt warm on her shoulders, and slowly the dawning became a realization. As if the darkest cloud in all her life was finally being lifted away.

  There was something she had almost forgotten in the past week, through the shock of losing her grandmother to the pain of bidding Nigel good-bye.

  Jesus was all she needed. He really was enough.

  She couldn't begrudge God for taking her grandmother now. It was her grandma's time to celebrate in heaven with Jesus. And it was Nigel's time to show Jesus to other people— new people who would come through his mission door in Portugal every day of the week.