Sarah's Choice

by Rebecca St. James

  “I got the sausage and pepperoni,” Megan said.

  “Yeah? How was it?”

  “Not bad. I think the guy that took my order was a little weirded out when I asked for a specific delivery person.” Megan shrugged. “But then I guess he figured it was Christmas and I was probably drunk.”

  “How was the delivery?”

  “Surreal.”

  “Was he embarrassed? You in that apartment and him—”

  “Not at all.” Megan started the BMW up the hill and let the corners of her mouth curve ever so slightly. “Delivering pizzas is a side job.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s working his way through law school.”

  Sarah threw her head back. “I. Love. That.”

  “Don’t get excited. Like I said, it was surreal.”

  “Or maybe it was the real you,” Sarah said.

  Megan pulled the car to a stop and stared through the windshield. “We’ll see.”

  Sarah didn’t press her. Megan’s face was suddenly pensive. It was time to focus.

  Sarah pulled the balloon out of the garbage bag in the back of Megan’s car. It was yellow, and it bobbed in her hand like a child bouncing in the backseat with the playground in sight.

  “I got yellow because that works for a girl or a boy,” Megan said. “Can you believe it took me twenty minutes to decide?”

  She pulled a note card out of her coat pocket. Even in gloves Sarah could see that her hands were shaking.

  “Then I spent another thirty picking out the notepaper. This from the woman who makes hundred-thousand-dollar decisions every day.”

  “I get that,” Sarah said.

  Megan leaned against the trunk, card in one hand, a pen in the other. A green gel pen.

  “What do I write?”

  “Whatever you want him to know.”

  Megan squinted. “Him?”

  “You always talk about him like he’s a boy.”

  “Then I should’ve gotten the blue.”

  “So tell him that.”

  Megan chewed at her lip. That was only the second nervous thing Sarah had ever seen her do.

  “He’s your son,” Sarah said. “You’ll know what to say.”

  Then she left Megan perched on the tailgate and wandered a few feet off. When she looked back, Megan was writing.

  Whenever we make a bad decision, it’s always good to know we’re forgiven, the open-faced woman in the houndstooth-check coat had told her. Sarah looked up at the balloon, still bobbing to get loose. That really was all it took. Just letting go.

  “I think I’m ready.”

  Megan stood just a few feet away. Her face was pale. And pretty.

  Together they tied the note to the string of the balloon. Sarah folded Megan’s fingers around it and stepped away again. She watched as Megan climbed to the top of the hill and stretched her arm up and held it there. And then she opened her hand, and the balloon and its message broke free and let the breeze carry them.

  Up to heaven, the woman had said. Seeing Megan watch it go, her blonde hair hanging wistfully behind her, Sarah was inclined to think she was right.

  When the balloon had shrunk to no more than a yellow dot in the sky, Megan turned to Sarah, and Sarah ran to her. Megan was sobbing so hard when Sarah reached her she couldn’t quite stand up. Sarah held her and let her weep. She knew the sound well.

  And she knew it would go on until the grief gave way to freedom, so she just waited and looked over the top of Megan’s head. As she gazed someone crested the hill, someone a little stiff, and maybe a little old to be out for a hike in the cold.

  As the figure strode closer, Sarah held her breath. The woman’s gait was strong and as she drew even nearer, Sarah could see a peace in the lines of her face that was never there before, not as long as she’d known her. She held something loosely in her surprisingly sturdy fingers. Something white that fluttered up like Megan’s balloon when she let it go.

  And then before she turned to hike back over the crest of the hill, she gave Sarah a smile exactly like her own. Because it mattered.

  “We made a good choice,” Sarah whispered to her. “We chose God.”

  Reflection Questions and Resources for Sarah’s Choice

  Although we want girls and women who are in Sarah’s situation to find hope in her story, we don’t think you have to have been there personally to relate to her and find a way to make whatever choice you’re faced with. As you consider our suggestions for pondering, just apply them to your own decisions and see what happens. As always, we’ve got your back in prayer.

  Blessings,

  Rebecca and Nancy

  Questions to ponder:

  1. Just to get focused on you, what about Sarah and/or her story made you go, “Oh, I hear that!”

  2. Sarah got herself into the situation she was in, no doubt, but do you feel any compassion and empathy for her? Why is that?

  3. For reasons not entirely of her doing, Sarah’s priorities are sort of confused. What do you see when you look at your own priorities right now?

  4. Sarah’s unresolved grief over the death of her father continued to impact her decisions. Do you have any unprocessed pain in your life? Is that affecting you and your choice-making?

  5. Both Megan and Audrey mentored Sarah, but obviously in entirely different ways. Was there any merit to Megan’s advice or help? Did Audrey actually ever GIVE her any advice? Do you have a mentor? Is she the right one? Do you need one—and what qualities will you look for?

  6. Ah, Sarah and Matt. Did you think they were going to make it as the story progressed? They definitely had some foundational issues. If you’re in a relationship, can you learn anything from theirs?

  7. Now, about those visions. Were they plausible for you? Do you think God actually speaks to us that way? Or did you see them as metaphorical somehow? Do you long for that kind of certainty?

  8. What about Sarah’s taking on so much financial responsibility for her mother? She did it largely out of guilt . . . do you think that was admirable? Can you take a look at the responsibilities you’ve assumed? Are they actually yours?

  9. Sarah’s relationship with God will be different from her mother’s. How so? What path do you think Sarah will take in further deepening that? What about you?

  10. Both Sarah and Megan found healing and forgiveness in God’s love for them. In your current situation, are you aware that that’s true? How can you embrace that?

  11. Do you know someone in a situation like Sarah’s? Could you be an “Audrey” to her? After all, Audrey just asked the right questions . . .

  If you have questions for us, feel free to contact Nancy at nnrue@att.net. Blessings on all your choices.

  Acknowledgments

  Even though two of us created Sarah’s story, we weren’t the only ones involved in bringing it to life. If you’re one of those readers who likes to know that kind of thing, here’s our list:

  Rebecca would like to thank:

  • Nancy Rue, for being such a treasured partner in this work and for consistently being such a joy!

  • Chad Capper, David White, Sean Paul Murphy, Tim Ratajczak, and the Pureflix team for an incredible experience on the set of Sarah’s Choice. Thank you for believing in this story and making it come to life on the big screen!

  • Andrea Heinecke for being my friend, cooking club buddy . . . and amazing agent.

  • My dad, David Smallbone, for being a wonderful father and for championing this project as both novel and movie.

  • Amanda Bostic and our Thomas Nelson team for your incredible support of Nancy and me.

  • My husband, my sweet love, my treasured best friend . . . My Cub, what a joy to do life with you! And to now have been blessed with our own “little one” and the privilege of parenting together . . . bliss. You are my forever love!

  • Jesus . . . thank you for the gifts of life and love. Use this book to honor yourself, to protect the unborn and their mothers, and to s
how the power of your grace and forgiveness . . . How we love you!

  Nancy would like to thank:

  • Marijean Rue, who shared her emergency room miscarriage scare with me. As in, I was there.

  • Amanda Bostic, who, in addition to being our editor and my awesome brainstorming partner, told us more than we really wanted to know about pregnancy tests.

  • Jamie Chavez, our copy editor, who as always found things which escaped us entirely. Wonderful eyes, that lady.

  • Lee Hough, my literary agent, who brought this opportunity to work with Rebecca to my door, and to my new agent Joel Kneedler who has seen it through so beautifully since Lee passed away.

  • Paula Hough, who demonstrated for me how God heals, truly heals.

  • William Naylor, my beloved father, who years after his death still showed me Sarah’s father’s wisdom in how to live and how to die.

  • And of course to my kindred spirit Rebecca St. James, whose love for God and young women was the mustard seed for our work together, and whose commitment to it is nothing short of awesome.

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  The Merciful Scar

  REBECCA ST. JAMES AND NANCY RUE

  Part ONE

  He . . . went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die.

  1 KINGS 19:4

  Chapter ONE

  It was the only real fight Wes and I had ever had. Actually it was the only fight I’d ever had with anyone. That’s probably why I wasn’t very good at it.

  Now discussions . . . we’d had those, and that’s how it started out that night. Another conversation about Wes moving in with me.

  I should have known that was where we were headed when he tugged at the back of my shirt and pulled me against his lean self and said, “You know what I love about your couch?”

  “That you never have to get off of it from the minute you walk in the door?” I said.

  He let his blue eyes droop at the corners until they teased at his cheekbones. That was Wes pretending to be hurt. “Are you saying I’m a couch potato?”

  “I’m saying I wait on you like you’re the couch prince.” I leaned forward and picked up the all-but-licked-clean plate from my IKEA coffee table. “More quesadillas, your highness?”

  Wes scooped me into him, plate and all. “It wouldn’t be that way if I wasn’t a guest, Kirsty.”

  Yeah, there it was. Again.

  “First of all,” I said, “you know I hate it when you call me that. It makes me feel like I’m on a Jenny Craig commercial.”

  “Huh?”

  “Kirstie Alley. She was their poster girl before Valerie Bertinelli—”

  “You’re getting off topic.”

  “What topic?”

  Wes scooted himself sideways so he could face me without letting go. He knew as well as I did that I was about to wriggle away and go do . . . something. Anything to not have this discussion for the ninety-sixth time.

  “Come on, babe, you know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t make any sense for me to get an apartment for the summer when you’ve got room here.”

  “I have one bedroom.” Which, may I just add, was incredibly difficult to say with his long-fingered hands holding my face and his nose headed for mine for that irresistible pre-kiss thing he did. “And I need my other room for my studio—”

  “I know.”

  “And you also know where I am on this.”

  “I do. You’ve been there for three years, six months, two weeks, four days, and . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

  He let his lips bounce off my nose and onto my mouth but I talked right through the kiss.

  “It’s going to be another however long,” I said, “so get over it.”

  This was the part where he was supposed to say, You’re killin’ me, Kirsten. Killin’ me. And then I would let him kiss me one time and then I’d get up and make another batch of quesadillas. That was how this déjà vu conversation was supposed to go.

  But Wes stiffened all six foot two of himself and took me by both shoulders and set me away from him like he was stacking a folding chair. I watched him step over the coffee table and shove his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and pace to the back window where he stopped, rod-necked and tight-lipped, his blondness standing stiff on his head. It wasn’t a pose I’d ever seen him take. That’s when my skin started to burn.

  “What does ‘however long’ mean, Kirsten?” he said.

  Until we’re married. That was the answer, stuck in my throat where it had been for three years, six months, two weeks, four days, and twenty-seven minutes. I just closed my eyes and crossed my arms so I could rub both shoulders. The burning kept on.

  Wes faced me now, muscles working in his square jaw. “Do you know how hard it is to love you and not be able to . . . love you?”

  I attempted a wry look. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

  “Then what the—” He crossed to the coffee table and sat on it. “Look, I think I’ve been way more patient than any other guy would be.”

  “Good thing I don’t want any other guy,” I said.

  “Stop it, okay? Just stop it.”

  “Stop wh—”

  “The cute remarks and the little dance you always do. I want to talk about this. Now.”

  I pressed myself into the couch. “We’ve talked about it a thousand times, Wes. We’ve worn it out.”

  “So you just want to keep on dating forever?”

  I swallowed, hard. “Way back when we first started dating, we both agreed that neither one of us wanted to have sex outside of marriage.”

  Wes let his mouth soften and took both my hands. “How old were we then, babe? Eighteen? Nineteen? I think we were pretty naïve.”

  We’d never gotten this far into the discussion. If we had, I might have come up with a retort to get us out of it. Something along the lines of No, naïve is when you think you can lose ten pounds before Christmas. But here we were, and my determination that I wasn’t going to be the first one to say it seethed under my skin.

  “I thought we were being true to the faith that, if you’ll recall, you introduced me to,” I said.

  “I’m not buying it,” Wes said. “We haven’t been to Faith House since you started grad school. What’s that, nine months? When was the last time we went to church, either one of us?”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t still believe—”

  “Nuh-uh.” Wes let go of my hands and waved his palm like he was erasing my words. “That’s not what this is about. You want me to marry you, don’t you?”

  My throat closed in on itself. At least once a day during those three years and twenty-seven minutes or whatever it was, I had imagined Wes broaching the subject of marriage. The images went from Wes on one knee amid glimmering candlelight to a proposal tucked into a Big Mac. But none of them had included an accusation in those blue eyes or all my anxiety mobilizing under my flesh.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” he said. “Why didn’t you just come out and say it?”

  “Because I wanted you to say it first!”

  The words sliced their way out of me before I could stop them, and they seemed to want to keep on slicing all on their own.

  “I don’t want us to be like everybody else—just having sex and living together and then someday deciding we might as well get married. Look at Caleb and Tess. They’re like a pair of reclining chairs. I’m not doing that, Wes. I’m not.”

  He was staring at me as if I was a stranger suddenly intruding on the conversation that had long since stopped being a conversation.

  “Y’know,” he said, “I’ve been practically begging you for, like, forever to open up with me and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I wanted it to be on yours.” My words had lost their edge. Others spun in my head. Clever, Kirsten, very clever. You picked a fine time to, I don’t know, grow a backbone.

  Wes sagged on
to the couch beside me. “Look, babe, I’m not in a good place for this. I didn’t graduate—I have to make up the class this summer—I don’t know what I’m gonna do after that.”

  “I know all that—”

  “But you—you’re set. You always are. That’s why you’re my rock. I just need you to be here for me just a little while longer. Can you do that?”

  What does that even mean? I wanted to scream. But I’d done all the slicing I could do for one night. It was more slicing than I’d done my whole life. At least, that kind.

  “Okay, look, I’m gonna go,” Wes said.

  “Now?”

  Nice touch. Pathetic is always good.

  “Now.” Wes gave me half of his usual who-loves-ya-baby smile. “Before I get you drunk and take advantage of you.”

  My reply was automatic. “Like either one of those things is gonna happen.”

  Again, that was his cue to say, You’re killin’ me, babe. But what he said was, “Yeah.” Just yeah.

  He pulled me up from the couch and walked ahead of me to the door. Hand on the knob, he turned only slightly toward me. “A bunch of people from my class are hiking the M tomorrow.”

  I groaned silently. Hiking the M was a Montana State graduation tradition that entailed making one’s way up a steep trail and a long ridgeline in the brutal Montana sun to get to a huge M made from white rocks, and then partying and turning around and coming back in the now even more brutal Montana sun to party some more. I’d skipped that when I graduated the year before; I would actually rather poke a fork in my eye than have that kind of fun. Since Wes had missed graduating by one class, he hadn’t gotten to have that kind of fun either.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “No, they want me to go with. What’s three credits? To them I’m there. I just didn’t have to sit through a bunch of speeches in a bathrobe with a board on my head.”

  “I don’t even know what to do with that,” I said. “So what time?”

  “We’re leaving Caleb and Tess’s at seven.” Wes lifted a sandy eyebrow. “If I can get them out of their reclining chairs.”