Chapter 19
C HAPTER 19
B UT WHEN A FIRE CRACKLED IN A RING MADE OF STONES, THE SUN sank in a glorious blaze of red, orange, yellow, and lavender, there was plenty of boiled, filtered water to drink, and the smell of ramen noodles made her mouth water, she decided she could survive these three days.
Steve caught three fair-sized bass, fileted them, and fried them on his camp pan, and with salt, they were hot, flaky, and delicious with the noodles. A chocolate bar and a cup of coffee was pure decadence. Afterward, she got up stiffly to wash dishes with pond water and help set up the pup tents.
“I’ll set them up close together, in case a marauding bear sniffs us out,” he said, between whistling and humming.
“Are there bears?”
“I doubt it.”
“I wish I could have a shower.”
“It’s dark out. You can bathe in the pond.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” Her voice faded into horrified stillness.
“Well, if you’re not going to, I think I will.” With that, he grabbed a few things from his pack and headed to the pond, coming back some time later in clean clothes and with wet hair.
“Warm as bath water,” he said, grinning.
She simply couldn’t make herself do it. She thought of turtles and snakes, lizards and other weird living microbes and bacteria, then sat in misery, slapping at mosquitos so bloodthirsty she found twelve on one arm. She felt filthy and itchy. Her spirits fell. They watched the full moon rise in a perfect white orb above a black layer of pine trees. Night sounds were an orchestra of rasps and shrill calls, an occasional yip of a fox or the call of an owl, wide awake and preparing to hunt.
“This is why I love the wilderness so much,” Steve said softly. “You can’t even begin to compare this to anything else on earth. I’m afraid I’ll have to admit it’s most of the reason I never married.”
“You saying if we got married, you’d spend all your time off in the woods?” Mary asked unexpectedly.
“Boy, that’s a shock, you saying those words.”
“Just saying.”
“Look at that. Just check out that sky.”
“It is amazing, it really is.”
The fire crackled. Steve put on another log, creating a shower of sparks. The night was damp, the temperature dropping, so he suggested they retire, each to their own tents.
She climbed into her sleeping bag, punched and rolled the flat pillow, sighed, and could not remember being more uncomfortable, ever. But within moments she fell into a sleep so deep she didn’t hear a thing until Steve began cracking dead branches for the morning fire.
She groaned when she sat up, muttered as she crawled out of the tent, and howled with pain when she stood on her feet.
“I can’t do this,” she wailed. “Call a helicopter to come get me.”
“Good morning to you, too!”
“Stop being so chipper.”
“I love it out here in the morning. All cool and fresh.”
“I’m filthy.”
“Go for a swim.”
“Of course not.”
But she did wash and brush her teeth, combed out her thick red hair, and put it up in a bun again. She tied the navy triangle around it and felt a bit better. He smiled and whistled low as he cooked some powdered eggs and heated water for coffee and instant oatmeal.
“Sun’s red in the east. Red in the morning, sailor take warning,” Steve chortled.
“You seem happy to announce the prospect of rain,” she observed drily, as he scattered the ashes of the campfire.
“I am. There’s something comforting about walking in the elements. It tests your endurance, which is good for the human spirit, you know?” He glanced at her, noticing her blank expression. “I can’t really explain what I mean.”
“Don’t try.”
He laughed. She thought how much he smiled and laughed and whistled and sang out here in the mountains, which meant he must be happy, pleased to find himself enduring obstacles. Good for him. Her shoulders hurt, the straps pinched into her waist, there was a blister forming on her little toe and one on her heel. She had no idea how she would survive the second day.
They packed up and were on their way again. They hiked side by side, the trail widening as it wound through low clearings, beside creeks and small rounded hollows. They talked of family hardships, their views on church and politics, the differences in the ways they were raised, and more. Mary forgot her pain as she listened to his voice, and wondered how she would go through life without hearing it after this hike was over.
When the trail turned uphill again, her will floundered, her spirit recoiled. She simply could not imagine trudging another six miles, but that was precisely what she did, placing one foot in front of the other, her heel and at least six of her toes on fire, the skin rubbed off and the pink, shiny dermis underneath rubbed raw.
At one point, the trail was merely dabs of orange paint on old trees, where they stepped across fallen logs, skirted rocks, and crumbling trees felled halfway by winter storms. Steve walked on, finding the orange spots, and she followed blindly, drawing up on reserves she had no idea existed inside of her.
She felt almost exhilarated now. The pain was so intense it ceased to bother her. She was a warrior. Miles? What were they? Mere distance, a length to be conquered by placing your feet one ahead of the other, gobbling up the ground.
She heard the falling of water, thought she might be imagining things, the way people dying of thirst saw an oasis, a mirage. But Steve stopped, held up a hand, then unrolled the map. She peered around his elbow. He lifted an arm and placed it around her shoulder.
“Here. Look. Right here. Shelter Falls. We’re here!” he shouted.
He tightened his grip on her shoulder, and she leaned in. They laughed, then set off toward the sound of falling water.
In the light of early evening, the sight was astounding. A small bowl containing no trees, only an outcrop of rocks with a stream of clear sparkling water tumbling into a still pool, grass growing abundantly on every side. Ferns as if a landscaper had designed it. Twittering birds in a myriad of colors and shapes.
“It’s like a bit of paradise dropped out of Heaven,” Steve said softly.
Mary said nothing, trying to understand the deep well of emotion straining at her throat. Cold chills crept up and down her arms. Her feet felt as if they were rooted to the edge of the woods, as if she was a tree and was created to stay there and worship with them.
She might be losing her mind, she reasoned.
Steve watched her face, saw the containing of something. She turned to him. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked rapidly. He reached out an arm and drew her in. She yielded, her head on his chest.
“Do you feel it, Mary?”
“Yes. But what is it?”
“It’s the presence of God. We are on holy ground.”
Mary wept softly, the tears cleansing and healing. She felt as if she should lift her arms and worship. She wanted to say thank you to the sparkling water and the waving ferns, bow down and say another thank you to the birds for their song.
She did not understand this, but with Steve beside her, it was all right. She believed he had the Spirit within him, even if she didn’t, so maybe if she stayed here, she’d soak up a bit.
“See?” he said softly.
He pointed an index finger in the waterfall’s direction, then to the ferns, circled a hand to include the sky, the birds.
“This, Mary, is God. Here, He is visible, through Creation. His Spirit floated above the water in Genesis, and it is still with us today. The reason we weep is because His Spirit is working in our hearts.”
She held very still, afraid to let go of this broken, nameless goodness, afraid to leave the warmth of another person’s chest.
“What did you feel, Mary?”
“I don’t know.”
She stepped out of his arms, away from the safety and the warm beating heart that contained the Spirit he was talking about. She looked up at him, found his eyes alive with a glowing light.
“I just, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not, really. I’m shaking inside, and I had chills on such a hot day.”
“You felt the presence of God. He touched you.”
She drew back. “He wouldn’t do that. You don’t understand. I mean, I’ve come a long way, but I’m not wearing a covering or my belt apron. I am not a complete sacrifice yet.”
Steve was gently shaking his head. “That has nothing to do with it.”
“You don’t understand. It does.”
They were interrupted by the sound of voices behind them. They turned to greet two men, long haired and unkempt, bandanas tied around their foreheads, grizzled, lean, their legs beneath their shorts browned and sinewy with muscles. Packs protruded far above their heads, so Mary assumed they were serious hikers.
They stood, surveying Mary mostly, then extended a hand, wide smiles revealing clean white teeth.
“Hey, guys. Good to see two human beings. Haven’t seen anyone all week.”
Steve shook hands, then Mary introduced herself.
“You guys Mennonite?”
“No, Amish.”
“Oh, great. Yeah.”
“So, where you headed?” the quiet one asked.
“Only another day. To the Point, then we’re getting off,” Steve answered.
“Up to the Canadian border. We own ground there. Started in Maryland.”
Mary felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. How far had they come? How many miles did they still need to go?
They surveyed the scene before them.
“Wow. Just goes to show you, the Man Upstairs outdid Himself right here.”
“Amen, brother,” Steve said, lifting a hand for a high five.
A sound slap, a wide grin, and Mary received the sight of joy from the face of one she suspected did not know God. What was this “brother” thing? She had been taught all her life, and taught well. The Amish had nothing to do with the world. You couldn’t serve God and the world, and if she ever saw the world in human form, it was right here. That long hair. Shorts. And two men . . .
Steve had better watch it, or he’d be misled. Perhaps he was already, and taking her down the broad way, thinking feelings were of God, when very likely it was from the devil himself. Her breathing increased, the wonder of a few moments ago replaced by lowered brows, a great and justified suspicion.
She sat by the edge of the forest, staying away from the men who had walked down to the water, smashing ferns, upending rocks without any respect for the natural beauty around them. They talked, waved their hands, laughed, while Mary eyed them with distrust.
Her feet and toes were red with blisters peeling, the skin completely gone. She really wanted to walk down to the water and feel it close over them, but she was afraid of the men. She should not allow herself to have a conversation with them at all. She recalled that the devil could appear like an angel of light, which was what this was, and Steve was too blinded to see, walking with the world.
My goodness , she thought. He was fortunate she was here to set him on the right way.
She lay back in the moss, thinking all this through, and eventually drifted off to sleep. She woke to find every blister stinging, flies on her skirt, the men gone. She sat up and looked for Steve, bewildered. She sat very still, the sound of the birds twittering now fully penetrating her senses. They were calling their babies to come to bed.
She’d always listened to the robins when they chirped repeatedly at twilight, calling home the summer fledgling birds for the night. She had found this fascinating, how mother birds chirped and worried at bedtime, just like her own mother, calling them in to sit in the kesslehaus (wash room) where she’d drawn hot water to wash their feet before they went to bed.
Moving to Lancaster had been a real eye-opener, the way she’d been able to shower every night, shampooing hair three times a week. The memories that came back with the twilight—running with her sisters, racing to get her feet in first, the call of the robins in the background— felt sweet. Sometimes she still longed for those childhood moments, the fluid way life rippled along easily, knowing the rules, the punishment that followed if you didn’t obey. It was very simple. Do this, don’t do that, and if you did that, there were painful consequences.
She’d opened another dimension the day she moved to Lancaster. She’d left her old life behind and discovered a different way, one she’d thought better. Most of the time, she still thought it was better, if she was being honest with herself. She had loved her life in Lancaster, had discovered so much about herself and those around her. She’d experienced a diversity of people, ways, and ideas. The conservatives lived peacefully with the more liberal-minded, which was surely a glowing testament to the power of love.
Why had she moved back to New York?
She’d been shoved there by the sheer magnitude of her fear, the consuming power of the awful panic attacks, the slipping away of her mind.
She shuddered, remembering the liquid door knob, the cracks in the sidewalks. Even now, she felt the pounding of her heart as her breathing shifted gears.
She would have to have a talk with Steve.
Where had he gone? Night was approaching.
Her feet felt as if they were on fire, the blisters throbbing, her legs aching. She had to summon the will to help herself, so she pushed her bare toes into the grass, twisted her body, and got to her feet, swaying slightly, the pain in her heels like knife blades. Gritting her teeth, she hobbled to the water. Finding a rock to sit on simply wasn’t possible, so she put in one foot, gasped as the cold water stung the open sores, then tentatively put in the other. Her skirts were gathered in one hand, another held out for balance. The bottom of the pool was full of pebbles, sharper, bigger stones, and a slippery layer of moss and decaying leaves and twigs. She hated the feel of slime, the yucky gunk in the bottom of any farm pond, but this seemed slightly cleaner with the flow of the water falling over rock, forming this pool and spilling over into a small creek winding its way over a course through the woods.
The absence of pain was blissful, so she stayed still, allowing the cool water to stop the burning. All around her, the call of birds held her spellbound, the warbling, trilling, piercing whistles, with the chirping and varied calls of colors flashing from tree to tree. The water tumbled from a cliff, splashing its own harmony with the birds. The colorful sky was now darkening with the gray light of evening.
The ferns nodded their heads, waved their arms, ushered in thoughts of how heavenly it would feel to grab a bar of soap and a washcloth, but she stifled that immediately, thinking of Steve.
Where was he?
She let her skirts go, bent to wash her face and hands, her arms, anything she could wash discreetly, then stood, dripping, watching the water tumble over the cliffside. A thin stream, but it made a resounding splash, a sight that held her in its power.
Yes, God had created this, like Steve said. Of course he had. But she wasn’t sure about actually feeling God. How could that have been possible?
No, you couldn’t go by feelings, the way they changed so easily. They’d both been tired, at the end of their tether, so they were in a weakened state, allowing the devil to arrive in the form of an angel of light. The worst deception.
Slowly, with caution, she made her way out of the pool, determined to stay calm, to have a talk with Steve when he returned. She would help him back onto the straight and narrow road, to make him see how God required perfect obedience to His Word. How could His Spirit touch them here, dressed as they were, doing something they both knew was questionable by church standards?
After this hike, she would work harder to attain perfection, perhaps even change the color of the blinds in her house. She’d throw away the sneakers she wore to work, those Nikes leftover from her days at the bakery. They were far too flashy with the white soles and the large swoosh symbol.
She lifted the small tent from her pack, untied the strings attaching it, then set to work preparing a site. She was bent over, removing pebbles and loose branches from the ground, when she sensed his approach. Instantly, relief washed over her, though she didn’t let on.
“Sorry, Mary. We got wrapped up in a longer conversation than I was expecting. Interesting guys.”
Mary gave no indication of having heard.
He stepped closer, asking if he could help. She shook her head, so he retreated and went to work on his own tent. Resentment bloomed in her heart like a gigantic hothouse flower, red and much too prominent. Did he really have to disappear for their long conversation without telling her where he was going? What kind of sinful thinking were those men leading him into? And now, there he was, humming and whistling again, acting as if he couldn’t care less.
After their tents were up, he set to work building a fire ring, gathering twigs, leaves, and dead undergrowth. Mary sat sullenly, her wet skirts covered in grime, thinking of burgers and chicken corn soup with saltines and applesauce. Chocolate cake with buttercream icing. The lemon doughnuts they’d made at the bakery.
“Well, I’ll get the rice going,” he said cheerfully.
“I am not fond of rice. We never ate it growing up.”
Steve’s hands were propped on his hips when he faced her, his pleasant countenance smudged by his lowered eyebrows.
“You might have mentioned that when we were shopping and packing. It’s heavier than the oatmeal, so I’m making it. Less to carry tomorrow.”
His words were level, a bit stern, which surprised Mary. All around them, the sounds were changing from the bird’s symphony to an array of insects creating an implosion of shrill calls, coupled with the deep bass of a bullfrog outdoing the voice of another.
A mosquito’s high whine rang in her ears, and she swatted viciously. She got to her feet and unzipped the flaps of her tent, then lay down on the thin sleeping bag, trying one position, then another.
She heard the fire popping as well as the sound of the thin metal camp pot on stones, his steps, the unwrapping of food. She swallowed. Her stomach growled, but she chose to ignore it, wanting to hurt him for deserting her, going off with the heathen men. Her breathing stopped when she heard the zipper of her tent being drawn upward, her name called in soft tones.
“Mary, come on out. The rice is good. It’s flavored and has dried vegetables and spices. You need to eat.”
She considered staying, but hunger won over. She crawled out, disheveled, her face averted, her dress rumpled and filthy. Without speaking, he handed her a tin bowl of rice, a folding spoon inserted thoughtfully. She ate and it was surprisingly good, though she didn’t admit it. She started back to her tent, leaving him to do the cleanup. She felt like that was the least he could do, though her reasons for feeling that way were getting murkier.
“Okay. Tell me what’s bothering you,” he said resignedly.
She stopped, turned, glared, but would not speak.
“Come on, Mary. I’m trying here, but you’re acting like a child.”
“Excuse me? A child? You’re the one who left me by myself while you slunk away with those heathen. You were afraid I’d call you out on your sinful behavior, so you hid, leaving me wondering if you’d ever be back,” she barked.
Instantly, he was on his feet. She could feel the anger like waves surrounding her, snapping into the night sky like sparks.
“They are believers, Mary. You should be careful who you call a heathen.”
Her breath came in hard spurts.
“You’re lost and don’t even know you’re on the wrong track!” She was almost shouting now. “You’re pathetic. Don’t you know the outward appearance is a sign of the inward heart? How can you even think they believe in God?”
A few firm steps and her shoulders were clenched in a hard grip, his face lowered much too close.
“Don’t, Mary. Don’t you ever let me hear you say such a thing. We cannot judge, ever. We are only imperfect human beings who have no idea what God sees. I don’t care how you were raised; this is the truth.”
“Oh, so you know the truth?” she said mockingly.
His hands dropped to his sides and he turned away. He took up a long stick and poked the fire. A shower of sparks went up and disappeared. After a few breaths, his body noticeably relaxed.
“Come on, Mary. Let’s discuss this like the two adults we are.”
She found that her shoulders loosened up too, almost as if in response to his. She sat down opposite him, but her knees ached too much to sit cross-legged, so she thrust her feet to the fire, leaned back on the palms of her hands, and stared into the flames.
“Tell me why you’re upset.”
She watched the fire display light and shadow across his face, the strong set of his jaw, the smudge of ash across his cheek, the way his hair was stiff and disheveled from the perspiration of the day. He was crouched by the fire, adding a few sticks of wood, then reached for the tin pot to boil water for coffee.
“It’s those men. You shouldn’t have talked to them. They are of the world, and . . . and how could you say ‘amen, brother’ as if Christianity was one big free-for-all? Don’t you know we are a chosen people, set apart? We hear this over and over in our church services, don’t we?”
It was the statement ending in a question that softened his heart. He had felt his anger provoked, prodded by her mockery, but he had to remember she was raised in an extreme environment, where the outward appearance was a visible testimony to anyone’s soul. He had never accepted or understood this ideal of all plain people being elevated, living in their own bubble of righteousness, untouched by the trials and conflicts of every other human being that walked the earth. In kind words, with much patience, he tried to explain his views, and she listened. He reminded her of the verse about our own righteousness being like a filthy rag to God, that all goodness is a gift from Him alone.
She simply could not grasp his view on spiritual matters, and as the night wore on, her eyelids became heavy and she found herself skeptical and annoyed. She was sure he was wrong, but she couldn’t pinpoint why, and that in itself was frustrating.
Finally, she told him that one thing was sure and that was that her earthly father was a picture of her heavenly father. If you did what was right, you were okay; if you did wrong, you were punished. The only difference was that God punished with an everlasting lake of fire.
“But, Mary, what about Jesus?”
“What about Him?”
“He died for you. He opened everything for you.”
“But you still have to be good enough. And so far, I’m not.”
“You’ll never be good enough.”
He searched her eyes, tried earnestly to convey the truth, but her mind was closed.
“Yeah, well, you can say what you want. If it’s as you say, then anyone, any old filthy sinner can believe, and he’ll be just fine. You know that’s not how it works.”
“Of course we have to come to the end of ourselves, repent, and run the course, but . . .”
“You don’t even know.”
“Well, it’s time to turn in. We’re both tired, a bit sore, and still hungry, so maybe it’s a good time to say goodnight. We have to be up at daylight and probably shouldn’t take time to start a fire in the morning. We have plenty of protein bars.”
Suddenly, she made a whimpering sound.
“My feet, Steve. I don’t know if I can do it.”
He looked at her, then got up and knelt, taking her feet in his hands, peering at the red blisters, the torn heel.
“You should have said something. I have stuff to put on this.”
He got up and returned with a tin of salve and heavy cloth Band-Aids. She reached for them, but he shook his head, knelt, and cleaned the blisters, administered the salve, and bandaged each toe with great patience and precision. Sitting back, she observed his hands, the long, tapered fingers with the short nails, the muscled arms with a dusting of fine hairs. His touch was gentle, the salve like a blessing.
“There you go. By morning they will be so much better.”
“Thank you for bandaging my feet,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome.”
Their gaze met and held. Something passed between them, a truce, the beginning of patience, a small amount of trust buoyed by understanding. But was it enough to build a relationship, or would it be made of sand and clay and gravel, like a foundation not built on the solid rock of Jesus Christ?
Steve realized the enormity of this question, knew this small incident with the two through hikers was only the tip of a troubled marriage to come. He had offended her in his innocence, had no idea she thought along those lines, and how far apart in faith they actually were. He rolled into his sleeping bag that night, and for the first time since he had met Mary—this confused, oppressed girl, bound to the rigors of wrestling with the impossibility of attaining eternal life through her own merits—he tasted the bitterness of defeat.
How long, Lord? Or should I let her go?
He lay awake far into the night, his eyes trained on the cheap plastic frame of his tent, thinking how much his strength was ebbing, how skinny and hollow his own faith really was. She was obstinate, maddening beyond anything he’d ever seen. Steve saw what Mary was capable of, the amount of hurt she could inflict, the same hurt she received from a tyrannical parent, and a mother too weak, too cowed by the same outsized authority to stand up for herself.
Thy will be done, Lord, and only thy will.
He knew he wanted her, but was a one-sided love enough? He honestly did not know if Mary was capable of loving anyone.