Chapter 40
Forty
poignant (adj.): having the power to produce deep emotion
The next morning is Sunday, and my father makes it clear he and Chase have plans for the day. No girls allowed.
I stack four small plates beside the quiche my parents brought from Honey Buns Bakery. “Oh, Pop. He really needs to rest. Come sit down and have some of this. It smells amazing.”
“Not to worry. Chase and I plan to do some armchair traveling at warp speed, is all.”
At the moment, Chase is contentedly flipping through a stack of new Pokémon cards. Apparently another Papa gift.
When Mom suggests she and I go to church, my eye spasms. I can count on one hand the number of people in town who know the identity of my mother. Arriving at Charity Falls Community Church with Carly Montgomery would change things in no small way.
She finagles a crumbly slice of quiche onto a plate, then licks her thumb. “We can just, you know, sneak in, sneak out.”
I level her with a look, and she tosses her head back in laughter.
“It’s up to you, of course,” she says. “If you think we should stay here with the boys . . .” For a moment we watch them comparing the values of two Pokémon characters.
“We should go,” I say. “But it’s chilly out there. You’re gonna need more than a puffy vest today, Mom.”
“Fat chance your mama was ever planning to wear her puffy vest to church.”
“You’ve spent too much time in the South. How quickly you forget there are no fashion police in Oregon.”
***
So much for “sneak in, sneak out.” After making a point to introduce herself to Pastor David, Mom guides us down the second row from the front.
It’s not my usual place, but today this seating arrangement suits me just fine.
Up here, I don’t run the risk of becoming distracted by whether a certain sheriff’s lieutenant with phenomenal hair and the soul of a poet is in attendance today.
Or how much of my heart he already possesses.
Mom takes my hand during the opening prayer and doesn’t let it go throughout the entire music portion.
As I sing, gratefulness brims to overflowing—for Chase’s health especially.
But also for such an unforeseen demonstration of love and care by my parents hopping a plane at the drop of a hat to support me on one of my hardest days ever.
Pastor David delivers a sermon that’s unusually short and concise. Even more surprisingly, he hasn’t yet shed a tear. But then he says, “This morning I’ve invited a guest to help close us in prayer. Carly?”
Mom stands. There’s a susurration of gasps and murmurs as she makes her way to the front.
And—bonus—I’ve now found the perfect application for Merriam-Webster’s word of the day, susurration.
The pastor indicates one of two tall stools, and he and Mom position themselves as if settling in for a casual conversation.
He welcomes her to share a word, “if you feel so led.”
Mom rests her Bible across her knees, then addresses everyone like she’s their oldest best friend. “You know, friends, I was just thinking that every time we open the Scriptures, we’re sitting under the tree of life. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that the most glorious picture?”
Around me, hums of agreement.
“Trees offer shade and refreshment,” Pastor David adds. “A place of rest.”
Mom’s joyful smile is contagious. “They do!”
“Carly,” David says, “right now there are a number of folks in our congregation in dire circumstances. And it seems the headlines become more disturbing every day. Is there anything you’d like to say to those here who may be struggling to hold on to hope?”
“Mmm, isn’t that the truth of our time, Pastor.
There is a whole lot of heartsickness going around.
Well, we know from reading Romans that endurance produces hope.
So hope is something we’re always cultivating.
At the same time, hope is something we already possess.
But if you wouldn’t mind humoring me for a minute, I’d like to share something God’s been working to get through my noggin for a long, long time. ”
Mom steeples her hands. Closes her eyes.
Waits a beat. And then, “Friends, I’d like to suggest that it is what we do with our hope that dictates our level of peace.
” She holds up a finger. “Here, let me show you.” Mom riffles through the thin pages of her Bible, creating a lovely susurration (that makes two uses), then slides her fingernail down a page.
“See this? Proverbs 13:12. ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick.’ Can we be honest here? What if this proverb is addressing the times I defer my own hope and contribute to my own heartsickness?”
Pastor David nods. “So . . . hopelessness, heartsickness. Two sides of the same coin?”
“I’ll tell you a story. When my son, Mikey, died, I fled my pain.
” Mom’s eyes find mine. There’s a wobble in her smile.
“In a way, ministry saved me. Having something good to pour myself into. But busyness also insulated me from working through my emotions. I neglected to let myself feel it all, to carry my son forward with me, in hope.” Now Mom directs a serious gaze at me.
“And in not fully trusting God with the healing process, I did others a great disservice.”
Something inside me cracks open. A tremble under my breastbone. Without taking my eyes off my mother, I snake a hand into my purse in search of tissue.
“But here’s what I know. God is love, and from him I can never be separated. Therefore, my hope is always justified.”
“Amen,” Pastor David says, and I can see he’s blinking back tears.
Amens echo among the congregation.
“Let me tell you something solid, friends. Hope is real. It doesn’t ebb and flow with the headlines—or the diagnoses. We don’t earn it, and we can’t lose it.”
More amening.
The hair on my arms lifts.
“So then,” David says, “what are we to do with our hope?”
Mom grins. She’s so beautiful and full of light in this setting. “Brother David, I am so glad you asked.”
Laughter floats through the sanctuary.
“Whenever we’re enduring pain, or, say”—Mom sends a quick glance my way—“wrestling with a significant decision, we’re to ask ourselves, Am I nestling down deeper into my hope? Or am I choosing to defer my hope, thereby contributing to my own feeling of heartsickness?”
I’ve never been one for attention, for straight-up peopling, but when the service ends and a steady stream of local folks approach Mom to thank her, I’m bursting with pride.
Yeah, that’s my mom.
“Dora!” Mom squeals.
The woman approaching with Wyatt has his same high cheekbones, wears her hair in a cute dark bob, and brightens at my mom’s recognition. There’s absolutely zero chance this isn’t Wyatt’s mother.
While they hug and catch up, Wyatt turns to me. He smiles softly but in a way that’s disconnected from his eyes.
I focus on an empty space in the air between us.
“Look, Lucy,” he says quietly, “I understand what you said in your text. I just want to say again how sorry I am for—”
“Like I said, it isn’t necessary. None of it was your doing—”
“Nevertheless, I’m sorry you had to go through everything you went through yesterday. And no matter what happens with our . . . friendship, I just wanted the chance to say—” Wyatt’s voice breaks. His thick Adam’s apple pulses when he swallows. “I am a better man for knowing you, Lucy Montgomery.”
“Even if it’s only been all our lives.” My heart breaks a little more as we both attempt a chuckle.
After yesterday’s warm connection, now only sadness envelops us.
Wyatt’s mom turns to face me. “You’re familiar.”
I look to Wyatt for an introduction. He isn’t there. He slipped away.
He slipped away.
“This is my daughter, Lucy,” Mom says. “She went to school with—”
“Yes, of course. So nice to finally meet you, Lucy,” Dora says, going in for the hug.
When Mom and I arrive at my car, a food storage container has magically appeared on the passenger seat. Mom gets in and rests it on her lap.
“Go ahead and open that,” I say, buckling my seat belt. “I’m sure it’s from my friend Dot. She goes to church right across the street.”
“Don’t you lock your doors?”
“Mom.”
“Okay, fine, but you really should, you know, Lu Lu.” She pops the lid. “Oh! Heaven! Smell that cinnamon!”
“Looks like Dot’s pumpkin scones. They’re delish. How thoughtful. She knows how much Chase loves pump—”
But Mom is no longer looking at me. She flickers her eyelashes, watching something over my shoulder.
I turn to see Wyatt crossing the parking lot in slow strides, as if deep in thought.
Mom opens her mouth to comment, then stops. I can read what she isn’t saying. Instead, she pretends to draw a zipper across her lips.
The aroma of fall spices fills the car, and the temptation to offer one of the scones to Wyatt tugs hard. To be on the receiving end of one of his great smiles. It would certainly make my mother’s day. Except what would the gesture convey? “Here’s your consolation prize”?
No. I’ve had a close-up view of Wyatt’s tender heart, and one thing is for sure. It wouldn’t be appeased by a parting gift. Pumpkin spice or not.