Monday Morning Faith (4 page)

I made my voice casual. “Oh? Is there something special about him? I hadn't noticed.”

Nelda's silence was eloquent.

Undaunted, I went on. “He's very nice, dedicated to his church. He's going to Papua New Guinea in January for an extended mission project.”

“Gone for a long time?”

“He didn't say.” Might as well be eternity. By the time he got back he'd have forgotten all about Johanna Holland and tonight's brief encounter.

Nelda sighed. “Isn't that the way it goes? All the good ones are either taken or running.”

“He's not running; he believes God's calling him to the mission field.”

Another sigh. “Well, a mere mortal woman cannot compete with God. Best you mark this one off the list.”

“What list is that?”

“The mental list every woman carries around in her mind. The one where we evaluate every man we meet — oh, come on! Don't try to tell me you don't do the same thing. You're not dead!”

“Nor am I preoccupied with the male gender.” Nelda was married, for heaven's sake! But she wasn't
dead.

“So you say.” I heard the telltale crunch of chips. “Well, can't win them all.”

We said good night, and I opened my Bible to stare unseeing at the pages. Itty Bitty gazed up at me, eyes alert. I kept seeing Sam Littleton's face instead of Holy Writ. Was that blasphemy? I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Now why was I even thinking about a man I'd seen only twice? And why did I feel … well, almost saddened that he was leaving?

Doctor Sam Littleton would never in a million years be of interest to me.

Papua New Guinea. Mission field. The man might as well be going to Mars.

TWO

S
unshine streamed through my bedroom curtains Sunday morning. I woke to warmer temperatures, if midforties could be considered warm. After breakfast, I drove Mom and Pop to church, thankful for muddy traces of last night's ice melting along the roadside. If this kept up, Saginaw was in for a hard winter.

The church parking lot was half filled when I pulled into the handicapped space. Pop maneuvered himself into his chair, and I pushed it up the ramp and into the church. Our seats were halfway down the left side, center aisle. Pop's chair fit against the pew, and Mom sat in the end seat next to him. I sat on her right side. I'd made a confession of faith and been baptized at this church. I'd been young — seven — but I can still remember the peace I found that night when I came forward during the pastor's invitation.

I studied the narrow aisle and decided it had shortened since those many years ago. To a frightened, shy seven-year-old, it had looked as long as a well rope.

Sighing, I focused on the attendance board: 136 in Sunday school. Last week's offering: $368.32. The big mausoleum across town where Sam Littleton attended would be running over this morning. Our church was tiny in comparison. Gosh, I knew everybody in attendance and 90 percent of their problems. That's a small congregation. We were family. Our nondenominational church was mission-oriented, and the members cared for each other. Seldom was our kitchen counter without a fresh-baked pie or Pop's favorite coconut cake, still warm from the oven of a thoughtful member.

We sang classic hymns: “Amazing Grace” and “There Is a Fountain.” This morning we sang my favorite, “Oh, How I Love Jesus
.
” Contemporary songs left me cold. One repetitious phrase sung over and over until it lost its meaning seemed a waste of good time. Nelda, who loved all music except for some of the more brash pop songs, labeled me an old fuddyduddy who needed to change with the times. She might be right, but I'd stick to the proven.

John Richard Haddock, Hillsdale's pastor for the last fifteen years, strode to the pulpit. He had a deep, full voice and a somewhat dramatic delivery. Goodness, I was more holy just listening to him. Okay. I knew it didn't work that way. I couldn't claim God's blessings because I enjoyed listening to John Richard preach, but it was nice not to be distracted by Pop's snoring during sermons.

John began, speaking on personal spiritual growth — but I couldn't get on his wavelength. Expanding my spiritual territories just didn't connect with me. Believing God had called me to work in some faraway place — say, Papua New Guinea — was as foreign to me as believing God wanted me to start a church on the moon.

Sam believed he had a calling. That was fine. I hoped he was right. But I couldn't help a surge of gratitude that God had never seen fit to call me to foreign lands. My rut was comfortable.

After services, we stopped by The Steak House on the edge of town for Sunday lunch. For once we got there ahead of the people from Sam's church. Several of our own members were already seated. Amid a flurry of waves and second greetings, we settled at a table next to the window so Pop's chair would be out of the way and he could see outside. Unable to get out much anymore, he enjoyed his Sunday outings, and today the bright sunshine held little hint that the holidays were fast approaching.

The parking lot was full of men and women in their church finery working their way toward the steak house entrance. “You ever notice how many church members eat out on Sunday?” Pop asked.

Mom fished the lemon slice out of her water and gave it a good squeeze before dropping it back into the glass. “Ever notice how many of them brag about how they don't work on the Sabbath and then they come here to eat and shop Wal-Mart afterwards and make the employees work?”

“Mom …” True, Bay Road was a popular route on Sunday afternoons, but I didn't want to ruin lunch with one of her pious lectures. I shopped the Super Center on Sunday. Working forty-plus hours a week left little time for personal errands. “It's not our place to judge.”

Pop winked at me. “And if I'm correct, I believe we're contributing to the problem.”

Mom eyed him over the menu. “At least we're not bragging about how we don't work on Sunday.”

“We don't work anymore, period.” He switched out a tank of oxygen; the cylinders were getting bigger these days. “Maybe we should eat at home next week. You and Sis can get up an hour earlier, put on a roast, peel some potatoes, and whip up a batch of hot rolls to rise, churn some butter. That would be nice.”

Mom took his ribbing in stride. “And make poor Johanna work on her day off?” She perused the menu. “I'm having fried chicken and ohhh, heaven help me. They have that chocolate mousse I like so much.”

The waitress appeared, pen poised over her notepad. I handed her my menu. “Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, blue cheese dressing on the salad, and corn. Oh, and a cup of green tea.”

I'd started drinking green tea after reading about its health benefits — how it's supposed to help you lose weight. I suspected that last benefit was a stretch since I'd been drinking it for six months now and hadn't lost an ounce.

Pop ordered the eight-ounce sirloin, medium rare, and a baked potato with sour cream. I knew I needed to nag him about his cholesterol, but there were so few things that he could enjoy anymore. If it were me in that chair, I'd eat lard sandwiches and lace my coffee with bacon grease. I wasn't going to live forever and neither was Pop.

Nelda waved from a corner table. Jim, her husband, was as big as a house. His skin was a couple of shades darker than Nelda's, and he had the gentle personality of a Saint Bernard. The man was a gem. All Nelda had to do was look like she might want something and Jim delivered. The man spent a month last spring building a sunroom on the east corner of their house so she could have a place to keep her plants through the winter. Marriage wouldn't be bad if I could find a man like Jim Thomas.

Their honor student, sixteen-year-old son, Jim Jr., was polite, well mannered, and a sweet kid. He was athletic too. Natasha was thirteen and already showing signs of becoming a real beauty. My friend had it all — all that mattered, anyway — and was smart enough to know it.

After lunch, I passed the Thomases' table on my way to the ladies' room. Nelda hailed me. “You want to come over this afternoon and watch a two-hanky old movie? I'll make popcorn.”

I thought about the invitation before I declined. “I'd better stay close to home. Pop's emphysema is acting up. He tries to hide it so we won't worry.”

Nelda patted my hand. “Sure. You're a wonderful daughter, Johanna.”

Jim buttered half of a roll. “You need anything, girl, you let us know, all right?”

“I'll do that, and thanks.” He meant it too. Call him for anything and he'd be there before I hung up.

Later, I settled Mom and Pop for their Sunday afternoon naps before retiring to my room with a book. Nelda's compliment kept running through my mind.
A wonderful daughter
. I tried to be, but when I looked at all she had with Jim, a niggling twinge raised my curiosity. Were Nelda and Jim right? Was I allowing life to pass me by while I maintained my “wonderful daughter” status?

Johanna, for shame!

I let the book rest on my chest. I couldn't believe I'd had that thought. What was happening to Johanna Holland, beloved daughter of Clive and Harriet, the woman who was so content with her simple life? I couldn't put my finger on what bothered me, but since the night of my birthday party I'd been on edge. Maybe my restlessness came from the fact that I was no longer a teenager. I was forty years old.
Forty
. It wasn't all that long ago that I thought a person my age had one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.

Why did weekends go by so much faster than weekdays?

Close to ten Monday morning, I glanced through the plate glass separating my work area from the main library. Traffic was brisk this morning, and I recognized several of our regulars. The library served as a meeting place for friends as they browsed the shelves, looking for something new to read and recommending their favorites.

I looked back at my monitor and then paused, frowning. Had that been Sam Littleton's tan overcoat disappearing around a corner of the shelves in the geographical section? My pulse accelerated. That's where the New Guinea research books were shelved. Soon he would've checked all we had and then what would he do?

He'd be in New Guinea, Johanna.

I frowned. Missionaries were gone for long periods, returning for short furloughs. How could they leave friends and loved ones and be away for so long? But then Sam didn't have family and he hadn't mentioned children.

I placed my hands on the keyboard, ready to resume typing, but then I stopped short, deep in thought. He might need help. I didn't assist the patrons but left that up to my assistants, but in this case …

I left my desk and strolled toward the center section of the building. Aisle one was empty, as was aisle two. But on the third aisle I hit pay dirt. Sam was down on his hands and knees, cheek pressed to the floor while trying to read the titles on the lower shelf. He was facing me, but he was so absorbed in what he was doing he didn't notice my presence.

I didn't mean to startle him, only to clear my throat to relieve the sudden dryness. The doctor jumped as if he'd been shot. He jerked upright to face me.

“I'm sorry …” His eyes met mine, and I lost all coherent thought. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I could swear the air had left the room.

Goodness! You'd think I was sixteen years old and meeting a rock star.

He flashed a warm grin. “You startled me.”

Reining in my sudden and most mystifying reaction, I returned his smile. “Sorry. Are you finding everything you need?”

He rattled off a title. “Do you know if it's in?”

The librarian arm-wrestled the starstruck teen to the ground. “I can check.”

He handed me a Post-it note where he'd written
New Guinea Tribes and Culture.
I returned to my desk and checked the computer system. Sam had trailed me. “Yes, it should be there.” We returned to the shelf and I dropped down on my hands and knees, thumbing through the titles on the lower shelf. We needed to do something to make the place more user friendly. Like eliminate the bottom row. I was getting too old for crawling on the floor. We must have made a strange sight, both of us creeping down the row, heads bent to the floor.