The Isaac Project (4 page)

It took an hour but the room finally looked festive. Nothing Pinterest worthy. Just some brightly colored tableclothes, some streamers, and some balloons. And, of course, all of the guests. Now, time to get the man of the hour.
      I peeked around the corner and into Poppy’s room to make sure he wasn’t napping. Although if he was, I guess I’d have to wake him. He was sitting in his little chair beside his bed reading a book.
      “Reading anything interesting?” I asked, a smile in my voice.
      He looked up, and his face broke out in a huge grin. His dentures hung loosely in his mouth instead of hugging his gums. I’d have to bring more Poligrip next time I came.
      “How’s my favorite girl?” he asked. As I bent down to give him a hug, his arms squeezed tight around me, and tears stung my eyes as I soaked in his embrace.
No crying, remember?
      “Fine.” I pasted on a smile I didn’t feel.
      “Come on now. This is Poppy you’re talking to.” His eyebrows, which seemed to grow thicker and more unruly each day, knit together. They resembled hairy caterpillars drawn together that way. “I have been there for every knee scrape, broken bone, slumber party, school play, horse show, and breakup you’ve gone through.” He crossed his hands in his lap and leaned his head to one side, a sympathetic smile gracing his face. “Tell ol’ Poppy what’s troubling your heart.”
      Now wasn’t the time. Not on his birthday Not with a room full of people waiting to celebrate with him. Besides, I didn’t want to relive it. Couldn’t I just put the whole dreadful thing behind me? Rehashing it wasn’t going to solve anything or make me feel any better. I opened my mouth to deflect, to change the subject to anything else, but paused at the gentleness in his eyes. He hurt because I hurt. My eyes stung, but I blinked back the tears as I told him about James holding another woman in his arms—of his lips on someone else’s besides mine.

Poppy reached out and squeezed my hand. I fell to my knees and laid my head in his lap like I used to do as a child, and he stroked my hair with his weathered hand. With each gentle touch, anxiety seeped from my body.

“Thank you, Poppy, for loving me.”

He buoyed my spirit like a drowning man being thrown a lifeline.

“Nothing will change that, Rebekah Anne.” His voice was so soft I had to lean in to hear him.
      Dr. Henshaw walked into the room, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Poppy. As his eyes rested on me, they softened in…pity?

Good grief. How in the world had those gossipers managed to spread my personal business out here already?
      “Hello, Rebekah.” He stepped more fully into the room, his clipboard dangling by his side. His already telltale droopy eyes, which always reminded me of a hound dog, were even more so from the sympathy emanating from them.

“I see Larry has broken the bad news to you.”
      Poppy’s hand on my head froze. His whole body tensed. I looked up and met his eyes, my brow furrowed. What bad news? What was Dr. Henshaw talking about? If the look on the good doctor’s face wasn’t from hearing any gossip about me, then why did he appear as if he was going to offer his consolation?
      “Poppy?” My voice squeaked, sounding more like a scared little girl than a grown woman.
      Casting a quick look of flying daggers in Dr. Henshaw’s direction, Poppy returned a gaze so tender upon me it was a caress.
      My heart stopped. I waited in agony for what was probably going to be the worst thing I’d heard that day. Yes, much, much worse than anything James Anthony could have said or done. I sensed Dr. Henshaw leave the room, but still I sat at Poppy’s feet, my eyes never leaving his face.
      If possible, the man before me aged drastically in seconds. He reached out and cupped my cheek in his hand. Had I never noticed it before, or had I lived in denial because Poppy had always been so strong in my mind? There was no denying it now. The hand that cupped my cheek, the hand that had picked me up each time I’d fallen and had even swatted my backside a time or two, was shaking in frailty.
      “I’m afraid the leukemia has come back with a vengeance this time, my dear. There’s not much strength left in these old bones to fight it anymore.”
      Words stuck in my throat.
      “I’ve lived my life, and I’ve lived it well. I have no regrets. The only thing I wish is that I would have been able to see you happily married. I know you’re an independent girl and can get along fine on your own. But I want more than just fine for you. I want great. I know God has someone in mind for you, but I wish I could be around to see it.”
      The tips of my fingers began to tingle. I blinked repeatedly, trying to stave off the burn of tears as much as to stop the room from spinning. My eyes locked on to Poppy’s.

Please, God, no. Don’t take him from me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I wanted to smile, to put on a brave face, but my double-crossing lips refused to cooperate.  Poppy needed to focus on getting well, not worrying about me.

His eyes remained steady on me, and I read his unspoken question.
Will you be okay?

No. I wouldn’t be okay. But I couldn’t say that. So I said the most important thing as I flung my arms around the man who had been a father to me. “I love you, Poppy.”

4

Rebekah

SITTING CROSS-LEGGED on my bed, my chin rested in the palm of one hand while I traced the stitches along the patchwork of my quilt with the other. A dark cloud had hovered over the party after learning of Poppy’s diagnosis. Honestly, it made the thing with James both better and worse—if that was even possible. But in the light of losing Poppy, losing James was a walk in the park. I loved him, but Poppy, well, he was my rock. Though if James hadn’t cheated on me, we’d still be together and closer to fulfilling Poppy’s desire of seeing me happily married.

My shoulders slumped.

Not like I’d be able to make that dream come true. I couldn’t call the Make-A-Wish Foundation and tell them my grandfather was dying, and could you please fulfill his last request—find me a husband?
      I pulled my Bible onto my lap.

Jesus, please show me something in Your Word that will bring me a blessing. I’m in desperate need of one right now. I could also use some guidance. Lord, I need so many things that I don’t even know
what
I need. Give me peace, Father.
      Opening my engraved leather-bound Bible to where I’d left off in Genesis, I began to read in chapter twenty-four.  As I scanned the words, hope bubbled inside me. I scooped up the book, clutching it to my chest.

I’d read the story of Rebekah and Isaac numerous times before—it was one of my favorites—but it had never seemed so real or poignant to me as it did right then. It was almost as if a choir of angels sang. Their song consisting of one note, one word—an ethereal “aaaahhh.” A supernatural light shone on the page, illuminating the inspired words.
            The thought that popped into my head right then was a crazy one. And yet, I couldn’t shake it. If an arranged marriage worked for Isaac and biblical Rebekah, why couldn’t it work for a modern Rebekah too?
      If I’d told anyone my thoughts at that exact moment, they would’ve thought I was beyond desperate. I mean, who in this day and age would let someone arrange their marriage? A blind date maybe, but nothing with such a commitment attached to it as marriage. I must admit, I thought I was a little crazy too. And yes, I suppose I did feel a little desperation. More than anything I wanted to make Poppy happy.

As outrageous as it seemed, it also made sense. I lived in a small town without a ton of people who believed in Jesus as their personal Savior. There were some who went to church and believed in God or a higher power, but even they were few and far between.

The most populated place in town was the bar on a Friday night. Then again, the population of our town was so small that the word “populated” was all a matter of perspective. You could say it was kind of like I was living in the modern land of Canaan. Like Abraham who didn’t want his son to have a wife who didn’t worship the one true God. So Abraham sent his trusted servant back to Abraham’s homeland to find a wife among his own people. But I was born and raised in Meadowlark, California, and goodness knows I didn’t have a trusted servant.
      Then, as if an apparition, Lisa’s face flashed through my mind. Granted, she wasn’t my servant or anything, but she was my best friend. Plus, she was getting ready to head back to Andrews University in Michigan, the Christian college she attended. There were probably a lot more fish in that sea than here in my little pond. Besides, who knew me better than Lisa? Maybe God would lead her to the perfect guy the same way He led Eliezer to Rebekah.
      I suppose most people wouldn’t do anything as extreme as what was developing in my head. They would probably enroll and go to the school themselves. Although attending school only to get married seemed equally insane to me. Either way, I couldn’t pack up and leave. My work at the ranch meant too much to me. In a way, it was my own sort of ministry.

Glancing quickly at the bedside alarm clock, I realized I had better hurry and skedaddle out to the barn to get Dakota groomed and saddled for Jessica. I only had fifteen minutes before she and her parents arrived.

I grabbed two apples as I passed through the kitchen on my way to the barn. Lady, ever faithful, followed by my side. Biting into the crispy fruit, little rivulets of juice formed at the corners of my lips and, since no one was around to see, I sucked it back into my mouth.

The sun was high and hot. The dried, dead grass crunched under my boots as I walked the fifty or so yards from the house to the barn. The building, a little on the smaller side by most ranch standards, filled me with pride. So the lodge pole hay mow was leaning slightly to the left. So what? It still kept my hay dry and from growing mold. What if some of the stall boards were starting to rot or were half chewed in some places by bad-mannered equines. It was still mine. My own dream come true.

I blinked hard as I entered the barn, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Dakota nickered from the first stall, and I greeted her with a scratch to her wide forehead. She nosed my stomach.

“Looking for this?” I held the remaining apple flat in the palm of my hand.
      I placed the halter over Dakota’s head and fastened it securely at her jaw. “Ready for a good day, girl?” Walking her around to the hitching post, I picked up a curry comb from the grooming bucket and vigorously swiped the rubber brush along the mare’s coat in small circles. Dust plumed from her body, and chestnut hair pooled in the center of the comb. Dakota, like all the horses on the ranch, loved being groomed. It was like scratching dogs behind their ears. The horses didn’t wag their tails or thump their hooves, but they did lean in toward me to show their pleasure.
      After picking the dirt clods from Dakota’s hooves, I swung the lightweight children’s saddle onto the mare’s back. Just in time, too, because the Burnett’s van door slid shut with a bang.
      A radiant smile spread across Jessica’s face as she slowly made her way to the hitching post.

Most of us take little things like walking for granted. We put one foot in front of the other and away we go. After meeting Jessica, I realized what a blessing being able to take a stroll or a hike or a run really was. Jessica had cerebral palsy and had never walked without the aid of leg braces and forearm crutches. Even so, her gait was slow and choppy as her knee came in and crossed the other like a pair of scissors. I thought that was one of the reasons why she loved Dakota so much. She told me once that riding Dakota was the only time she felt graceful.
      “How’s it going, Jess?” I asked as she greeted her equine pal with some long strokes on Dakota’s neck while balancing her weight on one crutch.

“Ready to get in the saddle,” she replied with eagerness.

I glanced at my watch and then down the long driveway. “We still have to wait for Mrs. Steinbeck.”

Mrs. Steinbeck was Jessica’s physical therapist. We collaborated together in Jessica’s hippotherapy sessions, and I couldn’t start a session without her. Technically, she was the professional, and I was only the horse handler, but she treated me with respect, and we worked together as a team.

I really liked Mrs. Steinbeck. She and Jessica were the only legitimate hippotherapy sessions that took place on my ranch. I say legitimate because for it to be true hippotherapy a professional therapist must be present. There were other children and adults who came to the ranch with varying degrees of physical or behavioral problems, which I tried to help using therapeutic riding strategies.

Jessica didn’t seem to mind the delay, and really, I’m not even sure she’d heard me to begin with. She was too busy loving all over Dakota. I leaned against the hitching post and watched her. Her parents had already taken a seat on the few plastic chairs I’d set up over by the arena fence. One day I hoped to be able to build some bleachers or something a little nicer for the parents to sit on, but for now this was about the best I could offer. Jessica’s parents used to come over to the horse with their daughter and make small talk, but I think they realized this was a special time Jessica needed with her equine companion. Anyway, it gave me a chance to think as I watched her and waited for Mrs. Steinbeck to arrive.

Even with all of that inner chaos twisting my stomach, somehow—and I couldn’t explain how exactly—watching Jessica with Dakota, seeing her eyes sparkle and hearing her tinkling laugh ring out as she shared secrets with the horse—brought me a measure of peace. Hope even.

The crunch of tires on the loose gravel drive announced Mrs. Steinbeck’s arrival.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said as she stepped out of her cherry-red Prius. Mrs. Steinbeck was a woman of style. Her hair was always perfectly in place, her make-up always perfectly applied, her designer clothes always…well…perfect. I felt frumpy in comparison.

More often than not, my dirty-blond shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a ponytail or braid. I usually wore jeans, a tank top, and some boots, and I hardly ever took the time to put on make-up, since my day usually consisted of tossing bales of hay, mucking out stalls, and working the horses.