The Potluck Club (21 page)

24

Tea Time

“What’s the prognosis, Jan?” I decided the best course of action was to just come right out and ask. I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed that on Sunday, when Pastor Kevin had made the announcement about the diagnosis, he’d avoided the prognosis. He talked about faith in God, faith in the doctors, and having to make choices. “We have some decisions to make,” he’d said. “And we’d appreciate your prayers while we make them.”
What
decisions were not mentioned, but we could all pretty much imagine.

Jan and I sat in her family room, a room that told more about Pastor Kevin’s personality than his wife’s. With the exception of framed family photographs and a few of Jan’s matted and framed cross-stitched angels, the room was mostly leather and plaid. A large-screen TV dominated one wall. On the right-hand side were two wicker baskets tied off with plaid ribbon. One held video games and the other DVDs. Two identical baskets were on the left-hand side. These were lined in plaid material and filled with magazines and books.

I sat on one of the leather sofas—the love seat—while Jan sat on the nearest end of the large sofa, her feet tucked up under her. Her small hands were wrapped around a mug of hot Indian Chai Tea she nursed rather than drank. Occasionally they trembled a bit, and I saw that the natural blush of her cheeks had all but drained away. I set my mug on the large pine coffee table devoid of anything but a box of tissues, a well-worn Bible, and a short stack of books. I noted that Calvin Miller had authored all of them. Dr. Miller happens to be one of my favorite theological writers, which is probably why I noticed at all.

“Not good,” she answered.

I wondered if she’d repeated herself in order to take it all in. Personally, I felt the need to do the same, but refrained. I took a deep breath instead and sighed. “Treatment?”

“I’ll get my port later this week . . . then we start chemo.”

“Did the doctor mention anything about surgery?”

She shook her head no. “There’s really no point.”

“My Lord . . .” I looked from her pale face to the large framed print of quail nesting in a field of straw, which was over her head and above the sofa. I took a deep breath, then said what was really on my heart. “Look, Jan. My sister is a pastor’s wife, as you well know, and I can’t imagine that you are any different from her or any other pastor’s wife out there. You think you can’t let your hair down, but let’s just go ahead and throw that out, okay?”

Jan’s intake of breath jerked and hissed. I waited patiently as she looked around the room, avoiding my eyes with hers, which were welling up and spilling over with tears. “I want . . .” she began, her voice whispery and choking back. “I want to . . . to . . .”

I continued to wait, finally saying, “You want to . . .” as I reached for the box of tissues, whipping one from the box and handing it to her.

She took it, thanking me, then blew her nose. “I want to be there for my children . . . my grandchildren.”

My heart ached, literally ached. I am a mother and grandmother, so it wasn’t so difficult to empathize. She continued, “I’m not doubting God, Lizzie—”

“I know.”

“I’m just wondering why? Why? Why me? I’m just wondering . . . I’m just . . .”

I reached for the box of tissues again, this time just handing her the whole box. She grabbed another tissue and again blew her nose, took several deep breaths, then sobered. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to break down.”

I shifted my weight slightly, turning more toward her than I was before. “Jan, you don’t have to be all things to all people.” She nodded in response. I pressed my lips together, then asked, “How are the children taking this?” All three of the Moores’ children were married with families of their own, living in their native Texas.

“Betsy wanted to drop everything and come up, but I asked her to wait until after I get the port and begin chemo. Randy and Will are flying up together in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s not really what I’m asking you, Jan.”

She nodded. “I know. The boys were very quiet, but I suspect they’re just trying to process it. They’ve called every night since we told them. Betsy has called two or three times a day. She cries a lot . . . and I cry right along with her.” She began to weep again. “Pray for my children,” she whispered.

“I will.”

We sat silent for a few minutes. Jan closed her eyes. Her breathing became so deep, and I thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she opened her eyes, took a sip of her tea, and said, “God is good, Lizzie. With or without the cancer, I may have had only a short time to live.” She continued. “I’m trying really hard to be strong for Kevin . . . for the kids . . . but I don’t really want to be. Still, in my heart of hearts I hear the Lord remind me that none of us are guaranteed anything. Not a single thing.”

“I know, but—”

“If God . . . if God decides that I should go home . . . tomorrow . . . then I will. If he decides that I should live another ten years, I will. Who am I to question God?” Jan brought the mug up to her lips and blew gently. I watched tiny waves form, then subside. “Just promise me you’ll pray for my children, my grandchildren. For Kevin.”

“I promise. And I’ll have the girls at the Potluck Club pray too . . . if that’s okay.”

“Of course. And you tell them I still believe in miracles.” She brought the mug back near her lap, and I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Janet Hall before nodding in agreement. “But,” Jan continued, “maybe not the way you all might think of miracles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Share this with the girls: I’ve always believed there are different types of healing. Five different types, actually. First is the body’s natural immune system. So many germs floating around out there, so many diseases just waiting to attack. But God has given us an awesome immune system that counterattacks more often than we are even aware of.”

“Without it, I’m sure most of us wouldn’t survive to our first birthday.”

Jan smiled before continuing. “Then, of course, you have the kind of healing most people pray for but few believe in. Even if they see it for themselves, they don’t often truly believe.”

“Years ago, before you and Pastor Kevin came, there was a man who lived here named Murray Danning. Nicest, godliest man you’d ever want to meet. So kind to everyone, especially the children. He’d go to the schools on Monday and pass out candy to the ones who could tell him they’d gone to church the day before and then quote the Bible verse they’d learned while there.”

“How marvelous,” Jan interjected, her eyes wide.

“Anyway, Mr. Danning contracted cancer. Brain cancer, they said it was. He had no wife, no children, no real family to speak of. Everyone said, ‘Mr. Danning, are you afraid to die all alone in the world?’ and he’d say, ‘Who said I was all alone? And who said I was going to die? I serve a God who says I’ll live forever, and forever started the day I accepted him at his word.’” I watched Jan’s eyes mist over with tears as I continued. “Then Mr. Danning would say, ‘Besides, I’ve got way too much to do down here just yet. The doctor may say cancer, but God hasn’t, and until God does, I’m not going anywhere.’ And do you know, the man lived another ten years, not a cancer cell in sight.”

“What happened to him? I mean, I’m assuming he’s with the Lord now.”

I nodded. “Went to sleep one night and just didn’t get up the next day. When the neighbors saw that he hadn’t opened his front door like he always did, they went over to check on him. I remember someone saying he had the sweetest smile on his face.”

“How merciful is our God, Lizzie.”

I mulled the words over for a moment before asking, “You said five types of healing?”

“The immune system, the truly miraculous, and then medical healing. God has been so gracious to give our medical professionals the wisdom and knowledge to do what they do. Medical science is just fascinating. Adult stem cell replacement as a weapon against cancer . . . now who would have ever thought of that? But Kevin and I have read testimony after testimony.” She took another sip of tea. “The fourth type of healing is the one that’s talked about in 2 Corinthians 12:8–10.” Jan reached for her Bible, setting her mug next to mine. She opened the book, easily turning to the near back. “Which says,” she continued, “‘Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.’ That’s a healing of the attitude, which is more important than a physical healing.” She closed the Bible, then held it close to her abdomen as if to draw a cure from it.

I began to weep at the strength of faith being shown to me from this tiny woman of God. “And you say you’re struggling . . .” I attempted to tease her, and she smiled back at me. “The fifth?” I asked, anxiously waiting to hear the answer. But Jan shook her head as though she were mistaken.

“No, only four. I’m sorry.”

I knew she was holding out on me, but this was her game, and we’d play it her way, so I held my breath for a moment before folding my hands together and then leaning over a bit. “Jan, Samuel was to talk to Pastor Kevin about this when they met this morning, but are you familiar with the work that’s being done at UCSF?”

Jan smiled. “I am. In fact, we’ve got an appointment with one of the physicians there.”

“Has the doctor spoken to you about your diet?”

“He has.”

I felt myself growing excited. “You know, Suzanne Sommers had breast cancer, and she beat it. Completely changed her diet. I heard her talking about it on some talk shows.”

Jan gave me a knowing look. “Thank you, Lizzie. Thank you for caring enough to look into all this for me. Kevin and I are so blessed to have friends like you.”

I used my cell phone to call Vonnie on the way home. I don’t use the phone often—don’t like to run up the minutes—but I couldn’t bear to wait until I got home to make the call. Vonnie answered on the third ring.

“Vonnie? Lizzie. Got a minute?”

“What’s up?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe we should have an emergency meeting.”

“What for?”

I turned off Cross Creek Drive, where the Moores live, and on to Aspen Fields Road. “I was thinking maybe we could talk about breast cancer and about what Jan might be up against. And maybe you could talk some about what you know, from a medical perspective.”

“Things have changed a lot since I left Doc Billings,” Vonnie said.

“I know. And I’ve got a stack of research to prove it. But maybe you can also call the breast cancer awareness folks and see what information you can get for us. We all—every one of us girls—need to be aware of certain things.”

Vonnie paused, and I glided my car to a stop sign. “I think you’ve got an excellent idea there, Lizzie. I’ll make all the arrangements for us to get together at my place one night this week.”

I rested at the stop sign for a moment, having looked in the rearview mirror and seeing that no one was behind me. “I’ll double check Donna’s schedule for you.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call you later on this evening.”

“I’ll be home,” I said. Which reminded me . . . dinner . . .

25

She’s got something
on her mind . . .

Clay drove his jeep to Summit View’s small public library. He found an empty parking space, parallel parked, and then scurried toward the door, glancing toward nearby Grace Church and its next-door parsonage. He stopped cold. Lizzie Prattle was sitting in her car, arms wrapped around the steering wheel and her head resting on her forearms. Even from where he stood, Clay could see that she was crying.

She had something heavy weighing on her mind, he could tell. She must have been visiting with Jan, he decided, then breathed a deep sigh through his nostrils. This was one of those things he didn’t understand in life . . . about God, and all.

As soon as Lizzie straightened and started her car, he turned, grabbed hold of the front door handle, and slipped inside where he was met by the glare of the eagle-eyed Martha Nell Kincaid, a woman who had served as head librarian since about five minutes after God capped the mountains with snow, and who now sat behind a large oak desk not two feet from the front door.

“Mr. Whitefield.” She used his surname as she’d always done, even when Clay had been a boy.

“Mrs. Kincaid,” he returned.

“What can we help you with today?” She glanced up at his
Gold
Rush News
cap.

Clay pulled the cap from his head, felt the cool of the air tickle his scalp. No one could say that Clay’s mother had raised him to be rude and manner-less. “Ah . . . I’d like to look at a few of the old yearbooks if it’s not too much trouble.”

Mrs. Kincaid smiled, showing off a slight overbite. “High school, middle school, or elementary?”

“High school.”

She stood. “Year?” she asked, making her way to a small room a few yards away.

“Ah, mid-eighties. Say eighty-six to ninety.”

Mrs. Kincaid turned at the doorway, crossing her arms. “Looking for anything in particular?” She seemed to barricade him from entering the room.

Clay felt himself beginning to sweat. “Official business,” he said.

“Oh, I see.” She turned and entered the room, allowing him to do the same, and a few minutes later, left him alone with a pile of musty books filled with old black and whites, a splattering of color, and enough dreams to fill several lifetimes. With the turn of each page, he was taken back to a time and place when he’d ruled the school’s newsroom. A time when he’d determined each item to be placed in the very yearbooks spread out before him.

He pored over every detail of every glossy page, looking for a face he’d always found endearing, noting the times hers was linked with the boy she was nearly always seen with around campus. He flinched. He wished he’d worn more deodorant than he had put on that morning. He wiped sweat from his forehead.