Faking Grace, page 24
“But you …” Her eyebrows nearly meet. “… liked me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and I still like you.” I collapse back in the chair. “If you can believe that, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
She closes the notebook. “I have to admit to feeling used, but I believe you.”
My heart lurches out of first gear into second.
“So what are you going to do?”
Back down to first gear. “I don’t know.”
“Then we’re in the same boat. Knowing we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing but afraid to stop. Afraid of what others will think and how they’ll react when they find out who we really are.”
“Not quite the same boat. What you’re doing hurts you. What I’m doing hurts others—not as easily understood or forgiven.”
She scoots nearer. “But you’re not going to do it, are you?”
The question hangs between us, though I already know the answer. Have known it for some time now despite telling myself I could and had to do it. “No. What I’m going to do is lose my job at the paper and very likely my friendship with Tessie.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I mean, I know she’s helped you out a lot, but if you lose a friendship over doing the right thing, it may not be worth the heart it’s written on.”
Friendship … worth the heart it’s written on. Wow. There’s a lot more to Jem than her clothing, penchant for gossip, and anorexia.
“As for losing your job at the paper, eventually Steeple Side will put you on full time.”
My jaw unhinges. “I can’t stay at Steeple Side. Even if what I did—”
“Were going to do.”
“Even if what I was going to do never got out, it wouldn’t feel right.”
“Because first you need to be forgiven.”
“What?”
“You need to tell your boss, Gra—Maizy.” She rolls her eyes. “The day we met, I told you I didn’t think the name fit, and now it’s hard to think of you as anyone other than Grace.”
I wave a hand in front of her. “Did I hear right? You think I should tell Linda what I’ve been up to?”
“Yes, especially if the paper might send in someone else to get the story.”
She’s right. And yet… “I don’t know. This is such a mess.”
“What about God. And prayer?”
Thus the question I asked her earlier comes back to me, rubbing my face in hypocrisy.
“Why don’t we pray together, Maizy.”
“Oh no. I don’t do that praying out loud thing.”
“We don’t have to do it out loud. We can just sit here and silently pray for each other. I promise it will help.”
I struggle but finally nod. “Okay. I’ll try.”
A half hour later, my eyes are red, my nose is running, and I’m all prayed out. As is Jem, who finished before me and traded in the floor for the sofa. I decide not to awaken her since it’s going on nine, and scoop up Woofer.
“It helped,” I whisper as I settle him against my chest and trudge toward bed, “but I’m still scared.”
Woofer lifts his head, gives a snorty little sigh, and flicks his tongue across my jaw.
TWENTY-ONE
VERY BLONDE TIP#43
FORGIVENESS (the receiving end): Okay, Blondie, it can’t get any simpler than this. You want forgiveness? Ask for it. That’s right. Own up to whatever earned you another’s wrath and be done with it. Too chicken to engage in a face to face? Make a phone call. Write a letter. Ask a mutual acquaintance to serve as a mediator. Just do it. Capiche?
Exception: in life-threatening situations (what were you thinking?), God’s forgiveness may be sufficient.
What am I doing here? I look sidelong at my “pew buddy,” as Jem named herself when she rooted out a couple of seats near the front of the sanctuary and dragged me along. I had no intention of showing my face at Sovereign today, if ever again, but Jem assured me over bowls of cereal that this is where we need to be. I don’t think so, especially as I’m bound to run into Jack. And there’s no way I’m attending Sunday school or going bowling with the other singles.
“Are you listening?” Jem rasps in my ear.
“Uh …”
“Your pastor is talking to us.”
I look to the man at the podium. “What do you mean he’s talking to us?”
“Not directly. En masse.” She nods at the projection screen. “We’re saints, Gr—Maizy.”
That’s what it says, but me—a saint?
“Believe it,” says the pastor. “If Jesus is your Savior, you are a saint. “He smiles as he surveys the sanctuary. “Let that sink in. Aspire to be worthy.” He points to the balcony. “Saint David, Saint Sandi, Saint Elizabeth.” His finger lowers. “Saint Max, Saint Robin, Saint Skyler, Saint Jane.”
I flinch as that finger sweeps past me.
“Saint Doug.”
The big man at the tip of that finger chuckles.
“Believe it,” the pastor says. “That doesn’t mean you’ll never sin. It means you reach beyond your sins to be like Jesus. When you do sin, you get up, wipe off your seat, and try harder. In short, you forgive and are forgiven.”
Maybe in the eyes of God, but what about those wronged? I shudder at the thought of asking Linda for forgiveness. Far easier to slink away with no one the wiser about my deception. I bite my lip at the thought of Jack finding out. Jack, who noticed at the outset that there was something crooked about not only my fish emblem, but me. Jack, who should have stuck with his gut feeling but lowered his defenses.
I’ve messed up, God. Even though this pastor says I’m a saint, I’m not. You know it. I know it. Isn’t that enough? Providing I can nip the Steeple Side story in the bud, why does anyone else have to know about my deception?
Twenty minutes later, I feel I’m no nearer to convincing God to let me off the hook than He is to convincing me to follow the advice of my friendly DBGC.
Jem nudges my shoulder. “I’ll go if you go.”
I startle. “What?”
“For prayer … at the front.”
I cringe at the half dozen people who have answered the “altar call”—an invitation for those in need of prayer to come forward. Not me. Not that I don’t need prayer. But there’s no way I’m going up there.
“Please, Maizy.” Jem’s face draws nearer mine. “At least come with me so I don’t have to do this alone. I really need prayer.”
I long to bolt, but her moist, pleading eyes tug at me, and she warbles, “Help me.”
Oh, God. “All right.”
She grips my wrist and pulls me out of the pew. Wide eyed, I look left and right at the men and women stationed at the front to pray for those who trickle forward. When I look left again, I see a big woman coming for us—short, blond curls, a small mouth that doubles in width when she smiles, and beefy arms. When one of those arms reaches for me, I stumble back. “Uh, Jem needs prayer.” I nod at Jem, who looks so tiny in the crook of the woman’s arm. “I’m just …”
“Maizy needs prayer too,” Jem chirps.
“Well come here, darlin’. Don’t be afraid.” Her large hand cups my shoulder and pulls me in.
Everyone’s watching. Pondering the sinner in their midst. Guessing at what bad thing I did to warrant a walk down the aisle that’s only missing the dead-man-walking call to seal my fate.
“And how can I pray for you, Maizy?”
I blink at the woman. Is it my turn? Already? Did she pray for Jem? Couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have missed that.
Jem smiles past welling tears. Oh no. I was so caught up in my insecurities that I missed the prayer spoken over my friend. What kind of Christian are you?
Cultural. And I’m tired of it. I want what’s shining out of Jem’s face. Something like hope, but more. Something that seems within reach. If only I weren’t so afraid to reach for it…
“If I can do it,” Jem whispers, “you can.”
I glance over my shoulder at the hundreds of faces and stiffen. Maybe another time. After all, these people want to get on with their Sunday, and far be it from me to hold them up.
“No hurry,” the big woman says. “We have all the time you need, sweet thing.”
Sweet thing. Ha! If she knew who she was dealing with—
“Come on.” Jem’s hand pumps my shoulder. “Spit it out.”
How I wish it were only a bad taste in my mouth that could be expelled.
“Maizy Grace.”
I blink at Jem’s unprecedented use of my first and middle names, the syllables of which cause her encouraging voice to turn musical. Amazing grace. That’s what’s shining out of Jem’s face—what I need more than anything—and it’s within reach if I’ll just speak up.
I moisten my lips. “I …” So many people watching. “I’d like prayer for …”
“Yes, dear?”
“Strength. To do the right thing. To tell the truth. And fix my lies.” I glance at Jem. “At least to try.”
“Then let us go to the Lord.”
With everyone watching. So glad they can’t hear what’s being said.
“Lord, Jem’s friend Maizy …”
With a voice like that—one that booms between us—I can’t believe I missed out on the prayer for Jem.
“… a child precious in Your eyes, needs the strength You give to those who ask for it. And so we come before You—”
“Excuse me?” I rasp.
Her eyes open. “Yes, dear?”
Jem peers into my face. “What is it?”
“Do we have to do this here? I … can’t concentrate.”
The woman gives an understanding nod. “Let’s go to the prayer room.”
We enter a small, dimly lit room. There are no windows, only a backlit stained-glass cross at the altar. And a sense of peace. We gather before the altar and bow our heads.
“Lord, Maizy needs strength to do Your good will. Strength to right the wrongs she has done.”
Lots of strength.
“Strength to be truthful even when it hurts.”
It’s gonna hurt.
“We know You can and will give her this strength if she asks for it.”
I do. Please.
“And she does, Lord. As do we.”
Why do they care so much, especially this woman whose name I didn’t even bother to catch?
“Your Word tells us that a person who hides her sins will not prosper—”
Not according to Tessie.
“—but if she confesses and forsakes them, she shall have mercy.”
Again, not according to Tessie, who says there isn’t one person at Steeple Side who cares as much about me and my future as she does.
“As a tree is identified by its fruit, we pray that Maizy will be identified by her honesty.”
And all for the bargain price of one friendship, a career, and a roof over her head.
“So, Lord, give her the strength and confidence to do what You would have her do.”
The woman falls silent, but just as I conclude it’s over, Jem says, “Lord, my friend needs Your help as I need Your help. We’ve been pretending to be people we’re not and making idols out of our outward appearances.”
Our? Ah, her body, my reporter-in-disguise.
“We’re afraid to be who You would have us be and who we long to be. Afraid we won’t be enough unless we take control of the situation and do things our way. Afraid of trusting You.”
Wow. She’s good. I open an eye to be certain it is Jem whose sincere, sweetly pleading words could crack the hardest heart. It is. Flighty, gossiping, peanut-butter-cracker-crumbling, kicked-out-of-beauty-school, seemingly immature Jem.
“And so I ask You not only to give me the strength to overcome my eating problem but, more importantly, to give Maizy the strength to do what’s right.”
More importantly? It’s her health we’re talking about—maybe her life. It’s just my career…
Did I just think that? Just my career? I did. Because that’s all it is—a big just. And yet Jem is saying it’s more important than her own problem. Or is she? I play her words back. No, it’s not my career she’s talking about. It’s doing what’s right. And to her, that’s more important than solving her own problem.
Throat muscles tight, I once more steal a peek at her. Her eyes are closed, head is nodding, lips are moving. And for some reason, I can’t hear a word she’s saying. Can’t hear anything except the beat of my heart as something causes it to expand its territory within my chest.
I drop my chin. Strangely, the moment I lower my lids, I hear again.
“… You love her.” Jem draws a breath. “One more thing, Lord. I’ve asked and asked for a friend, someone who will like me in spite of my quirks and failings and sometimes inappropriate behavior. If Your answer is Maizy, and I hope it is, please let her see me as a friend. Please let her know that I care for her.”
What’s wrong with me? That was sweet, but it doesn’t warrant tears. I flutter my lashes in an attempt to clear the moisture and draw a deep breath to give my heart more room in my bound chest. But they aren’t cooperating. So when Jem says, “Amen,” and the big woman echoes her, I can only squeeze my eyes tighter.
“Are you all right, Maizy?”
“I don’t know. I feel kind of dizzy.”
I’m urged down into a chair, and the air before me stirs slightly, then more vigorously. Cracking open my eyelids, I see Jem and the woman hovering, their hands fanning my face.
Jem pauses. “Are you going to be sick?”
“I don’t think so. I just feel strange.” I pat my chest. “Mostly in here.” I touch my head. “A little in here.”
The woman smiles as if she understands. But how can she when I don’t understand myself?
“And I”—I roll my eyes—“feel like having a good cry. Which makes no sense because I don’t like to cry. And why should I when the prayer was so nice?”
“Because it was heartfelt.” The woman pats Jem’s shoulder. “You have a good friend in this young lady.”
My chest swells further. Ignoring the discomfort, I reach forward and lay a hand over Jem’s. “Thank you. And”—I swing my gaze to the woman—“I’m sorry, but if you said your name, I didn’t catch it.”
Smile broadening, she reaches out a hand. “Beverly Diggory. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Maizy Grace.”
We shake. “Yours too, and thank you for praying for me.”
With a satisfied sigh, she takes a step back. “I’ll leave you now, but stay as long as you like.”
When the door closes, Jem drops down beside me. “You know, don’t you?”
“What I have to do?” At her nod, I groan. “I know. First thing tomorrow. What about you?”
She squirms a little. “I guess I’ll be talking to Human Resources.”
“Good.”
She looks at her watch. “So? Sunday school?”
“Not today.” After my walk down the aisle, Jack is the last person I want to see.
“How about an early lunch?”
I wonder what she’ll eat and how much. “All right.”
We both rise, but I catch Jem’s arm as she turns toward the door. “Thank you for the prayer.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “It was nothing.”
“No, Miss Modesty, it was everything. And I appreciate it. More, I appreciate that you’re my friend.”
She gives me a hug through which I feel her ribs like a row of butter knives balanced on their edges. “We start over again tomorrow,” I say as we disengage.
She presses her slight shoulders back. “Tomorrow.”
Lord, that strength Jem asked that we both receive? Could You start doling it out to her? She’s so thin. Of course, I could use some strength myself, as it’s only a matter of time before I’m out of a job. And very likely a home.
I am down and out. In the gutter. Again.
With a groan, I turn to my teammates, who smile tolerantly and wave me away from the lane. Wishing I never had to see that scuffed, green marble, three-holed excuse for a ball again, I narrow my eyes at the blur spit out by the ball return mechanism. Can’t blame the machine one bit for its disgust.
I head to the table where the others await their turn and drop into the seat farthest from Jack. And I keep sliding down until my nape is on the edge of the seat back. Why did I allow Jem to convince me to come? Yes, I told Jack I’d be here, but everything is different now. Or will be tomorrow, barring the miracle that Jem says I shouldn’t be so quick to discount.
“Ready for a few pointers?” Jack says above the whoosh and thunder and crack of balls that echo through the bowling alley.
It’s not the first time he’s offered to help since I showed up. And I’d like to refuse again, except that I’ll be the death of the team’s chances to place better than fourth—out of four teams—if I don’t hit at least a few pins. “Okay. Point away.”
A collective sigh goes around the table, but when I frown at my teammates, they look away.
Jack stands. “Get your ball.”
Observing proper etiquette, which was kindly pointed out earlier when I tried to get a jump on my turn by retrieving my ball from the machine, I wait for a break in my teammates’ play and those on either side before complying.
Jack extends a hand as I approach him where he stands fifteen feet back from the table. “I’m no expert,” he says as I pass the ball to him, “but I can show you the basics.”
“Thanks.”
He considers me, then tilts his head to the side. “Is everything all right?”
While I’m pretty sure where this is going, I open my eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“I saw that Jem came to church with you and the two of you went up for prayer. And you didn’t make it to Sunday school.”
I shift my weight. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Right.
He nods and turns his attention to the ball. “Ten pounder. Looks about right. Slide your fingers in.”
I take a step nearer, which transports me from the fringes of his scent into the midst of it. Not good. And yet good, especially if a miracle—or should I say a series of miracles?—happens.
