“Can you be more specific?” Catching the stern show-your-mother-respect glance his father shot at him, he quickly revised, “I mean, did the Lord show you anything more? What exactly I did? What I need to do to fix it?” As if he already didn’t know.
His mother shook her head. “No, Hank. But I’m sure you have a good idea of what it is.”
Hank glanced from one parent to the other, waiting for some mention of missions, a mini-lecture on disobedience to God. His expectation was met with only silent stares, which was even worse. That meant his parents had already decided to keep their hands off the issue, which meant Hank would have to figure it out on his own.
After several heavy moments, his father cleared his throat and pushed his chair away from the table. “Enough of that,” he said. “We have a long day of backbreaking work ahead of us. I need to go to bed.”
* * *
Although the predicted high was ninety degrees the next day, the Johnsons awoke to clear skies and a pleasant sixty-five, perfect for moving. Since Randall had procured a U-Haul truck the day before, they ate a quick breakfast of bagels and fruit on paper plates, planning to get the bulk of the work done before the temperature got too much warmer.
As she began removing the plates to toss in the garbage, Brenda let out a groan. “Oh, doggone it, I’ve forgotten about the closet in the guest bedroom.” She rolled her eyes with exasperation. “You boys go ahead and start loading up the U-Haul,” she said to Hank and his father, turning toward the wooden staircase. “I’ll have the thing emptied in ten minutes.”
“Yes, dear.” Randall grinned at his son. “We’ll probably be finished unloading the furniture at the new house before we see her again.”
“I heard that.” Brenda’s scolding voice floated down to them.
Although Randall’s prophecy was not quite on the mark, they did get the truck full before Brenda finally reappeared. Hank and his father sat panting on the two remaining dining room chairs as she made her way down the stairs, holding a piece of paper. She finished her descent and stopped in front of Hank, a strange look on her face as she glanced from the paper, which Hank now saw was an envelope, to her son.
“What is it, Ma?”
“Did you ever write a letter to—no, that doesn’t make sense. Why would you write, ‘and family?’
Mystified, Hank got up and stepped toward her. “Write a letter to who?”
“Whom,” Brenda said absentmindedly, handing him the envelope. “Look.”
Hank looked. The envelope had been folded and was rather wrinkled, and the ink slightly smudged. His jaw dropped when he read the lettering: Sheila Carson and family.
A jolt surged through him as he realized that he had folded the envelope, and that its wrinkles were caused by experiencing great trauma in his pants pocket during a plane crash. His mind catapulted back to five years earlier, when he’d wondered aloud who the envelope belonged to. Now, several pieces of the puzzle—including some he had not had in his possession until recently—fell together, and he knew.
“Peter,” he whispered, choking on the word.
“Son, are you all right? What are you talking about?” Randall had arisen and now grasped his son’s arm.
Hank looked up. “Peter. You remember. The pilot of the plane...” He glanced back down at the words, which now shook before his eyes. Only then did he realize he was trembling.
The memory came at him like a flood. Gentle Ben’s sore muscles. Barbara’s gentle teasing. Peter’s first attempt at humor.
The pilot was from Minnesota, he had told them. So was Sheila. Martin had admitted he had never been further north than Oklahoma City. The envelope had to be Peter’s. But what connection did Peter Rossman have with Sheila Carson?
It didn’t really matter. As soon as he had read the name, he knew that, despite its age, the envelope bore a message that Sheila was to have received years ago.
Hank sank back into the chair, suddenly drained of all strength.
Brenda hovered over him, her brow creased with worry. “My Lord, Hank, what’s this all about?”
Hank shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “All I know is, when the guys from the church get here to help, I’ve got to get back to Fort Worth.”
CHAPTER 24
Sheila stood in line, her boarding pass dangling from her right hand. The long line snaking through the airline gate area seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, and she wondered if this many people flew into Africa every day. Then again, it was the peak travel season. She lifted yet another silent prayer of thanks for Pastor Scott taking up a love offering on her behalf. Plane tickets were anything but cheap in June, and the money the church had given had more than covered her airfare.
She glanced ahead, watching as someone was pulled from the line for a random security check. She cringed, praying that wouldn’t happen to her. The last thing she needed was to miss this flight because of any delay.
“Nervous?”
Sheila turned her neck and smiled at Sharon, the female half of the missionary couple that she was going to join in Zimbabwe.
“A little, I guess. Were you? The first time you went?”
“Honey, I was shaking in my boots the whole first week.” The women shared a chuckle, and adjusted their bags on their shoulders as the line began to move in earnest.
Sheila had almost reached the ticket agent taking the boarding passes when she heard her name being called. Now what? She recognized the voice without turning around, and she couldn’t imagine what the pastor’s secretary needed from her at this last moment. One thing she did know—she was not going to get out of that line.
Gail caught up to her, breathless. “Here,” she said, handing her a beat-up envelope. “Pastor said Hank found it, and was insistent that he give it to you before you leave.”
Sheila stared at her name printed on the envelope, then looked back at Gail. “What do you mean, he found it? Where—”
“Ma’am, your boarding pass, please,” the agent said.
“Oh, sorry.” She handed the document to the agent, who tore off the pass and returned the stub to Sheila.
Sheila moved forward so as not to impede the line from moving, reeling from astonishment, twisting her neck backward as she sought Gail’s face. It had disappeared into the mob behind her. Shoving the envelope into her jeans pocket, she finally made it onto the large jet and into her aisle seat, next to Sharon. Sharon’s husband, Carl, had the window seat.
Sheila pulled the envelope out before snapping her seat belt in place, examining the handwriting. It didn’t look like Hank’s. Besides, why would he address it to “Sheila Carson and family”? It also appeared worn and old. The biggest puzzle was, if Hank wasn’t the author, why did he have it in his possession, and why was he so adamant on her receiving it before she left for Africa?
“Hank was that teacher you were involved with for a time, wasn’t he?” Sharon’s voice cut into her thoughts.
Sheila didn’t look up, unwilling to reveal the pain that must have been showing in her eyes. She had given Sharon the Cliff Notes version of her and Hank’s relationship, making it sound as if she was perfectly okay with the way things had turned out. “Yes, that’s him.”
“Maybe he wants to get back in touch with you.”
Sheila glanced at her new friend. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.” She looked down at the envelope again, inserted her finger under the top of the flap, and began to tear it open. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the single piece of paper tucked inside and unfolded it.
The words were brief and hastily scribbled, and after she’d finished reading them she leaned back into her seat, her heart threatening to explode in her chest. This isn’t real. I’ve read it wrong. God, help me. I can’t breathe.
She closed her eyes and forced her lungs to take in a long, steady breath. She opened them and reread the letter. No, she hadn’t read it wrong. She began to read it a third time,
just to make sure, but the words suddenly blurred together on the page.
“Sheila, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Sheila wiped a tear that escaped from her eye. “I haven’t seen a ghost,” she said. “I’ve just read a letter from one.”
“What?” Sharon raised her eyebrows, and leaned over to peer at the paper.
“Please, it’s very personal,” Sheila said, drawing the letter to her breast.
“I’m sorry,” Sharon said. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me for the next thirty-four hours.”
Sheila nodded, relieved when Sharon drew back, pulled out a book, and began to read. Sheila closed her eyes, still clutching the paper close. Lord, how did Hank get a hold of this? He must have met her cousin Peter, somehow, just before he died. But what were the odds?
The jet was headed nose first into the clouds above before Sheila gathered enough strength to read the words again.
Dear Sheila,
I want you to know how very sorry I am to have caused such a rift between you and your brother and sisters. I hope you can understand that I was wild with grief, and when Janice walked out on me it was sorrow added to sorrow.
Please forgive me for everything I said and did. What happened was not your fault, and I hold nothing against you. I have had to spend several weeks being exposed to abject poverty and sometimes horrendous living conditions to realize that no matter how much God loves us, there is evil in the world and it will come to each of us.
I believe this letter will reach you before I get back to the States. In that case, I beg you to share it with your family. Perhaps if they see that I hold you faultless in Lorena’s death, they will be able to forgive you, too.
Love,
Peter
During Spring Break, when Sheila had told Margaret about the accident, she had experienced a flood of memories related to it. But nothing like she began to experience in the next several minutes. Every detail of the accident and the days and weeks following surfaced from the depths of her subconscious, and it was only the vague awareness that she was in a public place that kept her from completely breaking down.
Her siblings were not the only ones who had blamed her for Lorena’s death. After her funeral, Peter had called Sheila reckless, a danger to children, and a sorry addition to planet Earth. He had refused to come near any of Sheila’s immediate family after that, which made Linda all the angrier.
“See what you did,” she said at a point before she decided to give Sheila the silent treatment. “Now he hates all of us because of you.”
The death of their only child was too much for Peter and his wife Janice to bear, and instead of seeking professional help, they began fighting like cats and dogs. The hostility between them escalated until Janice could take no more and walked out on Peter, filing for divorce. Peter had been so angry he made one last visit to Sheila’s parents’ house, where he spent five minutes raking Sheila over the coals—with her mother and siblings standing around her—before he stormed off and made plans to move to St. Paul.
She glanced at the paper again. Please forgive me. Her heart pounded in her throat. All these years, she had lived with the guilt-laden impression that Peter had continued to blame her for Lorena’s death. But no. Four years ago, he had come around. Four years ago, he had seen his sinful part and pleaded for Sheila to forgive him. Not only that, he had asked her family to forgive what he no longer considered a crime.
Eyes blurry, mind swirling with emotion, Sheila folded the letter and pushed it into the envelope. “Sharon,” she said.
Her friend looked up with raised eyebrows.
“Do you know if I could FedEx a letter from O’Hare?”
* * *
After delivering Peter’s letter to Sheila—even though he hadn’t opened it, he was convinced it had to be from Peter—Hank spent the next three days praying and fasting. He was sure of only one thing, that he was sure of nothing. If spending several days pounding on the gates of heaven didn’t give him some sense of direction and clarity for what God wanted him to do, then he might as well hike out to West Texas and live with the scorpions and rattlesnakes.
Not in the habit of fasting, he spent a miserable three days, gulping down a gallon of water a day and struggling with headaches, weakness, and nausea. Most of the time he felt so exhausted that praying seemed like the most arduous task on earth. And his effort seemed to profit little. By the end of the three days, Jesus hadn’t descended to tell him “Go ye back into missions” or “Go back to school and train for another career.” He hadn’t seen any great vision, or small one for that matter, or received any prophetic word beyond his mother’s, which kept circulating through his mind: “You’ve made a big mistake.”
But the three days of spiritual struggle weren’t for nothing. By the end of the second day, Hank had an impression of something he needed to do. It required such a large step of faith that he might have ignored it, except that it kept getting stronger and stronger until by the end of the third day, Hank knew the impression was from God.
And he decided he wasn’t going to disobey again.
That Friday, he was in the Fort Worth School District’s Human Resources office, filling out a form with trembling fingers.
CHAPTER 25
Culture shock had Sheila’s head spinning her first week in Zimbabwe. The food was, for the most part, nothing out of her realm of experience, consisting mostly of peanuts, corn and vegetables, only occasional meat. But the way of life of the rural villagers among whom she and the Salyards lived was so stark compared to Western standards that it jarred her entire perspective on life. Most people lived in one- to three-room wooden houses dotting a savannah landscape, and even the small stone house she shared with the other missionaries contained only four meagerly furnished rooms. There was no electricity, no indoor plumbing. Machines of any kind were considered a great luxury for the city dwellers; all work was done by hand, including laundry.
Of course, the Salyards had prepared Sheila ahead of time, telling her that if she thought it would be too much, she could rethink her decision. But she knew she was supposed to go, that the new lifestyle would eventually become a part of her. Her biggest frustration in the beginning was being unable to communicate without the help of an interpreter. Although some of the villagers spoke some English, more did not. She was deeply grateful that Sharon had volunteered to give up two hours an evening to tutor Sheila in the native tongue of Shona.
For the first three weeks, beyond shouldering her share of the household chores and studying Shona, Sheila did little as far as ministry work. She would eventually be leading a Bible study class and helping with the children during the Sunday morning worship service, but the Salyards insisted she take all the time she needed to accustom herself with the abrupt change in lifestyle.
Washing machines and dishwashers being rare in their part of the country, the housework and making social calls to the neighbors with the Salyards kept her busy enough that she had little time to worry how her family would respond to Peter’s letter. She had sent it to her mother with a brief note of explanation of what little she knew, that somehow, Hank had become acquainted with Peter and gained possession of the envelope addressed to Sheila. She could have e-mailed Hank from the mother church in Harare, the closest large city to their mission, to find out details, but by the time she had worked up the nerve to do so it was time to leave the city, and Sharon and Carl only went there twice a month for supplies. Besides, Sheila had reasoned, the only e-mail address she had for Hank was the one at school, and if he checked it during the summer as often as Sheila did, then he never looked at it.
Twenty-three days after her arrival, Sharon and Carl were to make another trip to Harare. Sheila eagerly agreed to go along; however, since the Jeep would not have enough room for the three of them plus all the supplies, she rode in a second Jeep with a large, outgoing native named Jiri. He smiled often and widely, and when he did, his perfectly straig
ht, pearl-white teeth set against the coal-blackness of his skin seemed to be stars shining out of a dark night sky.
Jiri had converted to Christianity two years ago, and ever since had spent much of his free time helping the Salyards in whatever way, large or small, he could. To Sheila’s relief, he spoke fluent, though heavily accented, English, and he easily engaged her in conversation during the two and a half hour ride to the city.
“Tell me about America,” he said about halfway into the trip.
Sheila raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty broad demand. Mind narrowing it down a bit?”
Jiri laughed good-naturedly. “You haven’t been too talkative these past few weeks, which I understand, of course. It can’t be easy being uprooted from all you know and thrust into a land which must seem very strange. But we’ve spent a good hour talking, so I’m thinking you’re ready to share a little bit more, no? Tell me anything you want.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say much more than whatever Sharon or Carl’s already told you.”
“They tell me only bits and pieces here and there,” Jiri said. “But they don’t get to their homeland too often, so they’re a little bit, what do you say, out of touch.” Sheila grabbed her seat as they went over a large pothole in the dirt road. “So sorry,” he added with a grin. “Besides, everybody’s perspective is different. I want to know how you see it.”
Sheila shifted uncomfortably. How she saw it? Let me see, family members who hold grudges against you, wealthy people who couldn’t care less about inner city kids practically starving because of racist employers who won’t pay their Mexican parents a fair wage, teenagers who kill for money so they can feed their drug habits. Oh, yeah, America’s a great place to be.
If there is any virtue, if there is anything praiseworthy, think on these things. The ancient words of the Apostle Paul struck her mind in the next instant, and she cringed with guilt. Okay, I’m sorry. She struggled for several moments to conjure up some of her happier experiences lately.
“I go—went—to a wonderful church. But you’ve probably heard about Pastor Scott from the Salyards.”