On the heels of that first realization came a second, equally devastating awareness: She did not intend to forgive. Not now, not ever.
She had steered her car toward Malibu Canyon that afternoon and found a quiet spot on the beach where she wrestled with God until sundown. Scripture after Scripture came to mind … Forgive as you have been forgiven.… Unless you forgive, you will not be forgiven. For every verse that the Lord presented, Carol fought and argued: Too much time had passed since the accident.… There was no way to find the man.… He didn’t deserve to be forgiven.
But in that quiet space of beach, between the pounding of waves on the shore, Carol heard God speak. Forgiveness was not a feeling, it was a choice. And before she returned to her mother’s house to collect her children that evening, she surrendered to the One who loved her, and she made that choice. She forgave the man completely.
It was as though she was set free in every area, especially in her efforts for MADD. Everything she did from that point on paid off tremendously. Three years after Ken’s death, California tightened its drunk driving laws so that a person with a blood alcohol level of .08 or higher—instead of the former .10—was considered legally intoxicated. Still, as rewarding as that was, it was nothing compared with how it had felt to imagine the face of a drunk driver and forgive him.
It was in this that Carol found meaning in life without her beloved husband.
So when she and Hannah Ryan had gone for lunch a week ago, right after the hearing, Carol had admitted to her new friend that she’d gotten involved with MADD because her husband had been killed by a drunk driver. But because she knew the angry place Hannah was in, she refrained from sharing the rest of her story.
Especially the part about forgiveness.
Now she set a scrapbook of news clippings on her desk and checked her watch. Hannah would be there soon, anxious to exact vengeance on Brian Wesley and anyone else who dared drink and drive.
Carol sighed and looked about her office. Most of the volunteers with MADD shared a workstation or made phone calls from small cubicles. Not Carol. She was full-time and had her own office—small, but private. She glanced at a bumper sticker on the back of her office door: “God is bigger than any problem I have.”
She knew it was true, but this time she wondered at the position in which God had placed her. Throughout the court proceedings Carol would stick by Hannah’s side, representing MADD and providing a very real reminder of the victims. She would accompany Hannah to trial and comfort her when she fell apart.
And yet … there would be more than that. Carol felt it deep inside. You brought us together for a reason, Lord.
She wasn’t sure about Hannah. It seemed the woman was blaming the Lord for what had happened to her family, and Carol ached for the loneliness Hannah must be feeling. It was one thing to lose your husband and daughter—Carol could relate to that type of pain. But to lose your sweet fellowship with the Lord, too …
Carol closed her eyes and squeezed back tears. Help me, Lord. Show me what to say to bring her peace and comfort, maybe even forgiveness.
She reached into her top drawer and retrieved her worn Bible. Many victims who came to seek or offer help at MADD had no faith. There had been dozens of times when the most Carol could offer was to pray for them. But something about Hannah Ryan was different. Carol had a feeling there were deep roots of faith buried beneath the woman’s pain and misery.
There was a knock at her door.
Carol set her Bible back in the drawer. “Come in.”
Hannah stepped inside and quickly took the only available chair. She looked painfully thin and frazzled. “I spoke with Mr. Bronzan.” Hannah folded her hands over the top of her purse and crossed her legs nervously. “The preliminary hearing is scheduled for next month.”
Carol studied Hannah. “How does that set with you?”
“Mr. Bronzan doesn’t seem bothered by it. He says it’ll give him more time to prepare.”
There was a pause, and Carol turned the scrapbook so it faced Hannah. “Well, I’m glad you could come. These are news clippings we’ve collected over the years. If you look through them, you’ll get an idea of what keeps us busy.”
Hannah turned a few pages and looked disinterestedly at the articles. After a few seconds, she stopped abruptly. “Look, Carol … I didn’t come here to read clippings. I want to get involved.” She hesitated. “Could you tell me about the victim impact panels?”
“We generally wait until after the one-year anniversary of an accident before assigning victims to an impact panel.”
“Why?”
“Well, usually victims want to wait.” Carol hoped Hannah could see compassion in her eyes. “It’s very difficult to get up in front of a crowd and talk about the death of someone you loved.”
Hannah shifted impatiently. “It’s been almost two months. I’m ready to talk about it now.”
The room was silent except for the hum of fluorescent lighting above. Finally Carol drew a deep breath. “Hannah, sometimes it seems we’re ready when really we need more time. A lot more time.”
“I’m not worried about what I need.”
Carol waited. Hannah obviously needed to talk.
“What I’m saying is, if I can talk to high school kids or PTA mothers or the rotary club, if I can talk to anyone and tell them what happened to Tom and Alicia, maybe I’ll actually reach someone. And maybe that one person will decide not to drink and drive and then—” Hannah’s voice caught. “Maybe I can spare someone else the heartache of … of what happened to me.”
Carol nodded. “Hannah, I want to talk to you about something off the subject.” She fidgeted with a pencil. “At lunch after the hearing you told me you’d known Tom all your life, grew up with him and went to church with him. I began wondering about your faith.”
Hannah’s expression was suddenly guarded. “My faith is a personal matter.”
O Lord, help me … help me reach her. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just … well, I’m a believer, too. I wondered if there was any certain way you’d like me to pray for you?”
“No.” Hannah sighed. “I don’t see any point, really.”
Carol was silent, encouraging Hannah to continue.
“After the accident—” Hannah seemed to steady herself—“I was very mad at God for letting Tom and Alicia die. Now …” She paused. “Now I think I’ve changed my mind.”
“You’re not mad at God?” Carol was confused.
“No.” Hannah shook her head decidedly. “I don’t believe in God.”
Carol felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Help me, Lord. What can I say now? The answer seemed almost audible: Lamentations. Give her Lamentations. Carol considered the grief-filled message of that book of the Bible. No, Lord. Not Lamentations. She needs something more hopeful.
She cleared her throat. “I think that’s normal—to doubt God—after what you’ve gone through.” Carol folded her hands neatly on her organized desk. Not Lamentations, Lord. “Maybe if you read the Bible—”
She broke off at the flash of anger on Hannah’s face. Hannah’s next words chilled the small room.
“I don’t need God anymore. And I certainly don’t need the Bible. If God does exist, he let me down when I needed him most.” Her voice was like industrial steel. “It’s easier now just to let go of the whole idea.”
Give me something for her, Lord. Please. Again the answer came: Lamentations. Give her Lamentations.
“I was thinking maybe Philippians,” Carol said. Certainly not Lamentations. “Philippians 4, the whole chapter. Maybe that would help you find the Lord’s peace and … I don’t know, maybe help you remember what’s true and good.”
Hannah’s eyes became even icier. “I appreciate your efforts, Carol. But I’m not interested. My belief in God died the same day Tom and Alicia did. If I can’t have them, I don’t want him either.”
Carol nodded. She’d said enough. Probably too much. Hannah had clearly reached
her limit.
Give her Lamentations.
Carol ignored the urging. “I tell you what, let’s go to the video room.” She stood and Hannah did the same. “You can watch a tape of one of our recent victim impact panels and get a feel for how it works. Then if you still think you’re ready, maybe we could get you started.”
Hannah seemed relieved, and Carol wondered if it was because she’d been given the green light for appearing on a victim impact panel or because Carol had stopped talking about the Lord.
The video was powerful—one moving testimony after another poured out of people who had lost loved ones to drunk drivers. Hannah took a tissue from a box at the center of the room. Carol could hear her sniffling softly and saw her dabbing at her eyes every few minutes.
When the film ended, Hannah blew her nose and leveled her gaze at Carol. She hesitated for only a moment. “I’m ready. When can I begin?”
Carol located a folder filled with informational material regarding the impact panels and a questionnaire designed to help victims organize their thoughts before presenting them in a public setting.
“Read through these and give me a call if you’re still interested. If you really think you’re ready, we could get you on a panel sometime in the next four weeks.” Carol paused. “Your goal will be very specific, Hannah. With Matt Bronzan going for a first-degree murder conviction, we need to saturate the public with the idea. Maybe if the notion isn’t so foreign, a jury will be more likely to convict.”
“I understand.” Hannah thanked Carol, gathered her things, and headed for the front door with Carol close behind. Suddenly Hannah stopped and turned back to her. For the first time that morning, Carol saw vulnerability in the other woman’s eyes.
“The preliminary hearing?” Hannah spoke softly.
Carol nodded. “I’ll be there.” Impulsively she closed the distance between them, hugging Hannah close.
Carol was ten years older than Hannah and decades wiser, but in that instant she felt closer to this broken woman than to anyone she knew. “I’m here for you, Hannah. Call me … if you need anything.”
Hannah left and Carol sat down at her desk again. She had lost interest in the day’s work, too burdened by Hannah’s choice to abandon God. Once more she reached into her top drawer and pulled out her Bible. Lamentations? What hope was there in that? She flipped through the pages of the Old Testament until she found the book, then scanned the pages. Her eyes fell on a verse in the second chapter: “My eyes fail from weeping, I am in torment within, my heart is poured out on the ground because my people are destroyed.”
A chill passed over her. The verse described Hannah perfectly. But it doesn’t offer any hope, Lord. None at all. She read on.
“He has besieged me and surrounded me with bitterness and hardship. He has made me dwell in darkness like those long dead. He has walled me in so I cannot escape; he has weighed me down with chains.”
Carol shook her head helplessly. I don’t understand, Lord. Such a dark word from you. And for what? Why? She looked down and saw there was more.
“Even when I call out or cry for help, he shuts out my prayer.… Like a bear lying in wait, like a lion hiding, he dragged me from the path and mangled me and left me without help.… He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver.”
Terrible stuff. How could anyone say such things about God? Carol wanted to flip a few hundred pages to the right and read something comforting in Psalms, but she felt compelled to continue.
“I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, ‘My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the LORD.…’ ”
This was going nowhere. Carol blew out a breath of frustration and tried to remember what she had learned about Lamentations. Maybe there was some kind of introduction at the beginning of the book. She flipped back a few pages. Yes, there it was.
“The prophet Jeremiah wept over the awful devastation of Jerusalem and the terrible slaughter of human life that he saw around him.” Carol pondered this for a moment. But how can such a story help Hannah regain her belief in you, Father?
She read on: “No book is more intense in expressing grief than this one.”
The introduction continued, outlining the practical significance of Jeremiah’s laments—and then what Carol saw made her breath catch in her throat: “Even though we may begin with lamenting, we must always end with repentance—as Jeremiah does in the book of Lamentations.”
Tears filled her eyes. It was her very own life … word for word.
Carol felt her throat constrict, and gradually she gave way to a torrent of sobs. Suddenly the memory of Ken was so real she could almost touch him. No wonder God had given her Lamentations. She ran the words over again in her mind. “No book is more intense in expressing grief than this one.”
She had suffered greatly when Ken died; she had lamented in much the same way Jeremiah had over the city of Jerusalem. At first her grieving caused her to have a bitter, hard heart. Anger consumed her, and there had been no peace until she, like Jeremiah, reached a place of repentance, a heart of forgiveness.
Now it made sense! That was why the Lord had wanted her to share this particular book with Hannah. Carol had passed the way of Jerusalem.
Now it was Hannah’s turn.
Fifteen
The Lord is like an enemy …
LAMENTATIONS 2:5A
The MADD questionnaire was harder than Hannah expected.
“Describe loved ones who were killed by a drunk driver.” Hannah pictured her husband and daughter, let memories run through her mind, and then began to write. Tom Ryan, husband, father, memory-maker. Alicia Ryan, daughter, sister, friend to all.
Hannah squirmed in her seat and reached for a tissue. Her sinuses were clear for a change, and she didn’t feel like crying. But tears came anyway, trickling down the side of her face like some kind of permanent leak. She read the next question. “Where were your loved ones going when the accident occurred.” Hannah moved the pen across the page. Home.
The next section was more difficult. “Describe what you would like people to remember about your loved ones.” Hannah sighed and wiped her eyes. Maybe Carol was right. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this.
She looked up and saw that the morning had grown cloudy. A gloomy shadow filled the house, bringing a chill over the place where she sat at the dining room table. She picked up the steaming mug beside her and breathed in the smell of apple-cinnamon tea. Carefully she lifted it to her lips and sipped slowly, allowing the hot liquid to soothe her raspy throat.
In the past she might have been listening to David Jeremiah or some other Christian artist as she worked. But she had packed those CDs away a week ago. No point in singing about God if she didn’t believe in him.
She reached behind her and flicked on the chandelier lights above the table. Soon the days would grow shorter, and then the holidays would be upon them. The first Thanksgiving without Tom and Alicia. The first Christmas. Hannah tried not to think about it as she studied the questionnaire once more.
When the phone rang, Hannah sighed and set down her pen. Reaching across the table she picked up the cordless phone and pushed the blinking button. “Hello?” Again she was struck by how foreign her voice sounded—dead, toneless, emotionless … like someone who had lost the ability to feel.
“Mrs. Ryan? This is Mary Stelpstra, principal at West Hills Junior High.”
Hannah felt her heart sink. Something was wrong with Jenny. “Yes?”
The woman hesitated. “Mrs. Ryan, I think we need to set up a meeting to discuss Jenny.”
Not now. “What about her?”
“Well, it isn’t something I wish to discuss over the phone. Are you available this morning? Say around eleven?”
Hannah stared at the unfinished questionnaire. Eleven gave her an hour to complete it. “Yes. I can be there.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you in my office.”
Hannah hung up and sighed. When woul
d the nightmare ever end? She returned to the form and saw that it gave her just five lines to write everything she hoped people would remember about Tom and Alicia. Five lines?
She moved on to the next question. “What do you think about people who drink and drive.” This one was easy. Hannah picked up her pen and scribbled furiously. Drunk drivers are selfish animals, killers with no regard for human life. They are the worst sort of people on earth.
She reread her answer and thought of Brian Wesley, sitting nervously beside Harold Finch and hoping for a delay so his injuries could heal before he might have to face a jury.
She clenched her teeth and threw the pen across the room. The questionnaire wasn’t making things better! Even if she could reach someone, save someone from drinking and driving, it would never bring back Tom and Alicia. She began to moan and it became a cry that filled the empty rooms of their home. “Tom! I can’t do it. I can’t do this without you!”
She laid her head down on her folded arms, and the tears came hard. She missed Tom and Alicia so badly she thought she might suffocate.
Wiping at her eyes, she glanced at the clock. 10:45. With a start she stood up, blew her nose, and grabbed her car keys. It was time to meet with Mary Stelpstra.
West Hills Junior High sat adjacent to the high school, and neither building was like other stark, stucco-covered Los Angeles schools. Instead these two structures were bright, cream-colored with blue trim, and anchored in a sea of grass. Behind the school were rolling hills and trees and a picturesque football stadium. It looked more like a private university than a public junior high school.
This was where Alicia had earned the right to be head cheerleader and captain of the drama team. Here at West Hills Junior High, Jenny had run track, showing signs of being a promising sprinter. Of course, that was before the accident. As were the times when, after school hours, the Ryans had used the school’s expansive green fields for informal Frisbee contests and softball games. It was a beautiful school—and it was filled with too many memories to count.