Composing Amelia (35 page)

“Well … yeah. Of course I am. I’m their pastor; I
am
responsible for them.”

Ryan shook his head. “No, that’s not how I meant it. You’re responsible for providing the things a pastor should provide, yes—but I meant you’re taking a lot of responsibility for their reactions. It sounds as though you think you’re failing because people aren’t reacting the way you think they should. But you can’t control their actions—that’s
their
job. You can’t change their hearts—that’s
God’s
job. Your job isn’t to make these people better—it’s to …” He paused, then shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Well, I don’t know what your job is. That’s between you and God. But I’m confident it’s not what you think, because what you’re striving for is impossible.”

Ryan sat back. “The church board and I had to learn that lesson, too. We all wanted, in our own ways, to make our church the most spiritually mature church in the world. We had grand plans for everyone, and we cajoled and guilted and flat-out bribed people to participate—but in the end none of it mattered because God didn’t move the people’s hearts to respond to our plans.”

Marcus frowned. “But … then what was the point of you taking that job?”

Ryan crossed ankle over knee. “To learn that only God can change hearts? To learn that, just because the desired outcome of a plan seems admirable, it doesn’t always mean it’s what God wants? To meet the people I met while I was there? Only God knows why He put me there, and I mean that literally. None of our programs worked, and I was let go two years after I was hired.”

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingertips to his temples. “So … what are you saying? That I shouldn’t be doing anything for these people?”

“No, Marcus. I’m saying that you need to stop thinking of yourself as The Fixer who should be able to make everything better, and maybe start asking God what exactly He wants you to do there.”

“But if people there are hurting, wouldn’t He want them healed?”

Ryan gave a tight shake of his head. “I no longer make any assumptions about what God does and doesn’t want. I’m seeing such a small, limited bit of the whole picture; there’s no way I can begin to account for why He does what He does. All I can do—all any of us can do—is ask Him to guide our steps, and to be faithful to what He asks us to do. We can’t force people to cooperate. We can’t force people to want to be Christians, or to want to grow in their faith. All we can do is love them and offer them the things God leads us to offer them, and then sit back and let God do the rest.”

“But what if they don’t ever come around?”

Ryan shrugged, then gently pointed a finger in Marcus’s direction. “It’s not your responsibility. You’ll be judged for
your
actions, not for the actions of others.”

Marcus shook his head. “No—I mean, what if all the people who are threatening to leave really do leave, and the people who complain but do nothing to help make changes continue to refuse to pitch in? The church could split, or fall apart, or die out.”

Ryan nodded. “I suppose it could.”

“But how can that possibly be what God wants?”

Ryan leaned in, hitched up the sleeves of his blue button-down, and rested his elbows back on his knees as he fixed Marcus with a focused stare. “Who are you to say what God wants, Marcus? You don’t know what phoenix could rise from those ashes. You don’t know what rock bottom someone might have to reach before finally opening their eyes to their own spiritual depravity. You can’t read minds and souls, Marcus. You can’t know God’s heart in all things. It’s entirely possible that the collapse of your church could be the catalyst that changes the heart of a parishioner who goes on to be the next Billy Graham. It could be the catalyst that brings you to a new plane of spiritual maturity.
You don’t know.
And you need to let go of those fears and just accept that God has you here for a reason that you don’t yet know. Don’t ask God to make these people respond to you. Ask Him what you’re supposed to do, and then do it—no matter what you think the outcome might be. You’re not in this position on accident. There are no accidents or coincidences in life. God orchestrates it all.”

Marcus sat back in his seat, eyes trained on the floor as he pondered what Ryan had said. “It feels like a cop-out,” he finally said.

Ryan laughed. “How so?”

“I feel like I should have more …”

“Power?”

Marcus looked up sharply. “I was thinking more like … well, responsibility.”

Ryan raised one eyebrow as a small smile tugged at the side of his mouth. “Why is that?”

“Because I’m the pastor!”

“So?”

“So?!” But Marcus found he didn’t know what else to say. Ryan had been right. He
did
want more power—because, yet again, his father’s example had taught him that being a pastor meant being in control. The thought of being a pastor who couldn’t make his congregation do what he knew they needed to do made him feel inadequate. He let out a moan of frustration.

Ryan leaned across the aisle and laid a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “From one pastor to another, Marcus, I think there’s more going on here than just questioning whether or not you’re in the right place. Instead of asking God where else you should be, try asking Him what you should do now that you’re here.” He stood and pulled a business card from his wallet. “I’m sensing you need some space to think. Please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”

Marcus took the card and Ryan shook his hand, then turned and left the chapel. Feeling emotionally ragged and strangely weary, Marcus slouched in the pew and laid his head back, eyes closed, and prayed God would make sense of the confusion the conversation had caused.

Morning number thirteen turned out to be Amelia’s last on the ward. When she woke, she could tell something had shifted in the night. Her mind was calmer and less clouded. Her emotions, while still down, were more within the range of her typical emotional experience. And when she met with the therapist, he deemed her safe enough to leave.

Had she not been working on her life plan, the news would have been terrifying. But with a return to LA in mind and a plan for the baby in place—at least in her head—she felt better equipped to handle the thought of real life. The only thing she dreaded was seeing Marcus.

Amelia was allowed into her bedroom after therapy to pack. When Kristine had packed to leave three days ago, Amelia had sat outside the door to keep her company. “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” she’d moped as Kristine had tucked her clothes into a small suitcase. “You’re the only person here I feel like I can talk to.”

“Wow.” Kristine had stopped, her pajamas in her hands, and given Amelia her full attention. “I’m really flattered.”

“I mean it. The therapists are fine, but they don’t know what it’s like to be in our heads. At least you get me.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” She’d smiled and adjusted her glasses on her face. “I seem to always click with one other patient when I’m admitted, and it’s always someone else with bipolar. It’s a unique and unfortunate sisterhood—or brotherhood I guess if it’s a guy—and when you find someone who understands you, it can be a real relief.”

Amelia’s fingers had tapped out Bach on her pretzel-crossed legs as she’d watched Kristine finish her packing. Her quirky roommate had been a nuisance more than anything else when Amelia had first arrived, but now Amelia couldn’t imagine life on the ward without her. “So, if you don’t have a job, what do you do all day when you’re not gracing the mental wing with your effervescence?”

Kristine had let out a good laugh at that. “Yeah, that’s what it is.” She’d zipped the bag and flopped onto the bed beside it. “Well, I paint. And play my trombone. And go over to my church and volunteer to help with whatever needs doing. There’s a hint for you: Volunteering is a really good way to fight depression when you feel it coming on. It keeps your mind off yourself.” She’d twitched her mouth back and forth as she thought, a habit Amelia ended up picking up from watching Kristine do it so often. “I’d like to go back to work someday. I try to keep up with what’s going on in my field so I can find a job once I get my meds worked out right. But engineering is hard to just read about. I get it more when I’m actually doing it. So, who knows, maybe I’ll never get to go back to work.”

“That’s depressing, don’t say that.”

Kristine had shrugged. “But it’s reality. It bothers me sometimes, but I figure God’s got a plan, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it.” She’d looked to Amelia then with a sympathetic face. “What about you? What are you going to do when you get out?”

Amelia hadn’t been able to answer her. By then she’d had most of her plan worked out in her mind, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it to Kristine because she knew she’d try to talk her out of it. But now, as she zipped her duffel closed and carried it to the community room to wait for Marcus to arrive, she wished she had. Not because she thought Kristine would approve, but because she knew Kristine would have shared some nugget of truth that would have helped make sense of the chaos she felt inside.

Amelia sat alone on the couch and stared at the doors that led off the ward. She hadn’t thought to ask Kristine about the transition back into real life. She wished she had. What did Kristine tell the people in her life when she disappeared for inpatient treatment? How open was she about her disorder? What did the people at her church think about it? Amelia had no idea what she was going to say when people asked where she’d been and why.

She looked at the clock. Still at least half an hour before Marcus arrived. Not willing to engage with the other patients, she opened her bag and pulled out her notebook to try to journal as her therapist had suggested. She flipped open the cover, and an unfamiliar piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it, confused at the unfamiliar handwriting, then glanced down at the end and saw Kristine’s name.

Dear Amelia,

I’m really glad I had the chance to meet you. I’m sorry you’re stuck with this diagnosis, but trust me, it’s not too bad once you figure out the right meds—and so long as you stay on them. I know I’m not one to talk, seeing as I was in because I stopped, but the thing is, you start feeling better and you can trick yourself into thinking you’re okay now and don’t need them anymore. Don’t do that, okay?

I know you’ve been questioning your belief in God, but I wanted to put in one last word for Him in case it changed your mind. I think you were probably right about having believed in Him for the wrong reasons, but I think you may be giving up on Him for the wrong reasons too. Just because you didn’t want to turn out like your mom, and you did anyway, doesn’t mean there’s not a God. It just means that there’s a reason for you to be who you are. He needs you like this for some reason. You can either accept that and work with it, or you can deny it and run, but either way, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re bipolar, regardless.

I know you think a different life would be better, but just remember we can’t always see what’s coming up the road. Going back to California might sound better than living in Nebraska, but what if it’s not? Being single again might sound better than being married to a pastor, but I have to say, your husband seems pretty amazing. A lot of people get ditched by their boyfriends and husbands when they develop BP. I did. It’s a pretty special kind of love that is not only willing to stick with you, but is as tenacious as Marcus has been in the face of your rejection. Don’t underestimate the kind of difference a love like that can make in your life.

And, because God’s Word never comes back void, let me quote a quick verse. In John somewhere, a bunch of Jesus’ followers stopped following, and Jesus asked His disciples if they wanted to leave too. And Peter said, “To whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” It’s not about how God can make your life better. It’s about reality. Whether you like it or not, God is real. And you can make this life as perfect as you want—but you’re still going to die someday. And then what?

I’ll be praying for you and your baby. Here’s my contact info in case you want to keep in touch. I’ll understand if you don’t, though, so no pressure.

—Kristine

Amelia folded the note as tears blurred the words before her. She’d felt so confident in her plans, prepared to face the months ahead while she waited for the baby to be born so she could leave. And with a few scrawled paragraphs Kristine had undone it all.