Lost and Found (19 page)

I pull Gerard's shirt back, though the weight of him makes it difficult. "CPR. We need to begin CPR." I place my hand on his chest, hoping, praying, that this time I'll feel his heart beating. But again, nothing.
Oh God, oh Lord, help . . . help him! Help me!
I think of Gerard's father.
Oh Lord . . .

"
Do
something!" Brigitte sounds both demanding and desperate.

I try to remember the steps of CPR—the training I've had, along with the rest of the household staff, at Brigitte's insistence, each year since our marriage. But stress robs me of clarity. I lean back on my heels and take a deep breath. Think! Then I lean down, open Gerard's mouth, and make sure the airway is clear. I pinch his nose and cover his mouth with my own. His lips are gray and cool and a flash of memory catches me—the warmth of his lips as he kissed me in the valley just days ago.

No, wait! This isn't right! The CPR guidelines changed. Compressions first.
Oh Lord, help us!
I move to Gerard's chest, my hands still trembling, and place the heel of my palm on the pressure point about an inch and a half above his sternum. I begin the quick pumping—100 compressions a minute. "One, two, three, four . . ."

Oh, God. What is happening. This can't be happening. Help us!

I glance at Brigitte, who still kneels at Gerard's head. She stares straight ahead, no longer seeming connected to what's taking place. Perhaps she, too, is remembering Gerard's father.

I reach for Gerard's nose again, pinch it shut, give two quick breaths, and begin the process all over again. I shout for Hannah again and this time, she comes back into the solarium and kneels next to Gerard's side. "I need you to check his femoral pulse as I do the compressions."

I begin pumping his chest again. "Can you feel it? Am I doing it right?"

Hannah nods. "Keep going."

I pump and breathe and pump and breathe.

Over and over again.

"Ma'am." I feel someone next to me. "Ma'am, please, we'll take over."

"Jenna, move!" Brigitte is now standing back from Gerard.

I lean back on my heels again, and push myself up off the floor. I step back from Gerard. From this vantage point, I can really see him. And what I see seems . . . surreal. He is ashen and still.

Lifeless.

How can this be happening?

I stand near Brigitte, though not too near. I feel her rage seething.

"If you weren't so selfish, this never would have happened." She hisses,
"C'est ta faute!"

I look at her, guilt slicing my conscience. Is she right? Am I in some way responsible? But how? Tears choke me.

Please save him. Please.
But with each minute that passes, hope wanes.

I feel the change in Brigitte before I see it. I turn to look at her, but her expression is unreadable. She wears a mask of control. "He is gone." And then she turns and walks away.

Gone? How can he . . . I continue to watch the paramedics work, but it's as though I'm someone else. Somewhere else. Nothing makes sense.

Gone?

And then I see the knowing look that passes between the paramedics, though they continue to work on him as they load him into the ambulance.

Gerard is gone.

Forever.

I want you to know that I sympathize deeply with your trials. I present you before the Lord with all my heart.

JEANNE GUYON

WHEN I WALK
through the living room on Friday morning, I notice Tess has already printed the blog and placed it on my tray along with the morning paper. Cool. She's still reading it. I make my way to the kitchen, pour my cup o' Joe, open the fridge, and pull out the toffee-nut creamer. Don't say it. I know.

I head back to the living room and plop myself in the recliner, where I sit for a long time drinking my coffee and thinking about my meeting with Jenna yesterday afternoon. This morning, I'll call Tim and schedule an appointment to see him. Tim is my spiritual direction mentor and supervisor. It's important as a director to have a supervisor, someone to process with, someone who is invested in my walk with God and holding me accountable for the work I do with directees.

After my reactions to Jenna yesterday, I need to place myself under Tim's authority and talk through what I'm feeling. Or not feeling. I'm not sure. I just know something's up and I need to pay attention.

I pick up my Bible and turn to the Psalms and pray David's words:

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

I pray these words a lot and then practice letting go and allowing the Spirit to elbow me rather than obsessing over my own conscience, a habit I learned kept me nose to nose with myself when I'd much rather be nose to nose with God.

When I set my Bible aside and reach for the blog, something catches my attention on the front lower section of the
Chronicle
and I pick up the paper instead. As I read, a pit forms in my stomach.

Gerard Bouvier—Champagne Mogul—Dies.

Gerard Bouvier, vice president and sole heir of the family-owned Domaine de la Bouvier, was pronounced dead on arrival at the UCSF Medical Center last night. It is believed Bouvier suffered a massive heart attack at his home yesterday evening. Bouvier was 54 years old and is survived by his wife, Jenna Durand Bouvier, and his mother, Brigitte Bouvier.

The obituary continues, listing Gerard Bouvier's accomplishments, civic involvements, etc. I skim the rest of the article and then read the opening paragraph again—my eyes rest on the name,
Jenna Durand Bouvier
.

"Oh, Father God . . ." But then I realize I have no words to pray.

Nothing.

I bow my head in silence, knowing the Spirit will pray the words I can't. I don't know how long I sit, but after awhile, I lift my head, wipe my eyes, and go to my desk where my cell phone was plugged in overnight. I reach for the phone, scroll through the contacts, and find the cell phone number Jenna gave me yesterday.

I dial the number, and hear her voice:
"This is Jenna Bouvier, please leave a message and I'll return your call."
I clear my throat before the beep and then leave my message.

"Hey, Jenna, it's Matthew MacGregor. Uh, I know we don't know each other well, but . . . I saw the paper this morning and"—I run my hand over the stubble on my chin—"I just want you to know that I'm here if you need anything. If you need to . . . you know, talk, or pray, or . . ." I sigh, "Or if you just need a place to be for awhile, call me. Leave a message at my office, or call my cell. I'll fit you into my schedule."

I leave her the cell phone number and then say, "I'm praying for His strength through you, His comfort for you." I hesitate, not wanting to hang up, but realize there's nothing left to say.

I walk back to the living room and sit in the recliner. I set my phone on the tray and pick up the paper again. Just as I do, the phone rings. I pick it up and see Jenna's name on the screen.

"Hello, Jenna?"

"Matthew . . ."

Her voice is almost inaudible.

She speaks up a little. "Thank you for your call. I didn't know . . . I mean, it's crazy, but . . . I wanted to talk to you. I don't talk about, I mean . . . there aren't many people who understand . . . my relationship with . . . God. And I need to understand. I could talk to Skye, but—"

"She's hard to reach."

"Yes."

"Would you like to meet?"

"Yes." The word is barely a whisper. "Yes, please."

"Name the time."

"I . . . uhm . . . I don't know. There's so much . . ."

I wait.

"Maybe this afternoon. Late afternoon?"

"Four o'clock? My office?"

"Okay. If I can't . . . if I can't get away—"

"Just call me. No problem."

"Thank you, Matthew."

"I'm praying for you."

"Thank you. That means a lot. I'll . . . see you later."

I hang up the phone. What must it feel like to lose your spouse? I think of Tess and punch in her number.

"Hello . . ." Her tone is all business and I know she didn't look at the screen of her phone before she answered.

"Hey, babe."

Her tone softens. "Matthew, hey, what's up?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to tell you that I love you."

"Oh, honey, I love you too." There's a smile in her voice. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just thinking about you. Oh, hey, I have a client appointment at four this afternoon, so I may be later than usual."

"Okay. It's just leftovers tonight anyway."

"Why don't I call you after my appointment and we can meet for dinner. I'd love to take my beautiful wife out."

"Really? Okay, that sounds great. I'll stay at the office until I hear from you and then swing by and pick you up."

"Cool. See ya, babe."

I hang up the phone and give God thanks for my wife and pray a prayer of protection over her. Then, I pray again for Jenna Bouvier. I reach for the blog Tess printed and I read:

Remain in Me

Remain in Me . . . These words knock on my conscious moment by moment. As my health wanes, I hear Remain in Me. As I struggle, I hear Remain in Me. As I fight against my circumstances, as I wonder how to please those impossible to please, the words again swell in my soul: Remain in Me. "I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit."

But other words also swirl and with them come a ripple of fear: Every branch that does not bear fruit He prunes. . . . A season of pruning encroaches, I know. How much will He prune? What will He cut away? How much can I bear?

Remain in Me . . .

Is Jenna familiar with www.illuminar.me? She'd relate to Lightseeker, I think. They share the same transparency and intensity of focus. I pray Jenna will remain in God during what I imagine will be dark days ahead.

I read through Lightseeker's blog again. I feel her fear. But there is no fear in perfect love—nothing to fear from the hand of an all-loving God. But we must each learn that for ourselves. I say a prayer for Lightseeker and another for Jenna.

Then I pick up the phone and call Tim.

HER EYES ARE SWOLLEN
and her complexion pale. Where there was emotion in her voice when we talked on the phone this morning, now, sitting across from me, she seems numb.

I light the candle and we sit in silence. She is silent for so long that I wonder if maybe she's fallen asleep. I raise my head from its bowed position and sneak a peek at her. Her head is bowed and I can't tell whether she's awake or asleep. If she's asleep, it's what she needs. I bow my head again and continue my dialogue with God on Jenna's behalf.

"I'm ready . . ."

I look up and see her wheels spinning.

She searches my face, then looks around the room. "I don't understand. I just can't . . . believe . . . I don't . . . I don't know what to do. Or why this happened." She looks at me. "Why did this happen?"

"I don't know, Jenna. But I can tell you this—death was never part of God's original plan. That's why, I think, it's so jarring and painful. We know He's conquered death for all time, but in the here and now, that doesn't lessen the sting."

"But He could have prevented it."

I nod.

"It's started . . ." She looks past me and her eyes fill with tears.

"What's started?"

"The pruning."

"Pruning?"

She nods.

I want to ask her if she reads Lightseeker's blog. But I hold back and listen, first for the Spirit and then to Jenna as she speaks again.

"In the vineyards, the canes, or branches, are pruned from the vine. Usually, the pruning is done in the winter months. The timing depends on the variety of grapes."

She looks at me to see if I'm tracking with her. I offer encouragement.

"We spent last weekend in the valley and while I was walking in the vineyard, I felt like God told me a season of pruning was ahead. He told me to—"

"—remain in Him." I interrupt. I can't help it.

She looks at me and I see her swallow. Her facial expression is now wary, cautious.

"I'm sorry, Jenna. I . . . didn't meant to interrupt you. I was just . . . you know . . . thinking of the passage from the book of John."

"Right. That's . . . that's what I read last Saturday while I was in the vineyard."

Maybe it's just a coincidence. But my heart feels like it's beating overtime. I take a slow, deep breath. "So you think that your husband's death is . . ." I admit it, I'm baffled. But she finishes my thought.

"Is God's pruning."

I read confusion in her eyes. "Tell me the purpose of pruning—in a vineyard."

She hesitates. "In laymen's terms, it promotes a healthy yield of fruit."

"Just like in the passage from John?" I reach for my Bible and open it to John 15. "'. . . so every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.' How does your husband's death fit into the pruning metaphor?"