The Breaking Point (41 page)

Please, Father, don’t ever let us pull so far apart again.

She leaned against Gabe’s arm, grateful just to be together, sitting under the stars, surrounded by a silence that spoke volumes.

D
ECEMBER
20, 2003

3:30
P.M.

GABE SAT ON A FALLEN LOG, MAKING CIRCLES IN THE
snow with the toe of his boot.

Renee had been gone only a half hour or so, but out here—in this white, muted world—it felt like hours.

A half hour. Just long enough for him to get worried … but he wasn’t. And he wasn’t quite sure why. He’d considered going after her, but something stopped him. It was as though some invisible hand came to rest on his shoulder, holding him there, keeping him silent and still as a parade of thoughts marched through his mind.

What he’d said to Renee was true, but if he was going to be honest, he had to admit there was truth to what she said, too. He definitely had built barriers between them. It’s only common sense.
She walked out, remember? Why do I have to open myself, be vulnerable? Where will that leave me when she walks out again?

When?

He dragged his foot through the snow, erasing all his nice round circles. Why should he think any different?

Because she’s still here. After all the pain, all the struggles, she’s still here.

As was the anger. Always the anger.

Because you hold on to it. Think you need it. But what you really need is to let it go. Release it … release yourself.

I can’t.
He tossed a stick onto the fire.
I can’t just drop my defenses, just like that.

You won’t.

What if she leaves me again? I’ll be alone.
The thought pulled a harsh laugh from him. Who was he kidding? He was
already
alone. He always had been.
Not always. I am with you.

Gabe recognized the whisper of truth and hung his head. God … God …

I am with you. Even to the ends of the earth.

He rubbed a trembling hand over his eyes.
It’s not the ends of the earth I’m worried about. It’s the end of myself.

If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it.

The words shuddered through him, raising the hair on his arms, his neck. He thought he knew what was coming next. He was right.

But if you give up your life for Me, you will find true life.

True life. He let this echo through him. True life. Life without pretense, without playing a part … without the barrier of anger … without doing and saying things he regretted the minute they were done or said …

Was it possible? Could he really give up the defenses he’d held on to for so long? For his whole life?

Jesus, I’m afraid.

And suddenly, Gabe knew. This was the core of his struggle. Not anger. Anger was the response, the defense. The
real problem was far deeper. Far more powerful.

Fear. Fear of never being good enough. Fear of having everything and everyone walk away from him. Fear of being rejected, abandoned …

Utterly, completely alone.

Come unto Me, all ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Rest. How long since he last rested in anyone or anything? He wanted to rest. Oh, how he wanted it.

I
don’t know how …

The answer rang out with such force that he couldn’t tell if it was inside him or all around him, in the snow, on the wind:
Come … and I will give you rest.

Gabe lowered his head to his hands. Could it really be that simple? A fierce longing stirred within him, a longing to be free of facade. Of pretense. Of images. But most of all, to be free of the anger.

Free? Without anger, you’re nothing! Weak. Defenseless. That’s not freedom, that’s insanity.

The response was so familiar, so predictable, Gabe almost laughed. This he knew well—this voice that crawled through him like some dark stain seeping through the fabric of his soul, turning light to dark, friend to foe, help to threat. But this time he recognized it for what it was.

Fear. The voice of fear.

And he recognized something else.

Fear wasn’t truth.

Thoughts tumbled over each other, flowing through Gabe with the force of a rain-swollen river finally breaching its banks.

Fear might reflect his feelings, his deepest emotional struggles. It might even understand and give voice to his deepest longings and needs. But it wasn’t truth. It wasn’t what defined him. It didn’t make him who he was.

Then what does?

His mind stumbled.

Without fear, without anger, who are you? Nothing. No one …

Covering his face with his hands, Gabe fought the familiar pull of despair.
Jesus … I don’t know.

I have called you to be My very own.

Every sound stilled; every thought slowed. The jumble of emotions within him coalesced and became wonder. Astonishment.

Peace.

Gabe’s hands lowered as it came again:
I have called you to be My very own. I have brought you here, to this place, to see Me.
To see God.

It hadn’t been an accident. God had
brought
them here … taken them over the edge, literally, to a stark, cold place where they had no one but each other.

And God. Always God.

The truth surged over Gabe like a tidal wave, drowning out the last echoes of his fear, washing them away, cleansing him. Gabe had no words, no way to respond. All he could do was sit here and let a soul-deep quiet settle over him.

It was as though his eyes had been clamped shut, as though he’d been looking at Renee, at himself—at
life—
through a dark and heavy veil. But now his vision had cleared. His eyes were well and truly open. His heart, his mind, all of him was open, and he knew. Really knew it was true.

God was with him.

God was more powerful than the anger. More true than the fear. More effective than any of the masks Gabe had hidden behind. Masks Gabe thought were protecting him, but that he now understood had been holding him back. Keeping him bound.

Well, no longer. Gabe’s heart swelled with new determination. The time had come. To open his hands and let go. He could walk forward unencumbered, because God was with him.

He always had been.

A
PRIL
1995, S
UNDAY MORNING

SHE WAS IN HELL.

How ironic. The last place Renee had expected to find hell was in church. And yet, there it was. Oh, sure, the church liked to call it Meet and Greet time, those fifteen or so minutes after the service, but Renee knew the truth.

It was hell. Purgatory, at the very least.

She stood at the back of the narthex, watching people sip coffee, laugh, and discuss what seemed to be on everyone’s minds: babies.

Renee pressed her eyes shut. How could practically every woman in the congregation be pregnant, trying to get pregnant, or in the process of adopting a child? All at the same time?

Every woman, of course, except for those past the childbearing years.

Oh, yes … and Renee.

Had there been some kind of notice in the bulletin? “Would all the ladies of the church interested in having children kindly procreate—or begin adoption proceedings—within the same two-month period”?

Admittedly, the women of their church were particularly responsive whenever called to meet a need within the church body—but this was ridiculous!

Renee would have laughed if her throat hadn’t been clogged with emotion. She looked around for a clear exit, then stopped. Affection warred with agony at the sight that met her eyes: Gabe congratulating one beaming, burgeoning couple after another.

“Oh, Renee. I’m glad I found you.”

She turned, relieved for a distraction. “Hi, Wanda.”

“As you know, I’m the nursery coordinator this year—”

A stone seemed to lodge in Renee’s gut.

“And since you’re one of the few of our women who doesn’t have children of her own …”

Renee felt her smile turn plastic.
Lord, once … just once, couldn’t You make these people realize what they’re saying?
What would Wanda say if she chirped back, “Why, Wanda, what a sweet thing to say. I think I’ll just cross-stitch that into a sampler and hang it on my wall: ‘No Children of My Own.’ Why, just the thought of it makes me tingly all over.”

The woman would choke on her tongue.

Renee arched a brow.
Hmm, just might be worth it.

“… I figured you could take a couple of shifts in the nursery this month. You know, to give the moms a break. I mean, they have to be with their kids every day.”

Have to?
Have
to be with their children?

“So what do you say?”

“Go away.”

At least, that’s what Renee
wanted
to say.
Go find someone else to take care of other people’s children. To sit downstairs and
hold someone else’s baby … feel someone else’s tiny, perfectly formed son or daughter in my arms, knowing I’ll never look into a face that is a mirror of my own … or Gabe’s. Find someone else to give them a break from the one thing I’ll never have the joy of knowing.
“Renee?”

She started and focused on the woman before her. Wanda was watching her, a small furrow forming between her pale eyes. “Are you okay?”

Renee realized Wanda’s hand was on her arm, and that she’d guided the two of them to a quiet corner in the nearly deserted sanctuary. Wanda’s eyes glowed with kind concern. “Renee, would you like to talk?”

She held off the woman’s compassion with a firm shake of her head. “No.”
Don’t be nice to me. I’m barely holding it together as it is …
She forced a smile but knew it was feeble at best, tremulous at worst. “I …”

Tell her the truth.

“I’m fine, Wanda. Really.”

Renee wished she could be honest. Maybe help Wanda understand. Of course, that would be a lot easier if Renee understood it all herself. If she understood why this still hurt so much after all these years.

Try.

Renee drew a deep breath. “Do you realize six women from the church have gotten pregnant in just the past few months?”

Wanda tilted her head at the quiet question. “That many? Are you sure?”

She cleared her throat past the pain. “I’m sure. And I went to every shower, listened to all the stories about pregnancy and childbirth and the wonders of parenting …”