The Other Side of Darkness (18 page)

“Oh …” I nod, sending a shot of pain through my neck. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“We started in the tavern district,” explains Cynthia, “then on toward the porn shops and finally the new strip club.” She shakes her head in revulsion. “Naturally, there are prostitutes all over that area too. It’s really appalling what’s happening to this town.”

“I recently read that the ACLU is working to legalize prostitution as well as to defend the sale and distribution of child pornography.” I shake my head in disgust but am pleased that I’m up-to-date.

“That’s right,” Cynthia says with a horrified expression. “Can you believe they are calling it a form of
artistic expression?”

We all express our mutual disgust.

“And then we finished at the abortion clinic,” says Bronte. “Very sad.”

“Yes,” continues Cynthia, “I told Bronte how our church protested the abortion clinic, at least to start with … and then how the council and elders wouldn’t support our efforts.”

I flash back to the time I took Sarah and Mary with me to one of the antiabortion protests. Mary wasn’t even in school yet, and
baby Sarah had to ride in her stroller. Cynthia had been pleased to see children present, but I also remember how angry Rick was when he heard what I’d done. “Our children aren’t pawns to be used for public protests,” he told me that night after Mary had spilled the beans at dinnertime.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us.” Bronte brings me back to the present.

“Which is one reason we came to see you.” Cynthia smiles. “And to wish you a speedy recovery.”

“We have a question,” says Bronte. “You don’t have to answer us right now, since I’m sure you’ll need to pray about it. But we’d like you to consider heading up the children’s ministry at our church. Cynthia said that you used to teach Sunday school and that you’re very good with kids.”

“Well, I … I don’t know …”

She waves her hand again. “Like I said, we don’t expect an answer from you right now. We just want you to prayerfully consider this possibility. To start with it’ll be a volunteer position, but if we grow and increase our membership—and we feel certain that will happen—we would eventually like to put you on salary. Maybe even by the end of the year.”

I know that my reaction is carnal and that it has nothing to do with faith, but the possibility of a salary, a paying job, is very tempting.

“Cynthia will be heading up our women’s ministry,” continues Bronte. “And I’ll be an associate pastor with Glenn. And that’s as far as we’ve gotten at this point.”

“Our first staff meeting will be tomorrow morning at nine,” says Cynthia.

“Mostly to pray and prepare for the midweek service,” adds
Bronte. “But if you feel up to it, we’d love to have you join us.”

“My car got totaled in the wreck, so I’m sort of without wheels right now. Although Rick wants to go car shopping. Maybe even tomorrow.”

“I can give you a ride,” offers Cynthia.

And so without really thinking about it and certainly without praying about it, I suddenly say, “I think I’d like that Sunday school position. I think it would be good for me.” As I close the door after they leave, I’m fairly certain it’s a real answer to prayer. Even Rick should be pleased to hear that I’m finally taking a job!

I stand and watch as the women get into Bronte’s car, an impressive-looking sedan that’s almost the same golden color as her hair. And as they’re leaving, I see Colleen’s SUV get ready to turn into my driveway. I can’t believe it’s already three thirty. She waits as the golden car pulls away, but I can tell she’s really checking them out. Fortunately, the windows are dark, making it impossible to see who’s inside. Nevertheless, I’m sure she’ll have questions. I consider playing possum again, pretending to be asleep on the couch. But I suppose she’d see right through it since it’s obvious I just had company.

“Who was that?” she asks as she and the girls come in through the front door.

“Just friends,” I say lightly.

“Pretty impressive friends,” says Colleen. “That was a brand-new Jaguar!”

“What friends?” Mary acts just as suspicious as Colleen.

“A woman named Bronte. We met recently, and she’s talking to me about a job.”

“What about a job at the clinic?” protests Colleen. “I already told Darlene you’d be coming in to talk to her.”

“I don’t—” Before I can finish, Colleen’s twins burst through the front door, and she starts yelling at them, telling them they were supposed to stay in the car.

“Thanks for bringing the girls home. I think Rick and I will go car shopping tomorrow.”

“Is the minivan totaled?” asks Mary.

“Did Daddy bring Samantha home?” Sarah asks with worried eyes.

“See ya!” Colleen waves over her shoulder as she herds her rambunctious boys back out my front door with a loud slam.

Relieved that I got off that easily about my curious visitors and job situation with Colleen, I produce the Samantha doll for Sarah, who shrieks in delight, and then I ask Mary to go see about Sadie, who is barking like a wild thing in the laundry room right now.

I take some Advil, and things finally settle down in our house. I begin to restore order to my kitchen, since Matthew was obviously in some great big hurry to get off to work. Mary and Sarah change from their school uniforms, take care of their household chores, and with the promise of their favorite television sitcom later tonight, they finally settle down to the dining-room table for homework. Meanwhile, I excuse myself to rest.

But instead of taking a nap, once I’m alone in my bedroom, I get down on my knees and pray. First, I ask God to guide my decision about the children’s ministry job. But in the next breath I am thanking him for this wonderful opportunity, praising him for this chance both to serve him in the church and to earn some much-needed money to help out my family. I feel a huge sense of relief as I pray. I can see my heavenly Father’s hand in all this. And it seems that all my recent spiritual warfare is finally beginning to pay off.

R
ick, as promised, gets up early again on Wednesday morning. Of course, this makes me feel guilty because I know he works hard and needs his rest. Besides, I’m sure I’m perfectly capable of driving his pickup to deliver the girls to school. But he insists, and I don’t argue. I am too relieved.

After he and the girls leave, I attempt to get dressed for the meeting, going through my closet in a desperate search for the perfect outfit, which seems impossible. The challenge is that I want an ensemble that will accomplish two things: one, I want to appear modest and dignified so as to please Cynthia’s rather conservative tastes, but, two, I’d like to look a little bit stylish because of Bronte. It hasn’t missed my attention that this woman knows how to dress.

In some ways she reminds me of Lynette, and I suspect that she and my sister would really hit it off when it comes to fashion. Although the relationship would end right there since Lynette claims to be a New Age Christian and vehemently refuses to join a church of any kind. Naturally, she blames most of this on her first marriage or, more specifically, on her first husband, who was supposedly a Christian. But that was a long time ago. Mostly I think this is just her excuse to be spiritually lazy.

This reminds me that Lynette has called a couple of times recently, leaving messages for me to return her calls, but as usual I
haven’t. I shove this new miniwave of guilt away, focusing instead on finding something to wear that someone like Lynette would approve of.

This eventually leads me to a nearly forgotten navy pantsuit. Lynette talked me into buying the designer blazer and slacks from a clearance rack last spring. They were marked down considerably but still out of my price range. Yet she made me try on the suit and insisted it was perfect for me. I thought I’d return it later, but time and life got in the way, and now here it hangs, price tags still attached.

I hold up the wool-blend pieces and can’t help but notice they seem very well made. And although I’m fully aware that Cynthia wouldn’t be caught dead in trousers of any kind, I couldn’t help but notice that Bronte was actually wearing blue jeans yesterday. I’m sure they were very expensive jeans, probably some big designer name that makes Liz Claiborne look like a hick. But Bronte had combined those jeans with a leather jacket the color of honey and high-heeled boots about the same shade, and she didn’t exactly look like she was ready to go pull weeds in the garden. So I’m hoping a pantsuit might be acceptable today.

To go with it, I choose a soft pink turtleneck sweater that Rick got me for my birthday last winter, along with a pastel-colored silk scarf that was a hand-me-down from my mother and something I never expected to wear. Then I put all these pieces on and stand in front of my full-length mirror. I actually look pretty good. And rather professional too. I might even look like someone who’s ready to accept a position. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

I called Cynthia earlier this morning, and she should be here to pick me up soon, but I’m hoping and praying that she hurries. I want her to get here before Rick returns from dropping off the girls. I’ve
already written him a note, explaining that I’m at a meeting and that I may even be interviewing for a job. I give him the location and ask him to pick me up at eleven, since Cynthia felt certain we would be done by then. I promise him I’ll be ready to go car shopping at that time. It seems a good plan.

Despite the fact that Matthew is still home, sleeping in as usual, I go around and turn off all the lights in the house. No need to waste electricity. And then as I’m pacing, waiting for Cynthia to arrive, I check the stove to make sure I turned off the element after cooking eggs this morning. I repeat this routine several times, and finally, just when I’m about to give up on making it out the door before Rick gets back, I hear a car in the driveway. To my relief it’s Cynthia’s white Subaru, and I’m halfway down the driveway before she’s even come to a complete stop.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem,” I say as I buckle myself in, catching my breath.

“Traffic this morning. It just seems to get worse and worse in this town.”

My hands shake as she pulls into the street. For some reason I feel like I’m running away, like I’m some sort of fugitive. That is perfectly ridiculous. I’m only going to a church meeting and looking into a potential job opportunity. But my heart is pounding with an enormous weight of guilt just the same. I look out the window and count the light poles along the street, trying to calm and distract myself as Cynthia continues to talk about the heavy traffic and how this town is growing too fast, “attracting the wrong sorts of people … turning into a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.”

I pick a piece of lint off my sleeve, then smooth my hands over my pants, trying to wipe away this disturbing sense of guilt gnawing
at me. I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t need to feel guilty.

Cynthia glances at me as she pauses at a stop sign. “You look different, Ruth.”

“It’s a new pantsuit.” I brace myself. “I know you don’t approve of women in pants, but I noticed Bronte wears jeans, so I thought …”

She pulls away from the stop sign a little too fast, which makes me jump in my seat, worried that she also will be hit by a truck.

“Well, surely you know what the Bible says about women wearing trousers—it’s a sin for a woman to dress like a man.”

“Oh … I never read that before.”

“Or to cut her hair, for that matter.”

“Is that why you keep yours long?”

She reaches back to touch her long, gray-streaked braid, then nods with satisfaction. “And you are not to adorn yourself with costly gold jewelry or expensive clothes or fancy hairstyles. A godly woman dresses modestly.”

“So …,” I venture, probably in an effort to get my thoughts off myself and my guilt, “do you think that makes most modern-day women
sinful?”

She tosses me a sideways glance that’s hard to read, and suddenly I don’t know how I dared to ask her this. Goodness, I must sound arrogant. But the truth is, I’m just curious as to how she sees the rest of us. Does she really think we’re a bunch of sinners?

She makes a snorting sort of laugh. “We’re
all
sinful, Ruth. You should know that much by now.”

“Well, of course I know that. But I guess I just wonder what you think of someone like, say, Bronte Wellington. She doesn’t exactly dress in the way you described.”

She shrugs. “Oh, I’m well aware that most people think I’m pretty old-fashioned and fundamental when it comes to the way I interpret Scripture and the way I dress, but we have to live by our convictions, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“But just so you’ll know, I do respect Bronte. I can tell in my spirit that she’s a godly and deeply spiritual woman. And perhaps the Lord is bending the rules for her a little, because she is, you know, a
real
prophetess.”

“What do you mean by ‘a
real
prophetess’?”

“I suppose that didn’t come out quite right. I don’t mean to insinuate that others, even myself, aren’t genuine prophets. We most definitely are. But I can see the Lord’s special anointing on this woman. I’ve never known anyone so spiritually deep, so intimately connected with the Lord, Ruth. And I am humbled and amazed that she has chosen us.” She clears her throat. “Or rather that the Lord has chosen us.”

She pulls into a parking space right in front of the drugstore now and turns to look at me with an expression that I can only describe as pure rapture, and I’m slightly taken aback. “Do you feel it too?” she says with a kind of passion that I’ve only heard her express from the pulpit while giving a word. “Do you get the sense that Bronte Wellington is the Lord’s divine gift to us, that she is going to lead us and our town to huge spiritual victory?”

I consider this as I reach for my Bible and purse. “Yes,” I finally admit as we both get out of the car, “I do get that same sense.”

“It’s so exciting!”

We apologize for being a few minutes late, and Pastor Glenn calls our small meeting to order. “Normally we would open with
prayer,” he says. “But since we plan to devote most of our time to interceding this morning, we thought it would be better to cover some business things first.” Then Pastor Glenn proceeds to tell us that he’s invited Carl, who is seated on his left, to join the team. “Because of his background in accounting, Carl will help manage our finances.” Then he nods to his wife, Kellie. “My better half here has offered to play the role of church secretary, at least for the time being. We’ll see how it goes.”