War Room (9 page)

Elizabeth sat up, mortified. “Who are you talking to?”

“Jennifer,” she said, deadpan.

Elizabeth sighed. “Jennifer?”

Jennifer stood beside Danielle now, her arms crossed in front of her and a sheepish look on her face. “Yes, ma’am?”

Elizabeth put the bag of chips beside her on the floor. She’d had no idea the girl was there listening. “I’m asking you not to tell anyone I was eating chips in my closet.”

Jennifer nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

The two stood there looking at her. Then Jennifer got a curious look on her face. “What’s that smell?”

“That would be my shoes, Jennifer,” Elizabeth said quickly, firmly. “And if you girls would kindly shut the door, you won’t have to smell them anymore.”

Danielle closed the door slowly, the hinges creaking. That was another thing Elizabeth had to do. Oil those hinges.

Elizabeth heard Jennifer whisper as they left, “Is she not allowed to eat chips?”

“I can have all the chips I want,” Elizabeth said loudly. “This is my house!”

She sighed and studied her list. Prayer was a lot more difficult than she thought. And it was a full-time job to hang on to your pride when you were downing a bag of tortilla chips in your war room.

Tony walked down the hall of the Brightwell corporate offices in Charlotte. It was an elegant complex with the best furniture, the best-dressed workers, and a bright future. He spotted a corner office and smiled. If things kept going the way they had been, he would make his home here someday, with a parking space in front as well.

Coleman Young’s secretary, Julia, welcomed him and showed him into the office. She was an older woman with graying hair and dark glasses that framed a kind face. She always seemed to have a smile. Kind but competent and jealous for her boss’s welfare.

“Coleman’s expecting you, and Tom’s in there too,” she said.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.

She laughed. “You’re welcome.”

Coleman was in his late forties, Tony guessed, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His office sitting area looked out over the city, a view you could expect for the president of such a successful company. Tony buttoned his top button as Coleman rose to
meet him. Tom Bennett, one of a long line of Brightwell vice presidents, was slower to rise.

“Tony! How’s my favorite rep?” Coleman said with a smile.

“I’m real good. How are you doing?” Tony said, shaking his hand firmly.

A glint in the man’s eye. “Heard we got the Holcomb account.”

It felt good to hear his boss say the words. Seeing his face light up was icing on the cake. “Yes, we did.”

“That’s fantastic! You did it again.”

“I appreciate that
 
—thank you.”

“Even Tom was impressed, and you know that’s hard to do.”

Tony hadn’t interacted much with Tom Bennett. The man’s demeanor was less than cordial and a little on the suspicious side. He was thin and wiry and always seemed a bit irritable. Was he prejudiced or just an introvert? Who knew? Frankly, Tony didn’t care. He just tried to steer clear of Tom as much as he could and keep selling, keep moving up the ladder at Brightwell.

Tom shook his hand and said, “Good work.” It was halfhearted at best. The handshake seemed like an obligation.

“Thank you.”

“Look, I know you’re on your way home, but we just wanted to say thanks. And you’ve got a nice bonus check coming your way.”

Tony couldn’t hold back the smile. “I like that.”

“Yeah, you do!” Coleman said, reaching out a hand again. “How’s Elizabeth?”

“She’s good.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

“I’ll do it,” Tony said.

“Good to see you,” Coleman said, turning back to Tom.

It was a brief encounter, one of a very few he’d had with the president of the company, but Tony could have floated to the car. It was the best feeling to land a deal and then have people at the company hear about his exploits. The drive home should have felt like a victory lap. It should have been his best day ever. But the prospect of seeing Elizabeth weighed on him. He didn’t want to go through the bickering and nagging he was sure he’d get when he walked in the door. And he didn’t want to tell her about the account and bonus. She’d just use it as another excuse to give money to her sister.

The only thing worse than Elizabeth’s nagging was what he
wasn’t
receiving. At the start of their marriage, Tony and Elizabeth had what he would call an equal desire for each other. She would initiate some romantic evening with the suggestion of a movie and dinner and everything that came after it. He couldn’t wait to get home from work to be with her, explore everything about her. She was a beautiful woman, inside and out.

But something had changed when Danielle was born. Elizabeth had become more guarded, and because of their work schedules they spent more time apart. Instead of that
daily distance bringing them together when he returned, it kept them isolated. Tony couldn’t remember the last time they had been intimate. Was it a month ago? Two months?

He pulled into the garage and chewed on the inside of his cheek from the tension he felt. No wonder he was looking for action elsewhere. He knew it wasn’t right. He knew he’d made a vow to be faithful. But if it happened, it was her fault. She had pushed him away in so many ways. She had told him he wasn’t living up to her expectations. Couple that with all the fighting over money and how to raise Danielle and it was a miracle the two were still in the same house.

The more he thought about it as he had driven home, the more his stomach tied in knots, and as he turned off the ignition and hit the garage door button, he didn’t even want to go inside. What new complaint would she have? What was the latest thing he had done to scar his daughter? He was sure he’d hear about it at dinner. That and how much money her sister needed.

Elizabeth had entered her closet committed to prayer and exited committed to tackling her foot odor. That was the danger of spending time with God
 
—most of the time you found something else to do. And if she couldn’t have success at prayer, at least she could accomplish something practical. She lined up a dozen pairs of shoes, found her foot spray, and began dealing with each one.

The phone rang and she recognized her sister’s number. It wasn’t long until Cynthia got to the crux of the matter: her husband. She complained about their situation, just like Elizabeth had complained to Clara about Tony. The financial pressure they were constantly under was overwhelming. Cynthia had tried to motivate Darren, but nothing was happening.

“Cynthia, it’s not going to do you any good to fight about it. You can’t get the job for him.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Elizabeth tried to calm herself. “Well, is he trying at all? Is he sending out résumés or making calls? Anything?”

“I think so. He leaves in the morning and comes back at night but I don’t know where he’s been or what he’s done. It’s just so hard, Elizabeth.”

“I know,” she said with as much compassion as she could muster. She spurted some more foot powder in a shoe and set it down.

“This is not easy for him either,” Cynthia said.

The words struck a nerve. “Well, I’m sorry, but he’s making it hard not just on you but everybody around you.”

“So you’re saying you’re not going to help. Is that it?”

“No, I’m not saying we won’t help. We’re still talking about it, okay?”

Elizabeth heard a noise behind her and turned to see Tony leafing through the mail on the kitchen counter. Seeing him there while Cynthia was on the line sent her spirits crashing. He already thought she spent every
minute on the phone with her sister. He had to walk in at just this moment.

“Listen, Tony just got home. I need to call you later.”

“All right, Sis. Thanks for talking. Love you.”

“I love you too,” Elizabeth said.

Tony studied each letter like it was a draft notice. She hung up and took a breath and tried to engage with him. Something safe. Like work, perhaps.

“How was your trip?”

Head down, scowling at the mail. “It was good. I take it that was your sister.”

“Yep. It was.”

“Darren getting a job?”

“Not yet.”

“‘Not yet’ as in he’s trying? Or ‘not yet’ as in he’s still sittin’ on the couch playing video games?”

How quickly the tide of conversation ran onto the beach of conflict. “Tony, what he does is not Cynthia’s fault. She just needs one month’s rent and a car payment. I think we should at least do that.”

Tony’s face hardened. “Cynthia married a loser. Okay? That was her choice when everybody told her not to. It
is
her fault.”

Elizabeth stood and faced him. He approached from the kitchen
 
—the power in her voice finally calling him from his corner. Like two fighters ready to begin the bout, they sized each other up.

“Tony, she cannot control him. She’s got a job, but it’s
not enough. Listen, I’m not asking for five thousand dollars anymore. I’m asking for one month’s rent and a car payment.”

“And next month you’ll be askin’ for the same thing, Liz. So the answer is still no.” Tony turned his head, scowling again. “And what is that smell in here?”

Elizabeth looked away, half in frustration and half from embarrassment. She felt like a little girl again. Back in her house with her father criticizing her. Tony had the same tone of voice her dad had when she needed new clothes or brought home a bad grade.

“I’m putting powder in my shoes,” she said.

He glanced at the line of shoes in front of the couch. She thought he might apologize or console her. Tell her it was all right or that it wasn’t her fault or that she didn’t have to do that for his sake.

Tony just looked at the shoes like they were dead fish and said, “Well, can’t you do that outside?”

Defeated, deflated, and crushed, she said, “Yes.” Then she thought of Cynthia. She thought of her voice on the phone and how lonely and sad she sounded. She would give it one more try with him.

“Tony, if you won’t do it for her, do it for me.”

It was an open invitation for him to express some semblance of love. It was her being vulnerable
 
—like a deer running into a meadow with a big red target on its side, ready for the kill.

Tony’s face grew even harder. “No.”

And with that, he turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts and her shoes. She knew she and Tony were far apart. She knew there wasn’t much hope for their relationship. It had been so long since he had lovingly touched her or said anything positive. At that moment, with her eyes watering and her heart breaking, she realized there was nothing she could do to bring down that wall. No amount of parading around it and shouting would bring it down. No amount of holding up a staff would part the waters of their flooded relationship.

She picked up as many shoes as she could and carried them to the back door and tossed them onto the deck. She made another trip for the rest, slammed the door behind her, and stood on the deck staring into the distance, arms folded. She was tired of the battle, weary of the war. She was tired of seeing Danielle live under the weight of all this. There had to be another way. There had to be something better for all three of them.

Over the years people discovered
Clara was a prayer warrior. They would slip her a piece of paper with someone’s name scrawled on it or whisper something about a family member during the offertory. Clara felt honored when that happened. But the practice also saddened her because she knew some thought she had a special “in” with God. There was nothing she did in her prayer closet that others couldn’t do. There was no answer to prayer she snatched from God’s hand because she was so crafty. The power she had was available to all.

The question had come up in one of her Friday gatherings with her girlfriends. They were down to four regular
members of a club that had never officially been formed. Cecilia Jones, Eula Pennington, and Tressa Gower were women who had crossed Clara’s path years earlier and had stuck by her
 
—and she them
 
—through several decades. They had been through the deaths of spouses, children, and pets, as well as a divorce, several miscarriages, and two lawsuits. All four of the women were believers, though sometimes there seemed to be a little antagonism at how sure Clara was about everything she believed.

“Do you think there’s more power in lots of people praying about something?” Cecilia said to the group. She looked out the corner of her eye at Clara as if baiting her to jump into the fray first.

This was how one of the group started a free-for-all
 
—she just threw out a question or an idea and watched the others respond. Cecilia was particularly good about goading Clara, but on this one, Clara held back.

“I think the more people who pray about something, the more chance God has of hearing,” Tressa said. “What was that book a few years ago, had all those angels fighting in it? You read what was going on with people and then what happened with the angels when people started praying?”

Tressa said the title of the book and Cecilia remembered the author. All of them nodded in recognition.

“I think it’s like that,” Tressa continued. “The more you pray, the more you get other people to pray, it just piles up on a scale somewhere in heaven. And God listens. The
persistent widow
 
—she kept knocking at the door of the judge. Remember that parable?”

Eula Pennington put her coffee mug down. “I don’t think God can be moved like that.” She said the word
God
with an extra “duh” on the end, as if it were more reverent to add another syllable to the Almighty’s name. “It’s not how many times you pray something or how many people you get praying, it’s whether or not you’re asking something that’s in God’s will.”

Clara nodded at that and the ladies around the table seemed to agree. But Cecilia wasn’t finished. “So does that mean there’s no reason for a prayer chain? If a whole congregation prays about something, it’s no different from one person praying?”

“‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much,’” Eula said. She was a King James adherent, though she tolerated the RSV and NASB.

“So that means if you’re holy enough, God will hear your prayers? Is that it?” Cecilia said.

“Nobody is holy but God,” Eula said. “The rest of us are sinners standing in the need of prayer.”

“You got that right,” Tressa said.

Cecilia leaned forward. “Clara, you’re being awful quiet.”

Clara took a sip of coffee. “Having lots of people pray about something doesn’t force God to listen or act. God knows everything. Prayer is not informing Him because He already knows what we need and why we’re crying out.”

“So why pray at all?” Cecilia said.

Clara held up a hand. “Now you asked me to answer you and I’m trying to do that.”

Cecilia smiled and sat back, also raising a hand as if the floor was Clara’s.

“God does hear what we pray. You don’t need a megaphone or a million people to get His attention. But the point of prayer is not to get what we want. Prayer changes the person who prays. You take the parent who prays that a child will get on the straight and narrow. You know I’ve been there with Clyde. We’ve all been heartsick about something or other regarding our kids. But what I’ve found is this. Whenever I was worried about Clyde, God was doing something in me. He wanted to turn my heart around as much if not more so than my son’s. God helped me trust Him in greater ways than I ever thought possible because of that boy and what he dragged me through.”

“And he dragged you through a lot,” Tressa said.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Eula agreed.

“So what about my question?” Cecilia said, dissatisfied with the answer.

“There’s not more power in a lot of people praying because the power comes from God and not the people. But what happens when many pray for the same thing is an opportunity for God’s glory. Everything comes back to the glory of God. Everything in history, the purpose of our lives, is the glory of God. Every breath we take.”

“But isn’t it selfish of God to want glory?” Cecilia said. “That’s the opposite of humility.”

Clara could tell her friend was poking her now, prodding her to get to something below the surface. “Let me tell you something. Is it wrong for the person who deserves it to get credit? God made everything. He fashioned the little baby in its mother’s womb and set the stars in place. He put a plan in motion to redeem us, to showcase His love and goodness and mercy on the cross so that all glory would go to the One to whom it belongs. Glory that goes to anybody or anything else is a sham. And you put an
e
on that and it becomes a shame. That’s what the world has come to by giving glory to people who can catch a ball or twist on a stage.”

Cecilia smiled and Clara knew this was her intent, to get her involved enough to come up with what the group called a “Clara-ism.”

“So, Clara, tell us what happens when a group begins to pray about the same thing,” Cecilia said.

“Well, first of all, more people know about the need. More people get involved in bringing a person or a situation before God. He doesn’t need to be reminded because He knows everything. But He wants us to participate in people’s lives and the things going on around us. He wants us to partner with Him in His plan to draw people to Himself. So the end result of a lot of people praying about the same thing is increased glory to God. That’s the way it works. When we pray, we participate in what God is doing. He gets the glory, and we get the privilege of walking with
Him, and in that process we are changed. And guess what happens from that change? He gets the glory.”

“How do you figure that?” Eula said.

“Philippians 2. Paul talks about having the same mind that Jesus had. He didn’t have to come here and give up His life. He didn’t have to be obedient and die on a cross. But He humbled Himself. And look at what happens at the end of that passage. God raises him up to the place of highest honor and gives Him the name above every other name. Every knee is going to bow, every tongue will declare that Jesus Christ is Lord
 
—now get this
 
—to the
glory of God the Father
. The whole point of the work of Jesus, the whole reason for His sinless life, the reason for the miracles and raising Him from the dead was the
glory
of God.”

“Praise Jesus!” Tressa said.

“That’s good,” Eula said.

“You know it,” Cecilia said.

“Wrap your heart around that the next time you go through a struggle,” Clara said. “The goal of prayer is not to change God’s mind about what you want. The goal of prayer is to change your own heart, to want what He wants, to the glory of God.”