Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About The Author

Contact The Author Online

Acknowledgements

Finding Grace

A Transformational Journey

Kathy Gottberg

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2013 by Kathy Gottberg

Kindle Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, churches, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by: Derek Murphy at Creativeindie.com

Formatting by: RikHall.com

Finding Grace

Chapter 1

The empty courtroom felt like Grandma’s church. Nothing could mask the gloom hovering over the wooden benches facing the altar of justice. I could almost hear the sad wail of forlorn spirits echoing off the paneled walls. The misery felt familiar because I started there myself. I just never expected to return after all this time.

Courtroom 3B, on the third floor of the Rancho Cucamonga Courthouse looked lifeless. I planned it that way. Arriving early, I could steady my nerves and calm my soul before anyone else showed up. My decision from the night before assured me that if I fought this thing, I’d win. Then over $60 million dollars would be mine. After that I wouldn’t need anyone, God included.

Why was the room so dark? Did the bailiff turn up the lights just before the judge arrived? Or, like with many churches, would we be held in never-ending anticipation for something better? It was easy to imagine the room filled with people, each one fossilized by the possibility that someone would find a light switch, and truth would prevail. It never ceases to amaze me what people put up with as long as redemption dangles in front of them. We all want to believe heaven exists, even if we have to sue someone to get there.

Where do I sit? Michael Hendricks, my attorney, specifically requested I arrive early so we could cover any last minute details. Glancing at my Timex I realized it could be another fifteen minutes before he or anyone else arrived. I sat on a bench in the last row on the right and waited.

With my leather purse beside me, I picked lint off my dark blue slacks and smoothed the sleeves of my jacket. Then, with both hands, I reached up behind my head and refastened the barrette around my shoulder length brown hair. Michael requested I dress conservatively. I felt like I was at a funeral. My own.

Normally I would have prayed, but this morning was different. Last night I arrived at the conclusion that God didn’t especially care one way or another how any of this turned out. It was as though the Divine had sent me an email saying, “Do what you want, it’s all fine by me.” So although I remained convinced that God wasn’t judgmental and vindictive like the God of my childhood, perhaps the watchmaker model fit more closely than I’d previously dared to admit. If God didn’t care, then fighting for the fortune made all the sense in the world. If God couldn’t make the world safe for me, maybe the money would.

When I heard the heavy door behind me being pulled open, fear knotted my stomach. I hoped it wasn’t Ron and Angela, the two people who stood between me and my millions. I couldn’t face them just yet, at least without Michael and Sunny next to me.

It was Michael. At just over six feet tall and dressed in a crisp dark brown suit, he looked both imposing and comforting. Now I knew why people hired lawyers and paid them ridiculous amounts. He was my warrior and employed to do my battles. He nodded and gave me a hint of a serious, but concerned, smile.

“Good. Grace. I’m glad you’re here,” Michael said as he swung his head around to look at the two, small, empty conference rooms flanking the backside of the room with windows that peered out into the courtroom. “We need to talk.” He turned around, held the door open for me with his briefcase, and then directed me into the room on the right.

It felt like a church crying room where they stick the babies so the crying doesn’t disturb the service. A plaintiff could stand there, watch their whole life being ripped apart, and yell and cry as much as they desired. More importantly, the entire proceeding could continue devoid of emotion or love, without interruption. Yes, just like a church crying room.

Michael closed the door and ushered me to one of the chairs grouped around a small table. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened. Sunny, like her namesake, seemed to defuse the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights with a radiant and natural glow. Looking like the day I met her, she wore a loose flowing, multicolored gauze dress over her generous figure. Her bleached blond hair looked puffed and curled in a casual attempt at style. The only things on her legs and feet were short-heeled sling back sandals. A huge smile lit her face far more than the touch of lipstick or mascara she had applied. In that moment, the whole ordeal seemed brighter.

“They’ve made us an offer,” Michael began once Sunny and I hugged and she pulled up a chair and sat down. “You may not want to consider it, but it’s your decision. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, feeling my nose wrinkle in confusion, “they made us an offer? Aren’t they the ones suing us, or at least contesting us? Is that unusual?” The complexities of proving a will still caused my head to spin.

“Sure. But they’re cocky, and they want you to see how strongly they think the judge will rule in their favor,” said Michael. “They’ve offered to pay all court fees, any of my fees, to give Sunny’s church $25,000, and to give you the house. That’s it. You can walk away right now, and own the house.”

“Let me see if I have this right,” I said with no attempt to hide my sarcasm. “All they want is for me to walk away from a full inheritance of $60 million dollars. Then they’re willing, they’re willing, to give Sunny’s church $25,000, and me the house? Awfully generous of them, don’t you think?” I knew my own cockiness didn’t erase the feeling of abandonment that flooded me for the thousandth time that day.

“There’s something else you need to know.” Michael said ignoring my contempt. “It’s impossible to tell how much influence this has, but it’s my duty to reveal everything I know before your decision. I’ve done some research on Judge Thomas who is normally fair and unbiased. He and his wife attend a very traditional church where his wife serves on the board and they are undoubtedly strong financial supporters. While a judge isn’t supposed to be swayed by personal involvement, in the real world we know he can do about anything he wants.” Michael paused a moment as though to let his news sink in.

“The press hasn’t been kind to you Grace,” he continued, a softness coming to his eyes. “I’m certain that part of their strategy will be to prove your spiritual values and beliefs are suspect and dangerous. Ultimately, with no jury, the decision belongs solely with Judge Thomas. It’s impossible to know what that could mean. It’s essential that you be fully prepared to go through this. If you have any dirty laundry, it will definitely be blowing in the breeze.”

Both Sunny and Michael looked straight at me. From Sunny, I felt the support flowing out of her eyes. I knew she’d stand behind any decision I made. I envied her perspective and the peace it gave her.

Michael worried me. His last pause went beyond mere effect. His confidence in our case seemed lost. I felt betrayed, as through my white knight turned chicken in the end, or at least decided to switch horses. Wasn’t that always the way with white knights?

It was probably inevitable. Eventually, anyone willing to stand out and think differently would be challenged, especially a woman, and especially about God. All it took was courage. Fortunately, sometimes all it took was the pretense of courage.

“Nope,” I said shaking my head. “They can’t scare me. No one has a monopoly on God. I don’t care if they don’t approve of my spiritual beliefs. I don’t care if they think I’m the antichrist herself. Mrs. Pettermint was my friend and left me her fortune. I won’t just hand it over. If they want it, they’ll have to fight me for it. I’ve run away before, and I won’t do it again.”

Michael nodded, picked up his briefcase, and held open the door. Sunny’s face never lost its smile as she came around the table and hugged me with all her might. Then, for a moment, I thought about letting it all go. Held there in her embrace dwelt the real comfort I wanted. At the same time I also felt Michael’s impatience, and I knew my destiny called me forward. It was time to stop letting others bail me out. If I was ever going to find out what I was made of, if I was ever going to find grace, it was time I stopped running. It was time for answers.

How did I get myself into this mess? Isn’t that what we ask when our life gets turned upside down? Just when we think everything’s going fine—wham! “Why me?” is the first thing on our lips.

My friend Mrs. Pettermint always said that if we really want to figure out how we got some place, start at the beginning. If each of us bravely shined the clear white light of honesty on our past, there would be no big surprises. Our personal biographies contain the fractal waves of who we are today, including what will come. Of course, many of us don’t want to know who we are, or how we got to here. That’s why it often takes a disaster to get us to look at what we ourselves believe.

In the beginning, I was fearless. As a child, I wanted to know the truth about everything and never hesitated to ask. Sure all kids ask questions. But according to an interview by my sister Maggie in an article in Newsweek, I nearly drove my mother crazy with my inquisitiveness. From the moment I learned to talk, I trailed behind her asking questions. “Why do I have freckles and Maggie doesn’t?” My sister Maggie had dark hair, was petite and cute, while I was fair, gangling, and covered with spots.

“Why do we live in a trailer instead of a house like Nancy?”

That too was a common question, even if the only answer I ever got from her was, “We live in a mobile home, not a trailer!”

I give her credit though. Mom did her best to make that rickety, old, single-wide trailer in Ontario, California feel like a home, at least in the beginning. From my childlike perspective, she was always either working or answering my questions. When she was at work, I had Maggie to question, but Maggie wasn’t good at answers either.

“So what happened to Daddy?” I asked on a rotating basis. This was one of my favorite questions. Not only did it draw out some interesting answers, but it seemed to affect the person being questioned in a strange and unusual way. Maggie’s typical response was a swift slug in the arm.

“Then how come Nancy has a good daddy and we don’t have one at all?” My best friend Nancy offered the best comparison for this question. Her daddy was always nice to me and even when Nancy complained about him, it was only over little stuff like how she did the dishes. Nancy’s dad was a much better example than little Danny Schroder’s down the street. Everyone knew he had a bad daddy, even if he did live at home.

I never understood why Maggie got so upset when questioned about our father. She wasn’t in the car when he died—neither was Mom. According to Grandma, we were much better off without him. When I asked Grandma why we didn’t have a daddy, she would spend the next hour talking about the sins of man, the evils of alcohol, and the trials of the world. I only asked her a couple of times.

I don’t recall seeing Grandma very much when I was very little, and that was okay with me. Our matriarch would show up unannounced in a big car with towels, hand-me-down clothes, and a bag of groceries. I never once remember her bringing toys.

Grandma would explode through the door with her arms overflowing with packages. A burst of exasperation, followed by clicks of disapproval as she surveyed her reception, was her usual greeting. Why did she even come? From the moment she arrived, a steady stream of condemnation and frustration poured from her mouth.

“Grandma, why do you visit us if we are so ungrateful?” I liked this question because even though she pretended to ignore me, I could tell she was annoyed. “I come because it’s my duty,” she told me one time. “Besides, you’d grow up to be a wild little animal if I wasn’t here. Why can’t you be more like Maggie?”

“If I was like Maggie would you stop visiting?”

She froze on that one. Fortunately, Grandma never could figure out an answer that would shut me up. Instead, she usually gave up by issuing orders to clean the house.

Mom, on the other hand, really tried to answer my wonderings, especially in the beginning. No matter how many times I asked about my father, she would sit me down, look into my eyes and start THE story. “Your daddy loved you very much. He loved you and Maggie and me. One day after work, he stopped to visit with some friends. It was late, and you, Maggie and me were waiting for him, but he never made it home. He was in a car accident.” Mom would pause then, lower her head and try to hide the liquid pooling up in her eyes. “You will always have a daddy Grace, he just lives in heaven, not at home with us. Believe me, he’s always watching over you, whether you realize it or not.”

When I was too young to realize that Mom didn’t quite believe her own story, I would ask, “Oh, so would Daddy be here with us right now, or would he be down at Ricks?” Rick’s was the place where Daddy always stopped to “visit with his friends.” Even at that age, I knew about Rick’s. For several months after Daddy died, I pretended that Daddy was at Rick’s like usual. It didn’t seem any different.

Mom didn’t like questions about Rick’s. If she managed to avoid tears until then, Rick’s got them going. Turning her head she’d gaze out the dirt streaked window of our trailer and try to find an answer to my question that would not only satisfy me, but her as well. “No, I’m sure Daddy would have gotten tired of Rick’s. He’d be here with us now if he were still alive. Watching over us, just like he is at this very minute.”

I liked that. I liked to think that there was someone watching over me at all times. Nancy said that it was God. But Nancy knew less about God than I knew about my father. And what did God look like? With Daddy, I could easily picture the young smiling man in the photo sitting on my mother’s nightstand. As he faded gradually in my actual memory, I could make up any story about him I wanted, just like Mom. Mom and I, and maybe even Maggie, could remember him as the doting, loving husband and father. Besides, who would challenge us? Okay, maybe Grandma.

“Grandma, do you think daddy likes being in heaven?” I was six or seven at the time, and sitting on one of the plastic kitchen chairs with my leg propped underneath me. My half-colored picture of a princess in my coloring book couldn’t hold my attention. Meanwhile, Grandma buzzed around the kitchen wearing a chest to calf-length apron with huge yellow daises. She went from refrigerator, to stove, to sink without taking more than a few steps in any direction. Her short, bulky frame lightly bounced off the stove, the counter and the refrigerator door with more intimacy than I ever remembered her using with us.

“Your daddy in heaven?” She spun around and glared at me. “I don’t think your daddy’s in heaven.” Her chin rose as though compelled to answer righteously. “Randy Martin was tempted for his entire life, and I don’t think he ever took the Lord’s side. God is not mocked. You’d do well to remember that yourself young lady.” Then catching herself, she whirled back around and resumed her puttering.

“Then which side did he take, Grandma?” I stuck my tongue between my closed lips and waited to see if she would answer. The way her back tensed, I knew I had her attention.

Glancing over her shoulder, and looking around as though she expected my father himself to be listening, she shuffled over to the table and sat in the chair next to me. Lowering her head and narrowing her eyes she said, “Grace, there is only one way to find salvation in this world, and that is through Jesus. You know about Jesus don’t you?”

I nodded solemnly and started to ask....

She silenced me with an open palm and continued, “Jesus is the only thing that can save this family. Your daddy wouldn’t listen, and neither does your mother.” She looked up, concern pinching her face. “But you and Maggie, you need Jesus. He died for you and only he can wash away your sins.”

“Kind-of-like Daddy died for us?” I cut in, seeing the similarity.

“No, your daddy was nothing like Jesus. Jesus was the Son of God, sent to earth to redeem our sins. Your daddy...your daddy...” She sighed. “It is a sin to say your daddy was like Jesus. Don’t you ever say that again.” She looked up at the kitchen ceiling as though expecting something to hit us from the sky, pushed off from the table, and headed back to the sink.

This line of thinking brought up all sorts of curious ideas in my head. “Grandma, what is a sin?”

Grandma turned from the sink and leaned back. She squinted her eyes and pursed her lips into a smile. “I’m glad you asked Grace. It’s time you learned. A sin is whenever you are bad...which for you is most of the time. You sin when you do something against God. Your daddy sinned because he drank a lot and didn’t take good care of his family. Your mother sins because she doesn’t listen to me...never did. You and Maggie sin if you don’t turn your whole life over to Jesus.”

The list seemed incredibly long. Was anyone safe? “What about you, Grandma?”

Without a moment of reflection she answered, “Can’t you stop being sassy for one minute?” With a huge sigh, and a shake of her head, she turned back to the sink.

Grandma started me thinking about the whole God thing. Up until then, it seemed that Daddy and Jesus were a lot alike. Both were always there, in the background, even if you weren’t quite sure why. The little I’d heard about Jesus made him out as a nice man who did some nice things. That certainly fit my definition of my daddy. But now I had a bigger question. Who exactly was God and where could I find Him? Surely, He could answer all my questions?

That’s when I began attending Sunday school at the local Lutheran Church every Sunday, three short blocks from our house. Mom or Maggie only made the effort on special occasions like Easter and Christmas, or after a visit from Grandma criticizing Mom for our lack of Christian education.

One Sunday when I was ten and the morning sun lit up our dark and cramped bedroom, I crawled out of bed and quietly started putting on the only dress hanging in my closet. Balancing on one foot, then another, I narrowly missed the piles of dirty clothes and toys scattered around the room. Mom and Maggie slept on.

This morning felt different. For the first time I could remember, I was determined to find God and get some answers. This last week Grandma had telephoned and the energy of her conversation with Mom still hung heavy in the house. Mom had yelled into the phone, “Don’t talk to me any more about God. Where was God when Randy died? Where is God now? Not with you and certainly not here in this damn trailer!” Maggie and I had stared at each other as Mom slammed the phone into its receiver and ran through the living room into her bedroom.

Now I knew. God wasn’t to be found in our trailer. Mom was probably right. Just like with Dad, God had appeared absent from the everyday details of our lives. There’d been no message from either of them when Mom had lost her job at Demitrie’s Restaurant and it took her three weeks to find another one. Then, not a word from Dad or God when I cut my chin on the monkey bars at school and needed three stitches. So if God wasn’t showing up in our house, it was time I went to find Him. The only place I knew to look was church.

That Sunday the sun was already high in the sky and a gentle breeze floated through the air. I felt good. My best dress looked perky, even if it had a little purple kool-aid stain underneath the collar. With my hair plastered down with water and parted on the side, it felt securely in place. It was a good day to find God.

The church building and parking lot were quiet and peaceful when I arrived over an hour early for the 10:00 a.m. services. Instead of heading into the Sunday School room like usual, this morning I turned toward the main chapel. I’d been to Sunday School long enough to know that even though we might talk about God, He didn’t usually show up there.

Maybe He was hanging out in the big church? I was fairly certain that I had felt Him, and Jesus too, a few times on Christmas and Easter when Mom had taken us to the regular services. Those were the only days that little church ever saw a crowd. We usually had to sit in the back, scrunched together, but I had the feeling God liked it with all those people packed in tightly. When we stood up to sing and the words melted together, a sense of belonging would come over me. There was something very solid and comforting about those mornings. Maybe that was God?

I walked boldly up to the main chapel door and struggled to pull it open. It seemed odd that it should be so difficult to open a door to God. Like a turtle, I poked my head through the open crack and surveyed the empty room. All was quiet. Managing just enough space to slip through, I crept up the aisle between the polished wooden benches, tilted my chin up to the vaulted ceiling and let my eyes rotate back and forth looking for a sign. Nothing.

Carefully placing one silent foot in front of the other, I stopped when I reached the two steps leading up to the altar. A heavy wooden rail cordoned off the area from the congregation, and from behind the lectern arched windows flanked a statue of Jesus hanging mournfully on a large cross. I sat down on the steps and waited.

Where are you? I asked over and over in my head. I’ve come to see you, I’ve got questions. I sat in the silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I heard a noise from somewhere deep in the building. The structure moaned and snapped while the sound of footsteps gradually approached from a door to the side of the altar. My answer?

Anticipating a more heavenly apparition, I was startled by Pastor Baker as he jerked open the side door and glared at me. “What on earth are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be in here, you know? The Sunday School is next door.” With a stern expression on his long face, he strode to my side, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me to my feet. “This isn’t a place to play. I don’t want to see you in here again, young lady.” He immediately reminded me of Grandma and I knew I wasn’t going to find God here either.

Once free of Pastor Baker, I walked out of the building without a backward glance. I saw cars pull into the parking lot and Danny Schroeder and his family get out of their big blue car. Danny called to me, and I waved, but I kept on walking. Once around the corner, I stopped at the bus stop bench. What now? It seemed silly to go home and I still had so many questions. I climbed on the bench and sat.

Then down the sidewalk, from the opposite direction, walked a small rickety old woman. I had seen her several times before. Everything about her looked ageless, her clothing, her hat, her tiny frame. Nancy and I had followed her one time, and had fantasized that she was a wicked witch. Up close she didn’t look that mean, she just seemed a little strange because of the constant soft smile and far-away expression we always saw on her face. I considered crawling off the bench and going across the street until it occurred to me that if I stayed perfectly still, maybe she wouldn’t even see me.

Wrong. The closer she got, the more I realized that the bench was her destination. Intently studying my shoes until she was only a few feet away, I peeked up and met her light hazel eyes peering directly into mine. As though sensing my embarrassment, her eyes twinkled and her smile grew wider. Holding a small gray handbag, she gracefully slid around the side of the bench and sat down.

“You must be Grace Martin,” she said, as she smoothed her cotton print dress over her thighs.

How did she know who I was?

She smiled and looked up at the trees. “I know who you are because I’ve seen you and your friend playing in the neighborhood. There’s something about you Grace Martin. For some reason you’ve always reminded me– of someone I’ve spent my whole life looking for.” Although I didn’t understand what she meant, I could tell from the kindness in her eyes that she wasn’t crazy. Still, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You look pretty this morning. Where are you going?”

Her words stunned me. No one but my mother had ever called me pretty, and not even her very often. “I went looking for God,” I blurted out. “But He wasn’t at church. Now I don’t know where to go.”

“I’m not surprised,” the woman chuckled. “I suspect He’s been gone from there for quite some time.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if I might have been wrong about her sanity.

“God is most present in people who love. To find Him, you have to find people who are loving.”

“You mean in people like Jesus?”

“Well, Jesus was one of them. He always had a lot to say about love. But what I’m really saying is, that love and God are actually the same thing. And when you find love, God is present.” She smiled and looked up again at the trees lining the street. The sun slanted through the branches and all was quiet. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

I guessed I did. One part of me knew what she was talking about even if the rest didn’t make sense. “My grandma says we are sinners and that only through Jesus will we ever be saved.”

“Well, I don’t agree with your Grandma.” The woman’s smile dissolved, her eyes half-closed, and her lips set firmly in a line.

Could Grandma be wrong? Never in my wildest imagination had I ever considered that possibility. Although my mother didn’t like what Grandma said, she seemed resigned to the fact that her mother held the position of spiritual authority for our family. After all, when Grandma judged us, she did it with the same type of judgment that came from God, or so she always told us. It boggled my mind to think Grandma could be wrong.

Now here sat this tiny woman telling me there might be another option, and a little voice inside me told me she was right. What had the woman said about God and love being the same? Suddenly I knew that this woman, who on close inspection wasn’t as old as my Grandmother, knew God in a way that Grandma never had. She knew God in a way I wanted to.

From around the corner rumbled the green city bus. It screeched to a halt in front of us with black smoke pouring from behind and underneath. With back erect, the woman beside me gracefully rose to her feet, paused, turned and smiled radiantly.

“It was lovely to meet you, Grace. You may visit me any time if you ever want to talk more about God.” She turned and softly approached the open bus door.

Just as she was about to place one foot on the bottom step I called out. “But who are you?”

“My name is Mrs. Pettermint,” she said as she looked back with another smile, nodded, and then climbed into the bus.

I sat like a statue as she made her way down the aisle. The door closed and I watched her sink into a seat. With a roar and a black puff of smoke, the bus pulled away.

I’ll never forget that morning. That morning I was introduced to both Mrs. Pettermint and the idea of a loving God at the same time.

Chapter 2

I watched for her everywhere from then on. When I talked to my best friend Nancy I tried to explain how wrong we’d been about the strange Mrs. Pettermint. But from the sour look on her face, I could tell she now thought that I was equally as odd. “She said what? You talked about God? That’s weird,” was Nancy’s grimaced reply. I knew then that our usual summertime melodramas with Barbie and Ken dolls wouldn’t satisfy the urge I felt for true adventure. I also knew that Nancy didn’t know the difference. Mumbling an excuse, I headed towards home.

The trees and vegetation along the street where I walked glowed a bright and vivid green, while freshly planted flowers lined the walkways and porches of most of the houses. Unconsciously, I wandered back to the bus stop where I first met Mrs. Pettermint. I sat down and waited. Almost immediately, I heard the neighborhood bus turn the corner and pull to a screeching halt in front of me. Sure enough, a small, thin woman rose slowly from a seat inside and made her way to the front of the bus. She carried a cloth bag that looked heavy and awkward. Slowly she came down the steps, and when she reached the last of them, she turned and gave a little wave to the bus driver who grinned and waved back before closing the door.

Turning, her face filled with a smile. “Hello Grace. I hoped to see you today. Would you help me with my bag?”

How had she known? Maybe she was crazy, or worse, a witch? Moving quickly to her side, I grabbed the cloth bag with both hands and fumbled along behind her as she glided gracefully down the street.

We turned the corner at the stop sign and walked up the street to an enormous old house that stood three stories high. I’d long imagined the people who lived in such grandeur on the most prestigious street in Ontario. Now I was being invited in to such a home. Mrs. Pettermint unlatched an intricate metal gate, swung it open and nodded at me to follow. With my head flung back and mouth wide open, I followed slowly as the cloth bag bumped against my ankles. Eventually we reached the huge front door with a wide oval glass in the center.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked as she unlocked the door with a large metal key and led me from the entryway directly into the kitchen. I nodded silently as my eyes caressed the large airy room. Everything was golden– the counters, the cabinets, the floor, even the stove and refrigerator glowed with copper color. Along the far wall sat a wooden table against two large open windows with flower printed curtains dancing in the breeze. I stood there enchanted, trying to capture it in my mind to remember forever.

Mrs. Pettermint hoisted a big pitcher of tea from the refrigerator and poured the golden liquid into two glasses filled with ice. Waiting patiently with my chin nearly resting on the countertop, I acknowledged a slight sigh of contentment deep within. In sharp contrast to a sort of tired desperation that usually clung to the kitchen in our trailer, this kitchen felt like the warm embrace of a loving soul.

“So have you found any answers?” asked Mrs. Pettermint as she set the glasses on the table and motioned me to sit.

“I don’t think so,” I answered, trying to recall our earlier conversation.

“I’m not surprised. One question just leads to another anyway. It’s the journey, never the destination.” She took the cloth bag from where it set, and pulled out a bag of cookies. Imagine, cookies, in the middle of the afternoon for no reason at all? I sat as instructed while she placed half a dozen chocolate chip cookies on a plate before setting them in front of me. Any thought of questions immediately disappeared from my mind. I stared at the large, chunky pieces of splendor, awaiting permission.

“Go ahead, that’s what they’re there for.” Mrs. Pettermint smiled. She sat down in the chair next to me and with a delicate motion, picked up a cookie. She had barely taken a nibble when I swallowed hard, smacked my lips and wiped my face with the little yellow napkin resting under my glass. Then I clutched my hands in my lap and waited. I couldn’t seem to help staring at the four remaining cookies.

“Did you want another one?” Mrs. Pettermint asked, as though fascinated by my predicament.

“May I?”

“I don’t know,” she answered in a way that was to grow familiar to me in the coming years. “Only you know what it will mean for you to have another cookie.”

“What? Does that mean I can have one?”

“Let me put it this way, Grace. Only you know whether it is the right thing for you to do or not, with this circumstance or any other.” Noticing my confused expression she went on, “See my dear, I don’t know when you normally eat your supper. Would another cookie ruin that? How will your mother feel if you don’t eat your dinner? What do you think you should do?”

It was hard to imagine what she was talking about. No one ever asked me what I should do about anything. Wasn’t it someone else’s place to tell me whether I could or couldn’t do it? Here was this lady asking me if I thought I should do it...if I thought I should eat another cookie! Yes, she probably was crazy—harmless—but crazy.

“I think I should have another cookie,” I said taking advantage of her craziness.

“Then have one,” she replied with no expression on her face.

That too surprised me. I half expected a trick, the kind of trick Grandma would play when she would say, “I want you to clean up your room this morning.” She’d then start fussing if you hadn’t done it in 10 minutes. But Mrs. Pettermint said nothing. She finished her first cookie right after I swallowed the last of my second.

Three more cookies remained on the plate. I stared at them for a moment, blinked, and then looked at Mrs. Pettermint.

“My, that was good. But I think I’ve had quite enough for me,” Mrs. Pettermint said as she took a drink of tea.

Then a funny thing happened. At that moment, for the first time in my life, I realized I had a choice. In a voice I had never heard before, I said, “I think I’ve had quite enough for me too!”

Mrs. Pettermint nodded as though what I had said was the most normal thing in the world. Then, as though taking pity on my new found determination, she rose from her chair and took the cookies back to the counter. It felt good. Who would have thought it felt so good to leave chocolate chip cookies uneaten on a plate? Later that night, when I was attempting to finish my smaller than usual dinner, I silently thanked Mrs. Pettermint for the first of many lessons to come.

Suddenly it didn’t seem so important for summer to end and school to start once again. It no longer mattered that the dramas Nancy and I concocted with Barbie, Midge and Ken were in re-runs. Even Maggie’s snubs evaporated. As a miniature copy of Mom, they both sat unapproachable and absorbed in stacks of books. Mom with novels boldly displaying men and women locked in passionate embraces, and Nancy with volumes of The Hardy Boys Mysteries and Nancy Drew littering our small bedroom.

I could tell Grandma hated their reading too. She seemed to show up more that summer, arriving on either Friday evening or Saturday morning, to find Mom and Maggie silently turning pages. I’d look up from the television, or my latest art project, or a mini drama with Midge and Ken, and there she stood. “Oh, hi Grandma,” I’d say, acting as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Look at you! When was the last time you had a bath and wore clean clothes? I think you were wearing those shorts when I was here two weeks ago.”

She had a point. I had dressed myself out of the dirty clothes hamper for a week now. But, who needed clean clothes anyway? Shoes, toys and magazines littered the living room floor and the coffee table held metal trays from last night’s dinner. I looked blankly at my Grandmother, knowing no answer would satisfy her.

“Enough is enough,” she muttered, as she lumbered down the side hall to the back bedroom of the trailer shaking the foundation as she went. I didn’t hear her knock, only hit the hollow panel door so that it flung open and hit the back wall with a bang.

“Oh, Mom...I didn’t know you were coming,” said my mother as though half asleep.

“Katherine Elaine, this has got to stop. When was the last time you looked at your house? The place is a pit. I’ll admit it’s not much, but this is ridiculous. Grace is a mess, I’ll bet you’re out of food, and everything is filthy.”

I cringed. My grandmother’s booming voice confirmed what I had being trying to ignore. It also announced the problem to the closest thirty trailers that surrounded our home.

“Are you going to read for the rest of your life? What about your children? What kind of life is that? You’ve made your bed, Katherine, and you’re going to have to lie in it whether you like it or not. God is not at all pleased with what you are doing here!”

“I told you not to talk to me about God!” came a shrill voice that I barely recognized as my mother’s. “I want nothing to do with a God that allows me to end up in this kind of a hell-hole. If you want to know the truth, I don’t think there is a God.”

I no longer cared whether the neighbor’s heard any of the conversation. Instead, I balled myself up next to the couch and put my hands over my ears. My mother’s words pounded relentlessly in my head.

“My life is miserable, miserable. Do you hear me? I go to work, I come home, I take care of the kids. I go to work, I come home, I take care of the kids. There’s no end to it. The only joy I have is books. God isn’t doing much for me, but at least when I’m reading it takes me away from this awful life. And I’m tired of you telling me what I can and can’t do.”

The sharp edges of her words felt like stabs from a blade. I didn’t fully understand what she was saying, but I knew that she was very unhappy, and that I caused it.

“You act like your life is hard,” I heard Grandma snort. “Let me tell you about hard. This is a cakewalk compared to mine. But I never once gave up, I never blasphemed against God. God was the only thing that got me through raising three kids during the Great Depression. You act like you have no money. You don’t know what it means until you have nothing in your kitchen and a husband who uses every dime in the house for alcohol.” Grandma paused only long enough for a deep breath and continued, “The only thing that kept me going, the only thing I had was my faith. Oh...you want to talk about hard, I can talk about hard.”

The words I heard made me perk up with attention. Up until that moment, Grandma seemed to rule us with confidence, sureness, and God at her side. Surely, God wouldn’t make things hard for Grandma? Didn’t she constantly tell us that by doing the right thing, God rewarded those who loved Him? But if bad things still happened to believers like Grandma, what was the point? Was God that mean?

“Katherine, someone needs to take charge here. Are you going to snap out of it, or must I take over?”

Now the questions in my head turned to dread. Something bad was going to happen. The resignation in my Grandma’s voice announced it wasn’t something she wanted to do, but as with most things in her life, she would step in if she believed it her duty.

“Maybe...well maybe it would be good if you were here for a while,” said my mother with what sounded like a sigh. “Actually, I need some time out and away. Gloria and I talked about going out now and then. With you here with the kids, I could take a little time for myself.”

There it was. Not only was Dad gone, Mom was gone as well.

No one noticed as I headed out the door and down the sidewalk. The late summer sun cast long shadows down the street and lawns of the houses. Although I had only visited a half a dozen times in the past, I knew Mrs. Pettermint was the only person I could trust. I had questions and I needed answers.

I knocked on her door two times and rang the bell in between. Nothing. With nowhere else to go, I walked over to the swinging bench suspended on the porch and climbed aboard. My feet stuck out like two pencils in the air, and without traction, there was no way to get the swing going. So I sat and let the afternoon breeze and the motion of my weight wobble the bench slightly in either direction. I closed my eyes and let motion almost lull me asleep.

When I blinked, I saw Mrs. Pettermint coming down the sidewalk. With her cloth bag on one side and a black leather purse on the other, she slowly walked in my direction and smiled at the sight of me.

“Hello Grace,” she said as she came up the steps. I scrambled down from the bench, hurried to her side, and grabbed her bag. It was as heavy as last time.

“Hi Mrs. Pettermint. I hope it was okay if I came over today. Grandma came, and I didn’t want to be there.” Barely inside the door, I continued, “Mrs. Pettermint, how come life isn’t fair?”

Walking into the kitchen, she took her bag back from me and heaved it up on the counter. Then, after a moment of thought she said. “I think it is, Grace. Oh, it isn’t always what we think we want. But I believe that life is always fair.”

“Then you don’t have my life,” was my quick response.

“So what do you think isn’t fair about it?”

“Well, I don’t have a Dad, he was killed in a car accident. My mom acts like she doesn’t care about us anymore, and my Grandma never did. My friend Nancy though—she’s got a perfect Mom and a perfect Dad and even a perfect sister. That’s not fair is it?”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled and began reaching into her bag and pulling out her groceries. I stood at the butcher-block counter in the center of the kitchen stroking a box of Earl Gray tea as she worked her way around me.

“First off, things are seldom what they appear Grace, remember that. The reason Nancy’s life seems so perfect is because it is hers, and not yours. Every life has challenges, but every one of us has the choice of how we will react to our situations. Do you understand?”

“No,” I mumbled, tracing the edge of the box with my fingers. Here I was looking for sympathy, instead I got more questions.

“I’m surprised. You are normally a very observant girl. Instead of honestly looking at Nancy’s family, you have decided to pretend her life is perfect, instead of normal. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said forcing my lips into a frown as she gently took the box from my hands and put it in the cupboard. The counter was now clean and she motioned me over to the table.

“The only time,” said Mrs. Pettermint, “I ever pretended that someone else’s life was better than mine was when I wanted to feel sorry about my own. That’s what most people do. By blaming other people, and saying that it’s not fair, they can pretend there’s nothing they can do to make their own lives happier.”

But there is nothing I can do,” I whined.

“Grace, you can always do something. Sometimes, the best thing is just to be grateful for what you do have, rather than what you don’t have. You are a very smart, self-aware girl for your age. Do you have any idea what an advantage that is? Your future is filled with possibility. You appear to be extremely healthy, most of the time you’re happy. You have friends; I’ve heard you talk about them. You have a roof over your head, clothes to wear, and food to eat. I think your mother loves you, and your grandmother too, although they don’t always act the way you want them to. You live in a great town, in a great state, in a country that most people in the world envy. You are very blessed Grace Martin, but I think you forget that now and then.”

Hm..m...she had a point. It did sound pretty good when she explained it that way. Maybe there was something in the way people thought about things? I wasn’t quite ready to believe that Nancy’s life wasn’t perfect, but mine didn’t sound so bad now. Still, one thing remained.

I stuck out my chin and asked, “But what about God?”

“What about God?” she echoed.

“Well, how’s God fit in? My grandmother does everything for God. She’s always telling us about it. But where does it get her? If all you have to do is think about what is good in your life, what does it matter what you think about God?”

“It’s the same thing Grace. When you’re thinking about good things, when you’re thinking about love, and how everything fits together in your life, you’re thinking about God. I believe your Grandmother calls all the good things in her life God. That’s what she means when she says she lives for God, and that’s what helps her get through all the tough times.”

“But I thought you said she was wrong?” I countered.

“I said I didn’t agree with her about you being a sinner. But people are seldom either all wrong or all right...most of us just do the best we can with the consciousness we have at that time.” Then seeing the dazed expression on my face, she got up from the chair and went to a bowl of fruit on the counter. Tearing off a banana, she walked back over and handed it to me with a smile. “Here, we’ve talked enough for one day.”

Right again. That day was the first time anyone had ever pointed out to me that no person was either completely good or bad, but in my eyes I never once saw Mrs. Pettermint do wrong. And while I couldn’t quite grasp the significance of her words that day, I began to see my situation a little differently. And as it turned out, my life did change dramatically that afternoon, but as my fear diminished, and with my mentor’s help, things turned out better than I ever imagined.

Chapter 3

Many years later I realized that one of the most valuable gifts Mrs. Pettermint gave me was her ability to always see the good, regardless of how things appeared on the surface. Just when things got about as bad as could be imagined, something wonderful or miraculous happened. I read one time that the opposite of paranoia—is “pro-noia.” Pro-noia is the completely extreme and unreasonable state of mind that the universe is out to do you good.

Later that week Grandma moved into our trailer. Having her in the house was in some ways even easier than having her visit. Chores became number one priority after school with no discussion about who did what. After chores, playtime came next, or in Maggie’s case reading time, until dinner. Dinner preparation started at 5:00 with mealtime always at 5:30 sharp. If you missed it, you didn’t eat. Afterwards, we washed dishes on a rotating basis.

Then came homework. Although I credit Mrs. Pettermint with most of my mental and spiritual development, I know Grandma deserves recognition for her discipline and my good marks starting that year in fifth grade. Each night she asked us specifically about homework, and we’d better tell the truth, because Grandma always checked up with our teachers. From then on, I never had an issue with grades.

Mrs. Pettermint approved. At first, I whined to her for sympathy, but her familiar smile was all I got. We had a routine, Mrs. Pettermint and I. I “dropped in” on Tuesdays and Fridays each week. She also planned chores for me, but rewarded me well. After carrying boxes or books from one room to another, or sweeping the porch because trees had dropped piles of leaves from the wind, or dusting all the little rails on the gargantuan stairway, she would give me some cookies or a piece of homemade pie. More importantly, she talked with me and answered my questions.

Of course, life with Grandma had challenges, too. Wandering the neighborhood at will, or disappearing for hours at a time was impossible. I now wore clothing that was both clean and coordinated. The most stringent requirement was that both Maggie and I were expected to attend Grandma’s church every Sunday.

In the beginning, I looked forward to it. I’d always been curious about how the Pentecostal religion worked and how it compared to Pastor Baker’s church. Grandma’s people met in an adobe style building that morphed between an old style mission and a jail. Inside simplicity ruled. Stackable brown metal and vinyl chairs sat precisely in rows facing a harsh wooden lectern at the front. The flowers people brought on Sunday barely masked the severity of the room.

Our first Sunday there, Grandma grasped both Maggie and I by the hand and marched us right up to a tall, painfully-thin man wearing a faded black suit. “Pastor Michaels,” said Grandma in her commanding voice. “Here are my granddaughters, Margaret and Grace. They’re the ones I told you about.”

“I’m glad you’re here, girls,” he said smiling with a mouth full of yellowed and slightly crooked teeth. “I know it is a blessing to your Grandmother to have you here.” He reached out and shook first Maggie’s, and then my hand. Looking back at Grandma with a smile, he patted her shoulder as though to congratulate her. “And their mother...are we still praying?” That was the first time I realized that Grandma used reinforcements.

Right from the beginning I noticed that the people at the Calvary Community Church were different. Although their mornings were still filled with Jesus, their music made everyone clap their hands and tap their feet. Once the music got rolling, many would leap to their feet and wave their arms in the air in celebration. They looked as though they were so transported by their awe of God, that they were oblivious to what anyone else was doing. In the beginning, this act of faith impressed me.

That wasn’t all. Once transported by the music they would begin to prophesy. Grandma was the best of them. Speaking loudly, as though a channel for God Himself, she and others would stand, arms in the air, and state the hard words of their Lord. Then once the prophecy ended, the speaking in tongues began. Sounding a bit like a language Nancy and I used with our Barbie dolls when we wanted them to sound like they came from a foreign country, Grandma was usually one of the first and longest.

No one ever explained it. Although they all looked as though what they were saying was important, it never made sense, and left me feeling confused and separate. Week after week the pattern remained. Oh, Grandma didn’t always do the talking, but she was definitely one of the regulars. The prophesying and the speaking in tongues gradually became so commonplace I even tried it myself. Still, I always knew I was faking it. Was I the only one who wondered why?

Even after going weekly for over a year, my skepticism remained. On the other hand, Maggie’s devotion grew. I could hear her next to me, singing all the songs under her breath and even speaking-in-tongues now and then. Every time Grandma said, “Praise the Lord” Maggie would repeat it—though not as loud or forceful.

The morning of my biggest disillusionment arrived on one of those days when a smile seemed glued on my face from the moment I woke up. The sun shone brightly without being hot, and all the trees, bushes and flowers radiated with life. Although preferring the car, Grandma consented to our walking to church. Maggie even let me hold her hand.

By now, we had our own friends at church. My eyes immediately sought out a boy named Brian Turner. Whenever I was close to him my heart beat faster and my face glowed red. In response, he ignored me, but at least I now had something tangible to worship at church. At the appointed time, we all trooped inside the building.

That morning Pastor Michaels seemed to share my enthusiasm and his welcome felt particularly passionate. “Welcome my brethren! On this glorious day we are here to celebrate and worship the Lord.” His eyes glowed like I had never seen before.

“And the reason this is such a glorious day, is that last night I was tried by Satan and was saved by our Lord Jesus. This is the day my friends, this is the day!” With beads of sweat forming on his forehead, he shook his head back and forth until his voice burst out again, “This morning I have a message from God for us all. The time is now!”

I could feel the energy surge in the tiny room. A special message from God? This must be very important. I noticed Grandma shift back and forth in her seat. A smile lit her lips and her eyes returned the passion found in Pastor Michaels. She then started the mantra that was to continue most of the morning, “Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord!”

“Friends let me tell you what happened,” shouted Pastor Michaels. “Last night I woke from sleep to find three demons standing at the foot of my bed. I knew why they were there—you know why they were there! They were there to try to stop me from doing the Lord’s work. Then, as SATAN’S power flooded the room I was filled with such a terror that the very breath of me was lost. I could do nothing, I was frozen in my fear. Then my friends, one small part of me cried out for my Lord. And that’s all it took! I knew that the ONLY thing that could save me, the only thing that could redeem me, was the blood of Christ.”

Sweat poured down Pastor Michael’s red face, but I’d never seen him look happier. I glanced around me and could see the mesmerized look on every expression in the small room. Many were nodding as their eyes bulged from their faces. Most were doing the same mantra as Grandma, “Praise the lord....” Why did everyone look so excited that Pastor Michaels had seen demons?

Pastor Michaels took a deep breath and carried on, “Now I know we are all tried constantly in our faith. I know that Satan continuously tries to keep me from the Lord’s work. That happens to all God’s faithful. Remember though...just when I thought I was lost, just when I thought the power of evil had sucked me into hell itself, I cried out to the Lord. I cried out in a way that we must do every day. I shouted, ‘Lord save me!’ And He did. Of course He did! Instantly, I felt the warm blood of Christ soaking me and protecting me from the evil that had come to over-take me. That overwhelming evil was no match for the power of God! Once again my sweet Lord saved me!”

We all jumped as Pastor Michaels dropped suddenly to his knees with a thud. He raised his hands in the air and tilted his closed eyes to the ceiling. All around me the room responded. Every person slipped out of their chairs on to their knees. I watched the exodus with squinted eyes and followed suit. Hands waved in the air and upturned faces reflected the triumph experienced by Pastor Michaels.

My mind erupted with questions. While Satan was a common topic on Sundays, he had never seemed so real before. Now, everything appeared dark and full of shadows. The beautiful morning and my simple joy vanished. Worst of all, the security, the comfort I had previously known by thinking that all was right in the world, suddenly vanished.

For if Pastor Michaels, a man who lived his religion every day, could be challenged by demons in the middle of the night, what chance did I have? What chance did any of us have? If Pastor Michaels was afraid, afraid he could be sucked into hell, I could be moments away from the same fate. A shiver ran through my body as I tried to pray, but images of demons filled my head.

Pastor Michaels wasn’t done. After a few minutes of worship, he rocked back on his heels and opened his eyes. “People, I was tested, as we all are every day. However, as long as we stand fast in our faith, we SHALL overcome. But there’s more. The Lord wasn’t through with me yet...” This announcement brought several gasps as people nodded in wide-eyed wonderment. He motioned them up from the floor, and everyone slid back into their seats.

Rising to his feet, Pastor Michaels began to rub his chin with one hand and grasp his elbow with the other. He looked as though he was struggling with what to say next. He first paced to the back of the pulpit, and then forward again, before stopping and letting his eyes roam the audience. That’s when I noticed a pattern. He was looking at the children. Noticeably, he stared at Maggie and me.

“Friends, I wasn’t just saved by the Lord this morning. I was saved so I could share a very special message with you.” His voice was quieter, but that made the intensity even more powerful.

Suddenly he shouted, “And the message is...SATAN is coming after our children!”

The room was eerily silent. There was no “praise the Lord” in response to that. I heard Maggie draw in her breath, but I never heard her exhale. I suddenly realized that my heart was pounding. It was worse than I imagined.

“You can see it...can’t you?” Pastor Michaels asked as his voice rose with passion. “It’s everywhere. Every day in our schools, Satan is at work on our children. That’s why prayer there is challenged. That’s why the teachers are trying to teach evolution! But it’s more than just schools. You can see it on television, you can see it in movies, you can see it everywhere with all the rock and roll. People, we must keep our children from dancing!” He slowed for a moment and took a breath. “More importantly, you can see it in the broken families right here in our community.” It was obvious who Pastor Michaels referred to as he glared at my sister and me.

“I was told that it is time to take our children back. No longer can we stand by and let this happen. We need to wash our children in the blood of Christ so Satan cannot touch them. They must hear the word of God, they must do the Lord’s work.”

The congregation was now reanimated, at least the adults were. They seemed relieved that they were off the hook and returned to their nodding of heads and their praising of the Lord. Not so with us kids. We were immobile, awaiting our sentence. We weren’t quite sure what this verdict meant.

“People, we must turn over the children of this church to the Lord’s care and we must pray. We must pray without ceasing. What I want to happen now is for the children to come forward...up here by the altar. And everyone else needs to get on their knees and pray with me.”

I looked at Maggie for what we should do. With a determined nod, she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the space right before Pastor Michaels’ feet. All the other children were coming from their seats and the adults were easing out of their chairs and back on to their knees. Pastor Michaels motioned us down before joining us on the hard, worn carpet.

“In the name of Jesus we call upon the Lord to protect these children from the evil in this world. I now acknowledge that Jesus Christ is my personal Lord and Savior, and I ask that each child here do the same.”

I opened my eyes and looked up from my bent head at Pastor Michaels. He watched us all and waited. Maggie spoke first. Her eyes shone as she repeated the words that acknowledged her faith in Jesus. One by one, the group around me followed, until I alone remained. Then I realized they were all looking at me, waiting for me.

The problem was, I had so many questions. Why did everyone else seem so certain while I was more confused than ever? At this moment in my life, Satan felt more real than Jesus ever had. Satan felt more real than my father had. It was hard to comprehend how one little statement was going to protect me from a horrible future. If Jesus was so powerful, why was Satan on the planet to begin with? Besides, what good had it done Pastor Michaels? Apparently, demons still tormented him on a regular basis.

But I could also tell that those around me didn’t care about my questions. They wanted, they needed, my automated response. It was as though we could ignore the scary reality of what was happening as long as we just pretended it was all normal and didn’t raise a doubt. I didn’t know what else to do, so I did what was expected. I recited the words.

Everyone smiled then and the room erupted in “Praise the Lord.” The illusion was complete. On one level, it felt quite pleasant to belong. Maybe it didn’t matter if you really believed. Maybe if you did it over and over again, a transformation would occur? Yes, surely that was the answer.

Grandma was especially pleased. I could tell by the smile on her face that our actions made her proud. The minute we finished the closing song, she bustled over to Maggie and smothered her in an embrace. She then descended on me with a hug that nearly knocked all the air out of my lungs.

Amazingly enough, everyone else carried on just like they did every Sunday. Everyone that is, except us kids. We all looked spooked. Even Brian Turner and some of his friends stood closer to their parents than I’d ever seen before. Regardless of whether we had turned our lives over to Jesus, the world was suddenly a scary place to live.

Even more painful was that I couldn’t talk about it. I wanted to ask Pastor Michaels, as we headed out the door, if I had to spend my life like him always watching out for the same demons? I wanted to ask Grandma as we walked down the sidewalk under the huge eucalyptus trees if Satan had ever come to get her in the middle of the night? I wanted to ask Maggie if she had always known that we lived in such a frightening world. I wondered if life had always been so filled with terror, and I’d been blind before. I wanted to ask someone, anyone, what it was we had done that was so terrible to deserve such a fate?

Of course, there was only one person I could ask. The minute we got home, I changed out of my dress and slipped into shorts and a t-shirt. I told Grandma that Mrs. Pettermint needed some help that afternoon, and actually prayed as I walked to her house that she’d be home.

I had never been there on a Sunday. It had never occurred to me to ask her if she went to church somewhere. Of course I didn’t think so, because I had never heard her speak of sin or Satan, and what else did you talk about in church? Plus, she never seemed afraid—of course, neither had I before that morning. But I was beginning to suspect it was because I was only a kid.

She was home! I could see Mrs. Pettermint sitting on her porch swing rocking gently. I could tell she was reading a book but when I was only a house away, she looked up and saw me. Her smile immediately calmed the flutter in my stomach. I ran across the grass and up the steps to the swing.

“Mrs. Pettermint,” I started, as I tried to catch my breath. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Mrs. Pettermint returned my smile, and looked like she was glad to see me too.

“I have to ask you something, something very important.” I suddenly found it difficult to meet her eyes so I climbed up, slid back against the back of the swing, and stared down at my hands in my lap. “This morning, at church, Pastor Michaels told us something terrible.”

My words hung heavy in the air. I could hear Mrs. Pettermint’s soft breath as she sat calmly beside me and waited until I could feel the words rise up undeterred inside me. I blurted out, “This morning Pastor Michaels said some demons came and tried to get him, and even though he was saved by the blood of Jesus, Satan still wanted to get us...Satan wants to get all the children.”

I heard Mrs. Pettermint take a sharp breath. She waited. She was good at that, she always gave you a chance to talk, even when it was hard for you.

“And then he said...he said the only way to save ourselves was to claim Jesus Christ as our personal Lord and Savior. But Mrs. Pettermint,” I stopped a minute, shook my head and tried to figure out how to best confess my guilt. “I didn’t feel anything. I said the words. They all expected me to...so I said them. But even though I said the words, it didn’t help, I’m still afraid. Does that mean Satan will really get me now?”

Mrs. Pettermint slowly put her book down beside her and sat quietly next to me while continuing to rock the swing with her feet. The only sound was her consistent breathing. For some reason it seemed a little louder, a little longer, and maybe a bit more controlled than normal breathing. I prepared myself for her answer. An answer that would surely tell me what I had done wrong.

“Grace, I’ve told you before I believe that you, and I, and every person on this planet has to choose what they will believe. Do you remember that?” She was staring straight ahead, but reached over with one hand and grabbed one of mine. When I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, I noticed a tear slowly making its way down her cheek. I nodded in answer to her question even though I wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“We all have to choose, in everything, all the time. And that includes what we believe about God.” Again, she was paused, as though waiting for that statement to soak into my head.

“I do not believe in a God that allows demons, or something called Satan to come and hurt children. My God is all-powerful, everywhere present, and knows all. When you believe, really believe, in that kind of God, you never have to be afraid.” She squeezed my hand to get my attention and when I looked up at her face she said, “I do not believe in demons, I do not believe in Satan. I believe in a God that loves you, protects you, and wants the best for you at all times.”

I didn’t understand. A large part of me was comforted by her soothing description of God. After all, that was the God that I had always thought I knew. But that morning, and several other times, I had heard of another view of God, one that was terrifying, all from people who were supposed to know about God. Which was right? And was God something that could truly be described by different people in different ways?

As though she could read my mind, she continued. “Do you remember how one afternoon we talked about Danny Schroeder and his father? You told me you asked Danny about whether he thought his father was mean, and Danny denied it completely. You thought that was strange because everyone knew his father hit both Danny and his Mom sometimes. You’d seen the bruises on Danny’s arms at school yourself.”

“When you asked your Grandma about Danny’s dad she told you she thought he was a good father and husband. From her perspective, Danny’s dad is a hard worker and provided well for his family. When he lost his job, it took him awhile to find another, but he always did his duty.”

I nodded yet again.

“Then you asked your mom and she told you she didn’t like Danny’s dad at all. She knew about the beatings, especially when he was out of work. Of course, then Mr. Schroeder got a new job, stopped drinking, and he and his wife went to counseling. Then the abuse stopped. After that, your mother started talking good about him.”

Mrs. Pettermint paused for a moment and looked across the porch before continuing. “At the time you were confused because you didn’t know what to think about the man. Did you like him—did you not? You were also confused because everybody saw him so many ways. Do you remember what you decided in the end?” She paused, obviously waiting for an answer.

“Well,” I said, stalling as I tried to recall the conversation. “I decided that everyone saw him differently because things actually changed, so he changed. And people saw him differently because they were different, and they expected different things from him.”

“That’s good Grace. Can you see then that people could think about God somewhat the same?”

I wasn’t sure. “But isn’t God supposed to be...bigger than that? Isn’t He bigger than just what I want Him to be?” That kind of God didn’t sound very reassuring either.

“I think God is bigger than that too,” Mrs. Pettermint agreed. “Just because one person thinks God is one way, doesn’t make God little. God is not limited by my thoughts of Him. He is not limited by anyone’s thoughts of Him. Instead, the person with a little idea of God is a person who lives in a little way. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so,” I said, “but in some ways it’s starting to sound like God is like the Easter Bunny. Does this mean God’s not any more real than Santa Claus?”

“I don’t think so Grace. But, some people do. Some people say God is a figment of our imagination. They say we make Him up because it makes us feel better. I don’t think that’s true because God is very real to me. I see God in the world around me, in the people I meet and even in myself. I see God in the Good.”

“But what about Satan?” I asked, puzzled. “Don’t you see Satan in the world too?”

“I’ll admit some things look pretty awful, Grace. I see pain, I see violence, and I see people hurting.” Mrs. Pettermint frowned as she looked across the porch. “I see things that make me frightened, and things that frighten other people. But, and this is tricky Grace, I’m not even sure if you can understand it yet, but because I believe in a God that is an infinite God, I can’t believe in something opposing Him. We can’t have it both ways. Many people talk about the Devil, in a way that makes him as on the same level and as strong as, or more powerful than God. I don’t believe that. The God I believe in is ALL powerful.”

Mrs. Pettermint finally paused for a moment and a smile came to her face. “I choose to focus on a good God. Even in the midst of pain, I choose to remember the good, and then the things I don’t like take on less importance.”

“Then why do they tell us about Satan and the demons? It seems pretty real to me and it’s scary.” I felt like I was asking stupid questions, but my stomach still wrenched with residual fear.

“I’ll bet when they were little they were told the same story as you were told today, Grace. Unfortunately, they never bothered to question it. Or if they did, they were told that it was wrong to question. Did you ask anyone else today about what happened at church?” She waited as I shook my head.

“But it’s more than merely asking, Grace, it’s growing up and knowing God is much bigger and more powerful than any of the stories we heard when we were children. Of course, in order to have a new way to think about God, you have to do some thinking—and a lot of people don’t want to do that. They would rather go and have someone else tell them what God is, than spend the time and energy coming up with their own experience. Most people would rather decide once and for all whether they liked Danny’s father—and then judge him that way for the rest of his life. Very few people really want to know the ultimate truth.”

Mrs. Pettermint stroked my hand and looked at me with a smile on her face. “I can’t take your fear from you, Grace, even though I’d like to. Some people live their whole life that way. Others stuff it down and pretend it doesn’t matter. But you can do something. That is—talk about it, read about it, think about it. Choose to see the good and the power in God, and refuse to pay attention to scary monsters whether you see them in the movies—or you’re told about them from a minister. The choice is yours. It really is.”

I still wasn’t sure I understood. She was right though, about the movies. If I kept thinking about the monsters, I usually got more and more scared. Once I ignored them, once I focused on something else, they seemed to disappear. With her warm hand in mine, the world didn’t seem as frightening any more. Together, we looked down the porch and saw the lowering sun cast pillars of light across the streets and lawns of the neighborhood. A light breeze played with the hair on my neck and the gentle swinging of the bench matched the rhythm of my breath.

“Come on,” Mrs. Pettermint said as she slid forward off the swing and pulled me to my feet beside her. “We deserve a cookie after such a talk!”

I ate two big chocolate cookies that afternoon and Mrs. Pettermint didn’t comment one way or the other. Surely, a world that had Mrs. Pettermint and large moist chocolate cookies was a world that contained a loving and kind God.

Chapter 4

How did Grandma view Mrs. Pettermint? It never came up. Grandma probably believed that my helping a lonely spinster was my duty as a good Christian. I’m grateful she didn’t know how much I needed Mrs. Pettermint. Of course, I really needed them both.

Grandma taught me order and discipline. Through consistent practice and perseverance, I discovered that just about anything could be accomplished. In addition I learned about the power of will, from a woman who remained convinced she was only doing the will of God.

Mrs. Pettermint demonstrated the opposite. While she taught me many things, the most important was freedom; the freedom to be myself, to ask questions, even to make mistakes. Without her, I may have followed the same path as Maggie.

Right after the infamous Sunday at the Calvary Community Church, Maggie’s nightmares began. At least once or twice a week in the dead of the night, Maggie would toss and moan before eventually jerking up and letting out a terrifying scream.

At first I tried to comfort her, but she always pushed me away with her hands and her eyes and headed straight for Grandma’s bed. In the dark through the thin trailer walls I could hear Grandma murmur to Maggie, until either they or I drifted back to sleep. One time I knew they were praying and their voices flowed on and over one another for hours. Still whatever they said, it apparently didn’t help, because Maggie continued to dream of those demons.

After that, Maggie spent more and more time at church. Pastor Michaels held a special class two nights a week for those wanting baptism. Once Maggie began the classes, Grandma bought her a Bible. That black book, with her name inscribed in gold letters near the bottom right hand corner, became her nearest and dearest accessory. She carried it from room to room, and slept with it under her pillow. For two weeks it deterred the demons. Then like before, Maggie woke up crying and grasping for her book. I wanted to ask her why she bothered, but by then I knew she would only look at me like Grandma did sometimes and shake her head.

Pastor Michaels said the Bible was “THE WORD OF GOD.” That never made sense. After all, shouldn’t the real word of God keep a few spooks away from my sister? It was also ironic that Maggie, who was becoming increasingly more devout, should continue to be plagued by such terror. While I, who was doing some major backsliding, never once had a bad dream.

One afternoon I asked Mrs. Pettermint. “What do you think of the Bible?” It was summer time again. We were sitting out on the front porch swing watching her neighbor trim his lilac bushes. The sweet, heavy smell floated through the neighborhood.

“What do you think of it?” She’d started doing that lately, asking me for my thoughts before giving me her own.

“Well, Pastor Michaels says it’s the word of God and that it was written by God Himself. But I’ve read some of it, and it doesn’t always make sense. Plus,” I said wrinkling up my nose, “I’ve even read some parts of it where it sounds really mean and cruel. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“Is there anything good in it?” Mrs. Pettermint asked.

“Well, yeah. I like some of the stories. Jesus is a good guy and some of the miracles are pretty neat.”

“I agree,” said Mrs. Pettermint. “I like some parts of it and don’t care for others. I do believe there are things we can learn from it, and that’s why I enjoy picking it up now and then.”

“But aren’t you worried that you don’t honor and respect it enough? I mean...what if you dropped it or something?” Pastor Michaels warned us about that.

“Grace, as I’ve mentioned before, I believe that everything is the work of God. That means every book, every flower, every person. I choose to honor and respect all of God’s creations, not only one book. Besides, what kind of honor do you give something when you fear it? What kind of Supreme Being keeps you in terror? Only one that’s weak, only a God that’s separate from you.”

“Of course, it would be wonderful to have a book that told you everything you needed to know about being a human, sort of a guidebook. Think about it.” Mrs. Pettermint slid off the bench and headed into the kitchen for a promised glass of tea with me trailing behind. “That’s probably why so many people are attracted to it. If we all had an ‘Owner’s Manual’ for Life, if we held the once and forever only word of God, we wouldn’t have to come up with our own thoughts. Do you agree, Grace?”

“I don’t know...,” I still felt inadequate when put on the spot. It was so easy to believe adults had all the solutions. “...What if they’re right? What if the Bible is the irrefutable word of God?”

“Okay, I suppose that’s possible. Then what about the other books?” She looked over at me from the open refrigerator door.

“Other books?”

“Oh yes, the Jews have the Torah, the Muslims have the Koran. In the Far East, they have the Bhagavad-Gita, the Tao Te Ching and many others. Most of the great teachings on this planet have a book that explains the principles behind their belief. The question is then, which book do we choose? If one is right, does that make everyone else wrong?”

Mrs. Pettermint finished pouring tea into two glasses and carried them to the table. “Do you really think an all-powerful God that is capable of creating all of that—and all of this...” she spread her arms wide for emphasis, “...would be so stingy and preferential that It would only give Its word to a few people, and then damn everyone else?”

“No, I think God is better than that.” I answered with a phrase that seemed to fit many of these discussions. I was gradually becoming more comfortable with an idea of God that was bigger, better and more mysterious than anything most people or books seemed willing to explore.

Years later during a television interview, another reporter asked, “Did you ever talk about anything else besides God with Mrs. Pettermint?” The question made me laugh because we honestly talked about everything you could imagine. Funny though, how eventually everything seemed to get back to Spirit.

Mrs. Pettermint would listen to me tell about how Mom was never at home anymore, and when she was there, we never got along. In my opinion, my mother now spent all her free time with her girlfriend Gloria, and felt more like a distant elder sister. The next thing I knew, Mrs. Pettermint would explain how everyone searches for meaning in his or her life. When I commented that Mom appeared to be looking for meaning in all the wrong places-like Rick’s Bar, for instance, Mrs. Pettermint observed that sometimes we have to explore the wrong places to know the right places when we find them. She liked to say that no one could define another person’s journey for them; the important thing was the seeking.

When I complained to her about the way I looked and the fact that I was tall, stocky, and my hair consistently looked stringy, she would tell me my beauty and richness lay much deeper than a few cosmetic details. She seldom seemed to notice what I looked like, or wore, but continually focused on what I thought. She’d smile when I talked about Brian Turner or one of the other boys I found cute, but she never sympathized with me over their lack of attention. Instead she said, “Become what you have the potential to be Grace, and you’ll never have to worry about attracting men.” As good as that sounded, it wasn’t very comforting to a fourteen-year-old girl.

Then one spring day, Nancy told me her parents were getting a divorce. In that moment, Nancy’s life shattered, and my image of perfection was challenged. I told Mrs. Pettermint about it later. Though she could have, she never once said, “I told you so.”

Instead, the corners of her lips turned downward as she said, “Everyone, and every family, has its difficulties. There are always challenges that people on the outside can never know or understand. We must remain compassionate and remember that they are doing the best they can with what they know right now.”

For some reason, I got the distinct feeling she was talking about more than Nancy’s family.

“We always have a choice, you know,” Mrs. Pettermint said one afternoon after I mournfully explained how tough my life felt. That day my teachers assigned an extra dose of homework, Brian Turner continued to ignore me, and Grandma harped constantly about my duty to her and God.

“Remember Grace, you can’t always change the circumstances, but we can always change how we feel about it.” There she went with the choice thing again. Everything was a choice with Mrs. Pettermint, even those things that most people didn’t think were a choice. She always made it sound so simple. I wasn’t so sure. I thought I was beginning to think exactly the same way, until Mom brought home a new man to be our father.

I never considered the possibility that Mom could remarry. Why would she want to? For over four years, Grandma took great care of us, and it looked like Mom had it fairly easy. Of course, I was oblivious to her dating. She went out every weekend, and at times never came home. Until finally, during a huge argument, Grandma let her know that if she weren’t going to be home, she’d better be staying the night with Gloria.

Her announcement changed everything. “Maggie and Grace,” said Mom one day with a smile so wide her lips seemed stretched to her ears. She clung to the arm of the man standing at her side. Our living room felt small, and hotter than usual. “I want you both to meet the man who will be your new father.”

That explained one thing. All day Grandma fussed and puttered around the house. Her face, set in a small thin line, revealed nothing except to bark an order. While never one to waste a smile, she also never acted depressed, until today. The minute I saw the man standing at my mother’s side I knew why. He changed everything for my grandma, and she knew it.

“Hello girls,” he said, smiling. I could feel both sincerity and a bit of nervousness in him at the same time. “Your mother’s told me a great deal about you and I’m very happy to finally meet you.”

I liked him. Immediately, I knew this man cared about my mother, and therefore cared what we thought about him. Still, even though he projected a feeling of friendliness and warmth, Maggie standing frozen beside me, radiated fear. I saw her wary eyes as she stiffly stepped back from where we were standing.

With a flushed face and a forced smile Mom continued, “Girls, I suppose this is a surprise, but, Grandma felt it best to wait to introduce Mike until I was absolutely sure. That’s why I didn’t bring him home until now. Let’s all sit down for a while and get to know each other a bit more.” Mom motioned us to sit after Mike sat uneasily on the edge of the couch, watching Mom and following her cues. Maggie instead backed further towards a corner as though she was surrounded by a pack of wild dogs. Mom moved toward her, saw the look in her eyes, and instead joined Mike on the couch.

“I met your mother a couple of months ago,” Mike began, looking directly at me sitting in a chair that faced the couch. “I care about her very much and I’d like very much to marry her.” He looked at Mom and she smiled and looked back at him in a way that explained that it didn’t really matter what Maggie or I thought. I admired Mike though, for going through the motions. He knew it would matter to us. Unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be anything he could do about Maggie.

“Even though we know it is kind of sudden, at least to both of you, we want to get married right away. We’ve arranged to go to Vegas this weekend. Your Grandmother thinks it would be better if we went alone.” I noticed some doubt on his face but he continued. “She’s going to stay with you over the weekend and we’ll be back on Monday.” He looked at Mom as though something else needed to be said.

“And then...on Monday...your Grandma’s going to go back to her home up north,” said Mom.

“No. No, you can’t do that!” yelled Maggie. She skirted the back of the closest chair and dug her fingers into the fabric. “You can’t send Grandma away. She’s the only one who can save this family. She’s the only one who can save me!” Abruptly, she turned and ran down the hall to our bedroom.

I kept my hands neatly folded in my lap and looked at the anguish on both my mother and new father’s faces. After a nod from Mike, Mom jumped up and followed Maggie down the hall as I sat observing a man who instantly changed all of our lives. I thought of Mrs. Pettermint and asked myself, where’s the choice in this?

I was getting fairly good at it and it didn’t take long to answer. It was all about how we viewed the change. Obviously, to Maggie, nothing could be worse. While I wasn’t sure what would be different, in my imagination I envisioned all sorts of great possibilities. Maybe there was something to this choice thing?

As we waited for Mom, Mike told me about his house located only a few short blocks away. He continued about working close by and how long he’d had the house, but I didn’t hear any of it. I would soon be living in a house and I would still get to see Mrs. Pettermint. Finally, after all these years, I was going to live in a normal family, a family with a mother and a father. It was easy to see the good.

So much for normal. A week later, I moved my clothes into a new bedroom all to myself. The room was my own, because Maggie and Grandma both refused to leave Mom’s trailer. I wasn’t sure when or how they made the decision. I’d left to tell Nancy my good fortune, and when I returned the future of my family lay divided. I could tell Mike and Mom were disappointed and frustrated with the arrangement, but didn’t know what else to do.

Grandma wasn’t happy either. She never stopped praying the entire weekend Mom and Mike spent in Vegas. At night when we went to bed, she sat in her chair reading her Bible, and all day long she walked through the house with her lips moving.

When Mom and Mike returned from Las Vegas, we packed up everything that Mom and I owned and loaded it into Mikes’ blue Galaxy parked in the driveway. Once done, Maggie disappeared into our bedroom without even saying goodbye. Grandma sat in her chair bent over her Bible. When I leaned over to kiss her cheek, she said sternly, “I will never stop praying for you or your mother, Grace.” I’ll bet she never did.

This change in my experience carried enormous amounts of pain and pleasure. Now I had a father, but I lost a sister and a grandmother in the bargain. I often think back and wonder if at some point I could have changed what happened if I had stayed with Grandma myself, or somehow persuaded Maggie to come with us. But I don’t think so. Whatever it was that leads us down our individual paths was at work. Some people might call that grace.

Chapter 5

I never understood Mike’s attraction to our family. Maybe Mom’s dimpled cheeks, wide smile, and her shape in a bikini helped. I can remember her using that smile a lot with Mike in the beginning, and he always beamed a return. Otherwise, their relationship made little sense. Of course, just about everything about my mother was a mystery to me. She and I were like reluctant roommates, with Mike as our intermediary.

Mike was exactly opposite from my mother. He was born to be a father. From the moment I met him he took over for Grandma and became responsible for everything. He did it working over 40 hours a week selling insurance to worried people. He did it while mowing the lawn and weeding the flowerbeds of our house on the weekends. He did it by analyzing my report cards, encouraging my good grades, and showing up at all of my high school events. Best of all, he did it with a smile on his face. Evidently, Mike found his purpose when he took over our family. I hope in the end it was worth his trouble.

Things changed with Mrs. Pettermint and me too. While I continued to see her, my two days a week at her house got whittled down to one day a week. Eventually, I went by just every now and then. Mrs. Pettermint never said a word.

I don’t know why it seemed less and less important for me to see her. I honestly wasn’t thinking of her much at all. Maybe she reminded me of my early pre-family life. For whatever the reason, I slipped effortlessly into high school and life as an only daughter. For a while, questions and choices faded into the background. Fitting in and being normal became my primary motivation.

My interest in God faded too. Mike helped with that. He was adamant against any form of organized religion or discussing spirituality at all. As loving and compassionate as he was, God had no place in his world. In the beginning, he tolerated my comments or questions, but let it be known that I’d just eventually learn what he had in the long run. God was not to be trusted.

In a rare conversation with Mrs. Pettermint I asked, “Isn’t it awful that Mike’s first wife died giving birth to his baby daughter. To lose your wife and then your daughter in the same day is horrible and awfully unfair. Why would God do that?” The large chocolate chip cookie placed in front of me by Mrs. Pettermint quickly dissolved my righteousness. The late afternoon light of her kitchen seemed to glow with warmth.

“Who said God did it?”

Ah-ha! I had her. “Well, you’ve told me tons of times that there’s no devil, and that everything is made of God. So it must have been God’s fault.”

“Well, I suppose you can blame it all on God. Especially if you think of God as some bearded guy in the sky who just sits up there ready to judge us or condemn us at any moment. That kind of God forces you to constantly keep one eye over your shoulder hoping you don’t never do the wrong thing. Sounds scary to me.”

Mrs. Pettermint paused and reached for a cookie while softly smiling to herself. “Of course did you notice that even when the best people follow the rules, that sometimes bad things still happen to them? So, that can’t be the answer because there’s way too much injustice in the world for God to be only that.” She raised her eyes to look at me allowing her words to soak in.

“Or, some people think of God as a watchmaker. Some outside power that just winds everything up and then lets it go. That kind of God is better than one that is vindictive or punishing. But doesn’t it sound rather cold and impersonal? With that, there’s no mystery, grace, love, or transcendence. What a sad God that would be.”

After another pause, she softly continued, “I know it’s tempting to come up with an easy explanation. When I was younger, I wanted to blame God for the bad things that happened to me. It’s always easier to blame someone else, anyone else, the devil included. Sadly, what we do when we blame God is tell ourselves that we’re separate from the problem. That only makes us separate from the solution. We’re also saying that if we were in charge, we’d do better than God does. But Grace, we’re not separate. There’s no God doing anything to us. We are it, the problems and the solutions.”

Again, she paused, ignoring her tea and her cookie as she looked out the window. Something about her today seemed melancholy. Finally she continued, “I don’t know when it happened for me, who knows what makes it happen in anyone? One day I realized that it was all God, there was no division between the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff I like and the stuff I can never understand as long as I live. I heard in my soul that everything I was, everything that ever was, was God. So, if everything is God, then even when something tragic happens, even when there’s pain, I have to remember God is still present in the midst of it. No separation.”

“Grace,” said Mrs. Pettermint as she reached over and placed her small hand over mine. “It’s okay to feel anger or pain. It’s also okay that we don’t always understand. Just remember good exists, God exists. And chances are, if I can’t see it, it’s because I’m blind to it for some reason.”

“But Mike doesn’t even believe in God any more,” I said, trying to understand the depth she was describing. “He says he prayed for God’s help and God did nothing. If we’re just supposed to accept it, then why bother to pray anyway? Why bother to try to change anything?”

“Excellent questions, Grace,” said Mrs. Pettermint, as her entire body straightened up and came back alive. She tilted her head slightly to the side for a moment and then continued, “I think there are several reasons to pray. One reason is because it focuses our attention on what we desire to happen. Don’t let anyone tell you differently, you influence everything you focus on. So, it’s very important to pray or focus on those things we want to experience.”

Then her eyes got a little dimmer and she looked out the window again. “Praying also reminds us of our connection to the mystery. It links the Spirit inside you to the Spirit outside you. Mike might not believe he’s connected to God, but there’s no way he can avoid it. It would be like a fish denying the water around it, that water even existed. Without water, fish have no life. Prayer is our acknowledgment of the water—of our connection to Life—and our co-creation with it.”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled and looked me straight in the eyes. “Of course, our prayers don’t change God, Grace. When we pray, we change ourselves. That’s where the real work lies. Still, that’s only the way I see it. I suggest you come to your own conclusions.”

I arrived at a few too many of my own conclusions as my high school years raced by in a blur. My girlfriend Nancy and I remained friends although she spent more and more time with her mother since her father’s departure. I also spent hours studying. The habits planted by Grandma proved beneficial as my grades put me close to the top of my class. Rather than being distracted by extracurricular activities, like boys, I wasn’t even offered a choice. I seemed invisible to the opposite sex.

Equally nonexistent were Maggie and Grandma. At school, I never ever saw my sister. Just to make sure they were still alive I would occasionally walk over to our old trailer to check for movement. There Grandma seemed to endlessly sit in the living room rocker reading her Bible. The trailer looked eerily unchanged. In one corner sat the old black and white television. The linoleum in the kitchen still shamelessly displayed its cracks and chips. The dirt colored couch still sagged with the crocheted blanket draped over its back. Grandma too, was a perfect duplicate.

“We’ve missed you at church, Grace,” she would always say.

I never responded. I knew nothing I could say would make any difference.

“Maggie is teaching Sunday school now, did I tell you?”

Of course, she had, every single time I visited for the last three years. I braced myself for the remaining routine.

“Pastor Michaels still asks about you and your Mom.” That was all she ever said about Mom. It was never Katherine, it was never my daughter, it was always, “your mom.”

Within a few minutes, Grandma and I ran out of things to talk about. That was actually funny, because the only thing she wanted to discuss was God, and with her I had no desire to talk about my former favorite subject. Of course, two-way conversations never mattered to her anyway. Every one of her dialogues featured the sorry state of the world and how it was only a matter of moments before Jesus cleaned house. The minute I arrived, I itched to leave.

One muggy day in May, I sat on Grandma’s couch and searched my mind for an excuse to escape. Picking up a church tract from the coffee table, I waved it against my face in a vain attempt to create a breeze in the stagnant trailer. For the last 30 minutes, Grandma had described in gory detail a robbery at gunpoint of some of her church friends. Surely, that was a signal for the end of the world? As I waited for a pause in her breath to speak up, I heard a noise against the trailer door and laughter from outside. It was Maggie and probably her boyfriend, Pastor Michael’s nephew.

According to Grandma, there could be nothing better on earth. For the last six months I’d heard glowing reports of the guy. The prospect of a future minister as part of the family was about as good as it could get. However, none of that prepared me for my first look at Tim Michaels.

The young man who walked through the door with my sister was rail thin and at least a foot taller than Maggie. His short-cropped monotone hair seemed to jet out in every direction, although he’d generously tried to oil it into submission. Hollowed-out cheeks only accented the red and pox marked condition of his face. Hanging on his body was a gray suit made of cheap polyester with frayed edges, and one pocket torn and laying open. A perfect replacement to his uncle, I couldn’t imagine anyone my age attracted to him.

Maggie obviously saw something in him I didn’t. Her upturned faced glowed until, from the corner of her eye, she saw me sitting on the couch. Instantly her eyes narrowed and she clutched Tim’s arm. I think she would have pulled him out the door if she could have avoided our meeting.

“Oh, Tim and Maggie, you’re home,” said Grandma with a brilliant smile. “Come in, come in, it’s so hot out this afternoon.” She waved her arms inviting them further in the room. “Oh Tim, I don’t think you’ve met my other granddaughter.... Tim this is Grace, and Grace this is Tim. The one I’ve told you so much about.”

Maggie had nothing to worry about. From his narrowed eyes I knew what he thought of me, and saw him square his shoulders and lift his chin. “So this is Grace,” was all he said gravely.

Something inside me bristled. “Yes, I suppose it is time you met the wicked sister.”

I saw Grandma frown. And Maggie’s face had that confused look she got when things were not going the way she expected.

“So, did Maggie tell you everything? I mean really everything about our family?”

“Now Grace, I think you’ve said quite enough,” said Grandma struggling to put down her Bible, and position herself at the edge of her chair.

I’m not sure what came over me as I ignored both Grandma and Maggie and squared off against this new intruder. “Did Maggie tell you that our mother is a slut, or she was until she met our atheist new father? Did she tell you our real father killed himself driving home one night from a bar? And what about me? Did Maggie tell you that I’d rather die than go to that church of your uncle’s again?”

Grandma’s eyes bulged as her lips started moving in a familiar prayer. But I wasn’t finished.

“Oh, and did Maggie tell you that since your uncle introduced her to demons she’s been relentlessly tormented by them?”

“Grace!” shouted Maggie as she stepped toward me daring me to continue. “Just shut up and get out of here. You don’t belong here anymore.” She stepped back then and Tim put his arm around her for physical, as well as mental support. Then his thin lips started moving silently just like Grandma’s.

That was all the excuse I needed. Maggie was right. I didn’t belong there any more. But although it was inevitable, part of me ached from the loss. The separation of Maggie and me needed to be mourned, and from where I sat, so much of the division resulted from God.

We weren’t even invited to the wedding. Even though I probably deserved it, it seemed odd to have a sister getting married and not be there. In an unexpected show of emotion, Mom cried for days. Her puffy red eyes signaled her pain. About that time she took up drinking Scotch. Then when her eyes weren’t red, they were blurry. Mike said very little. About the only thing I ever heard him say was, “So much for a Christian God.”

On the day of the wedding, I went to Mrs. Pettermint’s. I hadn’t been there for a couple of weeks. Finals were over and school was out for the summer. None of us had been invited to Maggie’s graduation either. The only senior picture Mom saw of her eldest daughter appeared in my class yearbook.

Standing at the familiar door, I rang the bell and waited for the small steps on the hardwood floor inside. Mrs. Pettermint smiled when she saw me and held open the door. The day was warm, but the inside of her house felt still and cool, like a clear blue pond in the middle of a forest. “You look troubled Grace. Is something wrong?”

“Today was Maggie’s wedding day, but I don’t care.” I whined as I headed into the kitchen letting Mrs. Pettermint follow. “She’s marrying that weird guy and I’m sure there would just be a bunch of weird church people there anyway. Who needs’ em?”

“I imagine it still hurts though,” said Mrs. Pettermint softly as she pulled two glasses out of the cupboard. “I know it hurt a lot when my children refused to ever see me again.”

I looked up sharply at the woman who had been my friend for over six years. “Your kids? You never said? I...why wouldn’t they come to see you?”

“It’s a long story really. And in some ways, not too unlike your own. Let’s just say, I didn’t fit their idea of what a mother should be. I had to choose, as we all must, to live my life the way I felt directed to. It was that or let them decide for me, in return for their love. I guess you can see which choice I made?” Her voice sounded strange. Instead of its usual lilting quality, it had heaviness to it.

“But, your children...that must have been very hard?”

“It was one of the hardest things I ever did, I’ll give you that,” she answered. She stood frozen in the kitchen with her hands wrapped around the two empty glasses, all the time staring into space. “It was that, or die.”

Mrs. Pettermint swallowed hard before continuing, “So I made the ultimate choice. After all, we can only sacrifice ourselves for so long. For decades, I denied who I was and I lived where I didn’t belong. I did what they expected of me...when it was expected. I put my family, my husband...first. Unfortunately, I got gradually more out of touch with who I really was. In the end, life had no value, my Self had no value.” She finished filling our glasses with tea and brought them to the table where I sat. Sitting next to me, her hands smoothed the sides of her hair across her temples as she gazed out her favorite window. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and I could tell that her memory of it was still strong.

“What do you mean? Did you...it sounds like you wanted to kill yourself?” My voice reflected my surprise.

“Let me put it this way, staying in that kind of life was like killing myself. It’s bizarre that in our society we make a big deal out of suicide, and then turn around and almost force people to bury their real selves, just to fit in. I knew I had to make a change if I was ever going to live.” She shook her head as though brushing away a ghost, and looked across the table at me.

“It takes a brave person to be willing to live the life they feel called to live. Most of us take the easy way out, selling ourselves for the meager bits of love others choose to throw us. Women especially. We sell ourselves constantly for the security and approval of those around us. We forget who we are, we forget our own desires, our own power, all for the sake of family or love.” Pausing for a sip of tea, Mrs. Pettermint met my eyes with a sad smile.

“So we shouldn’t have children or families?” I asked.

“Good relationships are essential, so families and children can be wonderful. But they are no excuse for not becoming the person you were meant to be. In my day, we didn’t have much choice about how we created relationships. You do Grace, the women of today, do. Use that choice. Don’t let other women’s choices be yours. Be yourself.” Mrs. Pettermint seemed to rally a bit, until another cloud passed over her eyes.

“My greatest regret with my own daughter was in not raising her to know that a woman is much more than a servant to her children or her husband. Oh, I showed her eventually that we must take a stand for what we believe, but I think it came too late to make a difference in her life. Instead of setting a good example, I taught her to hate me.”

She had a daughter. How could a daughter hate Mrs. Pettermint? “What happened?”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled again. “One reason I don’t talk about it anymore is because it just brings up old feelings. You know what I’m talking about Grace. Have you ever been around people who are always telling you their own sad story? By telling it over and over again, we never move on. Instead we keep reliving the pain and staying stuck in it.”

“I refuse to retell the story of my past because my present life and the promise of my future are so much more exciting, happy, and healing than the past can ever be for me. I learned what I needed to learn and then it was time to let it go and move on.” Mrs. Pettermint sat quietly with one hand around the base of her glass and the other in her lap.

I nodded, understanding why it was good for people to let go of their stories. Still, my curiosity got the best of me. “Maybe I could learn something from your story?”

“Maybe,” continued Mrs. Pettermint, “but in the long run I suspect we do ourselves more harm than good by repeating it. Honestly, you don’t need to know how my family hurt me, or how I hurt them as I discovered who I was. Do you? I don’t deny the pain I’ve felt, but it’s much more healthy for me to focus on the lesson and the growth I’ve received.”

“Don’t those people who hurt you deserve to be punished?” I asked. “Do you let them get away with it? Don’t you want them to change? Don’t you want revenge?” I sat thinking about how I’d feel in a similar situation. “And besides, don’t you want other people to be on your side?”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled indulgently. “I suppose, occasionally I’ve felt that way. But Grace, I really believe that I can’t change anyone else, no matter how much I want to. The only person I can change is me. Sure, I can insult those that hurt me, and I might get you to agree with me by sharing the story. Still, in the end they have to live with their choices as much as I have to live with mine.”

“Plus don’t you see, Grace, that gives my power away,” she said with a bit more passion. “I did that already! Any time I need other people to tell me that I’m valuable or okay, then they have power over me. Of course it’s not easy, but I alone must be enough, whether anyone agrees with me or not.”

Finally, Mrs. Pettermint reached across the table and patted my hand. “Grace, I know all this with your sister is hard. But try to accept her choice as much as your own. Meanwhile, it’s time for you to do everything you can to discover who you are. Then learn to accept what that really means, including the pain and the glory. I think what you’ll find inside yourself is all you’ll ever need.”

I wish I’d paid a little more attention to Mrs. Pettermint’s wisdom in the days that followed. I doubt I was even remotely close to figuring myself out at the time, but several big changes in my senior year of school kept me preoccupied. With Mike’s help, I bought my first car—a little red Toyota I named Firecracker. Then Dairy Queen gave me a job, and that brought me my very own money. And finally, my boyish figure came into style. While never exactly model thin, my height became a definite advantage giving me a somewhat definable figure. With tawny hair that hung below my shoulders, a little money to spend on clothes and my own car, my confidence grew. Looking in the mirror I knew that quizzical little girl who lived in a trailer no longer existed.

Unfortunately, no one else seemed to agree with me. To the world, I was still the same old Grace Martin. And although my school grades remained high, I couldn’t seem to come up with any direction beyond graduation. With no encouragement from Mom or Mike, college seemed a vague option. What came next?

Mrs. Pettermint remained her usual supportive self. “Well, I think going to the local community college is an excellent idea Grace. That’ll give you time to figure out what you want to become. Then again, you can always change your mind. And I like your idea to take off this summer in your car and just explore.”

“Good,” I answered, relieved at her encouragement. I knew I had a huge smile on my face. It happened every time I thought about getting into my car and driving away. Why worry about the future when the open road was calling me?

“Your trip will be good for you Grace,” offered Mrs. Pettermint. “Far too few people I know ever go off by themselves to explore the world. Most importantly, it will show you how much you can rely on yourself. That’s a great thing for all of us to learn.”

“So you don’t think it’s kinda silly to travel to Colorado to visit some relatives I don’t even know?”

“It’s the journey Grace,” said Mrs. Pettermint.

“Not the destination,” we both said loudly in unison.

And it was. For once, I experienced life as a complete and separate individual. Maybe I didn’t attend a formal college that year, but my education that summer was equally as valuable. I learned to rely on myself.

I also discovered sex that summer. How could I not as a perpetually curious person? Besides, it was the 1970s and according to Cosmo Magazine, it was something we were all doing. Unfortunately, none of my girlfriends had any advice to offer. What little education I got was through Cosmo and my mother’s romance novels and magazines.

But something else happened as well. For once, I saw myself reflected in the eyes of another in a way that projected what I hoped to become. That helped make up for any lack of sophistication in any of our fumblings. Just a casual friend of a distant relative, my temporary love interest was just an overgrown boy with raging hormones like mine. Who cared that it was completely unfulfilling? Like a different kind of graduation date, that rite of passage into adulthood was another stepping-stone into the future.

Forty-five days later I was back and attending Chaffey Junior College. Schoolwork was only a minor inconvenience as I put in my time. Life was simple and uncomplicated. I went to school in the morning, waitressed a few evenings a week, and hung out with my friends at night. Days floated by without worry or concern for the future. From the outside, I’m sure I looked completely irresponsible.

That’s definitely what Mike thought. That fall he started nagging me to save up my money and settle down. How could I explain to him I was no longer that little Grace he had saved from the wicked Grandmother? Maybe I didn’t know who I was, but I knew I wasn’t that.

One year rolled into the next. My curiosity led me to become best friends with a girl named Sandy. Compared to Nancy, Sandy was a wild woman. Every weekend Sandy and I would take our doctored I.D.s out on the town. It wasn’t so much the drinking that attracted us as the dancing. Disco was hot and we made the best of it. That’s where I met Eddie.

Looking back it is easy to see that I was only looking for acceptance, with a little love thrown into the mix. But, like my mother and father, apparently many of us have to discover the places it’s not, before we find it inside. If Eddie hadn’t looked so good on the dance floor, I would never have noticed him. Sure, he was hot looking, but I can’t remember one single conversation that went beyond the superficial. Looking back, I have to admit—I met, fell in love, and almost married Eddie Davis mainly because he was a great dancer.

Chapter 6

Okay, it would have been smart to talk to Mrs. Pettermint about Eddie, but who wants to be practical? Deep down, I knew exactly how she’d view the object of my fascination, so why ask. With my eyes closed, I can still see him dancing to “The Average White Band” that first night we met. He was tall, dark haired, narrow hipped and looked great in those polyester, disco clothes. Sure, I acted like an idiot, but then I was dazzled and thrilled to be talking with an incredibly gifted man. Not that we did much talking. What I fell in love with was his passion on the dance floor. He recognized the look in my eyes, and in no time at all we were dancing in his bed more than we danced at the bars.

While I acted strangely confident about my sexual proficiency, I apparently missed the chapter on birth control. I got pregnant. Yes, it can, and does happen, to many bright and intelligent girls. Once the realization hit me, it felt as though the cells growing in my body were a hostile invasion rather than any kind of blessing. Regardless of whether I’d ever qualify for sainthood, regardless of what anyone thought, I knew that my choice was abortion.

My decision had nothing to do with abstract morals, and everything to do with survival, mine. Instantly, I knew that the course of my entire future hung on the choice I was making. A life tied to a man like Eddie, a life severely restricted before it had ever begun, a life filled with regret and lost possibility– all those belonged to someone else. That kind of life was inconceivable. No, religious morality had nothing to do with it. It came down to me, or the unborn potential within me, and I chose me.

Much later, someone asked me if Mrs. Pettermint influenced my decision. I can safely say no. While she always encouraged me to be myself and make my own decisions, I don’t know that even she would have made the same one. My decision was mine. Of course, she filled me with an unlimited and optimistic future, and because of her, I was fortunate to know I had a choice. Others my age weren’t so lucky. With nothing to look forward to, a baby and a husband who doesn’t love you might look good at 19. To me, they were a death sentence.

When I told Eddie about the pregnancy, his reaction made my decision that much easier. I asked for money, figuring he could accept some small responsibility for the act, and he couldn’t find his checkbook fast enough. That was that. Although I saw him again at the disco now and then, we never spoke again.

In case you’re wondering, I have few regrets. The greatest pain involved was losing my innocence. Like most young adults I had fooled myself into believing I was invincible. That naiveté had allowed me to act without regard to the outcome. So, although Mrs. Pettermint repeatedly reminded me that all of our actions have consequences, until then it never sunk in. Now I knew that certain actions and decisions could thereafter affect my entire life. It was time to start paying attention and choose more wisely.

Of course, I couldn’t go to my family, so instead I asked Nancy. Through tears, I blurted out the story and asked her if she would help me. There was no judgment in her eyes and she never once questioned my decision. On Tuesday, she drove me into Santa Monica and we found the little storefront clinic identifiable only by a painted sign on the door that read, “Family Clinic.” In 1974, upscale locations were not an option. The neighborhood and small row of commercial stores looked seedy and dilapidated, but somehow that seemed fitting. The procedure itself was also appropriately painful. I guess a person doesn’t make a decision like I had made and not expect some discomfort. I paid my dues, along with paying cash, and walked out of that door and back into my future.

The only person besides Nancy and Eddie who knew about the abortion was Mrs. Pettermint. I didn’t intend to tell her, but a few days after my trip to Santa Monica I drove over to her house for the first time in a month. She smiled when she answered the door acting as though it had only been yesterday since we last talked.

“Grace, I was fixing a glass of tea. Would you like one?”

I nodded and followed her into the kitchen. I knew that I needed to talk, but now that I was here, I didn’t know how to begin.

“So, with school out for the summer, have you made any plans?” she asked as she poured tea over two glasses filled with ice.

“No, not really,” was all I could reply.

“Are you planning on staying at Chaffey again next fall?” Mrs. Pettermint asked cheerfully as she set the glasses on the table and pulled out a chair and sat down next to me.

Without answering her question, I blurted out, “There’s something I have to tell you.” I paused and took a couple of deep breaths. I could feel my eyes burning and could feel the emotion bubbling up inside. “There’s something I think you should know about me.” I stopped and stared at the glass of tea setting in front of me and I could feel Mrs. Pettermint waiting patiently.

“There’s this guy I’ve been seeing...kind of like dating. He...I...well, I got pregnant.” I stopped again, not sure how to go on. I couldn’t look her in the eye, however I didn’t want her to comment, so I spit out, “But...well, this week I went and had an abortion.”

Mrs. Pettermint sat quietly. So quietly, that I glanced up from my down turned face after a while to see if she was still there. She was looking back at me and her face was a mixture of surprise and concern. For once, I could tell that she didn’t know what to say.

“I wanted you to know,” I said, knowing that was true, but not knowing why.

“Why did you want me to know Grace?”

I choked a bit, trying to hold back the tears building up in my throat. I struggled to think. “I don’t know, I just thought you should know, is all.”

“Is it?” she asked slowly.

I thought for a moment longer. I felt a tear run down my cheek and could taste it as it ended at the corner of my mouth. “Maybe...maybe I thought you should know so you wouldn’t think so highly of me. You’re always telling me I’m so smart. I don’t feel very smart. I feel like an idiot.” That was it, for some reason I felt I had to confess to Mrs. Pettermint. As the one person who always acted and believed that I could do so much, it seemed vital that she know how dumb I’d been. I think I still wanted, still needed to know, if this changed her opinion of me.

“Hmmm...I can imagine why you wanted to tell me. It’s a huge decision for one so young.” Mrs. Pettermint took a deep breath and bit her bottom lip before going on. “I also suppose you didn’t tell others beforehand, because you didn’t want anyone to try and talk you out of it. Unfortunately, when you do that you don’t have anyone resisting, but you also don’t have anyone helping. I sincerely hope you had someone helping you with this one Grace?” Her voice was soft and soothing, and filled with concern.

I nodded silently thinking of Nancy, but not trusting myself to speak.

“Good. As you know, I’ve made some tough decisions myself. We all do, especially if we are paying attention. But, if you were at all hesitant about the choice you had to make, you would have talked it over with people. It sounds like you did what you had to do. Don’t regret that Grace. You listened to your inner guidance, and I think we both know how very special that is.” Mrs. Pettermint reached over and covered my hand that fidgeted on the table next to my glass. Her unexpected touch brought even more tears to my eyes.

“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” I blurted out. There, the big question was out on the table now.

“Grace, you know that I can’t answer that question for you. In fact, don’t ever, ever, let any other person answer it for you. You decided. You made a choice based upon what you believed to be best for you at the time. You know how I feel about that—everyone always does the very best they can with the awareness that they have.” Her hand stroked mine tenderly before going on. “Just remember that I love you Grace, and I support you in being you. More than that, I love you unconditionally, and that means I accept you and love you regardless of whether I agree with the choices you make for yourself.”

I never studied the Catholic religion, so I don’t exactly know the history or meaning behind absolution. But sitting there quietly in her kitchen, as the tears ran down my cheeks, I felt an acceptance and peace that made all things right. Maybe real forgiveness isn’t about someone else washing clean our mistakes, maybe it is fully and completing luxuriating in the experience of unconditional love.

We sat silently for a good five minutes before she asked the inevitable question. “Did you learn what you needed to learn from this lesson?”

“I learned to stay away from guys like Eddie,” I said blowing my nose into the tissue Mrs. Pettermint had given me. “I learned it’s time to go to the doctor even if I am embarrassed about it and get birth control pills. I learned that I should do everything I can so others don’t make the same mistake I did. But thank God, I was legally able to even choose. Yeah, I suppose I learned a few things.”

We never referred to it again. Once we talked it over and I’d seen the love and acceptance in her eyes, I knew I would be okay. Barely a month later, I heard that Maggie was pregnant. I had not seen her since our confrontation on the day I met her husband at Grandma’s trailer. I could only imagine what she and her family would think of my recent adventure. No doubt for Maggie, there had never been the possibility of a choice like mine.

Right after that, I had a huge fight with my stepfather Mike. As though on a post adolescent schedule, everything I did irritated him, and all his efforts to control me drove me nuts. Whatever the actual disagreement, it was just the excuse I needed to dramatically toss all my clothes and other possessions into my little red car before driving over to my friend Sandy’s apartment. I can’t remember if I said goodbye to Mom or not. I doubt she noticed I was gone. I stayed at Sandy’s for two weeks until I found a little, completely furnished, studio. My waitressing gave me more than enough money to stay in school and live my own life. Now I was finally an adult.

Unfortunately, I still didn’t know what I wanted to become. The problem was I wanted to do everything and regrettably, my questioning ability backfired on me. The minute I found something that interested me, I would immediately talk myself out of it. In other words, why study for years in philosophy when very few jobs as professors existed as a goal? Why become a psychologist when colleges were pumping out thousands of them in a limited market? Plus, if my teachers were any example, why study religion for the mere purpose of doling it out as a degree requirement to half-asleep students for the rest of my life? No, although I loved the study, there was increasingly little incentive to stay in school. I felt life beyond southern California calling to me. I just couldn’t locate the point of origination.

My spiritual growth seemed as unfocused as my educational life. Finally, I found myself without the influence of Grandma, Mike, Mom or Mrs. Pettermint. I could explore anything I wanted to at any time. So I did.

First, I tried a more modern version of the Jesus thing. In college, there are always opportunities to get saved. Naturally, Mrs. Pettermint asked me what I’d learned.

“Well, I think I learned what the Jesus attraction is all about.” I said smiling in remembrance, along with a feeling of gratitude for Mrs. Pettermint and her questions. “I think he was a great example of love, compassion and acceptance. He’s sort of what I’ve heard you mention before...an arch...arch something...”

“An archetype?” Mrs. Pettermint filled in.

“Yeah, that’s it. He is an archetype for forgiveness, compassion and unconditional love. We need that type of image in our life regardless of whether he existed or not. We need to believe, even if he didn’t do half the things the Bible says he did.”

“Oh, so you’re saying he was merely an example, not the great exception?” Mrs. Pettermint asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Grabbing her bait I answered, “I think anyone openly willing to read what he said in the Bible would have to admit that he claimed he was just like us. It shows how a little history can mess up a great story.”

A pleased smile filled Mrs. Pettermint’s face, as I suddenly became aware of how many ways my mentor personified Jesus. Who knew? Maybe someday, someone might write a story about her as well.

That semester I took a course in World Religions. Much of the information I had already learned from Mrs. Pettermint. But the act of reading it in a textbook and hearing another teacher speak on the subject, gave it a higher degree of authenticity. There were indeed other religions that had been around for as long, or longer, than Christianity. All those other people were as committed to their idea of God, as were the western cultures. Mrs. Pettermint was right. There was no ultimate answer; there was no final book.

Between my World Religions course and my Philosophy course, I became interested in metaphysics. There were hundreds of ways to look at things as long as you had no reason to fear them. I picked up a few books about Astrology, and before long, I began exploring the Tarot and Reincarnation. Some of it made a great deal of sense. Like many other people, it appealed to me that life could be reduced to a formula. Besides that, these practices didn’t judge me or condemn me like Grandma’s religion. I was fascinated by them all and attempted to peer into my future. I couldn’t wait to talk things over with Mrs. Pettermint.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” I said one day.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Well, it certainly makes a lot of sense. It answers so many questions about why things happen to some people and not others. The law of karma makes sure that in the end, what you give out comes back to you. Justice does prevail. Reincarnation allows that to happen over the course of several, sometimes hundreds, of lifetimes. What’s not to believe?”

“It certainly does answer many of the questions people have,” she smiled, recognizing my return of her question. “But what does believing in reincarnation do for you? Does it improve your life, or is it merely an interesting distraction?”

“Well, some of the stories are compelling. They constantly show how unresolved issues in the past come back continually until they are resolved.”

“You don’t have to go into a past life to see that do you?” asked Mrs. Pettermint.

“No, but it’s much more interesting to think about it over a course of a few lifetimes don’t you think?” I answered without hiding my grin. “And what about the Tarot, Astrology and the I Ching? Have you ever had your future told?”

“Oh, I think the future is predictable in hundreds of ways,” answered Mrs. Pettermint. “And you don’t have to be a psychic to figure it out, if you’re paying attention. However, our challenge is to live today. Far too many people use divination to ignore the now that is happening right under their noses. If our spirituality doesn’t help us to experience love, healing and a happy life today, what good is it? Even though metaphysics contains ancient wisdom and deep truth, our challenge is to keep it grounded in the present moment.”

Mrs. Pettermint looked deep into my eyes with love and approval. “I’m not surprised these ideas capture your attention. You have great potential as a spiritual leader and teacher. Naturally, you’d want to find out how others thought and you’re curious about your future. But as I’ve said before, you must find it out for yourself. That’s the only way any of us can be authentic. I think that’s why we’re here, to uniquely reflect the glory and power of the Universe as only we can.”

That was the first time that Mrs. Pettermint ever directly referred to my future. She usually seemed so careful about letting me figure things out on my own, that I knew she hadn’t just slipped. Why now? And what did it mean? The trouble was, I was 20 years old, didn’t have a clue what I wanted to be when I grew up, and my hormones made the search for a man much more important to me than the search for God.

Mrs. Pettermint’s prediction probably contributed to the pressure I felt to leave California. A large part of me needed to go somewhere where I could be brand new. A place where no one knew me, a place where I could be anything I wanted to be. My only regret would be leaving my best friend, Mrs. Pettermint.

“I’ve been putting off telling you for as long as I can,” I said as we sat on her porch and rocked back and forth on the swing. I was afraid to look at her so I looked out over the wide lawn and watched a Ford pickup drive down the street. I could feel her waiting patiently.

“I’m moving to Colorado. You remember I went there a couple of years ago? I’ve saved up a little money to get me started until I get a job.”

“I suppose it’s time,” said Mrs. Pettermint rather slowly. “It will be good to spread your wings.” She paused and took a deep breath. “But I won’t say I won’t miss you. You’ve been a very important part of my life. However, it’s time you were out there figuring out what it is you’re here to do.”

“What, no last minute advice?”

“Last minute advice is pretty useless. I would hope you always remember some of the ideas we’ve talked about here during the past few years. If you do, you don’t need any advice. If you don’t, advice won’t matter.”

Mrs. Pettermint was as right about that as she had been about so many other things. She hugged me as I left that day, but we did not say goodbye. I promised to write before I kissed her on the cheek. My tears surprised me as I looked back over my shoulder and saw her small form waving goodbye from the porch.

Leaving California the next day, my only goal existed as a vague search for happiness. Honest. I thought I had a good plan, too. I’d look for love. Surely if I found the right man to love me I would find happiness. And wouldn’t that lead to everything else falling perfectly into place?

Chapter 7

My move to Colorado resembled a hero’s journey. At least that’s what the late Joseph Campbell might have called it. After all, what made the Buddha leave the comfort of his wealthy and privileged surroundings, and travel out into a world filled with pain and suffering? What made Jesus depart for the desert? What about the Knights of the Round Table in search of the Holy Grail? It would have been a heck of a lot easier to stay home where everything was predictable and safe.

The need to constantly reach towards the mystery is probably very common. That trait is a hero of sorts, or in my case, a heroine. Some people stifle the urge by going shopping or reaching for success. Others squelch it with drugs, alcohol or other addictions. Some of us though, have a deeper sense that the longing is for transformation. Once that urge awakens, a person strikes out in search for their soul.

Right after arriving Colorado, I got a job, and then promptly found a man to fall in love with. His name was Daniel. He was a good man, all things considered. Suffice it to say, the best thing he did was to show me quickly and dramatically that my search for a man wasn’t going to be easy. Less than three months into the relationship, we broke up.

Once again, Mrs. Pettermint picked me up, dusted me off, and reminded me of the potential inside me. During a rare phone conversation, she tried to explain that although I was different, I was still uniquely special. “I suppose you’re a bit like chocolate chip cookies.” She said, and the metaphor instantly grabbed my attention. I could almost imagine her sitting across the table from me in her copper-colored kitchen. “Some people think chocolate chips are fantastic and can’t imagine eating any other kind. Then others don’t care for them, and couldn’t appreciate a good one if it landed on their plate from heaven. You are a very exquisite chocolate chip cookie, Grace. But there are some situations you will not fit into, and there are bound to be some people who won’t appreciate you.”

I reached for a tissue and blew my nose. The talk about cookies made me realize I hadn’t eaten much in days.

“I know that it is probably little comfort to you while you’re hurting, but I also know there are no accidents. Even though it hurts, it’s still good that you discovered Daniel didn’t really care for chocolate chip cookies this early. Believe it Grace, there’s someone else out there even better that will be able to appreciate you for who you are.”

I would like to say that my man troubles all worked themselves out perfectly after that talk with Mrs. Pettermint. Of course, she was right about one thing. Shortly thereafter, I met a man who seemed to appreciate everything I was. While he may have been the right man for me at the time, in the long run, he wasn’t even close to being the man of my dreams.

We met innocently enough, and no, it wasn’t on the dance floor. I met Christopher at a real estate meeting. A local real estate licensing school sponsored the meeting to encourage us to become real estate agents. My roommate Tina dragged me along as something to do. Sadly, my dismal social calendar offered no excuses.

About twenty people gathered in a classroom of the Landers Real Estate School on Tuesday evening. Most looked like me, bored and ready for anything that might create a little hope in our lives. The first two speakers talked about the business from a technical aspect. Then, when I began wishing I had brought my own car so I could leave early, a tall man, with a boyish face and dusty red hair stood up to speak. There was something about that red hair.

“Hi. I’m Christopher Rommer and I’ve been invited to speak to you this evening because I believe very strongly we all not only desire success, but we essentially deserve it.” He smiled warmly, walked over, and grabbed one of the empty plastic chairs from the audience. He twirled it around backwards and straddled it while continuing to talk. It was impossible not to notice the graceful ease of his slim frame.

“See, we can sit here talking about real estate all day long, things like what we need to learn to sell it, what the steps are, even what the benefits are. But unless each one of us can accept our good, unless we believe we deserve some good, we won’t act on the knowledge.” Christopher smiled again and used his right hand to brush a lock of hair away from his face. His forearm was lightly covered with golden red hair and I couldn’t help but speculate on how much of his body it covered.

“Now, I don’t want to mislead you. I’m not a motivational speaker. As a matter of fact...I’m a minister,” he paused and smiled again at the audible intake of breath by several of my classmates. “But I’m not here to preach. Instead, I’m here to remind us all that it is our right to experience success. In fact, it’s more than that. It’s our Divine right. I happen to believe real estate is one of the best avenues where success can flow.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about his being a minister. Somehow that announcement didn’t jive with the thoughts I was having about his body hair. Still, I liked the sound of his voice and found it easy to get lost in his smile.

Within minutes, I had forgotten my uncomfortable plastic seat and the glaring lights above me. My eyes focused on the man who appeared to be a beacon for us all. No longer did my classmates lounge back in their seats with dazed, far-away eyes. Every one of us now sat at attention, with interested, intent looks on our faces.

Christopher looked around the room and smiled at each of us before going on. “Now, at first I didn’t believe it either. I was probably a lot like many of you. I was raised to believe that I didn’t deserve much, that I was a sinner and that I had to settle for what I could get. Fortunately, that’s changed now. I now believe we were born to enjoy the very best life has to offer. And if we aren’t getting it, it’s mainly because of our belief system.”

“That’s it you know, that’s what it comes down to...what do you believe? If you believe you don’t deserve to be rich, guess what? You never will be. If you believe you don’t deserve to be successful, guess what? You’ll never get there. If you believe you don’t deserve a great career, to drive a Cadillac, have a beautiful home, give your family all the good things you’d like to give them—if you don’t believe you can—you won’t.”

“Now many people don’t want to face that. A lot of people would like to think there is someone or something out there holding us back. We usually go on believing that most of our lives until someone comes along and tells us differently. Well, that’s all I’m here to do tonight. I’m here to remind you all that you deserve something more. But first, you gotta believe you do.”

“Now, I don’t want to sell you anything. It doesn’t matter to me whether you get into real estate or not. But it does matter to me that you remember you deserve good in your life. Now a few more guys are going to talk to you about how the school works before we leave, but while they do, remember, whether it’s real estate or not, you deserve more than you’ve been getting.” He gave us one last big smile and said, “Thank you.”

We applauded, we actually applauded. I think we would have given him a standing ovation if there were more of us. Every face in the room had a smile on it, even the other speakers. I wasn’t sure I believed everything he said. But, like everyone else in the room, I wanted to believe. Wisely, the only other person to speak was Rob, the company owner. He stood up, thanking Christopher and each of us for joining them to learn how the process worked. He then invited us to stay awhile and chat with the speakers over coffee and chocolate chip cookies. I wasn’t going anywhere.

Many of the media reporters who later became interested in my life could not understand why I bothered to explain my past relationships. Or I suppose I should clarify, the male reporters never understood. The women knew exactly why I had to include them. It’s nearly impossible for any woman to explain her spiritual path, her spiritual awakening, without putting it in the context of her relationships. For what is God without relationships? And perhaps, what can any relationship be, but a metaphor for our connection to the Divine?

As soon as Rob Thatcher dismissed the class that Tuesday night, a flock of women descended upon Christopher. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one caught in his spell. Even a number of the men hung around, glancing in his direction as though they would have given anything to talk to him. I felt sorry for Rob, standing there alone with brochures in his hand, so I went over to say hi. He looked up gratefully and smiled.

After politely taking some of his brochures, I asked him the only question I cared about. “So, where is his church anyway?”

“It’s the Pikes Peak Community Church down on Platte Avenue. It’s not huge or anything, but it’s growing. Shoot, Chris has only been there for about six months and already it’s about doubled in size.” He smiled and continued, “You ought to check it out. If you liked what you heard tonight, you’d probably enjoy it.”

I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. That Sunday I pulled into the parking lot of a building that, although accented with stone and wood, still looked a lot like a typical church. I sat there for a moment in my car watching several other cars pull into the parking lot, and people walk up to the front entrance. The only religious symbol was a small plain cross near the door.

Once inside, I was greeted by a couple handing out bulletins. Beyond them was a foyer, and then a series of double doors leading into the sanctuary. The main room had two hallways going down either side and was filled with long wooden benches with padded seats. The front stage, or should I say altar, held a lectern, several chairs, and a large arrangement of flowers. Again, a large unadorned cross hung behind the stage.

I couldn’t help it, I almost ran out the door. Something inside of me remembered Pastor Michaels’ church and that terrified me. Looking around, I half expected to see someone with horns lurking in the corners. Instead, I saw Christopher walking up one of the aisles from the front of the church.

He approached several people standing in the foyer with his warm and friendly smile. Then looking up, his hazel eyes caught mine. Excusing himself from a small white haired woman, he made his way across the hall in my direction as my heart beat inside my chest. I couldn’t see any horns, so why did I feel so afraid?

Christopher stopped in front of me and reached out his hand. “Do I know you?”

“Well no, I was at the meeting Tuesday night and heard you speak.” My face was burning as I returned his handshake.

“That’s it. I knew you looked familiar. Welcome...welcome to my church.” He stood to my side and I could see the look of pride on his face as he let his eyes roam the room. Then looking back at me he continued. “So, you decided to see if I was telling the truth, didn’t you? Good for you. Just give it a couple of weeks to see if it fits. Then if it works...we’ll talk again.”

His sermon was as smooth as on Tuesday night. In truth, the whole service was as smooth. One event flowed into the next, the songs we sang, the announcements we read, even, and especially, the talk that Christopher gave, left each of us with a positive glow. Likewise, the collection seemed geared toward our feeling good and blessed about giving, rather than guilty and responsible. What could I possibly have been afraid of?

I came back the next week. Truth be told, I anticipated it all week. The routine of my job and the loneliness of being in a strange town made it seem like a bright spot on a rather dull horizon.

It wasn’t as scary the second time around. I found my place in the back corner as inviting as the Sunday before, and that is exactly where I continued to sit for the next four or five weeks. I timed it so that I entered just as the service was beginning. Plus it made for an easy exit before most people had even risen from their seats.

The message continued to be positive. Week after week Christopher shared stories and ideas that talked about the good in life. In four weeks, he never once mentioned the devil or sin, and I was counting. His sermons were woven around events from his life, and how certain spiritual ideas tied into them. He talked about his landlady, he talked about the people in the supermarket, he even talked about things at church. In many ways, he reminded me of Mrs. Pettermint. I was hooked.

“How many of you have heard of the Golden Key?” Christopher asked one Sunday after the opening song and introductions were finished. A few people in the audience raised their hands as he smiled and nodded.

“Of course, how many of us really live by the Golden Key?” He paused and broke into a grin that lit up the whole room. “Now, I’m not talking about the Golden Rule here, we all know that one. I’m talking about the Golden Key. Coined by a man named Emmett Fox, this simple idea suggests that the Golden Key to every difficulty is ‘to stop thinking about the difficulty, whatever it is, and think about God instead.’ That’s it...that’s all. If we could just do that, we could walk out that door right now and never come back. But as we all know, it’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“I’ve got an example for you. As many of you know, I drive a pickup, a four-wheel drive pickup. That’s the sort of thing we do here in Colorado.” Christopher laughed and the crowd laughed with him. “I’m really proud of my truck. I bought it new, and imagined it would be a great vehicle to have, once it snowed. Unfortunately, the four-wheel drive never worked properly. I’ve had it in and out of the shop three times since October.”

Christopher paused and took a deep breath. “I really thought it was fixed. I couldn’t wait for the next big snow, so I could take it out and try it. And you know I got my wish because it snowed this week. It topped all the records. I felt like a kid heading out to start my truck and take it for a spin. Now you have to understand here, I’m in love with this truck, I’m ready to do what I’ve waited for all season, I’m ready to four-wheel drive. I shift the gear into place and back it out. Everything works fine. The little light on the dashboard says the four-wheel drive is working perfectly. Now I’ve never had one before, but the only way you can really tell it’s working is from this little light. With the gears in place, I get out and rotate the knobs in the center of each front tire. Then, I’m off.”

“It’s just glorious. Do you remember what it was like Wednesday? They actually closed most of the town,” Christopher’s face glowed like a child’s, and it was easy to visualize his delight at the storm. “Everyone stayed home from work and there I am, driving around town in a couple of feet of snow and there’s hardly any traffic. I see some cars stuck on the side of the road, and even though it’s not the most spiritual thing to do, I couldn’t help myself. I snicker.” Again, the audience laughed with him.

“So, I’m out where Platte meets Academy. Don’t ask me what I’m doing that far out. I was just enjoying the drive. The snow seemed a bit heavier, but I thought, ‘what the heck– I’ve got a four wheel drive.’ So I go to turn the corner nice and slow, and– I’m stuck.” The expression on Christopher’s face spoke volumes.

“I look on my dash and the little four-wheel drive light is still glowing. I look down at the gearshift and it’s in place. The problem is, I can still hear my wheels turning, and I’m going nowhere. A big, red, four-wheel drive truck successfully passes me with a little honk and a wave as he goes by. And yes, there was a snicker on the driver’s face.” Christopher paused for emphasis before continuing, “Remember, whatever we give out, we get back again.” We all smiled at the irony and eagerly waited to find out what happened.

“Now I know better, but I still got mad. I jumped out of my truck and slammed the door as hard as I could. In that moment, I hated that truck like I’ve never hated anything in the world. That truck represented every frustration I’ve ever had. Not only did my magic truck not work the way I’d always dreamed, but here I was, stuck out in the middle of nowhere and it was COLD!” Christopher shook his head slowly while reaching back behind the stage and pulling out a stool. He sat down and continued to remember.

“You know, it’s easy to be spiritual when you’re here on a Sunday morning all warm and happy. Our challenge is to be spiritual when we’re stuck in the cold in the middle of nowhere. Now, I’m not afraid to admit I forgot for a while. Luckily at some point, I thought of the Golden Key. There it was, loud and clear in my head saying, forget about the difficulty and think about God instead. So I did. I started thinking about God.”

Again, Christopher paused effectively and let his eyes travel the length of the room. “It was still cold though, and part of me was still angry at that truck. Still, I knew there was something more, something else, besides me and the situation I found myself in. Right then looked up and across the street and there was a 7-11. No problem, I’d call AAA. I walk around the edge of the truck and head across the intersection. From where I stood, I saw two vehicles coming from different directions. Standing to the side, I marveled at all these vehicles driving in the snow while mine stood stuck in the muck.”

“Just then, in a second, I realized that neither of the cars were slowing down. It was obvious they would both hit the intersection simultaneously, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. I could see them see each other...try to apply brakes, and then heard the crash as they came together.”

“I ran to the car and found a young woman and child inside. They appeared stunned but okay. When I looked at the truck, I couldn’t see the driver. I went around the side and pulled open the door. There was an old guy lying on the seat, and blood was everywhere. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. From the corner of my eye, I saw someone outside the 7-11 so I yelled at him and told him to call 911. I closed the door of the truck and returned to the car.”

“You know, I don’t remember feeling cold again. The only thing in my head at that moment was the Golden Key. I knew they needed to get in out of the cold, so I picked up the girl, and put my arm around her mom. Slowly but surely, we got to the store.”

“Then it was time for the man in the truck. I didn’t want to move him, but I didn’t want him to freeze either. I needed blankets. Of course, at that point, I didn’t even know if he was alive. All I could do was think of the Golden Key and then do what seemed reasonable. The store clerk had a tarp and a coat, so I headed back out into the storm. It was hard to tell if the sun had already gone behind the mountain, or the clouds were getting thicker. Between that and the wind, it was difficult to see.”

The entire congregation sat spellbound as we listened to his story. At some point, I knew I was in love with him, and that I probably wasn’t the only one. All of our eyes watched every movement he made. When he sighed, we seemed to sigh too. When he closed his eyes remembering, it was as though we could see what he saw. Witnessing his vulnerability made me love him. Surely anyone like him who could feel that for a stranger, would never hurt someone he loved?

“When I finally got to the truck I could hear something inside. The man was moaning, and I think calling for help. I pulled open the door and saw him trying to struggle to sit up in the cab. Inside it was so cold I felt like I had opened a freezer door. I laid my hands on the man and tried to calm him. I told him to lie down and that I would wait with him until the ambulance came as I covered him with the extra coat and the tarp, and kept my hands resting on his side. I started talking to him softly, telling him who I was and what I believed. I told him I wasn’t much help, but I had a real powerful friend and He could work miracles. That seemed to calm him and except for a moan now and then, he said nothing. We waited.”

Christopher smiled slightly, and then held up his hands and slowly turned them over. “I felt pretty helpless, these hands didn’t know what to do. So, I thought about the Golden Key. I kept my mind on God and waited. I don’t know how long it took but I’m fairly sure it was dark before I finally heard the ambulance coming down Platte Ave. My legs felt frozen solid standing there in the partially open door of the truck. The ambulance stopped right beside me and two men jumped out and took over. A few minutes later, a police car pulled up and I told the officer about the woman and child inside the store and what I’d seen. And, that was it.”

“When they finally got the man out of the truck and onto the stretcher it seemed like he was doing fairly well,” Christopher continued as he got up off his stool and moved it back behind the lectern. “He was awake and I told him to ‘be well’ as they lifted him and carried him toward the back of the ambulance. He smiled slightly at me, and nodded his thanks. It was enough. Then I saw the woman and the child getting into the police car as I walked back to the store with the clerk’s coat and tarp. The little girl waved to me through the window, and they both smiled at me as they drove away.

On my way back out of the store I remembered that I had forgotten to call AAA. But instead of going back inside, I glanced up at my truck and thought, ‘Why not?’ After all, I did have a Golden Key.” Christopher said with a knowing smile.

“You know what happened don’t you? You know that I got in, started my truck, and it pulled out of that hole like it was nothing more than a tiny rut. Now you could say the ice and ground had frozen up by then, and that helped me get some traction. Or,” his smile was like a laser lighting up the room, “or you could say it was your everyday, run of the mill, miracle.” We all laughed with him knowing that for Christopher miracles were indeed an everyday occurrence.

After the last song of the morning, everyone began to rise, gather his or her things, and move toward the door. I sat there enjoying the feeling that anything was possible and that everything had meaning. Suddenly, I realized I was the only one left sitting in the room.

A small, white haired woman moved from seat to seat picking up unclaimed bulletins and straightening cushions. We smiled at each other as I rose to my feet and turned to enter the foyer. As I struggled with my coat, my bulletin flew out of my hand and floated across the room. Instantly thinking of the kind woman volunteer, I lunged forward to capture it. Inches from victory, I collided with Christopher as he triumphantly grabbed the paper before it hit the ground.

“Are you okay?” he said grabbing my shoulder to steady me. I knew he could see the stunned expression on my face. How could I tell him I was smarting more from embarrassment than any physical pain?

“Oh sure,” I said feeling my face grow hot. “What about you?”

“I’m an old hand at catching these things.” Christopher said, handing back the program before continuing. “I’m glad you stayed a bit later today. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you, and now here you are.”

“I...” I said, trying to think of some excuse for my usual fast departures. But why explain? It appeared Chris had high connections anyway. For all I knew he had orchestrated this whole thing. “You gave a great talk today.” I looked down at the bulletin in my hand. “It was very inspiring.”

“Why thank you,” he said softly. “Why don’t you stay a bit and have some cookies and coffee? I’d like to find out what you think of all this, and,” Christopher said as he caught my eye and raised the question, “if I let you go today, I might never get another chance.”

All I could do was nod as my heart pounded and a lump formed in my throat.

“Come on then,” Christopher said as he motioned me back to the side of the foyer. We walked down a hall past the bathrooms and entered a large room where many of the congregation stood with steaming white foam cups. The earthy smell of coffee, mixed with the sweet scent of sugar cookies, hung on the air.

Christopher poured a cup from a large urn and handed it to me. He then filled one for himself. “So what do you think of it all?”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” I answered, bargaining for a bit of time while I thought it through. Did I go ahead and admit that it had become one of the bright spots in my life? Did I tell him that being here on Sunday seemed more real than everything else I did all week long? Did I confess that I wasn’t sure whether my attraction was in the message I found here– or the messenger? No, I couldn’t say that.

“Good,” he answered. He took a sip of his coffee and peered deep into my eyes. Then, as if the idea just occurred to him he continued. “You know, if you like what we talk about here, Grace—it is Grace isn’t it?” Christopher paused and waited for me to nod. “You might want to consider taking some of our classes. We really get into some empowering ideas. There’s a class starting this week called The Power of Prosperity. I think you might enjoy it.”

I was still wondering how he knew my name when an older man in a gray checked jacket approached. The gray-haired man asked about the people from the accident and whether Chris had heard any news. They stood talking for a moment as I considered the class. After all, it would be a great way to learn more about this teaching. Clearly, I wasn’t ready to admit even to myself, that a class would be an even better way for me to learn more about Christopher Rommer.

Chapter 8

I’m sure another person would have been more careful before completely giving her heart away. Another woman would have learned her lesson after Eddie and Daniel. But Christopher was different, wasn’t he? Christopher was a man who devoted his life to God. Why worry? Maybe my experiences with other men weren’t lessons to learn. What if they had been merely distractions until I met my one true love?

I didn’t tell Christopher about my feelings. In the late 1970s– shoot, it’s not that much different now– women didn’t lay all their cards on the table right up front. Of course, who was I fooling? He could see it all the time in the way my face turned toward his every word.

Meanwhile, my dreary day job continued. The insurance company where I worked as a receptionist tolerated my half-hearted presence from Monday to Friday. The institutionalized color of the building matched the passion I held for my position. I arrived promptly, and left exactly at 5:00 p.m.

The bright spots in my life were Sunday and Tuesday. On Tuesday nights, I attended Christopher’s Prosperity class. The topic meant nothing, I came for Christopher. However, my desire for a small intimate gathering where I could learn the deeper aspects of the man, didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself in a group of nearly 30 people from all backgrounds. I now had a new family.

Holding it together was Christopher as the father figure. Even the men twice his age had a sort of meekness as they asked him questions. Many of the women insisted on mothering him, and it was clear I wasn’t the only woman who had fallen in love. He was gracious though, and took it all in stride as the most natural thing in the world. One thing he particularly liked was being called Reverend. He could be lost in thought and the moment someone said “Rev. Chris,” his shoulders would straighten and his chin would lift.

I figured the best way to get his attention would be to dazzle him with my own grasp of the spiritual. Unfortunately, around Chris, I didn’t trust my spontaneous opinions. Even when asked directly, I’d keep my answers short and concise. Me, the one who couldn’t stop asking questions, suddenly never managed anything remotely brilliant when given the opportunity. So, I kept my mouth shut, hoping for another sort of opening.

Gradually every week I put in more and more hours at church. When I discovered Chris did services on Wednesday night, I began showing up then as well. I learned they needed some help in the office on Saturdays, so I volunteered.

On my third Saturday morning, I was put to work stuffing newsletters into envelopes. The reception desk where I sat was piled high with tri-folded papers. One by one, I halfheartedly grabbed a folded newsletter and placed it in an envelope. From where I sat, I could see out a window on the other side of the room where the steady drip of water came down from a leaky drain spout. I frowned. It was springtime in the Rockies and I was ready for some warmer weather.

“I’ve heard that meditating on water drops can be very beneficial,” said Chris who stood to the right of my desk. He smiled when he saw the startled look on my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, that’s okay...” I mumbled as I looked down and started stuffing at twice the speed.

“I see they’ve got you busy,” Chris said. “I’ve noticed you’ve been jumping in to help, and I want you to know how much that’s appreciated. There’s always so much to do, and most don’t bother to help.”

I nodded sympathetically and kept my head down so he couldn’t the silly grin on my face. I knew it was irrational to be so pleased with his praise, but I felt as though he had awarded me with a medal of honor.

“When do you get done here today?” he asked with an obvious intention to be casual.

“Mary is supposed to come in around noon,” I answered with what I hoped was the same degree of nonchalance.

“Well, I ‘d like to show my appreciation, and learn a little more about your background. If you’re free for lunch...how about Kristy’s?”

My bulging eyes matched the silly grin on my face as I nodded my head and answered “Sure!” much too loudly. Meeting at the little coffee shop around the corner wasn’t exactly the romantic liaison I had fantasized about, but it was good for a starter. We agreed to meet there at shortly after noon.

Sitting face to face with Chris a couple of hours later, I could still feel my heart fluttering against the walls of my chest. His head was bent over reading the menu, so I seized the opportunity to look closely at his skin and curling red blond hair at the base of his neck. I could smell him too. At least I thought I could.

Up close, it was obvious he was older than me. I had speculated on this fact for weeks and still couldn’t place an exact age on him. The tiny lines around his eyes and mouth, and the trace of gray hairs scattered throughout his hair, only made him look more handsome. The closest guess I’d been able to come up with was mid-thirties.

“So, we haven’t particularly had a chance to talk before,” Chris began after the waitress had come and gone with our order. He swirled the cream in his coffee and looked at me, “As I said, I appreciate it when people jump in and help out and I wanted you to know that I’ve noticed.”

My heart sank. This was just a duty-lunch.

“Besides that,” he continued slowly and concentrated on his coffee. “I’ve been wanting the opportunity to talk with you. You seem so open to much of this teaching. Frankly, that’s unusual in one so young. I’ve been curious about your background, your religious up-bringing, that sort of thing?”

I smiled slightly, and wondered where to begin. So, it wasn’t only a duty lunch? Maybe I was nothing more than a curiosity, but I’d start with that. I began by telling him about Grandma’s church. Surely, he would understand why that didn’t fit me. We were halfway through lunch when I finally mentioned Mrs. Pettermint.

“I suppose I owe much of my openness to Mrs. Pettermint,” I said casually before taking a mouthful of soup. I don’t know why I was so hesitant to talk about her; except that it suddenly occurred to me that I had never talked about her with man before.

“Mrs. Pettermint?” he asked, “a relative?”

“No, Mrs. Pettermint is a good friend of mine. We sort of ran into each other when I was younger and she helped me through a great deal of stuff—family stuff and church stuff. She always listened to me, she always gave me great advice.”

“That’s nice, it’s always good to have someone to talk to,” Chris answered with a nod. “But what about a minister? What about some spiritual guidance?”

I started to explain, but stopped. Without knowing why, I knew he wouldn’t put Mrs. Pettermint on the same level as himself. Of course, he was probably right; after all, she wasn’t a minister like him. I shook my head and swallowed another mouthful of soup before asking, “What about you, what got you started?”

That’s all it took. It was as though he had been waiting his whole life to answer that question. His eyes got very bright as they looked through me into the distance, and he began to tell his story.

Chris grew up in a very traditional Lutheran family in the northern Colorado town of Greeley. His father was the minister of the small and poor congregation, and it absorbed the life of the entire family. Christopher, along with his mom, dad, four brothers and four sisters spent some part of nearly every day doing something for, or with, the church.

Lillian Rommer, his mother, carried the fate of her nine children and her husband’s congregation on her short and sturdy legs. The deep grooves in her face said it all. Technically, she not only ran the household, but she also filled in at church by organizing the Sunday school, handling the women’s Bible Studies, keeping the place spotlessly clean, and coordinating all the social activities. While Christopher’s dad may have been the one with the title, it sounded like Lillian did the work. I listened to see if Chris felt that way too, but there was nothing in his words that showed that he considered her contribution. But no. Dad, it seemed, got all the glory.

“The best thing about Dad was that he always put God first,” Chris said with a glow of pride in his eyes. “It didn’t matter what was going on, he always said, let’s pray about it before he did anything. It sometimes drove Mom crazy. Just like the time that someone broke into the church on Sunday evening and stole the Sunday collection. That was it; we had no money to eat other than what was coming in on Sundays. Things were bad already, and then that had to happen.” Chris took another sip of coffee and smiled at the memory.

“The whole thing about crushed Mom. But not Dad, he did what he always did. While Mom was ranting and raving and saying she couldn’t go on, Dad dropped to his knees and started praying. Then he opened his eyes and looked at all us kids and told us to get down there on our knees with him. He said God always knew what to do.”

“I can still picture it,” Chris said with a dreamy look in his eyes. “I can see all of us except Mom on our knees praying. Every now and then, I’d open an eye and look around to see what was happening, and I could hear Mom muttering and slamming things around in the kitchen. Then it happened...like I suppose Dad knew it would...there was a knock on the door. And guess what? It was the neighbor lady with a lot of washing she needed doing. She was willing to pay in advance, and she was also aware of some other ladies in town that were looking for someone to help with their wash. It was a miracle...plain and simple. It was like Dad knew, he never let things bother him, and things always worked out.”

“I’ll bet your mom didn’t think all that washing was a miracle!” I said, trying hard not to pity the poor woman for her gift from God.

“Oh she never would admit that it was all because of Dad’s faith. Still Dad never let it concern him. Like I said, I never saw a man who always put God first like my father.”

I was about to ask if his father bothered to help with the extra wash, when the waitress came up with the bill. But Chris wasn’t ready to go. It was like this story burst inside of him and he had waited far too long to let it out. When the waitress returned with his change, he asked for more coffee for us both.

Things never got any easier for his family, but his father never lost his faith. Even when Lillian died, even then he did not waiver. Chris was only 12 at the time and had marveled at his father’s resolve. All the children were broken hearted, but not Robert Rommer. Unfortunately, the rest of the family, including Lillian’s sisters, didn’t have Robert Rommer’s faith. After several months of watching the family dissolve, they stepped in and divided the children into different family homes. Chris was taken away from his father, and settled into his aunt Martha’s in Fort Collins. In six short months, Chris lost both his mother and then his father. Oh, his father was still alive, but the family never got back together. Robert Rommer may have prayed about it every day, but that’s all he did.

I could see the long buried confusion about the issue still clouding his mind. Chris still believed in his father’s faith, so much so that he had never resolved the issue of being abandoned. Unless of course Robert Rommer had not been praying that his children be returned to him? Maybe that possibility bothered Chris most of all.

Shortly before Christopher graduated from high school Robert Rommer died of a heart attack. Chris had not seen his father since the day he had left Greeley, even though the towns were only about 100 miles apart. Sadly, although he accepted his aunt and uncle’s care, and even their money to put him through college, Christopher continued to blame them for having stood between him and his father.

Christopher’s face held an unusual combination of emotion. I wasn’t quite sure where it was directed, until I heard it slip out. “Of course none of it would have happened if Mom hadn’t died. If she’d had only a little bit of Dad’s faith, it all would have worked out differently. She sure messed things up.” Chris took a sip of his now cold coffee and with shining eyes looked out the restaurant window next to our booth.

What could I say? My heart was torn in two by the pain I saw in him. While I could hardly blame Lillian Rommer for his troubles, I could see how he had arrived at that conclusion. If it brought him comfort, who was I to question it? Surprisingly, the need to question anything Chris did was fading into the background.

When we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, I sensed that we were no longer the same sort of friends we’d been before we went in. I could see in his eyes that he too felt a new connection to me. Looking back years later, I can clearly see the patterns built that day, and how they established a foundation for the relationship to come.

On the surface, everything seemed the same. I went about my activities at the church much like before, and Chris did likewise. But now when his gaze caught mine, I could almost sense an evaluation process going on in his head. When he looked at me, it was as though I were a cantaloupe in the produce department of a supermarket. I could almost hear the questions rolling around in his mind, “Is it a good one? Ripe enough? What will it cost? And do I actually need it or want it?” Like nothing more than a cantaloupe, I sat passively waiting for his decision.

One Saturday morning three weeks after our luncheon date, I said goodbye to Mary, my church volunteer replacement, and walked out to the parking lot to my car. I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. After all, who was watching? All morning Chris had avoided me. I knew he was there because I’d transferred several calls to his office. But, each time he had acknowledged my presence with nothing more than a thank you. On every other Saturday that I worked, he came by the office two or three times for some little thing. He did it frequently enough to let me know it was done with purpose, but never so obvious that I could be certain of his intent. This morning, nothing.

As I put the key into the lock of my car, I heard a crunch on the gravel behind me and swung around to look into Chris’ light hazel eyes. He advanced swiftly across the parking lot in my direction and he looked serious. Rather than his usual smile, his jaw had a determined clench and his brow was slightly wrinkled. Now what?

“Grace, I need to talk to you for a minute. Do you have time?”

Time? Is he kidding? What’s wrong...what have I done? I nodded uncertainly as I swung around. I leaned back against the car for support.

With exaggerated casualness, Christopher also leaned against the car and began tracing lines with his shoe on the asphalt beneath his feet. With his head bent over, he appeared fascinated with the tiny rocks his foot moved back and forth and back and forth.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” he finally said.

I waited.

“I’ve always made it a practice to stay away from getting personally involved with anyone from the church. We’re advised very strongly in seminary to be extremely cautious about it. But...”

I could feel my heart beginning to beat faster and harder in my chest. I could feel a smile forming on my face but I too, kept my head down.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is...I’d like to see you, socially that is...and I wondered if you would like to go out with me?”

His hesitancy seemed so endearing. That he should appear afraid of me, or what I thought, made me want to laugh out loud. He was sweet enough to act as though there was any possibility I would reject him. It made me love him even more.

We began very slowly. I learned quickly that he had never before dated anyone from the church, and wasn’t sure of the protocol. Truthfully, I probably had more experience in the dating game than he did. But, cantaloupe that I was, I let him make all the rules. We could go to dinner, and did. We could get together for a drive to the mountains, and we did. We could even go bowling, or once go dancing, but we never once went to bed...honest!

Looking back, he never seemed that interested. Oh, I’m not saying he never touched me, or made me feel I was ugly. But he was always the one to break away from a passionate embrace with another question or comment, rather than me. Even when I could tell the couple of times I aroused him, he still managed to pull away.

In the beginning, it seemed very polite and respectful. After a while, it became a challenge. Finally, after too many times to be coincidence, it blossomed into doubt. Didn’t he find me sexy? Was something wrong with me? This was the seventies after all! I needed to talk to him but I didn’t know where to start. We women may have been liberated enough to jump into bed with lots of men, but that didn’t mean we could talk about it.

Finally, I worked up enough courage to ask him straight out. That’s when he told me, with a very serious look on his face, that I meant more to him than sex. He explained that what we had was very special, and that he saw me as an integral part of his long-term future. It sounded like the sort of commitment I thought I’d always wanted. So why did it feel so empty?

It couldn’t be the lack of physical contact, because it wasn’t all that important to me either. The few times I’d achieved what I thought was an orgasm, had been more a fluke of circumstance than any identifiable action. Most of the time it was a groping and a grunting that hardly ever lived up to its possibility. About the biggest attraction, if I was brutally honest, was a small measure of control it gave me over the men in my life. While I forfeited my heart indiscriminately, my emotions undeniably, along with my mind and all its thoughts, I’d gotten used to a momentary degree of control over men with my body. That unconscious leverage was about the only pleasure the act of sex contained.

Chris messed that up. I’d already put Chris in charge of my heart, mind, and my emotions. However, if I couldn’t control him with the lure of sex, then he held all the cards. Then again, maybe that was what love was all about? Maybe my losing sexual control was the final surrender? I was wrong. Later on, I learned the ultimate loss came when I gave away my soul.

Chapter 9

As a young woman in the late seventies, I found myself striving for the ideals of my mother’s generation, and the promises of my own. Clearly, I was confused. No longer supplied with clear outline for growing up as a wife and mother, I was seduced into believing I was more than that. Unfortunately, I had no idea what “that” was supposed to be– and neither did the rest of the country. So, I pretended to be liberated, and all the time hoped desperately that my prince would soon arrive, and save me from having to be anything at all.

Was Chris my prince? To the world, he was single, unattached and good-looking– he was also employed. Better than that-he had God as a boss. Anyone could witness him light up a crowd with passion in his voice. So what did it matter that he was less than passionate when alone with me? I could see the desire in the admiring eyes of all the men and women I knew. Perhaps my earlier searching for God had been nothing more than a search for Chris.

In the weeks and months that passed, I managed to keep my questions to myself. How? I got busy. I developed a pattern where I threw myself into learning what I needed to know– both as a wife-to-be and as a helpmate to a minister. During that time, I successfully shut off the inquisitor in my mind and busied myself becoming an indispensable part of a man’s life. I learned what women have known for a thousand lifetimes. It wasn’t difficult at all– in fact, it was frightfully easy.

What did my family say? Once Mom, in one of our infrequent phone conversations, grilled me on the essentials, like, “Was he employed? Where did he live? What was his background? Did he drink?” she was supportive. Mike had a hard time with the fact that he was a minister. But he promised not to hold it against Chris till they’d at least met. I even wrote Grandma a note thinking she would at last be proud of me for marrying my own man of God. Her return was a terse congratulations and a caution about checking out the validity of his religious training.

Sadly, Grandma’s cold response seemed warm when compared to Mrs. Pettermint’s. I’d thought she’d be overjoyed with my happiness. Instead, all she did was ask questions in her small neat handwriting. Things like, “Is this what you want, Grace? Does Chris encourage you to ask questions? Does he appreciate your curiosity? Does he listen to your ideas about God, or insist only on telling you about his?”

I didn’t bother to tell her that we never spoke about God. I took all Chris’ classes and I attended every Sunday. God surrounded us, so why talk about Him? Besides that, Chris was a man. Being twelve years my senior, he didn’t need me to trail around behind him like a child asking questions. In truth, he frequently mentioned that he enjoyed my overwhelming support and acceptance. We’d laugh over some older women in class who constantly asked the most obvious questions, and never seemed to “get it.” Chris had even “thanked God” that I wasn’t like Lu Bradley with her constant concerns about women’s issues and their presence in the church. I was clearly remaking myself over as a minister’s wife. Unfortunately, it was a path Mrs. Pettermint couldn’t understand.

One year after we met, Chris and I became officially engaged. He asked me to marry him, right there on a Sunday morning in front of God and our entire congregation. In reality, my first reaction was anger. Then I quickly recovered my sense of what was expected and appropriate, and put on a bright smile of acceptance. Before I knew it, a wedding date had been selected, and everything decided. It was done.

I could offer details. Part of me wants to. That’s the way I lived for all the years we were married—through details. One side of me wants to believe that if I explained the whole story, I could convince the world, and myself, I’d done the right thing. Instead, Mrs. Pettermint was correct, the most important thing about it was what I learned. I suppose it’s a lesson we all face. That lesson is the fact that no one else, no person or role, can ever ultimately give us purpose in life. No—whatever we came here to accomplish, it is not about being something for someone else, it is about becoming our own unique self.

Now don’t get me wrong. Chris and I had some good times. No matter how much any of us may regret a situation, there were bound to have been some happy experiences involved. For me it was the first couple of years after we married. Convincing myself that the role of wife and minister’s helpmate was the ultimate purpose of my life, I threw myself into the practice with a vengeance. For several years, watching Chris’ happiness was all the happiness I needed.

We were the perfect minister couple. We lived, breathed and drank church on every level. From the outside, it might be difficult to understand both the attraction and the addiction that such activity offers. After all, a couple in that position feel they are doing the work of God, so how can there be anything less than the most exalted in that? Yet, without God, without their church or congregation, and all the corresponding difficulties, they wouldn’t even have a life. Of course, who thinks about questions like that when you’re living them? Who has time to wonder what would happen if it is all taken away?

Of course, many women do exactly the same thing in their marriages. Why is it always easier to see it in others than in ourselves? Just look at me, over-achiever that I was, I did it in both my marriage and my spirituality.

It turned out that I was blessed with an amazing organizational mind. Thank you Grandma! Right after we were married, I spent several months getting the church records, mailing list, and finances in order. Although the actual money was handled by a bookkeeper, numerous other decisions required attention. Before long the bookkeeper, the church secretary and volunteer coordinators all turned to me whenever a decision needed to be made.

Naturally, by all appearances Chris was in charge. He certainly led the board meetings as much as before. Like always, he would turn on the charm and by the end of any meeting he would have them nodding their heads in agreement to anything he suggested. Then it was up to me, and the other staff, to carry things out.

I was also put in charge of the Sunday School. I suppose that is why I decided right off the bat that I wanted to have a baby. It seemed appropriate. Here I was married, heavily involved in the church, so wasn’t the next step children? That was why Chris surprised me with his adamant resistance.

“Absolutely not,” he said when I first raised the subject. “Perhaps later....well, certainly later. After all, we’ve only been married for a year. I think it’s way too soon.”

I didn’t even know how to answer him. I was becoming an expert at keeping my mouth shut, and my questions and real thoughts to myself.

“Besides, what I prefer to concentrate on is the growth of the church. You’ve been such a tremendous help to me, Grace. I knew that you would be, but you’ve surprised even me.” Chris came over and put his arms around me in a rare display of affection. He kissed the top of my head and continued, “Everyone loves you sweetheart. I’ve had so many of the women come up to me and tell me how you provide such a great role model for them. They say you are always so sweet, loving and incredibly supportive. It doesn’t go unnoticed, Hon....I hope you know that.”

I nodded and blushed with pleasure. See, wasn’t it all worth it?

“Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but attendance has been rising again. Oh, of course you do, you’re the one that pointed out the numbers to me.” Chris smiled and went on. “At the rate we’re going, we’ll be at 500 people a Sunday before much longer. You know what that means don’t you? It means we’ll need a bigger church building, more church activities, more volunteers...no, there’ll be plenty for us to do. For now, let’s consider the church our ‘baby’...okay honey?”

He was right of course. It was our baby. With both of us focusing all our attention on it, it began to flourish. Can you imagine the excitement that comes from growing an organization like this? I suppose the same feeling comes from any successful activity. But a spiritual activity gives you one more boost. It is a feeling of righteousness that is part of the package. In retrospect, it is easy to see how it can be abused. When you feel you are doing “God’s work,” part of you considers your work more important, more “right” than anyone else’s.

The more energy we poured into our work, the more our fame grew. Meanwhile, months flowed into years, and time passed. Then one Saturday I got a card from Mom saying that she had run into Maggie at the grocery store. Maggie was wide with pregnancy, and had a young daughter sitting in the grocery basket while a thin, brown haired boy with glasses clutched the metal sides as she rolled it down the aisle. She looked miserable.

Mom said she had insisted on meeting the children and she could see the guarded fear in their eyes as they looked at the woman they obviously had heard about before. I could tell from the few details in the card that even my self-absorbed mom had felt regretful as she asked Maggie if everything was okay. My sister’s only response had been a terse reply and a goodbye as she hurried down the aisle.

That very night Chris came home and announced during dinner that he thought it was time for us to have a child. We had recently celebrated our sixth anniversary. I suppose if one were tracking our success, it would have seemed that the timing was good. In truth, it couldn’t have been worse.

I knew by then, without a doubt, that something was wrong with our marriage. On the surface, we still looked like the perfect couple. But deep inside, I knew I felt exactly the way Mom had described my sister Maggie. Maybe she had two, and soon to be three, young ones to turn to in her emptiness. Then again, maybe they only compounded the problem. After all these years, I still couldn’t ask Chris any questions, but I could no longer escape asking myself a few. Questions like, how on earth could I bring a child into such a loveless, non-intimate relationship? And when exactly had I turned into someone exactly like Christopher’s mom, Lillian Rommer?

I said no to Chris. There was no argument either. I think he could see something in my eyes that said to avoid the subject. If we were honest, the issue touched a deeper question, one that we would never talk about. That subject was sex.

It had never been good, only adequate. Our wedding night was a great indication of how our sexual relationship would look in the future. Of course, it had been a long day. Not only had Chris done his regular Sunday service, we also had a guest minister come in and do the wedding that afternoon. Besides that added stress, the congregation then held a reception dinner/dance at the church that lasted late into the evening. As usual, we were the last ones to leave and lock up after everyone had departed. By the time we got to his home for the night, all I felt was tremendous relief when Chris fell asleep first.

Oh, we got around to it eventually, but it was never very exciting. Although the sight of Chris’ naked body coming out of the shower continued to create a dull ache in my gut, I never seemed to do the same for him. If I pushed it, if I clearly showed I was in an amorous mood, he would kiss me back and slowly and methodically make love to me. But I couldn’t remember him once initiating the action.

Every time I thought about it, I felt drowned in a pool of sadness. Still, it did make sense. After all, it reminded me that my looks were never my greatest asset. Besides, part of me admired Chris for his lofty approach to sexuality. What kind of woman needed such physical gratification? Perhaps if I studied more, focused more on doing God’s work, I too, would be beyond such crude attraction? Is it any wonder that I kept myself so busy?

When people asked later, like in the Newsweek article, about how I got started on my own path, they always ask if I was trained in my husband’s church. My usual answer is a laugh, followed by a denying shake of my head. Of course, if I’m honest, everything I’ve ever done was part of my path. That includes my marriage, that includes the pain of living a lie, that includes it all.

After eight years, our congregation grew to over 1,200 people attending every Sunday. We had an active Sunday school, a broad base of volunteers, AA meetings held four nights a week, a mid-week service, ongoing classes, a huge single’s club and social events every month. We sure looked like a success.

As is typical of many churches, finances were up and down. Although our personal needs were quite modest—after all, our entire life was the church—we constantly needed funds to keep our newly purchased property in working condition. We righteously felt it was our duty to make the most of it by completely renovating it as soon as possible. That required extra money. And getting extra money for most churches means fund raising.

There are lots of ways to do it. Chris was always good at asking directly. He put out the request, and we waited. Then one Sunday in the reception line after an invigorating talk about how God would always provide the way, a stranger introduced himself to Chris. I was standing across the lobby and didn’t bother to hide my frank inspection of the tall, dark haired man shaking hands with my husband. I could see Chris light up at something the man said, then laugh and pat him on the shoulder as their hands unclasped. For some reason, he reminded me of a curly-haired version of my first love Eddie. For the first time in a long time, I found myself staring at a man’s butt. I hoped he would be back.

He was. The next Sunday I handed him a program as I stood at my post in the back of the church. One of the ushers hadn’t shown up so I was filling in for the latecomers. My reward was the dark haired man. Up close, the front of him looked as good as the back of him. I felt my face grow warm as I handed him the program. His lazy dark eyes seemed to smile with awareness. He accepted my piece of paper without losing my gaze, and nodded slightly before heading down the aisle. My heart sounded like a drum.

After the service, I lost track of him as I dealt with the usual cluster of women asking one question after another. I normally welcomed their attention, knowing I was at my best when dealing competently with other people’s problems. This morning though, I had something else on my mind. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was the man or the emotion. Either way, he awakened in me something I had successfully struggled to deny for years. Right then, I was very aware of the spreading warmth throughout my body, an unaccustomed depth to my breath, as well as a pounding heart. For the first time in years I felt wildly alive.

Then I saw him again. Chris, finished with his reception line, stood next to the water cooler with the dark haired man at his side. Chris was smiling and his white teeth stood out against a flushed face while his eyes twinkled like they never did for me. With chest pounding, I put a smile on my face and walked over.

“Grace, I’d like you to meet Mark.” Chris said without even looking at me. I prayed that my hand wasn’t sweating as I reached out to shake Mark’s hand. Again, his lazy, dark brown eyes acknowledged my interest, as he took my hand in his. My hand felt hot and clumsy in his cool and gentle grasp.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Mark said before letting go. “I was just telling your husband how much I’ve enjoyed coming here and listening to him. He’s not at all like the ministers I remember.” We all laughed and nodded in agreement.

“I’ve asked Mark to join us for dinner this evening Grace, if that’s all right with you?” Chris asked as he continued to look at Mark. Then without a reply, he grabbed Mark by the shoulder, turned him towards the entrance and they walked away. A perpetual smile never left his face. Mark looked back over his shoulder with a nod, and I too found myself smiling a response. Chris’ slight was understandable. It appeared we were both smitten, and Mark seemed to expect nothing less.

That night we met Mark at The Smoke Pit Restaurant. It was Chris’ favorite place to eat and we usually only went on special occasions. On the way there we hardly said a word. Sitting beside me in the car I noticed that Chris was wearing his favorite cranberry wool sweater. It set off his complexion, and put a glint to his hair. However, Chris wasn’t the only one who had spent time getting ready.

I had fussed with my hair for over a half hour, and changed clothes three times before settling on a dark, forest green sweater. The cashmere felt soft and sensuous against my skin and the accompanying dark green pants I wore fit smoothly against my hips and thighs. I brushed my hair till it reflected off the glass and even sprayed on a little perfume. I was amazed at how heightened my senses were. It felt good to be alive again.

We found Mark waiting for us in a large red booth tucked back in a corner of the restaurant. As though preordained, I slid in on one side of the booth, and Chris sat on the other side with Mark between us. We all began to speak at once, then laughed and looked at Mark.

“Well, I appreciate you both joining me this evening. Tonight is cause for celebration, and I’m thrilled you both could be here.” Mark said as he looked back and forth between us.

“A celebration, you didn’t say anything about that,” Chris answered.

“Well, it’s not official or anything...it’s a new business I’m starting up. I see it as a sign that I came to your church and heard your message these last two weeks. What I’m hearing is that this is definitely the business for me.”

“So, what exactly is it?” Chris asked.

“Well, because it is so new, I’m a little hesitant to talk about it. It’s a fabulous opportunity and I want to get everything locked in while it’s still on the ground floor. Once the word is out, it’ll take off like a rocket! I’ve never been involved in something so exciting.” Although his style of speaking was measured and precise, the level of passion beneath it was unmistakable. When said with such energy, he could have been talking about encyclopedias and I would have hung on every word.

“Oh, if you don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about it so soon, that’s okay,” Chris said politely.

“Hey, I can barely keep it inside a minute longer. Besides, if I can’t talk to my minister about it, who can I talk it over with?” Mark said, looking back and forth between us as we all laughed again. “Actually, it’s a new marketing program that offers top of the line vitamins and supplements to clients. The product line is exceptional and the quality is unsurpassed. People are already making a fortune at this, and I intend to join the crowd.”

“So it’s like a store you’ll be opening?” Chris asked with interest.

“Oh no, it’s much better than that. With a store you have overhead, inventory and employees. No, the way this works is you sell it directly to the consumer. It’s great because you don’t have to tie up a bunch of money in advance and everything is shipped out directly to the customer from the warehouse.” Mark’s excitement continued as we ordered drinks and dinner.

“Another great part is,” Mark said, in between taking bites of his salad, “I get to set my own hours; I’m my own boss. It’s perfect. Plus, it even works great while you work in another job. Right now, I’m working at Heritage Furniture Store till I get the business up and going. Others have done that, and then as soon as things take off, you can move into it full time.”

All through dinner, Mark continued to share his excitement for the business. He went on and on about the company and the product, but mainly about how much money could be made. Chris continued to ask interested questions while I contented myself with the passion in Mark’s voice.

“You know, Chris,” Mark said thoughtfully, while the waitress cleared off the empty plates. “I wouldn’t mention this to most people, but I think this business might help you guys out too. See, the set up is beautiful.” Mark grabbed a clean napkin from the far side of the table, a pen from his jacket pocket, and began drawing a chart.

“Here’s the company that I buy from. What I am is a distributor. I can sell both to individual customers, or,” Mark smiled knowingly, and looked back and forth between us, “or I can sign up other distributors. Then my distributors can sign up other distributors, and so on and so on. See what I mean?” His picture looked something like a family tree.

“What happens is, I get a commission on everything I sell to customers. But... and this is the big thing, I also get a commission on everything my distributors sell to their customers. Get it? And everything their distributors sell to their customers, I get a little more. Sure, I can make money selling to customers. But the way to make really big money is to have a bunch of distributors doing the work for you.” Mark slid back in the booth and crossed his arms across his chest.

“So, how could this help us?” Chris asked with deep concentration.

“Well, because I see it as such a great company, doing such great work, I thought it might work well for you at the church. You mentioned the last couple of Sundays that you were holding fund-raisers for renovating the church hall. This would be a great way to do that. Shoot, you could even sign up as distributors, and then sign up the church underneath you. That way you could be earning personally a small commission on everyone who signs up and orders stuff under the church. Trust me, there’s good money in it. After all Pastor, you deserve to be prosperous too!” Mark laughed and patted Chris on the shoulder.

Okay, maybe I should have been paying closer attention. But only part of me was listening to the details of Mark’s business. I was mainly basking in the atmosphere of passion and excitement. It seemed like years since I’d felt that alive about anything, and I think Chris felt the same. To see Chris so exhilarated, to be around a man so attractive as Mark, life seemed to have taken a turn for the better. Who could have guessed that multi-level marketing would be the spark that incinerated our life together?

Chapter 10

Success wrapped around spirituality remains popular today, but back in the eighties, it was all consuming. The entire country vibrated with the belief that the ultimate American Dream was gobs of money, unlimited possessions and unharnessed power. Religion, like every other group, was sucked into the fantasy. Progressively, we lulled each other into believing that the sign of true spirituality was a hefty bank account, excellent credit and piles of stuff. Chris and I bought the whole enchilada.

The God that Chris promoted, Sunday after Sunday, was a God of goodwill and success of every kind. Naturally, this kind of God wanted us all to be prosperous. Right? So who better as the radiant example of that prosperity? Why the minister of course! The pastor was no longer required to be an example of integrity and moderation. Instead, he led the charge as proof that God wanted every sort of material success for everyone. Just as Mrs. Pettermint had always said, we usually find any kind of God we go looking for.

Even then, Chris and I never once abused the money that belonged to the church. Chris’ salary, arranged by contract when he accepted the position, gave him an adequate amount each month, as well as a parsonage and insurance. In addition, he earned a percentage from the classes he taught. We rented a modest, middle-class, three-bedroom home on the west side of Colorado Springs, and had two vehicles. Money never seemed necessary in our personal lives. About the only reason we’d want money, would be to further our work.

That night after our dinner with Mark, Chris and I began to dream of what we could do with our church if we had unlimited funds. Until then, we had taken everything slowly. When money came in, we initiated new programs. When things slowed down, we tightened our belt. Now for the first time, that could change dramatically.

I think the passion in Mark ignited both of our imaginations. That night, we sat on our bed in pajamas and made lists of things we could do and what it would look like. We could see a huge church building, a television ministry that spanned the country, and a radio ministry that spanned the world. Through relief trips to third-world countries, shelters for the homeless, day care centers for our mothers, and prosperity seminars for our men, we would help them all. Our dreams were visionary and selfless. Surely, this is something God would want for us?

That’s how it started. When Chris met with Mark a few days later and began the process for the new business, his intentions were sterling. The company was called Mega-Life, and even that seemed to point to the rightness of what we were doing. Once signed up as distributors, we then approached the board at the church to find out if they agreed with the potential in this opportunity. I’d never seen Chris as charismatic as the day he painted a vision to our board about the unlimited possibilities of Mega-Life. When we walked out of the room, everyone was electrified.

That Sunday, Chris made the first of many announcements about Mega-Life from the pulpit. “Before I get into my talk this morning, I want you all to know about something that is a gift from heaven.”

Chris glowed, and over 1,200 people sat with rapt attention. Me included. It still happened after all these years. It didn’t matter how many times I had been overcome with doubt about our relationship, all I had to do was watch him mesmerize a crowd and my purpose remained clear.

Chris concluded with, “Now, I don’t want anyone here to feel obligated in any way. This isn’t about that at all. Instead, this is an opportunity for those of us who use personal care items anyway to help our church, and even make a little money for themselves while doing good. If that sounds like something you want to do, even part time, my friend Mark Harris will have some information out front afterwards. Mark, wave your arm so the people will know who you are.”

Mark half stood and waved his arm over his head then sat again before Chris continued. “Remember, the company’s name is Mega-Life, and you heard it first here at church. It won’t be long, and you’ll be hearing it everywhere.”

The sermon that followed was inspired with the idea that we could all have anything we wanted, as long as we had the vision. The energy in the entire room was perceptible and charged with possibility. After that introduction, nearly half the people in the congregation stopped to pick up brochures at the table Mark and Chris had sitting in the lobby. Chris even left his reception line at the door and joined Mark as they talked to people. Like two schoolboys on a winning team, they radiated their enthusiasm, and everyone wanted some. Our project was off to a grand beginning.

We couldn’t believe it. That first Sunday alone, we had over 150 people sign up as distributors under the church. Contracts were signed, checks for distributor status were collected, and product orders were taken. I stayed in the background and let Chris and Mark work out the details. With Chris as the recruiter, Mark seemed happy to handle the details.

It was an exciting time. Practically every day we had something new to celebrate. Mark was at our house constantly. He even quit his job. Secretly I thought it a bit premature, but both Chris and Mark were ecstatic teammates that laughed and talked about what they’d do the minute the money started rolling in.

Magically, all of my own unhappiness and confusion disappeared. Daily, Chris’ actions reminded me of why I’d married him in the first place. He completed me, and I could never imitate his talent and passion. Obviously, my highest purpose was to serve him, and it had been years since I had enjoyed the job as much.

Besides that, Mark was there too. Although he’d never made any physical approach, nor ever an insinuation, his very presence seemed to keep me aroused to life. When not daydreaming about the wonderful work we were doing for God, I found myself spending hours concocting a life fantasy which included both Mark and Chris, both in bed and out. Okay, maybe not at the same time, but with several variations. My previously passionless life suddenly seemed infused with excitement and hope.

The euphoria lasted nearly six months, probably longer than we deserved. We existed on pure adrenaline for the first several months. After that, checks began to arrive. Unfortunately, they never seemed to be as much as we thought they would, for us, or the church, but the fact that they were arriving was enough. Chris continued to announce the program on Sundays and by then nearly half the congregation was selling Mega-Life.

Of course, if we’d been paying attention we could have spotted the problems. Right after that first Sunday pitch, Lu Bradley, a long time member of the church, called me on the telephone.

“Grace, this is Lu Bradley,” came the familiar voice over the phone.

“Lu, hi,” was my guarded response.

“Grace, I don’t know if it’s any of my business. But after hearing Pastor Chris talk about this multi-level marketing thing, I felt it was my duty to warn you.”

“Well, thank you Lu, I appreciate your concern.”

“I wanted you to know I think I heard something about this Mega-Life before. Or maybe I read something about it in the paper. I think you should be careful. These things have a way of getting out of control. Frankly, I’m not sure I trust that young man Mark in the first place. So what do you...?” Her voice was wound up, and started to roll.

“Lu,” I interrupted. “I appreciate your concern, but I was on my way out the door. I’ll be sure to pass your message on to Pastor, so don’t you worry about it, okay?” I wasn’t about to let Lu interfere with my fantasies.

Unfortunately, Lu wasn’t the only caller. Several weeks later I got a call from another woman, Sally Hollander, who had only been attending the church for a couple of months. She had moved to Colorado Springs from Boston and was extremely shy. I was surprised to hear her voice on the phone, and equally surprised to hear she had doubts about Mega-Life. Sally was convinced she’d heard bad rumors about the company a year or two before. I was sorry to hear it; she had never struck me before as a negative person.

“Oh Sally, thank you so much for your concern. I’ll let Pastor know you called.” I then quickly got her off the phone. Just like with Lu Bradley, I was astonished at their need to discredit the very company that was our salvation. I never even bothered to say anything to Chris.

That was it, until six months later and I got a call from Mega-Life that sent us all crashing back to earth. I was at home working on the volunteer schedule for the Sunday School when the phone rang. The man on the phone said he was connected with Mega-Life. He was looking for Chris.

“This is Mrs. Rommer, Chris’ wife,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“No, I need to talk to Chris. Tell him John Hartley called and he’d better call me back this time because this has to be figured out...and soon.”

That was all he said, but something about his voice scared me. My hands were sweating and I had an urge to bite off all my nails. Yet rather than acknowledge the fear and face it, I brainwashed myself into believing Chris could handle it. I told him that night.

“Chris, I got a call today from John Hartley at Mega-Life. He said it was very important to talk to you.” I saw both Chris’ and Mark’s heads swerve in unison to my voice. They sat side by side at the table, studying figures in a ledger.

“What did he say?” Chris asked with unusual intensity.

“Not that much...only that he needs to talk to you. Actually,” I said with a nervous laugh, “He kind of gave me the creeps. I’d prefer he doesn’t call again.”

“Okay, fine,” Chris answered, and returned to the notebook that he and Mark were scrutinizing. Still, the quick frown Chris gave Mark before he looked down was obvious.

Later that night, after I had fed both the men in my life, I went back to the office to make a few phone calls. I had fallen into the practice of calling a few church members every evening to check in with them. Not only did the people respond very positively, but it also seemed to help me as much as them. Yet, that night, all the calls touched on Mega-Life rather than the church. A couple had questions about certain products that I’d never even tried, and I told them so. Two more of them had complaints.

Apparently, commission checks that were overdue were not arriving as promised. The phone lines to Mega-Life were constantly busy, and one woman had waited over three weeks before receiving her order. “What was going on?” they wanted to know. I honestly didn’t have a clue. When I asked whether they had brought up the issue with either Chris or Mark, the answer both times was yes. They had been told to be patient. Two weeks ago, that had seemed like a good answer. Not today.

I hung up the phone, leaned back in my chair and swallowed the lump in my throat. There was that feeling of fear again, deep in my stomach. What now?

I got up from the chair and started down the hallway to the living room. My legs felt like dead weights, but something inside me forced me forward. I could no longer deny or ignore the feeling. Something was wrong.

As I approached the corner of the hall that opened up into the family room and dining room, I heard low voices. “You said this would be taken care of by now, Mark,” said Chris in a high-pitched pleading tone I’d never heard before.

“Chris, you’ve gotta trust me. You know I’m telling you the truth. We’ve got to ride this thing out—but we can’t panic. That will only bring everything down.”

“But how much longer? Everyone, and I mean everyone, is looking to me for direction in this thing. I can’t lie to these people Mark, I won’t.” The whine in Chris’ voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve got to be strong,” Mark answered so softly I could barely hear. “The company says if we can get a few more people as distributors, their cash will push everything over the top. All we need is a little more capital infusion for the whole thing to skyrocket. We’ll make it, but we can’t stop now. We can do it, buddy.” From around the corner I saw him place his hand first on Chris’ arm, and then reach farther up to the side of his head and gently stoke his hair with the back of his hand.

Something in me made me burst around the corner into the room. Mark jerked his hand away from Chris, and they both jumped in surprise.

“God, Grace, what’s that about?” asked Chris. His eyes looked afraid. I’d never seen fear there before, and its depth surprised me even more.

“I think something is going on here that we need to get out in the open,” was all I could say as I looked back and forth between Chris and Mark.

“Look Grace, it’s been a long day. I think we should all call it an evening,” said Mark in his smooth and easygoing way. Yet, for the first time it felt fake to me—and controlling. I wanted neither.

“Okay Mark, if you want to go that’s fine. But Chris and I are going to have a talk. And one thing we’re talking about is Mega-Life.”

“Mark, please stay,” said Chris. The fear in his eyes switched to pleading with the man rising beside him. “Maybe it’s time we talked to her about it? Maybe it’s time for us to get this out in the open?” His face slackened and the fear in his eyes returned. “Mark you can’t leave now. I need you.”

“No, Chris. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Mark gave Chris his lazy smile that suddenly looked a bit like a smirk. Without once looking at me, he turned and walked to the door.

I heard the door shut behind me as I faced Chris. In that instant, a truth about my husband struck me like a bolt of lightning. Until that moment, Chris had been the sum total of everything I wasn’t. He always appeared to be more connected to Spirit, more an instrument of God than I could have ever hoped. I had long and silently envied his power to communicate, the passion in his soul, and the calm assurance in his manner. Most of all, I had lived protected by his strength. As long as he was there, I never needed courage. Now I saw that he was just a man. And not just a man, but a man consumed by the fear of his own doubts and weakness. The world as I knew it turned upside down.

“Grace, I don’t think we should get into this tonight,” Chris whined.

Had he always whined? Had his voice always held that quality and I was too blind to see? “If not now, when Chris? I think we’ve both put it off far too long.”

“What do you mean?”

“First let’s talk about Mega-Life. It’s in trouble, we’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

“No, no,” Chris answered, and I caught a glimpse of the old Chris, the self-assured Chris who could easily make light of any problem. “Don’t you be worrying about that—Mark and I have that completely covered. Besides, I’ve prayed about it a lot and I know that God will take care of things.”

“Okay, let’s say I believe you,” I answered and watched the noticeable look of relief on his face. “Then let’s talk about you and Mark. And don’t give me that shocked look...you know exactly what I mean.” I don’t even know where the question came from. It had never been a thought in my conscious head before that moment. Yet, the minute I said it, I knew exactly what I meant. And so did Chris.

“No, I don’t know what you mean,” he answered with confusion on his face. Unfortunately I could see that behind the confusion was more fear, and I knew instantly I was right.

“Chris, it has been so long since we’ve really talked. Let’s finally tell the truth.” I took a breath and paused. There was no victory in being right. The only thing that might save us was honesty. At the same time I was painfully aware of how elusive it was.

“You’re talking crazy now,” was all he could get out. “Mark’s a good friend, a friend to both of us, and a business partner. What I want to know is what’s wrong with you? You’re talking crazy, and I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

I wanted to laugh, except it caught in my throat. Chris served as the perfect, although fake husband for me, and I played the perfect, yet ultimately fake, wife for him. We may have looked like the ideal couple, but that was only on the surface and in the eyes of others. While it apparently had been worth it for a while, the cost suddenly became too high. The overwhelming sense of being immersed under a ton of water almost gagged me. Whatever it took, I needed air and I had to get out. This kind of life wasn’t living at all.

“Chris, I honestly don’t know what you’re seeing when you look at me. Are you seeing the woman you married? If you are, no wonder you’re surprised. Cause she’s not here anymore. Are you seeing someone you don’t recognize? Guess what, I think that might be the real me, or at least part of her. And she’s decided it’s time for a change.”

Chris rose from the table, and then sat back down. He looked around the room as though looking for an escape. Not finding one, he settled back in, and leaned back in his chair guardedly crossing his arms over his chest. I sat down in a chair across from him and reached across the table, hoping he would take my hand. He ignored it, and instead looked up and defiantly met my gaze.

“It won’t do any good, you know,” Chris said, then immediately looked down and began tracing circles on the glass table top with his finger. “There’s not much point in talking about it, there never will be. I like my life the way it is. So, we’re going through a little trouble here. What’s the big deal? I will pray about it, I’ve always prayed about it. I like having you as my wife; it’s a good life. I don’t want things to change.”

“It’s too late Chris, things have already changed.” This time I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. When he looked up and our eyes met, I felt mine flood with tears. “I can’t live the lie anymore. I can’t, it’s killing me.” As I spoke, I felt myself swimming upwards to the surface, releasing the weight that had crushed me for so long. A rush of air filled my lungs. I could breathe! All I had to do was keep speaking the truth.

“Chris, we struck a bargain eight years ago. I thought it was good for both of us, but now I honestly don’t know. It wasn’t really a bad life...just not much of a life at all. If nothing else, it taught me that I can’t live like that. I think it’s time to move on...for both of us.”

“What are you saying? You’re saying it’s over? Our marriage is over?” Chris asked, jerking his hand away from mine as though he was finally beginning to grasp what the conversation was all about. “There is nothing between Mark and I—nothing, do you hear me!” His voice was raised several pitches higher than normal.

“I’m not saying there is,” I said, not bothering to hide the pity in my eyes. “But I think there could be, or there might be. God knows there hasn’t been anything physically between you and me, Chris. Perhaps that’s as good a reason as any. It doesn’t matter to me. Besides, I couldn’t blame you for wanting him. I wanted him, too—at least in the beginning. I don’t think any of us were meant to be living without love. Now I know none of us should be living without honesty. From that perspective, I’m surprised you and I lasted as long as we did.”

Right in front of me I could see Chris building up a protective armor. Not much else I could say would make a difference. I said it anyway, “And from what I’m hearing, I am very concerned about Mega-Life. I think we should admit that something is very, very wrong and cut our losses while we can.”

Suddenly, Chris exploded by jumping out of his chair and slamming his hand on the glass tabletop, “Cut our losses—easy for you to say. I can’t cut my losses. This is my life! This is everything I’ve worked for. This is everything I’ve built. Oh, sure you can walk away. What have you got to lose? You had nothing, you still have nothing. But this is me and everything I am is wrapped up in it.” His eyes blazed with equal amounts of contempt and fear.

“Chris, it doesn’t have to be everything. People will understand. We weren’t trying to do anything wrong. So, we made a mistake. You can go on.”

His laugh frightened me more than anything I’d heard so far that evening. “You haven’t heard a word I said. There is no way to go on. Everything, everything is wrapped up in this. If I lost the people, I’d lose the church. I’d lose...me. No, this isn’t going down. It can’t. It’s my life. It is everything!”

“So what about us? How will you explain what’s happened to us?”

“Us?” he shook his head and sat back down. “I don’t know right now but I’ll figure something out. Christ, you couldn’t be leaving at a worse time.” Chris looked up and met my eyes, “Thanks Grace—thanks a lot. You know, when it comes right down to it, you’re just like my mom. I should have known you’d leave me too.”

When I saw how I fit into the scheme of things, the tears wouldn’t stop. The truth may have saved me from drowning, but it wasn’t saving me from pain. As I sat with uncontrollable tears running down my cheeks, Chris got up out of his seat and crossed the room to the garage door. I heard his car start, and leave, and that was the last time I saw Christopher Rommer.

So where was God in all of this? Here I thought that we were doing God’s work and look at what a mess I’d created. It’s a great reminder that the ministry isn’t any different from other occupations. While all priests and ministers would like to believe they’re special, they’re only doing the best they can with the consciousness they have.

Chris and I never saw or spoke to one another again. Ironically, I had once considered him the epitome of strength and my protector. I knew at the core of my being that he was now afraid of me. Afraid of what I suspected about his sexuality, afraid of my willingness to admit the truth about Mega-Life, and certainly afraid of my honesty. In the end, none of that made any difference.

The divorce was uncontested. Of course, there was nothing to contest. By the time the divorce date arrived, it was all gone. Headlines about Mega-Life were on the front page of every local newspaper. The church crumbled. I made a couple of efforts to stay in touch with certain people at the church, believing they were “friends.” While I’ll never know what Chris told them, it was easy to see they too had only been interested in the role I played.

So what did I do? Chris moved out of the house when I wasn’t around, and for several weeks I sat and cried. Even though I knew I was equally responsible for the mess, even then I wanted to blame others and wallow in my sorrow. The only smart thing I did, was to realize that I was going to need some money and that I no longer had a job. Luckily I withdrew what little money Chris and I had in our bank account the next day. It wasn’t much, only $2,727 and some change. It lasted me through several months of crying, feeling sorry for myself, and waiting for the divorce to finalize.

Then I did what every wounded young woman does, I went home. Not home really, but home to Mrs. Pettermint. I didn’t even call her. After all, what could I say? We hadn’t spoken in months. I threw everything I owned into my Ford Escort and drove into the sunset stopping only one night outside Gallup, New Mexico to sleep in a rest area. At first light of dawn, I forced myself awake and hurried on. I arrived at Mrs. Pettermint’s at dusk. My eyes were red and weary from the blinding sun, the 20 hour drive, and an uncontrollable need to cry every hour or so.

Seeing the light of her kitchen through the lace curtains brought lightness to my heart and fresh tears to my eyes. I parked and walked heavily to the door feeling awkward as I rang the bell. What would I say? How could I explain?

She never even asked. My beloved mentor took one look at me and her thin arms reached up and pulled me into her shelter. My eyes responded with a rush of tears as I flooded the tiny woman with my sorrow.

I don’t remember much else of my homecoming. I know that without any words she led me upstairs, drew me a bath in the white, claw footed tub and let me soak in bubbles while holding a cup of herb tea and eating a chocolate chip cookie. Afterwards, I crawled into bed and slept for what seemed like hours.

“It’s so good to see you,” said Mrs. Pettermint as I walked barefooted into her kitchen the next morning. The golden room looked exactly the same as it always had.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said, grabbing her and holding her in my arms. Then, I held her back from me as I took a good look at her. “Are you more beautiful than ever, or is that my imagination?”

“Well, I can see you’re still a bit delusional,” answered Mrs. Pettermint with a chuckle. “I look exactly like me, exactly like I’ve looked for years.” She made a clucking noise with her tongue before adding, “Let me get you something to eat.”

“You’re right, you look exactly like you’ve always looked, and that’s beautiful.”

I could tell she still didn’t believe me, but she smiled. In her graceful way she puttered around in the kitchen making tea and two turkey sandwiches.

“I guess you know why I’m here.” I finally said after taking a drink of the hot tea she placed in front of me.

“I sort of guessed, yes.”

“Well, I need somewhere to stay. And I know I’m completely uninvited, but I didn’t know where else to go.” As the realization hit me, I felt my eyes well up and a lump catch in my throat.

“Grace, you don’t need an invitation, I think deep down you know that.”

A rush of love for this woman flooded my whole body. This woman who would open her house to me and welcome me home even though I had virtually ignored her for the last 10 years. What had I ever done to deserve her love? What had I ever done to even deserve her friendship? Her open acceptance of love was more grace than I had experienced in years. I was humbled.

“Mrs. Pettermint, I don’t.... I can’t?” I tried to choke out the questions but they wouldn’t come. Finally, I burst out, “Why do you even care about me? What have I ever brought to you except a thousand questions and a pile of trouble?” I hung my head and hid behind the blanket of hair framing my face.

Then I knew. She didn’t have to say a word. For the first time in weeks, I was able to stop thinking about my troubles and how much I hurt. It wasn’t about me at all; it was all about her. Mrs. Pettermint was a truly unconditionally loving and kind person. Beyond that, she loved me for the real me, not all those things I had pretended to be. At that moment, I could clearly see and understand that it was possible to be that kind of woman.

I guess that’s most of what I learned after nine years of life in Colorado.

Chapter 11

My homecoming was a true example of the prodigal—except for me being a girl of course. Besides, doesn’t the biblical account make more sense from a female perspective? After all, it’s usually the mother who welcomes their children home with arms open wide.

Mrs. Pettermint opened her house and her life to me as though I had never been gone. Like the prodigal’s father, she didn’t do it because I deserved it, she did it because it was who she was. Although we never talked about a party, she lavished me with love and acceptance. She also encouraged me to contact my family.

While I had no interest in seeing my sister, I did call Mom early that first week. After listening to her judgments about my leaving Chris, she offered me no support, and only an indirect collection of her own fears about being alone. I got the impression that Mom and Mike’s relationship was struggling as well. I could tell from her advice that she felt being with any man in any relationship was better than being alone. I knew better.

After that, Mom listed all her physical ailments that she attributed to Maggie, Grandma and me. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her? Had she always been this way? Hoping to throw her off track, I asked about Mike and heard a twenty-minute tirade about his frequent absences. It seems he spent all of his time at his office these days, working late into the evening. I wasn’t surprised.

The loneliness in her voice filled me with sadness and frustration. Here she was, isolated in a community that she had lived in for years. Her own mother, daughter, grandchildren and friends were only miles away and yet she stayed at home and complained. Is that what happens to people who only think of themselves?

Coincidentally, the next day I ran into Maggie. Leaning over the metal newspaper containers at Vons Supermarket, I tried to figure out which paper would have the most want ads. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw my sister leave the store with three little kids in tow.

What to do? The frumpy woman in front of me was no longer an enviable schoolgirl. She was frowning and her dark hair hung limply around her face. The kids were whining. The sun, beating down on the black asphalt parking lot shimmered in the heat. Maybe I should leave her alone?

“Maggie,” I heard myself call out as I walked slowly towards her retreating back. “Maggie,” I called again, and the children turned to see who was moving up quickly behind them. Only then did she stop pushing her cart and glance back over her shoulder.

“Maggie, it’s me... Grace.”

“Grace?” Maggie asked, squinting her eyes to look at me more closely. “Oh, Grace, I didn’t know you were here. I thought I heard you were married, and living someplace in Colorado.”

“Yeah, I was, for a while. But I’m back now.” The kids were silent and watched us with wary eyes. “Look, let me help you with these groceries, it’s warm today.”

“No, that’s okay,” Maggie responded as she pulled her keys out of a black vinyl purse with cracked corners. Then, after making a selection, she inserted one into the back of a large yellow station wagon. “The children can get them.”

“Boy, I can’t believe how big they are. Are you going to introduce them to their Aunt Grace?”

“This is Adam,” Maggie said reluctantly as she gestured toward the thin boy who looked a lot like his father. “This is Esther, and the baby is Paul.” They all continued to look at me guardedly as Adam swung open the back of the station wagon and began shoveling in the bags from the cart. Maggie lifted Paul out of the metal seat and struggled with him as he squirmed to get down. I stood there wondering whether to stay or go.

“Well, it’s been good to see you again Maggie. Your kids all look good too.”

“Children,” said Maggie firmly

“What?”

“They are children, not ‘kids’,” Maggie answered without mercy. “I suppose you don’t know that because you still don’t have any of your own.”

Reacting more to her tone than her words, I shook my head sadly.

Misinterpreting my sadness, I saw her soften and say, “Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time for you and your husband.”

“Hardly,” I answered with a chuckle. “I’m back for good. Chris and I got divorced.”

“I guess I’m not surprised,” Maggie said, frowning as she carried the squirming Paul around to the front passenger car door, pulled it open, and began attempting to stuff him into his infant seat. “From what Grandma said, she wasn’t sure he was a true man of the Lord.” Her task finally complete, she turned around and faced me as I struggled to control the anger growing inside me.

“You still shouldn’t have left him Grace,” Maggie said sternly. “I’m sure if you had both gotten right in your heart about Jesus Christ you could have saved the relationship. You can’t always walk away from your mistakes. You made that bed, so you should lie in it. I’m sure it’s not too late if you went back right away and did your duty.”

“Oh, excuse me,” I said. “I thought I was talking to my sister Maggie...not my Grandmother.”

“What would you know about your grandmother?” Maggie whispered hoarsely with an intensity that surprised me.

“Well, I lived with her too,” was about all I could manage.

“You know nothing about her. If you did, you’d know she’s been dead for over a year now.” The only thing that blurred the hostility in her eyes was the hurt that welled up inside mine.

“Grandma’s dead?” I asked incredulously. “When...and why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Why should I bother? You didn’t care about her. I was the only one who understood Grandma and she was the only one who understood me.” Maggie lifted up her chin and marched around to the opposite side of the car. She jerked open the door and her hand ushered both Adam and Esther into the back seat. Finally, she pulled open the front door and turned around to face me.

“I did too care about her,” I answered, knowing my voice was loud and echoed in the parking lot. “And what about mom? You didn’t even tell Mom? Who died and made you God, Maggie?”

“Humph...a lot you know about God,” Maggie muttered as she slid into the driver’s seat. Then looking out her open window, she added, “But, I will keep praying for you Grace, like Grandma always did.”

It felt like a bad movie as I stood in the parking lot and watched the car back out and drive away. Although Maggie’s eyes remained glued to the road in front of her, the faces of all three children stared out the car windows and watched me until they turned the corner and passed out of sight. While I could not deny my anger, another part of me felt pity. It was fairly obvious that Maggie had never, ever once, felt the grace of unconditional love.

As it turned out, my homecoming was filled with even more unexpected surprises. I suppose the prodigal son experienced the same thing after his big party. Sure it’s great to be welcomed home with open arms, but then what? Did he suddenly go from being a rebel to becoming a humble and repentant son? Or did he remain true to that part of himself that made him an explorer in the first place? Did you ever wonder if he figured out a way to benefit from all his talent and stay happy right there at home? The bible doesn’t say, but my own story offers one possibility.

There was no question about where I would live. “Thank you for doing this Grace,” Mrs. Pettermint said to me as she showed me my room and gave me a key to the front and back door. “With me getting a bit older, it’s probably best to have you here at the house. If you help me out taking care of things, we’ll call it even.”

It was true that she had aged while I’d been gone, but she still looked lively and clear. Her invitation didn’t fool me a bit. She didn’t need me to live there, but knew that by explaining things that way, it was easy for me to stay. Besides, where else would I go?

Then one Saturday, a week after my return, Mrs. Pettermint asked “Would you like to come to church with me tomorrow?”

I almost dropped the chocolate chip cookie in my hand. “Church? You’ve started going to church?” I was vaguely aware that my mouth was hanging open as I stared at the woman in front of me. “No offense, but I think I’ve had enough church to last me a lifetime.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Pettermint said with a smile, and lowered her eyes to the book resting on her lap.

My mind was in turmoil. Church? I’d sworn off churches for the rest of my life. If there was a God, chances are you wouldn’t find Him there. All my experiences told me it was too easy to hide from truth in church. No, I was staying far, far away from any place that fit that category. But this was Mrs. Pettermint? Surely she wouldn’t promote a place of fear and false hopes, would she? “So what kind of church is it?” I asked finally, in a tone that only mildly suggested interest.

She chuckled in a way that acknowledged she knew I had taken the bait. “Why don’t you keep an open mind, Grace? Come with me, and then afterwards we’ll talk about it.”

The next morning I pulled my car next to the curb in front of a small stucco building sitting on the corner of a residential neighborhood. A painted wooden sign read, “The Ontario Center of Positive Living,” and was the only indication of what the building contained. Three other cars sat parked along the quiet street. It certainly looked innocent enough.

“Is this it, Pet?” I asked Mrs. Pettermint even as she opened her car door and slowly got out on her side. We had recently decided that as adults it was time I stopped calling her the formal name of Mrs. Pettermint. She refused to have me use her first name, Geraldine, so we had settled on the affectionate, “Pet.”

“Come on. After what you’ve experienced, this will be a piece of cake,” she said with her soft laugh. She waited patiently while I turned off the engine, got out, and walked around to her side.

Once inside the double doors we were greeted by an energy which could only be described as cheerful. Windows flanked both sides of the building and sunlight poured in from the wall facing the east. I was enthralled. I had never been in a church with real sunlight. Lying in the center of the room, on the rather plain linoleum, was a brightly colored rug with red, yellow and green designs. Between each of the windows rested Mexican folk art pictures with vivid colors that seemed to jump off the walls. Up front was a rustic wooden table with an embroidered cloth of red and green. Several candles sat on top as the only adornment. The room appeared alive. Again, something I had never encountered in a church.

My biggest surprise came when I watched a woman take her place up front and begin the service. She was large and voluptuous, wearing a flowing gauze dress printed with bright flowers. Her bleached blond hair was puffed, curled, and ratted in a casual attempt at style. On her feet were simple sling back heels. A little lipstick and mascara was the only thing artificial about her face. I had never seen anyone like her, let alone, anyone like her as a minister. Mrs. Pettermint was right; this was different from any place I’d ever known.

It was a small group. Only twenty-five to thirty people filled the metal folding chairs. Pet and I sat a few rows from the back, next to the aisle. Almost everyone came in at the last minute and rushed to empty seats. Although people smiled at one another, and there were a few waves and even a few hugs, everything was natural and relaxed. I could have been sitting in Mrs. Pettermint’s kitchen having a glass of tea, that’s how comfortable the space felt.

I don’t know why it seemed strange to see a woman in charge of a church. Even calling her a minister seemed weird. Everyone called her “Reverend Sunny” and although the name certainly fit, I never once put her in the same category as the pastors I had known along with my ex-husband. I don’t even remember what Rev. Sunny said that first morning. But I do recall Mrs. Pettermint glancing at me and smiling more than one or two times. She knew some of my thoughts were being challenged, and it tickled her. It wasn’t exactly what Sunny said that morning, it was more the way she said it.

Shaking her hand afterwards, I looked into her kind blue eyes and what I saw surprised me. I honestly saw a bit of myself. I knew that Sunny sensed the same by the way she smiled as she wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead with the back of her other hand. She then reached out and spontaneously grabbed me in a hug. Her warm, big, embrace seemed to both offer, and ask for love at the same time. There was no question about returning the gift.

“So, who is this woman?” I asked the minute we got in the car.

Mrs. Pettermint chuckled lightly and said, “I think we should go home and fix a sandwich before we get into it.”

Mrs. Pettermint probably regretted that statement a bit by the speed I drove to the house. Within minutes we were out of the car, up the steps, and into the kitchen. “Okay, so who is she? And who ever heard of a minister calling God, ‘Big Sweetie’?”

Never one to be rushed, the older woman put down her purse, went to the refrigerator and began pulling out cold cuts, mayonnaise and lettuce. “So, you liked her?”

“Oh no, Pet! You’re not getting off the hook by asking me all the questions. I want to know what you know about this woman.”

“Well, she’s someone who obviously has something good to share with people. She’s honest, she’s real, and I like her. What more do you want to know?” Mrs. Pettermint asked as she looked up from the open pieces of bread she had spread out on a paper plate. “Of course the real question is, what do you think of her?”

“So, she’s not a real minister after all?”

“Why do you ask that?” Mrs. Pettermint asked looking up again.

“Well, I don’t know of any church or religion that ordains women. So is she doing this on her own, or is this...is this a cult?” I frowned a bit. I’d heard a few things about how dangerous religious cults could be...and, after all this was California.

Mrs. Pettermint smiled as she finished up one sandwich and started on another. “Oh, so because you don’t know of a church or religion that ordains women, it’s not possible for her to be real?”

I rolled my eyes and started fixing two glasses of iced tea. “You know what I mean. It’s a little strange, and she’s certainly different. And you didn’t answer my question about whether or not it’s a cult.”

“Well, I’ve always defined a cult as any group that asks you to blindly accept what one particular leader says and does without question. Of course, that would include about 90% of all Christian churches.” Mrs. Pettermint finished up, and carried both plates to the table at the same time as I sat down with our glasses of tea. “Of course, they describe a cult as anyone different from them. I think what it comes down to is, you’ll have to be your own judge.”

She settled herself down at the table and looked me directly in the eye. “You keep avoiding my real question Grace, what did you think of her?”

“I thought...I thought she was the most real woman I’ve ever met...minister or not. Part of me wanted to laugh at her, part of me wanted to laugh with her, and another part of me wanted to be exactly like her.” I paused a moment and envisioned Sunny in my mind. “What she said isn’t much different from what you’ve taught me through the years.”

“It’s true,” I continued, admitting more to myself than the woman sitting next to me, “While I got a little away from it back in Colorado, what Chris taught was fairly open-minded. What happened out there was more about what I did to me, than anything else.” My eyes met Mrs. Pettermint’s as I continued my confession. “I don’t blame Chris for any of it. It was all me. It was my lesson. Even when I knew better, I was still willing to sell myself out. I was still willing to give me up for love and acceptance.” The shame of my past self-betrayal made my eyes pool with tears.

“I think Sunny is a great example of a woman being who she truly is and then acting proud of it. Except for you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen another woman live like that.”

Mrs. Pettermint answered me with a proud smile.

From that time on, I gained the benefit of another teacher, Rev. Sunny Barns. It wasn’t an immediate thing by any means. For a short time at least, I was determined that I would take my spirituality very lightly. Besides, in the beginning I was distracted by finding a job and getting my head back on straight.

I started by working in a real estate office as a receptionist with a glorified title of secretary. My plan was to prove how valuable I was within a matter of months and be instantly promoted to a position of importance and respect. Unfortunately, I soon learned that, like with my overestimation of men and my ability to change them, I’d gotten myself into the same situation with a job. Is that something a lot of women do, or just me?

I take credit, along with a few heart-to-heart talks with Mrs. Pettermint, for recognizing the trap my job provided within the space of six months. Unwilling to let go of my support, I began affirming that a more positive and productive position existed for me elsewhere. Surely after all those years of classes and hearing Christopher talk, I could put into practice some of the more constructive ideas he had promoted.

Then one Sunday, Rev. Sunny shared the story of how she came to call God, Big Sweetie. “I grew up with a very tiny idea of God,” she said with her huge smile lighting up her face. Today she was wearing a brightly colored embroidered tunic over red slacks. Can you believe it—a minister wearing slacks—and red ones at that! “So when I finally got old enough to realize that the God my family and their church taught me, wasn’t any kind of God I wanted to have in my life, I decided to get rid of God all together.” Sunny shook her head as she remembered. “I was an atheist for several years at least, and rather proud of it. I didn’t want to have anything to do with a God who was willing to kill children and mothers and innocents simply because it was his will...not to mention, in his name. So, I did without.”

“Then a dear friend showed me there was another way. And I’ll tell you what...I learned it wasn’t God that had it wrong, it was the way I saw Him. It was what I expected of Him.” She smiled then, as though remembering an inside joke. “God was waiting for me....is waiting for us all really...to realize that anything we want to do, anything we want to believe is okay by Him. I learned that God is completely accepting, 100% unconditionally loving in every respect. That means anything...anything I want to believe about Him is absolutely true—at least for me—so if I want to believe there is no God. Guess what? God says, ‘Yes, sweetie! If that’s what you want, go for it’! If I want to believe that God is judgmental, cruel, and ready to send me to hell at any moment, guess what? God says, ‘Sure, honey! If that’s what you want, go for it’! If I want to believe that God is for me, 100% for me, and wants only the very best for me, guess what? God says, ‘Of course, dear! If that’s what you want, it’s all yours’!”

Rev. Sunny looked around the room and beamed out another smile. “That’s when I began to realize I needed both a new definition of God and a new way to think about Him. That’s when I decided to begin to relate to God as Big Sweetie! That’s the kind of God I wanted, that’s the kind of God I needed, and I’ll tell you what...” Sunny suddenly paused and became very quiet and serious “that is exactly the kind of God that became real in my life. In other words, it’s up to us, guys.”

“You know what the biggest lesson in all this was?” Sunny asked as the smile returned to her face. “Jesus said the same thing two thousand years ago, and we never got it. He said, over and over and over again, it is done unto you as you believe. I decided to finally learn the lesson...and guess what? You can too!”

Afterwards I hugged Sunny and told her that she’d said exactly what I needed to hear that morning. She smiled, nodded and then asked me, “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Well,” I answered with a swallow. “I am going to insist on finding a job that uses all my talents. One where I am appreciated for what I have to offer. I am going to stop settling for less than the very best.” I looked at her questioningly, “What about that?”

“Sounds good to me. What type of work are you looking for?”

“Well, I’ve had lots of office and organizational experience. And,” I smiled more to myself than her, as I said, “I’ve also had plenty of practice working at a church. Maybe I should start looking there.”

“Funny you should say something,” Sunny said. “I’ve decided that it is time for our group to hire me a full time assistant.” She smiled again seeing the look on my face. “Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not even as glamorous as it sounds. I do about everything around here from answering the phone to cleaning the bathrooms. If I get an assistant, guess who’ll be taking over those jobs?”

That’s how I started working at the Ontario Center of Positive Living. Sunny was right, it wasn’t glamorous. But I’d worked at a church long enough to know that much of what needs doing is as everyday as taking care of a household. The major difference was, Sunny ran her center like a family rather than a business. Working side-by-side as a family not only felt better, it felt right. Gradually, my experiences with Mrs. Pettermint, Sunny and the church became the focal point of my life.

Everyone always wants to know exactly when it happened. Every interview I ever gave included that one question, disguised in many ways. When did you know that you wanted to be a minister yourself? Did you feel yourself called? Is that why you ended up doing what you did?

More than once I wished I had an easy answer to give them. That’s what people want. Instead I say, as simply as possible, “No, I’m like everyone else. I heard no trumpets, I saw no burning bushes. There I was, doing what I thought needed to be done, and the next thing I knew I was here.”

As it was, I stayed with the Ontario Center of Positive Living for eight years before finding my next step. Given a choice I’d probably still be there, but a series of events played out that made that impossible. It was time to grow again, whether I was ready for it or not.

Chapter 12

Sunny trained me for eight years. Another eight years? At least this time it was different. While Colorado had taught me to ignore the true me, my eight years with Sunny mined the ore deep within. During that period I worked, took classes, and discovered more and more who Grace Martin really was. I think most people would like to believe it’s a fast or glamorous adventure. But important things take time—and even then, I only scratched the surface.

In California my teachers were women and what a difference that made. With men, I’d felt the need to sacrifice the real me to earn their love. My female teachers gave their love freely, so I was able to concentrate on myself. Mrs. Pettermint was my cheerleader and guide, but I never dreamed I could ever become her. Sunny, on the other hand, was proof of what any woman could be, what I could be. Both kinds of models were valuable.

Of course, Sunny wasn’t always the easiest person to be around. She had her good days and her bad days. Some days she radiated shining inspiration. Other days, she was challenged to her very soul. While not completely consistent, Sunny was always real. Even when she was acting unreasonable, even when she had fallen into one of her more addictive patterns, she never tried to run from it or hide for long. I can’t remember how many of Sunny’s sermons had us laughing along with her as she explained what tantrum her inner child had thrown that week.

With Sunny, even her failings were material for my growth. Perhaps in many ways they taught me more about myself than any of her strengths. The example of spirituality that Mrs. Pettermint provided was almost perfect. The example that Sunny showed us all was, even when you’re not perfect, especially when you’re not all together, even then you are still a spiritual being.

From the beginning, Sunny treated me as equal. Like Mrs. Pettermint, she didn’t act as though her training or background gave her any special connection to God. She encouraged me to read, talked to me constantly, and enjoyed my questions nearly as much as Mrs. Pettermint. Sure, eventually we had our disagreements. Yet Sunny deserves to be honored for forcing me to bring up certain issues and asking me to face my demons. As it turned out, I think we helped each other grow.

In the beginning, Sunny taught all the classes offered at the Center. I was there as both student and assistant. By year three she gave me more responsibility, and by the end of the fourth, I was filling in about every couple of weeks. Eventually I started teaching some classes on my own.

It was the same on Sundays. When we first began working together Sunny did practically everything during the service. She did the welcome, the announcements, the prayers and the talk. By the end of the fourth year, I did all the announcements and many of the welcomes. A year after that, I began filling in with the prayer work, and both opening and closing. Although the talks remained exclusively Sunny’s domain, she cheerfully handed over the details. I took them all.

I suppose it seems silly to say that I had no goal. Still, an ulterior motive never occurred to me. For the most part, the job was immensely satisfying. My spirit drank up all the knowledge I could pour into it, and the community we created made me feel appreciated and loved. Oh, every now and then I thought about having my own family. But there was Mrs. Pettermint wasn’t there, and Sunny too? My family may not have looked like any other, but it felt more like family than anything I’d ever known.

What about men? Well, for the first couple of years anyway, they didn’t seem to be missed. Besides, there weren’t many at church, so with few available, I never let my mind go there. In many ways, I needed to experience life without them. God knew that my history had been a series of lessons in recognizing that I needed to love myself, honor myself, before I’d ever find a man who would do those things for me. Clearly, I still had a lot to learn, because no men showed up.

I believe several times Mrs. Pettermint tried to warn me about what might eventually happen between me and Sunny. Whenever I am called to explain what eventually occurred, I vaguely recall Mrs. Pettermint asking questions. It was a question about Sunny, me, and where we were going. Want to know where your issues are? My history proves they are usually found in the topics we avoid.

In about every way, Sunny and I operated as partners. She ran the spiritual side of the organization and I covered the details. I prided myself on the fact that what we had together was much healthier than what Chris and I had created. For one thing, Sunny let me participate. I wasn’t a figurehead. I worked side-by-side with Sunny and everyone knew it. She the president of the board, and I was vice-president. Her honesty served as one of the highest principles of our entire organization. We talked about everything, no subject was taboo. Well okay, almost no subject. We never did talk about the future.

I think it all started when Tony entered the picture. I don’t even remember where he came from. All I can recall is that he showed up on Sundays and became a permanent fixture. At first, all we girls did was speculate. Then, finally, someone asked him whether he was married. His sad story of a recent divorce provided speculation.

Tony seemed different from the others. He was older than any man I had ever dated and had brown wavy hair, and deep, dark eyes. He was quiet, and there was a peaceful quality about him that appealed to me very much. Apparently he liked brown corduroy, because every Sunday that’s what he wore. It was no surprise to learn he was a professor at one of the nearby colleges.

If it hadn’t been for my friend Carol, I would never have had the nerve to go out with him. It started with an innocent breakfast surrounded by friends after a Sunday service. The next thing I knew, he had asked me out.

“I would very much like to see you again,” Tony said as we approached my car. The others had headed toward their vehicles and he had followed me to mine. His statement so surprised me that I didn’t quite know what to say. He continued with, “Of course, if you’re already seeing someone, I understand.”

“Ah... no, I mean... yes, I’d love to get together with you again.” God, did I sound too eager?

“Great, how about this weekend? Dinner, a movie?”

“Sure,” I answered, feeling stupid as I dug frantically through my purse feeling for my car keys. “Let’s do that.” Didn’t this get any easier? Here I was in my late 30’s acting like a high school girl. I gave myself a shake, pulled out one of my business cards, and handed it to him with my most polished smile. “Here, why don’t you call and we’ll pick a time and all that?”

I had never even wondered how long it had been since my last date until Tony came up on the porch, rang the bell and then handed me a single red rose. I couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that, and wasn’t sure how it felt. Somewhere deep inside my head there was a vague warning bell. But the rest of me was tingling so pleasantly that I stuffed it even further into the darkest reaches of my mind. Once again, I vividly remembered what it was like to be a woman inhabiting a body.

In spite of that feeling, something was different. All during that first drink, questions kept popping into my head. At 37, I was so aware that questions were part of me, that I seldom gave them much thought. Yet suddenly, sitting across from an attractive man I was feeling the need and desire to suppress them. In fact, I was feeling an almost biological urge to become someone else, anyone else that might appeal to the man in front of me. Where did that come from? The only bright spot in it all was that this time my questions were far too persistent and refused to be ignored. Surely, that proved I had changed?

Once activated, the questions in my mind wouldn’t stop. What was I asking myself? Okay, Grace, why do you sit here with a smile frozen on your face? Why are you nodding and agreeing with him when he says a person can’t trust their boss...and how you’ve got to be careful, because most people will take advantage of you if you don’t? Grace, you know you don’t believe that. Why is this conversation making you squirm? Ultimately, what’s this all about?

Honesty. That was the real issue. What was driving me crazy was the urge to be honest. Not just honest, but honest with a man. With Mrs. Pettermint, Sunny and the other women in my life I acted like myself, and said what I thought. But I’d never done that with any man. So the minute a good-looking guy acts interested, I stop talking and just try to be what they want me to be. Hadn’t I played that game before?

To my complete surprise, I felt my mouth open and heard myself say, “You know Tony, I don’t honestly believe that.” I blushed and looked down before continuing, “I’ve constantly tried to take the approach that I was in charge of my finances—good or bad.” I swallowed. “It’s been hard. There’s been lots of times I’d prefer to blame someone else. But I’d rather take responsibility and then know I can change it, than put the control into someone else’s hands and never be able to do anything about it.” When I looked up, I was astonished to see Tony nodding in agreement.

“On one level I think you’re right,” he said. “I’m not there yet. Most of the time I get so caught up in what I’m doing at work, that I begin relating to everyone in the way I’m used to. Thanks for reminding me that there’s another way to think about it. It shows me that I have many important decisions to make.”

The old me would have smiled supportively as I waited to see if he had something he wanted to share with me. Instead, I asked, “So, what kind of questions are you faced with?”

He laughed and said, “Oh, things like—what do I want to do with the rest of my life? What’s important to me? Do I want to do it alone? Am I willing to risk it all for love again? Is love worth it? Those and a few other questions along those lines.” His lips and his eyes smiled at me as he took a drink of the cabernet in front of him. “You know, I have to admit I was a bit scared to take you to dinner. I figured you’d ask me questions like this. The truth of the matter is, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

There I had it. It was a confirmation that being me was the right thing to do. After we had ordered our dinner and requested another drink I asked, “So, where do you see yourself in the future?” The minute the question came out of my lips, I realized that I was afraid of the answer. Not Tony’s answer.... mine.

“Well,” Tony said with a sigh and gazed out across the other diners in the room. “The truth is, I’m tired of the city. It’s time for me to get out of here. Time to do something different. Unfortunately, I don’t know what it is. I keep waiting for a sign. I keep hoping someone or something will come along and tell me what to do.” He smiled. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. What about you?”

“Me?” I gulped, and took a breath, “I guess I’m pretty happy right where I am. Sunny and I work pretty well together and the work’s very important to me. So I don’t see any changes in my near future.”

“I guess that means you’re not going to become a minister of your own church at some point?” Tony smiled, first at the waitress who had sat a glass of wine in front of him, before looking back at me.

“My own church?” I was aware that my voice was higher than normal. “Why would I want that? I mean I’m very happy with the way things are right now.” I looked down at my own glass of wine as I realized that I’d said that already. Besides, other dangerous questions I had ignored about this issue lurked in the shadows. I wasn’t ready to let them out.

“Well, I can tell you I’m not alone in asking,” Tony said before taking a sip of his wine. “A lot of people who take your classes, me included I might add, like your perspective on things. We’d love to hear you speak on Sunday some time. I figured you’d need your own place to do it.”

He’d like to hear me speak on Sundays? There were others? Why would speaking on Sunday be better than what I have now? After all, everything was so smooth and comfortable. I didn’t want to think about how Sunny would feel about these questions, because deep down inside I already knew. By ignoring the impulse, I could pretend I wasn’t interested. I realized Tony was watching me closely as my mind whirled with a million thoughts. Finally I said, “For lots of reasons, I guess I’m not ready.”

Tony nodded with understanding. Thankfully, the waitress appeared balancing our food on her arms and I could avoid any further discussion. After dinner we got off on another tangent, and later on the movie provided further distraction. Then he took me home, and with a soft kiss on the lips, left me on the porch at Mrs. Pettermint’s.

I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind continued to buzz with questions, thoughts, and fears. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Did I want my own church? Did I even want to do Sunday talks? Was I afraid I wasn’t good enough? Was I afraid of what Sunny would think? Shoot, I knew what Sunny would think...was I afraid of having to deal with her reaction? Yes. So, was my silence, my unspoken agreement worth the price? I was no longer sure.

The incident also made me understand something else. It was suddenly very clear that a relationship with a man was only secondary. I was no longer a little girl under the illusion that a man would make it all better.

In the middle of the night, I managed to drift off into a fitful sleep. Sometime in the early morning twilight, at what seemed between deep sleep and wakefulness, I had a dream. In the dream, Maggie was making fun of me and laughing. It was not the teasing of a loving sister, but the cruel taunts of another child. She was throwing questions at me—questions like; “What makes you think you know enough to teach people about God? Look at you, look at your life. You deserted your husband; you’ve continually lived for yourself. Most importantly, you deserted God. You’re wrong about everything Grace. Face it, nothing can save you now.”

I could feel my heart breaking as I pleaded with her to understand. “No Maggie, I love God to the very depths of my being. God knows that...surely ‘All That Is’ knows that....” The ache in my chest and the moisture of my cheeks woke me to the dull morning light outside my window. It didn’t take psychic ability to figure out what was causing my fear.

Along the way I had fooled myself into believing that Sunny and my relationship was so much more truthful than the one I’d had with Chris. Yet the betrayal in my dream proved there were more similarities than I cared to admit. I loved Sunny, and I needed her approval as much as I had ever needed Chris’. Besides that, I was and had been for a long time, afraid to blossom into what I could become. Once again, I had sacrificed the real me for approval.

That morning I splashed cold water into my bloodshot eyes. The dark circles underneath them matched my mood perfectly. I pulled on a pair of sweat pants and shirt and walked down the stairway to the kitchen.

Although barely light, Mrs. Pettermint was sitting at the kitchen table reading. Her white head was bent over and little glasses rested on her nose. She didn’t hear me at first, and then tilted her head up with a smile. “Why good morning, Grace. You’re up very early. Feeling okay?” She squinted and wrinkled her nose as she examined my face. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” I answered, as I gratefully lifted the half-full pot of coffee from its warmer and poured myself a large mug. I padded over to the table and sat down. “I’ve got to ask you Pet...how long,” I began catching the lump in my throat, “how long have you known I’ve been selling myself short?”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled softly, reached across the table, and as usual, covered my hand with her small one. “Ever since I saw that little girl sitting at the bus stop years ago.”

That did it. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Why was it so hard to believe in yourself? Why was it so easy to forget? After completely soaking several napkins and a paper towel, I finally gave my eyes and nose a break. I took a sip of coffee and looked up at Mrs. Pettermint. She gave me her familiar smile and loving gaze.

“Are you laughing at me?

“Sweetheart, you do love the drama don’t you?” she asked.

I probably would have killed anyone else who would have said such a thing. ‘Well, yeah, but it still hurts.”

“Of course honey, if it didn’t at least feel real, why would we do it?” Mrs. Pettermint took a drink of her own coffee before getting down to the real issue. “So, what’s this about? Something must have triggered something.”

“Well, last night...on my date with Tony...he asked me something.” I paused trying to figure out how to phrase it. “He asked me if I wanted my own church. He asked me why I never talked on Sundays. Basically, he asked me why I consistently took a back seat to Sunny.”

“Oh-h-h-h...” was all she said.

“Now, you can’t get away with that,” I answered. “How long have you been wanting to ask me the same questions?”

“Grace, just so you know...I don’t go around holding back questions from you. I did wonder how long it would take you to notice. But I never once thought you were doing anything wrong. I did figure the time would come...and now it’s here. There’s no blame in that.”

“Thanks Pet. I only wish it was easier. You’d think I’d get it by now. ”

“Perhaps the best lesson we can ever understand is that whatever we’re looking for us is right there in front of us all the time. Our answers are simply waiting for us to notice them.” She paused and waited for my nod of agreement. “But make no mistake young lady, there will never come a time when you remember at every instance. The only time any one of us ever gets to that point, we’ve transcended this planet. No, this whole life, this whole journey is about remembering, then forgetting, remembering and then forgetting. Sometimes we do great...other times, not so great. But all the time, we are expressing and creating life in the most remarkable way. There should be no regret, no shame in doing that. Does that make sense?”

“Yes...I mean, I know it in my head. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to get it right in my heart.”

“Another thing I want you to remember very clearly Grace, is that I don’t do the right thing, or the best thing, or the most spiritual thing all the time either. Each one of us is merely here to learn. Me too. Sometimes I act in ways that I’m quite proud of, and other times I don’t. Don’t ever put me on a pedestal. That sets me, or anyone else in the same position, up for a fall. Give me the privilege of getting things wrong now and then. Give me the privilege of screwing up. That’s the very essence of our human and divine connection. We’re all doing the best we can, with the information we have at the time.”

“I can’t believe you are asking for permission to screw up. I can’t even believe you said the word ‘screw!’” I said with fake indignation. “Now I know you aren’t perfect!”

Mrs. Pettermint only smiled and got up to refill our cups before going on. “So, now, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Wait a minute,” I said with a frown. “I only started asking myself the question. I haven’t got a clue where it will lead.”

“Oh, I think you do, but if you want to pretend you don’t know, you can do that too. Of course, some time for meditation and prayer might be a good idea.”

I took her advice.

Chapter 13

It took six weeks to work up the courage and conviction to talk to Sunny. Then wouldn’t you know, it didn’t happen the way I’d imagined. Sunny got sick. One Saturday, for the first time in over eight years, Sunny called and I could hardly understand her. Her nasally voice barely rose above a whisper, as she croaked out a question. “Grace, can you come over? I don’t think I’m going to make it tomorrow. God, what do we do?”

During the drive to her house, I convinced myself it was a sign. I’d tell her straight out that I’d do the talk. Unfortunately, that’s not what Sunny had in mind.

“I want you to call John Harris, the pastor over in Seal Beach, and see if he can fill in tomorrow,” Sunny whispered huskily, before blowing loudly into a handful of tissues. “He owes me a favor.” Then with watery eyes she looked up from her place on the couch and asked, “Do you think you can handle everything else? I hate to do this to you Grace, but Jeez, I don’t think there’s any way I’ll make it.”

I sat for a moment attempting to calm my pounding heart. I took several deep breaths as I considered my options. Do I tell her? Or, maybe this wasn’t the time or the place for a stand? Look at the poor woman. It isn’t loving or compassionate to put her through any stress when she’s obviously in pain. There’ll be another opportunity to press my point. No, now isn’t the time.

Having made the decision, I did my best to make her comfortable. I made sure she had plenty of cold medicine, water and soup for later. Right before I left we sat together and prayed. I affirmed that her health and energy would be quickly restored. She prayed that Sunday would go smoothly and that no one would even notice she was gone. You’d think we’d know better—we all should expect exactly what we pray for.

When I got to the Center and attempted to reach John Harris, his answering machine said he was away on a three-week vacation. I didn’t even leave a message. I sat at Sunny’s desk and decided that it was far kinder to simply go ahead, do the talk myself, and not tell Sunny. That was the best thing to do, wasn’t it? When Carol arrived at the office, I told her about Sunny and my plan. Her excitement caught me completely unaware. I didn’t even attempt to explain that I hoped Sunny wouldn’t learn about tomorrow until long after. Then I spent the day nervously putting together some ideas for my talk.

I was amazed the next morning how excited, okay scared, I was. My stomach was doing flip-flops and had me chomping Pepto Bismol. Countering my nervousness with a bit of guilt, I dialed Sunny’s phone number to see how she was doing. The continual ring of her phone convinced me she was sound asleep. I think it helped me more than her, for me to leave a message of encouragement and reassurance that everything would be taken care of that morning at the Center. Nothing to worry about-right?

Wouldn’t you know it? Of all Sundays for it to happen, there was a huge crowd in attendance. Although membership had risen steadily over the years, there were few mornings when the room was full. This was one of them. Every seat was taken and several members stood in the back.

I had asked Mrs. Pettermint if she would do the welcome and the opening prayer. Shoot, she could have done the entire morning if asked. I had that comfort even as my stomach continued to swirl. She began by explaining why Sunny wasn’t there and I was. Then she gave a prayer that was a blessing to both Sunny and me. Then it was time.

Standing behind the lectern I looked out across the sea of faces and realized it wasn’t really that much different from every Sunday when I spoke. Then from deep inside, I remembered the important fact that it really wasn’t me, or Sunny, that people really came to hear—it was Spirit Itself. These people came to connect with their idea of God. With my ego safely tucked aside, I started.

“I’m sure you’re surprised to see me here instead of Rev. Sunny. To be honest, I’m surprised to see me here,” I paused while the audience laughed softly. I looked out, and my eyes met Tony’s. His smile was filled with approval and support.

“I didn’t plan for it, but I guess you could say I’ve been building up to this all my life. I think that’s all any of us do. We walk our path, learn a little, grow a little, maybe even suffer a little, and then we put it into practice. But even though I’ve had a little pain, I wouldn’t trade any of my experiences for anything.”

Then I shared some of the things I had learned along the way. I felt a little self-conscious because people weren’t laughing as often as they did when Sunny talked, but I could tell I had their attention. I told the truth, I spoke about me, and I shared the deepest secrets of my heart. There was nothing else I could do. When I got close to wrapping it up, I realized I couldn’t hold back the tears. But instead of reflecting pain, they were tears of gratitude for the chance to share what I’d learned. In response, the eyes of many of the people in the audience also pooled with moisture. That moved me even more.

When I ended that first talk with palms together and the Hindu salutation of “Namaste,” I took a step back from the applause that greeted me. Don’t ask me why I was surprised. They frequently did that after a talk, only they had never done it for me. I blushed from their gift, thinking it strange to be so recognized when the experience had given me far more reward than I had given them. Finally, I sat down off to the side of the stage and felt the waves of love flowing through the room.

It was then that I saw Sunny sitting in the back row of the church. She was looking at me with a frozen and blank expression on her face. I had not seen her come in. No one had told me. I didn’t know what to do.

Mrs. Pettermint took over. When she went up to do the announcements she acknowledged my talk, but didn’t make a big fuss of it. I was grateful. She then led a brief prayer and took the collection. Finally, with a smile filled with love, she looked directly at the back of the room where Sunny sat.

“This morning we have a great testimony to the power of our prayers. Those of you in the front may not have noticed, but shortly after we started, Rev. Sunny joined us. I am extremely pleased to see that she is looking quite well. Never forget that prayer works.” Mrs. Pettermint began the applause as everyone turned in their seats and applauded Sunny. Sunny smiled, and modestly waved their attention back towards the front of the room.

“Besides being thankful for the healing of Rev. Sunny,” Mrs. Pettermint continued. “I also want to acknowledge another gift that Sunny brings. And that is her strong example as a teacher and her willingness to allow her baby chicks to fly. Sunny played a very large part in the path that Grace shared with us this morning.”

I could see heads nodding as I thanked God for Mrs. Pettermint.

“And I believe it is also important to acknowledge that the best teaching is both the ability to teach well, and the willingness to let go. Thank you Sunny, for your shining example of both.” Mrs. Pettermint said before again leading the applause as everyone continued to acknowledge Sunny. Clapping, I stood up and joined Mrs. Pettermint as we gave tribute to our teacher.

I’d liked to say that everything was resolved from that point forward. But life is seldom that tidy. Besides, a neat resolution wouldn’t have taught me what I needed to know. After closing the service for the morning, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of people that came up and surrounded me. Part of me relished the praise and congratulations. The other part of me blushed with embarrassment. Again, I struggled to keep in perspective the good feelings their gift of acceptance brought. No wonder Sunny found it intoxicating and hard to let go of. If this was any example, it was easy to imagine the challenge facing Chris, Sunny and every other spiritual leader. How easy it would be to forget that it was not you, but a message of love and hope that the people were drawn to and admired.

When I saw Sunny’s face up close, it was clear she hadn’t heard any love from me that morning. She was clearly battling with her own demons. Even though she looked healthier than the day before, she paused every few minutes to cough or blow her nose. It was difficult to tell whether her cold symptoms, or me speaking in her church, was causing more pain.

“Sunny, are you okay?” was all I could think to say.

“I’ll get by,” she answered huskily. Her eyes betrayed her feelings. “I guess you decided not to call John.”

“Oh, I did. He’s on vacation. I figured this was the best thing to do.” I stopped, knowing guilt was written all over my face.

“You didn’t call me. Seems you had it all worked out.” She said this under her breath even as she smiled up at people walking by us towards the door.

“Sunny...,” I too smiled as I moved aside and let a group of people pass. “I thought it was the simplest solution. I’m sorry if you aren’t happy about that. Let’s talk about this later, okay?” I blushed with the shame of not being able to admit the truth to Sunny even now.

Looking unconvinced, Sunny nodded. Once she was gone, Mrs. Pettermint and I locked up everything. Praise continued to come right up until the last person left the parking lot. How could something that felt so good, cause so much internal confusion? I had no idea what to do.

Mrs. Pettermint was no help. I really wanted her to tell me what to do. I wanted her to tell me how great I had been, and how my next move was obvious. But taking that next step in one’s spirituality is just like taking the next step in any area of growth. The questions are similar: Do I quit the job I’m in and go looking for one that allows me to be everything I can be? Or do I stay silent, comfortable, and accept the status quo? It was also no different from a relationship that had run its course. Did I do like my mom and remain grateful that I had someone, anyone? Or, did I recognize that I not only want more, I deserve more, and then willingly step into the unknown? Growth is growth, no matter where you find it.

I spent the next several months searching my heart and spending hours in prayer and meditation. Sunny didn’t make things any easier. Of course, it seemed hard for her too. One minute she would be her bubbly exuberant self, the next, quiet and moody. Each of us kept avoiding what needed to be said.

It finally happened on a beautiful day in late October. Some people don’t believe that you get to experience seasons in Southern California. Obviously, those people never lived here. The day was cool and the sky was clear. Mt. Baldy proudly stood guard over the Inland Empire. The leaves on the large oak trees lining the major thoroughfares were gold, green and red. With the heat of the summer a certain thing of the past, the entire energy of the city pulsed brighter.

Sunny and I were preparing for class. Each fall we began a series of classes on spirituality and self-development. Sunny had collected course materials from a variety of different perennial philosophies, and both she and I had gradually added our own personal touches every year that passed. We sat in the community room with calendars and course materials spread out on top of folding tables.

“Okay, if I teach the first year class on Monday nights, do you want to teach the second year classes on Tuesday, and the third year classes on Thursdays like always?” I asked with my head bent over a calendar.

“I suppose,” she answered listlessly.

I looked up and saw her staring off into the distance. Taking a deep breath, I sat back in my chair, swallowed and said, “How long are we going to do this Sunny?” I waited.

An eternity later, she answered without looking at me, “I know things have to change Grace. Only, I don’t want them to. I’m afraid of what that will look like, how that will feel.”

“Me too,” was all I could say as I felt the tears begin to roll down my cheeks at exactly the same speed as the ones sliding down Sunny’s. We sat there together sharing the pain of our confusion.

“What do you want to do?” she asked finally.

“I don’t know, what do you want to do?” I answered, and we finally laughed at the absurdity. It was a question we’d asked each other a hundred times before, but never about such a monumental decision.

“I am sorry Sunny.” I said finally. “I didn’t know it would end up like this, I’m not sure what this is, but I didn’t plan on getting here!” Again, our laughter helped to heal us.

“I suppose I should have seen it coming. After all, I am the more senior partner in this thing.” Sunny picked up a pencil and started tapping the eraser end on the table. “I was so happy with the way things were.” She looked over at me and her eyes shone with tears. “I wanted it to last forever, which is sorta dumb because it goes against practically everything I teach. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to make it any easier.”

“Oh, Sunny, it’s not your fault. I feel like such a traitor.” I grabbed my shoulders with either hand, and buried my chin against my chest. “It’s me you know, I’m never content. For some reason I keep wanting more. I wish I could be happy with things the way they are, but I can’t. The trouble is, I don’t know what to do now, and I’m scared to death to find out.”

“I think you do know Grace. But until now, I’ve been part of the reason you haven’t done it. It’s time for me to quit standing in your way.” Sunny huffed, and threw her hands in the air. “Thank God I finally got it. Sometimes it takes a while. I thank you Grace, I really do...” she said, with a chuckle, “for helping me with one of the greatest lessons I’ve ever had to face.”

“What do you mean, I know?” I asked, ignoring her confession.

“Come on Grace, you’re no dummy. You have a good sense of your own inner guidance. What’s God been trying to tell you these days? What’s the logical step after learning what you need to learn from a teacher?”

I thought for a minute, trying to come up with an answer that was more acceptable than the one that immediately jumped into my mind. Nothing else came. Finally I answered, “You go out and practice what you preach?”

“Yes, and?”

“You go out and teach it yourself...?”

“Yes,” Sunny answered softly.

“But where and how and with who and...?”

“Those are all details Grace. First you listen, then you have to be willing to do it, and then the entire Universe will rush in to support you. Remember what we teach?” Sunny laughed and I could see her returning to her former self.

Unfortunately, things would never be the same again for me. Sunny was right. All I had to do was be willing to be open to what Spirit wanted to express through me, and the direction would open up. The sole reason I didn’t know what to do was because I had resisted change in the first place.

I went around the other side of the table and Sunny stood up and embraced me. The wall that had existed between us for weeks lay crumbled by our honesty and openness. Sunny held me close and comforted me against the fear of my unknown future. I could no longer use her as my excuse.

My whole life has been a lesson in me getting out of my own way and letting Life happen through me. Once I took my focus off fear and its paralyzing effect, the Universe did indeed rush in to support me. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. Is it ever? But it was exactly what I needed. Two days after my reconciliation with Sunny, she called me into her office and closed the door. Motioning me to sit down, she barely contained the grin on her face.

“I got a call this morning,” Sunny said mischievously. She walked around the back of her desk, sat down and said, “You’ll never guess who it was? It was John Harris. You remember him don’t you?”

I nodded and flushed, remembering the whole incident. Things would have turned out very differently if he hadn’t been on vacation. What on earth did he have to do with me now?

“Well, it seems that John Harris liked his vacation so much, he’s decided not to return. He’s feeling a bit guilty though. He’s left his church with fill-ins for weeks and I guess they’re unhappy. So…he wanted to know if I knew of anyone who could temporarily fill in until the church located a permanent replacement. I told him I had a great person for him.” Sunny smiled broadly and leaned back in her chair. “So, what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, instantly flooded with doubt. “Wouldn’t they want someone with more experience? I’ll bet they have someone else in mind. What did John say, I’m sure he expected someone better than me?”

“When I mentioned you he was ecstatic.” Sunny answered. “Besides, who could they get on such short notice? Besides, this is a perfect opportunity for you. You can get in there and see if you like them, and if they like you, without any sort of commitment. Then, if you decide you like the church, you can even candidate yourself. Besides, if they like you—like I think they will—it will be a shoe-in. Grace, it doesn’t get much better than that. Besides, Seal Beach is an awesome church!”

Wow, that’s all I could think, wow? Get out of the way and look what happens. I was again faced with the answer to my prayers. Why do they sometimes look and feel different in form than they do in our minds? Before I knew what I was saying, I had agreed to do it. The next thing I knew, Sunny was on the phone with John getting the details. Their services were at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday. They’d be expecting me.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Pettermint said as she poured tea into two glasses filled with ice later that afternoon. “And I’m not at all surprised that the opportunity presented itself so soon after your talk with Sunny.”

“But I’m not sure Pet. It seems too soon, too fast. Maybe I need more time to think about it before making any fast moves. Besides, wouldn’t it be more fair to the people of the Seal Beach church if I had some experience?”

“What makes you think you’ll be better if you wait?” was all Mrs. Pettermint asked, as her eyes twinkled awaiting my response.

“Well, I could study more. I could practice more, after all I’ve never really practiced. I could travel around and see how others were doing it. I could...” I swallowed hard and looked Mrs. Pettermint in the eyes. “I could pray more.”

“That’s true, you could. I suppose we all could. But isn’t that another question? Why do you have to do all that before you do this? What makes you think, what makes any of us think, we’ll ever be more prepared for a life changing event than we are right now?” Mrs. Pettermint leaned across the table and placed her thin, tiny hand over mine. “Perhaps if we acted more in the moment, we wouldn’t give our doubts so much power over us.”

“Yes, but...” I sighed, knowing the truth was about to regurgitate itself from my soul. “What if I’m really bad? What if everyone hates me, what if, what if I’m wrong?” That was it. I knew my deepest fears were about rejection and not being good enough. And not only good enough on a material, surface level aspect, but not being good enough all the way down. What if my soul wasn’t good enough?

Mrs. Pettermint understood. I could see the recognition in her eyes as her hand continued to comfort me. She sat silently for a moment, breathing in and out until I was aware that her breath matched mine. For some reason I knew the fear I had revealed, the pain I had unloosed, had found an identical pattern within her. I saw her struggle with what to do next. Finally she spoke.

“Grace, the answer to those questions can never come from another person. I could go on and on attempting to convince you that you are enough, that in Jesus’ words, ‘you are the Light of the world,’ but until something inside of you says yes, it makes little or no difference.” She looked out the window and took a deep breath. “I should know. Others told me many times. But I didn’t believe. I felt guilty. I felt like I had made such a mess of my entire life, how could I ever be worthy of something really good? After all…I did the worst thing possible. I left my children...” A lone tear rolled down her cheek from the corner of her eye to the corner of her lips.

She looked back at me and her eyes blinked back with renewed confidence. “But we can’t let our doubts stop us. God is not served by our being meek. We must listen to the voice within us and then do the work we feel compelled to do. Remember, God doesn’t make junk. You have deep, deep value. However, the only way you’ll ever know that is if you give it away.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer I’d been looking for, but it did comfort me. It helped to know that everyone, her included, had doubts about their abilities and their choices. But that was no excuse not to do something. Doubts come and go. The real question is, do we let them stop us, or do we keep on going?

Before I knew it, it was the Sunday morning of my first talk at the Seal Beach Center of Positive Living. I had slept fitfully, if at all, and arrived at their small building in a residential neighborhood before anyone else. I sat in my car in the parking lot, taking deep breaths and praying. I didn’t even hear the first car drive up and park next to me.

It was a small turn out. Sunny had been right. The group was unsettled after recently discovering that their regular minister would not return from his extended vacation. They had endured a variety of guest speakers over the last several weeks, and now this. I could see suspicion in their eyes. They weren’t any more sure about me than I was about them.

I decided to come clean. Right from the beginning I was determined if I did nothing else, I would be completely honest. I told them everything, probably more than they wanted to hear. I told them my fears, I told them my doubts. Then I told them of my faith and the belief I had in Spirit. Going still further, I told them that if they wanted to judge me, that they judge me as a servant. While I clearly didn’t have many answers, my dedication and commitment to them, to their church, and to God would be pure and complete.

After the service, almost everyone came up to talk to me. I was decades younger than the majority, and they seemed delighted to have someone to talk to. I was ushered into the community room, which housed a small bookstore, a lending library, an office and a small kitchen. A deep roasted smell floated out from a large coffee urn that stood in the small corner kitchen. With practiced familiarity, people filled their white foam cups, grabbed a cookie and stopped by to pat me on the arm and say, “Good job.” More than anything, that helped me forget about me for a while.

Everyone asked how long I could stay. Then I was introduced to Jim Reilly, the President of the Board who let me know in many ways exactly who was in charge of this church. Not looking entirely happy, he let me know there would be a board meeting later that week and he would like me to be there. “Was that a problem?”

So it began. From there, I learned that the depth of our adequacy can only be answered in the context of action. When we do nothing, continually wondering, we have answered the question in the negative. By jumping into the fire, the answer is a resounding “Yes!” At least we did it, even if it doesn’t turn out as clean and perfect as we hoped. Perhaps, taking action when called is all it takes to make us enough.

Chapter 14

The next three years were a Master’s Program in life. As Sunny predicted, I was a shoe-in for the position of full-time pastor of the church. Jim Reilly, the board president for the Seal Beach Center of Positive Living, apparently approved of me, and that made my appointment a snap. Like one of his daughters, Jim patiently nurtured my growth while keeping me on a short leash. Our relationship worked well—at least for the first couple of years, while I discovered more and more who I was and what I was doing.

In the beginning Jim Reilly and the rest of the board ran things as they saw fit. If the truth were told, I didn’t want to run anything at all, except maybe my own life. Besides, although I’d had scads of practice running Christopher and Sunny’s churches, I was terrified to think I’d be the one making the final decisions. It was much safer being second-in-command. So I quietly accepted the $1,500 a month they agreed to pay me, and let them do what they wanted. With half the proceeds from teaching my classes, which I started immediately, I was able to pay my bills along with the discounted rent Mrs. Pettermint charged me.

Filling twenty minutes every Sunday by sharing something useful and interesting was my biggest challenge at the start. Thank goodness the people of my church were so loving and accepting. Gradually, after doing Sunday sermons for a year or so, I started looked forward to them as much as I did to teaching classes. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be really good at it like Chris or Sunny. Yet as time went on I could tell that people were beginning to respond to me. Plus, the more enthusiasm I felt, the more they nodded their heads in agreement.

One thing was obvious. The task of addressing a group each week and sharing spiritual ideas, forced me into growing myself. I found it impossible to speak convincingly on anything I didn’t believe 100%. So weekly I was challenged to confront my own issues, my own faith, my own beliefs. My talks on Sunday became an exploration of my own obstacles, not something I’d heard from someone else or read in a book. While these moments of revelation were often exhilarating, they were at the same time frequently painful. I felt like a child growing into a teenage body, as my mind, muscles and faith stretched and reached into new dimensions.

Things seemed to settle into a routine until I received another “wake-up call.” This time it came from my own family. We had avoided each other for years. Even though I talked to Mom on the phone now and then, I’d promptly regret the call the minute I hung up. Mike was never home, and Mom felt more and more isolated from everyone. It seemed the only carryover from her early life was reading. Now though, when not absorbed in the imaginary drama of a novel, she medicated her real life with alcohol.

One spring morning, I got a call from Mike. I could tell from his voice something was wrong. “Grace, I have some bad news. I hate to tell you over the phone, but I suppose it’s easier than you coming all the way over here.” Suddenly, the short distance between our homes that I had used as an excuse for not visiting melted into a matter of seconds. “It’s your Mom. We’re still not sure what happened.” He swallowed and I could hear the tears in his throat. “When I got home last night she was just lying there. She died, Grace. She’s dead.” There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Are you okay Mike?” was all I could think to say. I couldn’t even imagine what it all meant to me. I hadn’t felt like I had a mother for years now. Suddenly weird memories came into my mind. I recalled moments from the past when we lived in the trailer. I could see my mother curled up in her favorite chair reading a romance novel. There was a little smile on her lips as she twirled some of her hair around her fingers again and again.

“I called the ambulance,” came Mike’s voice through the receiver. “There was nothing they could do. They’ve taken her. She’s at the funeral home. I’m not sure what happens now.” He paused to clear his throat before asking, “Could you call your sister?”

“Yes, Mike,“ I said instantly. It was the least I could do.

Rather than give myself time to consider what it could mean, I quickly looked up Tim and Maggie Michaels in the phone book and dialed the number. I didn’t recognize the voice that answered and I could tell she didn’t recognize mine either.

“Maggie this is Grace,” I said, and then heard only silence. “Maggie, I’m calling with some news. I thought you would want.... I thought you deserved to know. It’s Mom. She died last night. At home. They’re still not sure how.” I felt guilty for blurting it out, but part of me was afraid she’d hang up any minute so I had to do it fast. She didn’t hang up.

“I just talked to Mike and they’ve taken her to the funeral home. I’m not sure what happens next. I guess Mike will let us know.”

“Did he say which one?” Maggie asked in a very practical way.

“No, and I didn’t think to ask,” I answered. Now what?

“Well, thank you for letting me know Grace,” Maggie said in a very controlled voice. “What I’ll probably do is call a few of them to find out. We’ve worked with most of them before so it’s no big deal. I want to make sure she’s being taken care of properly. Would you like me to let you know once I find out?”

In surprise, I answered, “Yes, I suppose that would be good. And Maggie...how are you? How are the kids?”

“The children are fine,” she answered. Then silence. “I suppose there will be a funeral? I guess we’ll talk more later then?” I too, couldn’t think of another thing to say.

With a brief goodbye, that was it. I was left holding the phone and wondering how our family had ever turned out the way it did. Why did I feel that there was so much unresolved? Was it simply over? Would our lives continue to be so separate?

Then it hit me. I no longer had a mother. Weird how you can be away from your mother, with no contact for years, yet there is still comfort in having one. Then the moment they are gone you suddenly feel abandoned. It certainly wasn’t a logical response. Instead it came from way down deep within. Now I was on my own. Not only that, but I’d have to start thinking about my own mortality. I wondered if Maggie felt that way too.

She called back the next day. “Grace, this is Maggie. I talked to the funeral home and they said that Mike hasn’t set a funeral.” I could hear the hard edge to her voice as she continued, “I guess some things don’t change. Apparently he’s refusing to have one and planning a cremation. This is not right, Grace. Something has to be done. Mother’s soul deserves it. Can you meet me this afternoon where they’re holding the body?”

I was surprised. I had expected she would want nothing to do with any of us, and now she wanted to take charge. Should either one of us be telling Mike how to handle it? I didn’t know. Against my better judgment, I agreed to meet her.

I had not seen her for nearly eight years and almost didn’t recognize her. Instead of my sister, I thought she looked a bit like Mom had, once she had let herself go. I suppose three children and Tim Michaels could do that to you. Her hair was thickly streaked with gray and she carried at least forty pounds more than when we were in high school. The dark circles under her eyes accented the lines in her face.

“Grace, you’re looking well,” she said with a hint of resentment. She pursed her lips before continuing, “I’ve talked to the funeral director and he says that he can’t do anything without permission from Mike. We’ve got to stop this before Mike makes a mistake that can never be rectified.”

“Maggie, what are you talking about?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.

“I’m talking about Mother’s eternal soul,” she answered as though speaking to an obstinate child.

“But why are you worried about it now? Isn’t it a bit late?” I have to admit, a part of me wanted to laugh.

Maggie answered me with a mixture of anger and frustration. “I suppose you can’t understand, never having been a mother. Sometimes mothers do things, things that they wish they hadn’t. It’s time for Mom to come home now, Grace. Jesus has waited a long time for her. I can finally help her, Grace. I won’t let this pass. It’s my duty.”

When I looked into Maggie’s eyes I could see deep pools of pain. I knew intuitively that the pain was bigger than Mom, and beyond the thoughts running through her head. It was that pain I responded to, not her words. “Maggie, if you need to do this, okay. If you want, I’ll even talk to Mike for you.” I couldn’t help but smile at the obvious relief on her face.

What I saw on Mike’s face was a different story. At first he wouldn’t even discuss it.

“Grace, you know neither one of us ever got into that religion crap. I still don’t believe there’s a God, and I don’t believe your mom did either.” Mike looked down at his feet and sighed. “I want it over with. I’ve got to put this past me and get on with it.”

“I think a funeral, a memorial, is more for the living than for the dead Mike. On some deep level Maggie really seems to want this.” I walked over and put my hand on his arm. “Maggie seems to need this Mike, and who knows? Maybe it could be a good thing.”

“Just where was Maggie while her mother was alive?” Mike asked. “She lives less than a couple of miles away and still never bothered to even call. It’s funny that she’s all concerned now.”

The bitterness in Mike’s voice might as well have been directed at me. I felt weighted down by lost opportunity and regret. Perhaps by helping Maggie, it would take away some of my own guilt. I swallowed and said, “The decision is completely up to you Mike. I just thought it might be one last way to reach Maggie. Otherwise, I doubt either one of us will ever see her again.”

Mike nodded and continued to look out the window. I knew he was remembering that first day when Mom introduced him and his quiet shy way of trying to gain our affection. Perhaps he felt he failed Mom, because he failed to win us both over. I momentarily forgot my own guilt, when I sensed the burden he carried.

“Okay, it doesn’t really matter to me anyway. Let her do what she wants. What can it hurt? Tell her to go for it.”

That’s what I did. I explained that although neither Mike nor I saw any reason for the funeral, we knew it was important to her. I guess I should have noticed the gleam in her eye and suspected that there was something else involved.

The funeral was held at their church. Tim Michaels had long before taken over for the senior Pastor Michaels and continued to carry on the old man’s crusade against evil. The new Pastor Michaels was a slightly younger looking, more impassioned version, of his uncle. The church itself looked and felt eerily the same as nearly twenty years ago.

Maggie and Tim insisted on the casket being present at the funeral. They wanted Mom right there in the midst of them. Even though they’d never been able to get her there while she was alive, they were bound and determined to get her there at least once before putting her in the ground. This was my first funeral with an open casket, and I immediately knew why it would be my last.

To my surprise, Mike showed up. Not wanting to attend alone, I had bribed Mrs. Pettermint into coming along with me by offering to buy her dinner afterwards. When I saw Mike’s face coming in though the double doors and dripping a bit from the evening shower, I figured what we all really deserved was a stiff drink.

It was a small crowd. A few neighbors came by, her old girlfriend Gloria along with some members of her family, and a few other faces I didn’t recognize. Then there was Maggie and Tim’s friends. Of course, I was assuming they were friends. They may have been merely members of Tim’s congregation. Solemnly, as though attending a sad wedding, they sat on the opposite side of the aisle in a group.

When the organist finished playing a heavy joyless tune, Tim stood and walked to the front of the room. He hadn’t said a word to any of us when we came in, and he still didn’t look up. As though mesmerized by his feet, he stood with his head bowed and waited for us all to grow silent. A rumpled black suit hung limply on his thin frame. Pale and stern, he brought back memories I had long suppressed.

His booming voice startled us all awake. “This is a day of reckoning.” He gazed boldly around the room and I could almost see a glow from his eyes. “This is a day of atonement. This is the day...this is the day Jesus has been waiting for, for far too long.” The group on the other side of the aisle answered him loudly with a series of “praise the lords” and “amen’s.”

I heard Mike’s sharp intake of breath and felt him squirm in his seat next to me. The anxiety of his movements helped me to stay calm. I glanced at Mrs. Pettermint and she covered my hand with her own. I wasn’t sure why I’d put myself in this position. Why didn’t I get up and leave right then? I saw the back of Maggie’s head sitting in the row directly in front of us. Something kept me still.

“God has been waiting for Katherine Olson to come home to him. Jesus has been waiting for Katherine Olson to come to him. Finally...finally.... Katherine is finally where she belongs.”

I could feel the explosion next to me before it came. Like a rumble in the deepest part of his stomach, Mike shot out of his seat like a cannon. Accusations flew out of his mouth. “So that’s what killed her—God did? And God’s real proud of that, I suppose? You all sound real happy and smug with your God. But wait, just wait till someone close to you dies...” With a wild look in his eyes Mike lurched around the chair in front of him to Maggie, leaned over and grabbed Maggie by the shoulders. “You wait until God decides to take one of your children. Wait until God decides to take your husband. Then we’ll see if you still think God is happy when someone dies.”

I could see the look of horror and repulsion on Maggie’s face as Tim stepped forward and attempted to remove Mike’s grasp. Then I’m not sure what happened exactly, except that Mike and Tim were suddenly flinging their arms at each other. Then everyone else began shouting. The group on our side of the aisle jumped to their feet and rushed to help Mike while church members came to the defense of their pastor. Maggie started yelling at the top of her lungs to get attention and slugging away at anyone standing close by. With our mouths gaping wide, Mrs. Pettermint and I stood. In unison, we turned and looked at one another and then in spite of ourselves, began to laugh.

I can’t remember a time I laughed so hard. The more I tried to stop, the more it happened. I tried to calm myself by looking at Mrs. Pettermint, but she too seemed taken over by the hilarity of it all. By now, there were several men, and even some women, flailing their arms around at each other and yelling. Still, all I could do was laugh. And in the middle of that laughter was probably the loudest and truest joy that room had felt in years.

Then Maggie caught sight of us. Her face was bright red and looked about to burst as she marched over to where Mrs. Pettermint and I sat rolling off our seats. I tried to sober up, but that only got me going again. If Maggie wanted me to stop, she’d have to do it herself.

“How could you? How could you make a mockery of Mother’s funeral?” Maggie spit out at me. I could tell she was attempting to wilt me with her disgust. Frankly, that too looked pretty funny. I sat back in my seat and tried to control the bubbles coming up inside me.

“I knew you weren’t a Christian, I knew you were a heathen...but I never once stopped praying for you. Now this is it Grace, this is it! Have you no conscience? Did you have to ruin Mom’s funeral? You’ve finally dug yourself into the pit of hell and now no one can save you.”

In spite of her words, I looked around the room to where Mike and Tim stood shouting at one another, and at a couple of the men who were still doing the pushing thing. I couldn’t help it, I laughed again.

“Maggie, Maggie, can’t you see.... God is here, right here, right now and She’s trying to lighten things up.” I asked, as I ignored her red face and tried to get her to see it through my eyes. “If it makes you feel better to blame me for all this...then go right ahead. If it makes you feel less guilty about Mom, then you go on believing God wanted her to die and that she’s with God now. But Maggie...don’t talk to me about being in the pit of hell. It’s fairly obvious that you live there on a regular basis. Besides, maybe it’s time you let us off the hook and stopped blaming all the rest of us for the way your life turned out. Forgive us, and perhaps then you can forgive yourself.”

“What about you?” Maggie spat out more softly than I thought she was capable of at the moment. “What makes you an expert on forgiveness? Are you proud of the way you treated Mom? Were you so perfect?”

She had me there. I shriveled some with my own guilt. When she saw she had made her point she continued. “Who do you think you are anyway? You don’t even have a husband. So don’t think you know what it’s like. Besides that, from what I can see, nothing good has come from your life. You don’t have children. Without children you’re nothing. What good is your life...tell me? What good is your life without that?”

Rather than empowering her, Maggie’s challenging words seemed to cause her even more pain than they did me. And by now I was hurting. I felt Mrs. Pettermint grab on to me from the side and gently guide me towards the door. Maggie made no attempt to follow, but instead slumped down in the aisle chair and buried her face against her arm. The shouting continued from the front of the room. God no longer seemed present.

Mrs. Pettermint drove us home, which was quite an accomplishment. She didn’t drive much these days because of her eyes. But she knew right then that she was in better control than I was.

Interestingly enough, my eyes were dry. It wasn’t sadness I felt—this was a crushing doubt. Had I made another mistake? Had I messed up again? Those questions loomed deep within me and I knew the time to face them was now. Did I do the right thing? Had I made the right choices? Will I regret my decisions for the rest of my life?

I’m certain that Mrs. Pettermint knew what was going through my mind by the gentle way she helped me into the house. She took me into the dark kitchen and sat me down at the kitchen table while she lit a few candles and turned the dimmer down on the hanging swag lamp. Then she made us both a cup of tea and even found two chocolate chip cookies that must have been hidden in the cupboard. She sat them ceremoniously on a white saucer, and carried them to the table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” was all she asked.

Did I? “I don’t know. I don’t know if there is anything to say.” I reached down, picked up my mug of tea, and sipped a tiny portion into my mouth. “She’s right though. I wasn’t much of a daughter to mom and I do feel guilty about that.” I paused again before facing the deeper issue. “She’s also right that I can’t even understand about the kid thing. While I’ve been married and know about that, I don’t know if I’ve really missed out not having children. Maybe my highest and best destiny was to be a mother. And although it’s probably still possible, it doesn’t seem likely. Did I throw all that away? Did I sabotage myself?” I looked across the dimly lit table into my friend’s eyes. “Is there any way I’ll ever know?”

“Probably not Grace. There is probably no way one could ever know for sure.” Mrs. Pettermint said with her loving smile. “Of course all mothers would love to believe that they made the right choice too. We like to believe that yes, we can have both. We can have our children and then later on grow into being everything we can be. Unfortunately the truth is, mothers don’t know any more than non-mothers do. But I suspect we share one thing in common...and that is the hope that we made the right choice.”

“I think that’s what Maggie was really talking about,” Mrs. Pettermint continued. “She was trying as hard to convince herself, as she was to make you feel bad. You touched a nerve when you told her that her life was a living hell. And as you well know, what you give out you tend to get back, multiplied. Funny how she knew exactly what button to push.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘funny’,” I answered with a pained expression. Now that I felt a tiny bit better, the cookies suddenly looked more appealing. I picked one up and nearly got it to my mouth. “So, which is the right choice? From everything I’ve heard, motherhood is about the highest experience of love any woman can ever experience. What if that’s true? What if I’ve missed out?”

“Well, then let me ask you,” said Mrs. Pettermint. “Do you think that every woman who is married is loved...and on top of that, happy?”

Remembering my own, not too distant past, I answered, “No, of course not.”

“Then, do you think that every woman who has children loves them, and is completely loved by them...and beyond that, happy?”

“Well, I don’t know. My guess would be no, that not all of them are happy, or loved, and certainly not all the time. Yet the stories you read, and the things you hear about, make motherhood sound like the best bonding experience possible. I guess I believe there’s a connection between mother and child that is so special, so unique, that nothing else can replace it. I guess,” I said as I felt my eyes well up with tears. “...That’s what I’m afraid I’m missing. I’m afraid I’ve thrown that away.”

“Okay, fair enough,” answered Mrs. Pettermint as she sipped tea from her cup. She sat it down and looked thoughtfully at the lace curtains hanging next to us. “But let me ask you this...you had a mother. How did you feel about her? Oh I know you ‘loved’ her, but did you feel that close bonding with her that you mentioned?”

There was my answer. “You’re right. I did feel like I loved her. But I never did feel that close to her. She was more like a sister to me, someone I knew and cared about, but not what I think of when I think of a mother experience. So I suppose, not all mother relationships are what people think they should be.”

“Is it possible she felt the same way about you...or about Maggie?”

“I’d say it is almost guaranteed. I doubt we were anything like what she expected when she wanted children. Now that I think about it, I doubt she even wanted to have children. It was simply what you did. It was what everyone did. Besides that, choices weren’t available back then.”

I smiled to myself and took a bite of chocolate chip cookie. Things were beginning to feel better. Then another question came up, “But if some women don’t really even want children, and if there isn’t this incredible bond between all women and their children, why do I still wonder? Why do I still feel like I’m missing out? Is that urge biological? Is that some innate voice deep within that wants to be heard? Again, it comes back to, have I made the right choice?”

“Hum...m...” answered Mrs. Pettermint. “Let me ask you Grace...how do you feel about me?”

It took me only a second to catch her thoughts. “I am closer to you than I ever was to Mom.” I looked across the table and caught my reflection in the liquid of her eyes. “I am bonded to you in a way I don’t understand, never have, but I am immensely grateful for it. You don’t have to be my mother for me to feel your love. And I sincerely hope that you feel the depth of my love for you...even though I’m not your daughter.”

“But you are Grace, you really are. I consider you my daughter. You have been ever since that first day we met. While my own daughter may be connected to me biologically-you are connected to my soul.” In unison we simultaneously clasped hands in the center of the table and neither one of us bothered to hide the tears rolling down our faces.

“Until now our society has focused on the blood and biology of our own immediate children, because we like to ‘own’ things,” Mrs. Pettermint added. “Perhaps it’s time to realize we never own children, regardless of who parents them. I think the urge to have children is merely a craving for a deep relationship. We can do that with any child or person at any time, by extending unconditional love and deep caring. And think of it, if we all started doing that this world would be transformed. Besides, we don’t need more bodies on this planet. We definitely don’t need more unwanted children. Maybe it’s time for us to stop trying to find happiness through procreation—and instead find it through the co-creation of a better world.”

All these years later, that’s the story I usually tell people when they ask me if I ever regret not having children of my own. My current answer is that every child on the planet is my child. The only thing standing between me and a special bonding—is me. Not only has it brought me a personal sense of peace and fulfillment, but I sense Mother Earth is grateful as well.

Chapter 15

Ever since that night at Mrs. Pettermint’s, I’ve never regretted not being a mom. Instead I started thinking of myself as a new kind of woman. Maybe it’s time—and God knows Mother Earth likely agrees—that some women are here for a more universal purpose to their lives. Although I wasn’t exactly sure what my purpose was just yet, I was willing to wait to find out.

I can’t remember when it happened. Suddenly, one Sunday I looked out at my congregation, and the room was full. Truthfully, it was bursting at the seams. Every chair was filled, and people were leaning against the walls and some even sat on the floor in front of the front row of chairs. It was hot and stuffy with so many bodies crammed into the room where we held services. When I saw all the people– -really saw them for the first time, I knew something had to change.

Jim Reilly and the rest of the board thought otherwise. The entire group of eight people refused to discuss any plans that changed their view of their little church. When I tried to communicate the changes I saw coming, their faces reflected their fear. Of course, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was afraid too. Now what was I supposed to do?

Again it was Sunny who had the answer. Closer than ever, we talked constantly on the phone and met weekly for lunch or dinner. Over lunch at Mimi’s Cafe that week, I could see the amusement in her eyes as I told her my wonder at the number of people who showed up on Sunday. She never even bothered to hold a snort of laughter when I told her my surprise at my board’s reaction.

“Jeez, Grace,” she said shaking her head. “People are jazzed at what you’re doing there. They’ve been coming to hear you. They want to share in what you have to offer. Look at your classes...you’ve been telling me how much they’ve grown. Of course that gets around. There’s good stuff happening, Grace, and you know it.”

“Yes, but...” I answered with a frown, “why doesn’t the board want to work with me on this. If it is such a good thing, and I think it is, why aren’t they as excited as me about growing?”

“Come-on Grace, you know that too. Surely you remember what happened with you and me?” Sunny rolled her eyes and then met mine straight on. “We all do funny things, incomprehensible things, when faced with a change we aren’t sure we want. Maybe even you?”

“Ouch,” I said, faking pain. “Got me there. So what do I do? I’ve been praying about this night and day and so far no answers. What’s next? Do I try to get rid of them? That sounds really spiritual, doesn’t it? But do you know how long it would take for me to wait until every one of them rotated off the board? And then the next group might be exactly the same.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said the woman across the table temporarily serving as my conscience. “Why are you blaming them? Who let them be in charge? Who turned over the church to them to begin with? They aren’t acting any different than usual. I’d say it’s you who wants to change. They’re only reflecting your past belief.”

“Ow, you really are a cruel person today. Who asked you anyway?” I said as we both laughed and toasted one another with glasses of iced tea. She was right of course. I’d let them do exactly what they thought best all this time. It was me who had changed. They were perfectly happy the way they were.

“So, what do I do?”

“Well,” Sunny answered as though she had waited all morning for that moment, “I recently found out that a New Thought church in Riverside has an opening. They’ve been candidating for new ministers and I understand it’s a large group with lots of potential. To be honest, I thought of you before you even called to get together today. It sounds like something that’s perfect for you.”

The rest is history. I called later that day and set up an appointment to get together with the church board from Riverside. Then I immediately called Jim Reilly and told him what I was doing. While he appreciated my honesty, he let me know he would be calling an emergency meeting of their board to decide what to do. There was no going back now.

“What do you think, Pet?” I asked as I prepared us both a cup of tea. “I mean, am I crazy to be rocking the boat like this? What if neither one of them wants me now? Maybe I should have kept quiet about the new position until I was sure I got the job?”

“Grace.... I think you know the answer to that,” commented the tiny woman sitting at the kitchen table. In an instant I realized how frail she had become. She was growing smaller by the moment, but there was still fire, and at that moment laughter, in her eyes. “It sounds to me like you’re quite attached to your decision. Didn’t we talk about that plenty of times before?”

“Yes, Mom,” I answered sarcastically, “I know that any one decision isn’t as important as the intention behind the choice. So why does it feel like my entire future rests on whether this all works out?”

“Because you’re afraid to trust,” she answered with her knowing smile. “And you know I’m not talking about blind faith. I’m talking about trusting what you say you believe. We go around saying that we believe God to be a guiding, benevolent force in our life, but when it comes to something really important, we don’t want to let go. We still want to believe that God needs our help to make things work out right. Correct?”

“Ouch, painfully so,” I said with a laugh. “Does it get any easier? Do we get any better?”

“Think of it like a muscle. As muscles go, we have to keep on exercising to make them strong. I happen to know yours are getting stronger every day Grace.”

For about the hundredth time I felt myself glow in her praise. The immediate question was, how could I ever exist without her? While she appeared strong for now, how much longer? The thought of her no longer the anchor in my life caused me to panic. As usual, I changed the subject quickly.

Everything unfolded perfectly with the new church. As Mrs. Pettermint reminded me, when I let go and let God figure out the details, things happened smoothly. On the morning that I gave my first talk to the Riverside Center of Positive Living, my replacement in Seal Beach was giving her first talk. That afternoon we met with our respective new boards and were simultaneously invited to serve as pastor of each church. With so much synchronicity, there was little doubt we were both making the right move. We later became close friends.

I had every intention of taking a completely different approach in Riverside. Right from the beginning I set it up so that I would be more involved in all aspects of the church. This included the fiscal, organizational and managerial aspects. Although it required more of me, the benefits were numerous. My salary was doubled immediately with the same arrangements as before on all class work. I was also to receive a percentage. As the church grew, and everyone expected that it would, I would receive a percentage of the Sunday collection beyond set expenses. Even with the percentage out of reach for some time, it still existed as a possibility. More than that, it said something about me, to me. I’d classified ministers who received percentages, their spirituality and charisma, in a category more elevated than mine. Now, I was one of them.

The transformation took time. I keep repeating that idea over and over. There is no magic bullet. Life is more deliciously original than that. There is no one recipe for growth. Yet as I continued to grow, as I continued to push myself, as I continued to do all that was asked of me in the moment, the church grew. And we kept on growing.

The confusing thing is that everyone usually believes that growth solves all the problems. I know I did. In truth, the issues only got bigger or became something else. Instead of worrying about how to pay the rent and all the bills, individuals on the church board suddenly became competitors about how to best spend the money that we had. Instead of trying to figure out how to afford good musicians to play on Sundays, we divided over what kind of music to play in the first place. Instead of holding a fundraiser to support the general fund, we had arguments over what color carpet to use in our overall remodel. Worse yet, we divided over which company to use. Instead of trying to figure out how to afford a good Sunday school teacher, we had a vigorous discussion over what exactly she should be teaching. Many of the questions were valid, many of the decisions vital. Of course as Mrs. Pettermint would say, it wasn’t the decision so much as it was the intentions we held through it all.

Money also brings up other issues you never thought you’d have. One major obstacle facing all ministers, no matter how enlightened, is how money affects their relationships to individual donors. When I was at the Seal Beach church and removed from all aspects of church management, I didn’t have a clue about who gave what. As I moved into a more active position in Riverside, I found out very quickly who gave and how much. Often this information came intentionally from the givers themselves. As a culture obsessed with money, it is easy to forget that money doesn’t really equal success, any more than it is the true source of our good. I’m glad to say that most of the time I remembered.

People came. From all over Riverside and even further out into the suburbs people showed up on Sundays and for classes. For four years, I poured every ounce of energy I had into the church and watched it blossom. I continued to confront myself daily with challenges, internal and external. I met them all head on and eventually realized I was addicted to the work itself. There’s no experience like the fast track of spirituality. Of course, like every fast track, there is the possibility of a crash.

I even wrote a book. Don’t ask me where I found the time. I’d get home at eight, nine or ten o’clock at night and still put in another hour of writing. The book was a series of essays and talks that I had given over the years sharing the things that I had learned. Although I figured it would be well received, even I was surprised at the overwhelming acceptance.

By then we were attracting crowds of 2,000 in two services every Sunday and met in the Riverside Opera Center. I would look out at the sea of faces staring back at me and reach deep down to connect with that voice that reminded me that they came to hear Truth, not me. I still believe that is the only thing that kept me together, then and later. Also there was Mrs. Pettermint sitting in the front row and answering my simple everyday questions about life and living. I heard her words come through me and apparently everyone else did too. I put many of those talks in the book and waited to see what would happen. It seemed that everything was going perfectly.

Even telling it now makes it all sound wonderful with no end in sight. But success is a curious adjective. Even when we believe that it is a “journey,” not a “destination,” we still want to believe that at some point we’ll arrive. Or if we don’t arrive, we’ll somehow escape life’s need for change.

My book had been out for several months and I was talking with my publisher. Her pleading tone was becoming all too familiar. “Grace, we really need you to be out speaking and doing seminars if we’re going to push the book to the top. We told you this in the beginning. Books sell when people are out there plugging them. That’s the way this business works.”

I felt a throbbing in my temple as the voice within me disagreed with everything she was saying. “Yes, I know you believe that, Helen. But I have a church to run here. I’ve already turned over a great deal to finish up the book and help promote it. For the last couple of months I’ve been out of the loop around here as far as most of my responsibilities. Shoot, you keep me so busy I don’t even have time to pray!”

“Well, you’ll need to pray Grace, if you don’t stay visible. As you know, the first couple of months are critical in getting your book promoted. Don’t let details stop you. I’ll be setting you up for speaking engagements and book signings for the next couple of weeks almost nonstop. Do what you can to get by, okay?”

It was pointless to try to explain that everything she believed was contrary to what I knew. As I said goodbye and promised to do my best, I felt a twinge of guilt for the times I’d let her talk me into pushing my book in spite of my knowing better. No, it was time to come back and take care of business here at home. I’d even had to miss the last church board meeting, and couldn’t remember when the next one was scheduled.

There was a knock on my office door and Alice, my secretary, peaked her auburn colored head through the crack. She had a grimace on her face. “Grace, I think you’d better take this call. There’s a woman on the phone and I can’t get her to calm down. I’m not even sure exactly what she’s trying to say. I really hate to bother you but...”

I nodded and smiled slightly while she closed the door behind her. Then I picked up the phone and pressed the blinking light. “This is Grace, what can I help you with?”

The stream of anguish and accusation that poured out of the phone was difficult to make out. “Please,” I said, “...slow down...I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“What kind of a church is this anyway?” said a shrill voice more slowly in my ear. “I’m a small business, I can’t afford to carry a large order like this. Now all my checks will bounce. How could you do this to me? Do you know what a mess this makes?”

“Wait a minute...wait a minute,” I said keeping my voice calm so I could figure out what exactly she thought had gone wrong. “There has to be some sort of mix up with the bank. Please give me your name, your company, and the number and the amount on the check. I promise you...I personally promise you, I’ll get to the bottom of this today and we’ll get it taken care of. Okay?”

“Well, I certainly hope so!” came the irritated reply. After jotting down the information she gave me, I hung up and buzzed Alice to join me.

“Alice, I think I know why she’s so upset, but I’d better talk to Manny right away. Can you get him on the phone?”

Alice hung her head and suddenly seemed to be fixated on the carpet. The fingers on her right hand were tapping nervously against her right leg.

“Alice, can you try to reach Manny?”

“Ugh, I can try,” she answered with her face still pointed at the floor.

“Okay, is there some reason why you think I won’t be able to reach him?”

“Well...I’ve been calling him, and so have others, for several days now. He hasn’t returned any calls.” Still Alice did not look up.

“Could you get me the bank’s phone number then? If Manny’s out of town I suppose I ought to handle this myself. I’ll need our bank account number, and can you get me the checkbook? Or...” I scratched my chin trying to remember how we’d set things up with the bookkeeper. “What about the monthly read-out sheets that detail all spending and accounting? Didn’t I see one a day or two ago?”

Giving Alice a task seemed to help bring her out of her stupor. She nodded and quickly slipped out the door. She was back in a minute with several folders. The neatly presented reports carried the emblem and logo of our bookkeeper, and were clearly labeled as financial reports for the last three months. Perfect, I thought to myself.

And they were. The sharply bound-together folders plainly presented all assets, cash and otherwise, as well as all liabilities. As usual, all figures were well within our customary range. It had been over a year since there had been any concern about finances. I indulged a little sense of pride at how easy it had been, when I thought of how so many churches struggle over money issues. I even recalled all the trials I’d experienced in Colorado with Chris’ church. I didn’t miss those troubles for a minute.

Locating the bank information listed in the reports, I dialed the number. Armed with enough information to clarify the situation, I asked for the vice president of the bank. It so happened that he attended our church.

“Rev. Grace,” Harry Johnson said. “What a surprise. I didn’t expect to hear from you. But I have been expecting a call from Manny Stargus, your bookkeeper, for a couple of days now.”

“We have too, Harry. Apparently he’s out of town. And how are you? I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to you and Ann recently on Sundays. Is everything well?”

“Ah, yes of course.” Harry said with hesitation, then silence.

“Is something wrong Harry?”

“Well, I assumed you called because of your account,” he answered, a bit of bank authority returning to his voice.

“Yes, of course. I got an interesting phone call here at the church, and when Alice said she couldn’t reach Manny, I figured I’d take care of it myself.” I laughed a little nervously and continued, “I don’t usually get involved in the details these days, and I guess I’m a bit rusty. I suppose it’s strange for you to hear from me.”

“Frankly, I thought it was because you finally decided to get control of things.” Harry replied with a tone that wavered between bank authority and congregational respect.

“What do you mean exactly by getting control of things?”

“I assumed...I assumed you were aware of the lack of funds in your account?”

“What do you mean...lack of funds...?”

I could hear him swallow before he answered, “As of today, you have a negative balance in your general checking account. Unfortunately, it is growing as we speak as checks continue to be presented and then denied.” Harry paused for a minute as though waiting to see if I was going to comment. Then, sensing my confusion he continued, “Am I correct in guessing this is the first you’ve heard of this?”

As I sat in the silence trying to figure out how to explain that I knew nothing, had never even suspected a thing, I felt an overwhelming quilt spread through each cell in my body. Finally, all I could think to ask was, “How bad is it, Harry?”

“I honestly can’t tell Grace,” Harry said, his voice soft with sympathy. “I have no idea how many outstanding checks have been written, and what their amounts are. Presently, there are at least 30 that were presented and then denied. There could easily be more. I think some of them could even be paychecks. You’d best get hold of your check book right away and then start working backwards. That’s the only way to get a handle on it. I’m sorry Rev. Grace, there’s really nothing more I can tell you without seeing your actual bank records.”

He was right. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where any of it was. Thoughts were racing through my head as I considered all the implications. Where was the checkbook? Where was Manny? Where’d he come from in the first place? Why wasn’t someone watching him? Did I have to do everything? Apparently, I wasn’t very good at doing everything, or this never, ever should have happened. I pushed the buzzer to call Alice back in the room.

Again she entered sheepishly. “Alice, I talked to Harry Johnson at the bank. It looks like there is a major problem.” Then without even knowing why, I asked. “Alice, did you know anything about this?”

“Well...I did get a couple of phone calls over the last couple of days from people who said their checks bounced. That’s why I was trying to reach Manny...” She looked down and began to study the carpet again. “Then today when I got the mail, there were some notices from some of the suppliers saying that they wouldn’t make any more deliveries until paid.”

“Alice...why didn’t you say anything?” I knew the tone of my voice was higher than usual, but I couldn’t hide my disbelief.

“Well, this morning when I asked you if we could go over a few things, you told me that now was not a good time and you’d try to get to it later. I was afraid, I really hoped it would all work itself out.” Alice sniffed and wiped the side of her hand against her nose and I could see the light reflect off a tear as it fell from her cheek to the floor.

Suddenly, I had a slight sense that the floor underneath my expensive leather chair was quicksand. As a reaction, I grabbed the edge of my desk and held on with both hands. A tiny part of me, a fearful part of me, almost wished the floor would open up and suck me away from all this. But there was another part of me that took a deep breath and began to affirm under my breath a positive intention for what I had to face. “All things work together for good...all things work together for good.... all things work together for good....”

“What did you say Rev. Grace?” asked Alice looking very uneasy.

“I was only reminding myself that all things work together for good.” I answered and had to smile as she gave me a look that told me she figured I was crazy, as well as in big trouble. “And I’m very sorry Alice, if you felt uncomfortable about pointing things out to me. In the future, please, please feel free to grab me by the shoulders and get my attention if you think it’s important...okay?”

“Sure, is that all then?” Alice asked, still looking like she didn’t believe me.

“I’m going to need some phone numbers,” I said, knowing that I needed to address the problem immediately. “First though, first I need to do a little inner work. Could you get me a list of all the board members and their phone numbers? Then, could you hold all my calls and give me some time, until I buzz you in?”

“Yes, of course,” Alice answered looking as relieved as if I’d told her I was going to contact someone that could sort it all out. Perhaps in a way I was.

I didn’t time myself. I’m not sure how long I sat silently in my office. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent so much time in prayer and meditation. But it was certainly the right thing to do. It would have been wonderful if I’d been given answers about what to do and when to do it. More importantly, even without clear-cut answers, I knew that I could face whatever had to be done. “All things work together for good...”

It was almost 10:00 p.m. before I got home that evening. Alice had called Mrs. Pettermint to tell her I’d be late so I didn’t expect she’d even be awake. Yet, the downstairs light reflected off her silver head as she turned and smiled at me from the kitchen table when I let myself in the front door. My love for her swelled inside my chest and blotted out all the rest.

“It’s awfully late for you Pet. You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I thought you might want to talk a bit,” she said with a tired smile.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but I suspected something was up from the way Alice sounded on the phone.” Mrs. Pettermint closed the book she had been reading, and set it on the table next to her. Then she looked up with expectation, “Well...”

It took me minutes to tell her what had happened, and then an hour or so to explain what followed. She didn’t act surprised or worried when I shared that many of the board members had resigned, immediately renouncing the church and me. Only a few had any intentions of staying to help.

She was also completely nonreactive when I explained that apparently Manny, our bookkeeper, had carefully been covering up the financial statements for over six months. He had started out slowly. Using checks out of sequence, he began by issuing checks to friends for a variety of phony products and repairs. Bit by bit he factored in the expenses on our monthly profit and loss read-outs. Gradually, he determined how far he could go until finally, seeing a clear coast and nobody minding the store, he had written a series of checks all out of sequence and failed to list them on the profit and loss sheets. The last ones had been only a couple of weeks ago. As close as we could tell, he had made off with somewhere near $100,000. It would take a long time to recoup such an amount. It would take an even longer time to ride out the repercussions of not being more careful.

When I finally finished the whole sad tale, Mrs. Pettermint merely asked softly, “And you Grace? Are you okay?”

That made me cry. I dabbed at the tears running down my cheeks with a tissue from my purse. Only a very, very dear friend would take the time to ask such a soulful question when it looked as though my entire world was caving in. “Yes, Pet, I’ll be okay. I just feel so, so stupid. Plus very, very guilty for not taking better care.” We sat in silence for a moment as I breathed in her support.

“And why exactly is that Grace?”

I looked her in the eyes with a scowl on my face, “I think it’s pretty obvious that I didn’t do my job properly. God...how can I explain this to everyone?”

“Grace,” Mrs. Pettermint said with a stern but loving expression, “you know that none of your friends will blame you, and it won’t do you the slightest bit of good to feel sorry for yourself.” She paused a moment and seemed to peer into my soul to see if I was up to her examination.

“You certainly didn’t steal the money yourself, so that sort of recrimination does you no good. You have an entire board of directors and other advisors who were also responsible for keeping track of things. Sure you’ve been busy, and part of you feels very guilty for that. But Manny Stargus is a very smart man. He covered his tracks carefully so that you wouldn’t be able to detect him. You’re assuming that if you’d been more involved you would’ve spotted him or suspected something a little bit sooner. Then again, he’d simply come up with an even craftier means of diverting the money.”

Mrs. Pettermint smiled, and gave me a look that I’d seen hundreds of times before. “Face it Grace, much as you don’t want to admit it, you cannot control everything...and you are not sole master of the Universe. There are some things you cannot prevent—and there’s a good chance this was one of them.”

She was right. Sure, I may have averted some of the disaster, but Manny was smart. That’s why we had hired him. It was obvious that a few safeguards needed to be installed so things like this didn’t happen in the future. But I also knew that there was no way for me to control every aspect of the church and its finances. The church was more than me alone.

“You’re right of course,” I finally answered. “But I still feel so very guilty.” I looked out towards the dark of the living room, searching for the answer. Then it hit me. I guess what frightens me the most is what others will think.” I sighed. “I guess I’ve gotten a little too comfortable being the ‘blessed one’ haven’t I?”

A wave of realization flooded me as I met Mrs. Pettermint’s smile. That was it! For the last few years everything I’d touched seemed blessed. I had gotten so used to feeling I could do no wrong, that I had begun to associate my self-esteem and sense of safety with that idea. Some part of me had unconsciously believed that I had discovered the secret to the Universe, as though it were a magic key. Not the Golden Key, like Chris had talked about so long ago. Instead more like the Golden Goose. I had become so attached to my image, that of a leader of a big and successful church, that when it was knocked out from under me the world became a scary place. I’d forgotten that everyone has challenges. Everyone goes through stuff. No one is immune, including, or maybe especially, those who appear to be the leaders in spirituality. You would have thought I would have learned the lesson after what happened to Chris. I guess it was my turn.

“How fascinating,” I said more to myself than Mrs. Pettermint. “How long have you seen this coming?”

“My dear, I keep telling you I’m no different. I have more than enough of my own stuff to work out without spending too much time analyzing your soul lessons. Besides, life has certainly shown me that we all draw to us what we need to learn at exactly the right time.” She smiled and reached over and patted my hand before taking it in her own. “It’s easy for someone in your position to become too identified with the role you are playing. Life is probably just reminding you who’s really in charge.”

“Consider this just another great opportunity Grace, to learn that life is so much more than being a big success or making tons of money. Your soul wants to learn, grow and experience. All the things that happen to you in your life are just opportunities to discover and then become more of who you really are. Keep growing and you are living your purpose. Know that, and Life doesn’t get any better.”

Continuing to hold on to my hand, a faraway expression came across her face. “I know I’ve told you a thousand times, but please remember Grace that you are much, much more than who you think you are. And more importantly, the answers and the strength for every situation can be found inside you. Trust that Grace, and I can rest easy knowing you’ll stay on the right track.”

With a mind whirling with thoughts, I helped her up the stairs and kissed her good night before going to my own room. That was our last lesson together. She left her body that night, leaving me alone in the house we had shared for so long. And, because she always knew what I needed, it was her final words that helped me the most during the following days.

Chapter 16

My previous years as a minister served me well. I juggled the fall-out from my wayward accountant and handled the details of Mrs. Pettermint’s transition at the same time. Still, inside I felt like a robot, dealing mechanically with every issue, every person, and every bounced check. No matter how effective I appeared, I knew that deep down emotions, thoughts and questions were smoldering and ready to burst into flame any second. I didn’t want to think about her being gone and what I would do without her. I didn’t want to think at all. Mrs. Pettermint’s final words may have told me the answers were within—but for the time being they remained buried under emotions I didn’t dare touch.

Her final preparations were very clear. As her executor, I was to handle her estate. Besides having detailed every aspect of her passing, Mrs. Pettermint and I had already talked about her eventual transition on several occasions during the last ten years. But guessing that I had only been half listening and completely in denial about the possibility, everything from the cremation to the flowers were written down in her clear crisp handwriting. There were no deviations. Mrs. Pettermint remained true to her spiritual beliefs even into the next dimension of life.

The surprise came when I met with her lawyer over the will. There was no mystery about the house—she told me many times it would be mine. I’d just never given a thought whether there was anything else. Mrs. Pettermint and I had never talked about finances. She appeared comfortable, yet never extravagant. I simply assumed she had a pension.

On the day her attorney scheduled an appointment to answer my questions about being executor, I had already planned a board meeting at the church. It was essential that we have the meeting. A neon sign flashing the words “damage control” kept showing up in my mind. During the last week rumors had buzzed around the church with amazing speed. Like spam on the Internet, everyone now whispered the juicy details of our financial disaster. Unfortunately, the particulars being spammed were much worse and dramatic than the real truth. The time had arrived to be completely open, first with the board, then with the congregation.

Only half the board showed up. I was humbled by a few who joined us that I had not expected to stick around. I was equally surprised by the absent couple I had anticipated with full support. What had Mrs. Pettermint said? “Life may simply be reminding you who’s really in charge.” Well, every day seemed to be another lesson in surrender.

I told them exactly what had happened. I made it clear that if they were looking for someone to blame, then I was as good a candidate as any. However, I wasn’t about to let this define me, or our organization. My reminder that “all things work together for good,” even, and most especially, when they don’t appear to, seemed to bring a smile or two to their faces. I told them I was willing to do everything I could to learn from this experience, so that it would not happen again. In the meantime, my faith alone helped me believe that we could all move through this experience and come out on the other side living and acting with more awareness and understanding.

Then I asked how many of them wanted to stick with it and see what we could continue to create together, every one of them stayed. We then spent another hour talking about their grief and turning it around in the most positive way possible. It was appropriate that we mourn the loss of our idyllic church before facing the prospect of making it stronger and more “real” the second time around. Too bad I was unable to offer the same counseling for myself.

After a meeting filled with both expressions of anger and even tears, we moved on into a strategic planning session. I felt my heart glow and almost burst with pride as I watched everyone eagerly offer ideas and suggestions about where to go from here. Much of it was unusable, but there were several plans that had great potential. Best of all, we were all facing in the same direction.

While the meeting went even better than expected, I physically felt like I had been run over by a garbage truck. The only thing that kept me from calling Mrs. Pettermint’s attorney to cancel the meeting was the desire to get it over with. After all, how difficult could it be to have him explain what I needed to do to wrap up her affairs? Nothing I couldn’t handle after what I’d been through.

When I entered the offices of Bander and Bander Incorporated, I shivered. It was probably the gleaming marble floors and wainscoting. Although stylish, the chrome, lacquered and black leather furniture appeared more than a little frigid. I was surprised. Why on earth had Mrs. Pettermint picked a lawyer with this image?

I used the twenty-minute wait in the reception area for a brief meditation. When I was finally ushered into the gigantic office of the senior Mr. Bander, I was surprised to see that there were four others there before me. The office was laid out with a desk directly in line with the double entry doors. To the right was a sitting area with a couch, coffee table and chairs. Although the seating implied intimacy, the same theme of chrome, glass, and black leather from the reception area continued through the room. The three, who were already seated, turned their faces to look at me. No one smiled.

“Miss Martin, thank you for joining us,” Mr. Bander said mechanically. “Let me introduce you to the other people affected by the late Mrs. Pettermint’s will.” He led the way over to where the other three were seated, and indicated by hand the couple sitting on the couch. “This is Ron and Betty Pettermint. Ron was Mrs. Pettermint’s son.”

I tried to control my surprise and my curiosity at the same time. Ron was sitting with his gray suited legs crossed very tightly. That mannerism was perfectly matched on his face. Betty was preoccupied with an imaginary spot on her black skirt. Neither met my eyes or offered me a hand.

“And this is Angela Pettermint, Mrs. Pettermint’s daughter,” Mr. Bander continued with a special emphasis on the word daughter.

So this was her family. I searched Angela’s face for a memory of my mentor. While I could see a slight physical resemblance, there was nothing in either of them that spoke of the warmth and compassion of their mother.

“As I think you know, the only other person named in the will besides those present is Ms. Sunny Barns. She elected not to be here today with full confidence that you would represent her. And this is Sarah, who will be taking notes on this morning’s proceedings,” Mr. Bander finished, as he indicated a young woman seated in a straight back chair off to the side of the grouping. No one said a word as Mr. Bander waved me into a chair in the opposite corner. He then sat in a high back chair between us.

“To begin with, Miss Martin...or is it Reverend Martin?” Mr. Bander began.

“I prefer Ms. Martin, thank you.”

“Okay good. For your information Ms. Martin, I have been the Pettermint family attorney for numerous years.” Mr. Bander said, clearing his throat and looked at his notebook as though not comfortable saying anything that wasn’t in his notes. “The original trust set up years ago by the Pettermint family for Grace Pettermint was designed with me as trustee.”

What did he say? I didn’t bother to hide my astonishment as I blurted out, “Wait a minute, you called her Grace?”

“Of course, that was her name,” Mr. Bander said looking up from his notebook. “I assumed you knew her well enough to know that.” His obvious disapproval was matched by the stares of the other people in the room.

My mind raced through every conversation with my former mentor and any name that I could remember. She had told me long ago that her name was Geraldine and that she absolutely hated it. She asked me never to call her that. She signed her name G. Pettermint. I had never had reason to suspect otherwise. Why on earth had she never told me we shared the same name?

“Well then, as I was saying, I have handled Grace Pettermint’s trust fund since it was set up by her late husband over thirty years ago. I handle all the affairs of the Pettermint family and my participation was nonnegotiable based upon the desires of the late Mr. Ronald Pettermint.”

That explained something at least. Mrs. Pettermint had been stuck with him. I knew without a doubt that she had probably disliked every bit of contact she had ever had with Bander and Bander. If there had been any possibility of changing it, I’m sure she would have done so, especially after her late husband had died. Oh well, if Mrs. Pettermint had put up with him for over thirty years, I could handle dealing with him for a few more weeks.

“The reason all of you are here today is of course about the will of the late Mrs. Pettermint. As required by law and by the will itself, it is my duty to distribute copies of the will to everyone, including anyone responsible for any organizations, named in the will. This is regardless of the validity of any of those named, and regardless of how the will itself will be eventually interpreted through any court proceedings. While it wasn’t absolutely necessary that we all meet here for a reading, I think we can all agree that this is the most expedient way.”

I wasn’t paying much attention at this point. Mr. Bander was reading from his note pad and seemed to be rambling. The other three people in the room were sitting frozen like statues. I wanted to look at them more clearly, to see these children of my precious Pet. But there was no way to look at them closely without them knowing it.

“For the record, I want to state without going any further that I was in conflict with this will, and all of its changes during the last 20 years. Its contents were written under my protest and against my advice. With that in mind...I’ll continue?” Mr. Bander gave me a condescending look and didn’t even bother to look at the others.

“This is the will of Grace Pettermint. It begins, I Grace Geraldine Pettermint, a resident of California declare that this is my will. First: I revoke all wills and codicils that I have previously made.” Mr. Bander again cleared his throat and read a length that defined bequests and residuary in a tone that made the items even more dull than they probably really were.

Finally, Mr. Bander shuffled a bit in his seat, held the paper in his hand a little closer to his face and read; “As for specific request of property I first leave my 1994 Cadillac Fleetwood to my son Ronald Pettermint. He craved cars, my car, any car and felt it was more important to have a fancy set of wheels and a proper image than a mother who simply loved him. The last thing I can give him, besides the eternal love I will always have for him, is a symbol of that which meant so much to him while we still lived in the same home.”

A sharp intake of breath from the woman sitting on the couch was the only sound in the silent room. That’s it? A car? The reaction and corresponding silence told me that receiving the car was a huge, but expected, disappointment.

Then, as though afraid to let the idea sit alone too long, Mr. Bander continued, “Second, I give my original wedding and engagement rings, given to me by her father, to my daughter Angela. It is my strong and sincere desire that these rings remind her more of my strength and resulting freedom than they do of the betrayal she accused me of. Forever after, these rings can serve as either a symbol of release or bondage. The choice is hers.”

“Dammit!” spit out Mrs. Pettermint’s daughter. “She got the last word in, and turned it around like she did it for a good reason. She should have...”

“Angela, now is not the time...” Ron warned sharply, as he nudged her arm resting on the chair beside him. Offering no comfort, he pulled his hands back and clasped his arms across his chest before returning his attention to Mr. Bander. His wife Betty kept her face focused on her own clasped hands and didn’t move a muscle.

“Sure Ron, it’s easy for you to act so unaffected,” Angela said jerking her arm away from his touch. “Who gives a shit that you only got a stinking car. You didn’t even expect that. Now you want me to sit here like the good little girl while you work things out. Why does that bring me little comfort?”

“Angela,” Ron said in a still and chilling voice. “Keep a lid on it.” That was all it took. Angela reached for her purse sitting next to her chair. She fumbled with the latch, opened it, and then pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked as she put one in her mouth and started to light.

“Yes, I do really,” I said without the slightest hesitation. It appeared that this family had some major issues going on. Putting up with their energy was bad enough, I wasn’t going to subject my lungs to being tortured as well.

Angela gave me a look of daggers before dropping the cigarette ceremoniously back into her purse along with the lighter. She crossed her arms and legs and sat back in the chair.

“So, I’ll go on then?” Mr. Bander asked without even looking up. “Third, I give my home, all furnishings, all incidental personal items and 60% of my trust fund and its resulting benefits to my dear friend Grace Martin.”

I wasn’t sure what it all meant. I had expected the house and her stuff. What did it mean, 60% of her trust fund? And why were her children so quiet now? There wasn’t a sound as I looked at them and they all were looking down and appeared to be holding their breath. I looked back at Mr. Bander.

Without looking up, he continued to read, “Next, I give 30% of the trust fund and its resulting benefits to The Riverside Center of Positive Living under the leadership of my dear friend Grace Martin. Finally, I give the remaining 10% of the trust fund and its resulting benefits to the Ontario Center of Positive Living under the present leadership of Sunny Barns.”

“Oh, that’s really great isn’t it?” Angela said breaking the silence. “Not only did she leave it all to a complete stranger, but she also gave a bunch of it to her weird cults.”

“Angela...perhaps you’d better leave right now if you can’t keep your mouth shut,” Ron answered.

“Why the hell not...you don’t really need me either, do you Ron? You’ve got this all figured out.” Angela struggled to her feet, her face twisted in anger. “You take care of it then, just make sure I get my due.” Without another word and no backward glances, she turned and walked out of the room.

The room returned to silence as both Mr. Bander and Ron looked at me as though expecting a reaction. Betty was examining one of her manicured fingernails.

“So,” I asked the question that begged to be asked, “Exactly how much is the trust worth?”

Mr. Bander blinked and said, “Approximately seventy-five million dollars.”

Wow. I kept my mouth closed even through my jaw felt like dropping. No wonder the kids were mad.

“So that’s it,” Mr. Bander said blandly, cleared his throat and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Of course the will concludes in the customary way by stating that the residuary estate is to be given to The Riverside Center of Positive Living. Grace Martin is named as the personal representative. She is empowered to pay all estate and inheritance taxes and debts of the estate. It concludes with the customary ‘no contest’ provision.

Something within me caught a word, and the question formed on my lips, “No contest provision. What is that exactly?”

“Well,” Mr. Bander answered with a nervous glance at the two people sitting on the couch, “I’ll read it precisely. It says, ‘If any beneficiary under this will contests this will or any of its provisions, any share or interest in my estate given to the contesting beneficiary under this will is revoked and shall be disposed of in the same manner as if the contesting beneficiary had failed to survive me and left no living children.” He paused, looked briefly at his note pad, and then glanced back at me. “Like I said, it’s standard information for any will of this sort.”

I don’t know why I asked, but I did, “So, what does that mean really? Or should I say, what does that mean for me?”

“Well, I suppose that now is as good a time as any to explain.... I can’t really advise you on what that means to you Ms. Martin. See,” Mr. Bander again dropped his eyes and focused on the papers in his hands that he continued to shuffle. “I really can’t be much help to you because I represent the Pettermint family in this matter. And,” he cleared his throat deeply, “they have instructed me to contest this will.”

“Okay,” I said more calmly than I felt. “What exactly happens now?”

“I suggest you find your own legal representation as soon as possible,” Mr. Bander answered.

“Okay,“ I said again as I glanced at the couple sitting on the couch. Ron had a smile on his face and they both exuded a sense of righteousness. I stood to my feet and turned to Mr. Bander. “I guess that’s it then?”

“Oh, one last thing,” Mr. Bander said as he lifted an envelope out of the flap in his notebook. “This accompanied Mrs. Pettermint’s will. Her instructions were to give it to you personally upon the reading of the will.” He handed me an envelope. “I need for you to sign here in receipt.”

After signing the paper, I turned one last time to the couple on the couch. What should I say? Although I was beginning to realize what was going on, I was torn with the thought that this was Mrs. Pettermint’s child. Not only were they a connection to someone I considered more family than my real family, but this man had recently lost his mother. The conflicting emotions of compassion, curiosity and self-protection left me speechless.

Ron handled the problem for both of us. “Ms. Martin, you can be certain we will be seeing each other again. Take care of our house will you? Otherwise we will hold you accountable for that as well.”

With a small polite smile I nodded to them both and turned and left without a word. It wasn’t until I sat alone in my car that I realized my hands were shaking and I was holding my breath. So, I guess that answered one question. They weren’t fooling about this. They would take everything, everything they could get.

I waited until I got home to think about the envelope. I fixed myself a glass of iced tea and in the late afternoon light, I walked out on the front porch and sat in the swinging chair. I looked out over the manicured lawn and through the large trees heavy with branches and leaves. I sat there, as I had hundreds of times before, and could almost imagine Mrs. Pettermint sitting next to me.

I didn’t want to open the envelope. There was something so final about it. For some reason she had given it to her lawyer so that there was no way I could have read it before having met him and heard the will. Part of me was afraid. That’s it! I was afraid that Mrs. Pettermint was going to offer me even more challenges, and I wasn’t strong enough. I had been fooling myself during the last two weeks into thinking I could handle all this without her. If she threw me one more curve, I knew I would break.

I opened the envelope. Inside were several pages of her small, crisp writing on heavy linen notepaper. It was so perfectly written that I knew she’d probably written it out several times, trying to get it right, and then done a final draft that I now held in my hands. Was it only my imagination, or did it smell like her too?

It began,

My Dearest Grace,

By now you probably have hundreds of questions for me, and wish I were there to answer them. I am. You know me as well as I know myself and there is no question you can raise that you wouldn’t know how I would answer. Try it.... I am there with you and I will answer any question you have.

I closed my eyes and felt the tears squeeze out between my eyelids. I dropped my hands and the letter to my lap, and felt Mrs. Pettermint sitting next to me. What should I ask? How about, “Why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t, I’m right here you know,” was her answer clearly in my head. “Think back Grace,” I heard her continue, “think back and know that if life and spirit are truly eternal, there’s no where I have really gone. Besides, you hold my wisdom inside you, you always have, you know. Any answer to any question lies there. So how could you ever believe I’m gone?”

My eyes fluttered open and I glanced at the spot next to me on the swinging chair. Her answering my question with her own question made it all seem the more real. She was with me. I did know. If I was brave enough, I knew now she would answer every question I could ever throw at her. Well, almost...what about your name?

“Keep reading the letter,” was Mrs. Pettermint’s answer in my head.

To begin with, you are probably wondering why I never told you about my name. See how well I know you Grace, just as you know me? It’s rather simple actually. I never told you my real given name because early on I thought if you knew I had the same name, you might try to copy me. That was something I knew I didn’t want. I suppose it was vanity to think you would. But I knew, even from my perspective, that it was a challenge for me to not identify with you too much. I suppose parents have been doing that with their children throughout all eternity. Even so, I wanted to guard against it. I wanted, I needed you to be exactly who you are. As it turned out that was the best gift I could have given myself.

That gift of course is that we must all find our own “Grace.” In the beginning, or the end for that matter, neither one of us would benefit by becoming someone else. Instead, we need the constant courage and resolve to be ourselves. And that my girl, is grace enough.

The voice inside my head sounded as though she sat beside me. I could hear the inflections and the hints of humor. I could hear the love. I laid the papers in my lap, wrapped my arms around myself and cried. To have known her, to know her still, was indeed grace enough.

Finally, I dug a Kleenex out of my jacket pocket and cleared my head. The rest of her letter pulled me back.

I also need to answer your questions about the attorney and my children. I’m certain they were all present at the reading of the will. Ron would have been there with his wife Betty. And Angela, did she ever stop smoking? Probably not.

Part of me wants to apologize to you for having to put you through all this. Perhaps you won’t think it worth it, and will walk away. Believe me when I say I understand. I basically did that myself around 30 years ago, so I wouldn’t hold it against you.

But I do believe the house belongs to you. I know Ron, Betty and Angela will only sell it. It means nothing but the dollars it represents. The house belongs to you, but I’ll bet by now you realize that you’ll have to fight if you want to keep it. The choice is yours.

I also have another request. Besides the house, you also know now that I left the bulk of my estate to you. But I have a private request to make. Should Ron and Angela not contest the will, should they for the first time in their lives honor my wishes and accept what the will says, I want you to do something for me. Would you give them each one million dollars?

I know it’s unusual. And there’s absolutely nothing that requires you to do it, except your respect and love for me. I guess because, God knows why, I still love my children. And I’d like to show them that when they least expect it. But only if they do not contest the will! If they do, I want you Grace (and the church and Sunny’s too) to have it all. Then, my dear, do anything with the money that YOU want to do with it. Something tells me that you will make it more of a legacy than I was ever able to create.

So, stand up for what I’ve given you, if you want. Or walk away from it if you like. I do not leave it to you to be a burden. As you are well aware, money can be either a blessing or a curse. Only you can decide if it will be worth it. I love you and trust any choice you will make.

One last thing. As my final piece of motherly advice, I suggest once the smoke settles, and my passing is truly laid to rest, that you find your own little Grace. Having you in my life was one of the more meaningful things I ever did. Much more than bearing my own children, I reached out to the Universe and was given an opportunity to touch the life of a kindred spirit in a positive way. I was given so much more than I ever gave by having you in my life. It doesn’t get any better than that Grace. Thank you for all you are. Thank you for the joy you brought me.

Namaste my darling.... Pet.

P.S. Remember I’m always with you...all you have to do is ask.

The sun had long set and the streetlights were beginning to buzz awake. As the neighborhood sat in silence, that which I feared came upon me. I could feel myself breaking. The letter successfully broke the seal I had wrapped around my heart and soul for the last two weeks. My fear had grasped me so securely, that I had mistakenly believed it was necessary to protect myself. Instead, in the instant my heart broke open, I dissolved and surrendered into defenselessness. It was then that I fully felt Mrs. Pettermint’s love and support. For the first time since she was gone, I felt her presence unconditionally and completely.

Now, regardless of whether I stuck it out and got her money, or whether I walked away. It didn’t matter. The only thing that really mattered was that I knew without a doubt what it felt like to be loved and accepted so wholly and completely that details became irrelevant.

“Is that it, Pet?” I whispered into the darkness.

“Yes....”

Chapter 17

The next morning I called Sunny to find out if she wanted nearly $8 million dollars. I’d slept more soundly the night before than any night since Mrs. Pettermint’s passing, but I still couldn’t decide which way to go. Did I want my part of the $75 million? And what would I do if I got it? The big question remained—would it be worth it?

“Hell yes!” answered Sunny the moment I asked. Her laughter rang through the telephone lines so loudly that I had to hold the receiver at arm’s length.

“You haven’t met the opposition yet,” was my reply.

“Honey, they can’t be any worse than my bill collectors!”

“Wanna bet?” I answered with a laugh in spite of my own apprehension. “From what I can tell they’ve never forgiven Pet for walking out on them thirty years ago. Because they’re still so bitter about that, they’re out for revenge. So guess who will serve very well as the sacrificial lamb?”

“Cute,” Sunny answered. “Then it sounds to me that that lamb had better cover her shank and get herself a great lawyer.”

That’s what I spent the rest of the day doing, that, and preparing for my talk on Sunday. Much as I wanted to focus solely on resolving Mrs. Pettermint’s will, the church needed me. They deserved the very best of me at this particular time. Now that I had accepted Mrs. Pettermint’s full support in spirit, I felt like I could handle it. If I could find a lawyer that felt our chances were good, I’d go for it.

After talking to a handful of trusted people, one name kept popping up. Then when I talked to Sunny again and she offered the same recommendation, I knew that Michael Hendricks was my first choice. As confirmation of his popularity, his receptionist started out by insisting that the next available appointment was in three weeks. Only after I explained I was the executor of a $75 million estate that was being contested did I feel I had her full attention. Michael Hendricks called two hours later. Briefly, I explained the predicament and was instantly granted an appointment for Monday morning at 9:00 a.m.

On Sunday morning, I bared my soul to the over 2,000 people who showed up at both services. Paradoxically, it was both difficult and very easy at the same time. I hid nothing. Even then, it is difficult in the bright light of day to speak the whole and complete truth. It proves that no matter how many times we tell ourselves that we aren’t, and couldn’t possibly be super woman, there’s still part of us that feels guilty when we fall short. Once it was over, knowing full well that some people wouldn’t understand and would condemn me for it, I felt a tremendous lightness. I knew then that I had made the right decision.

The response was amazingly positive. My reception line wrapped all the way around the church as hundreds stayed to offer their support and encouragement. I don’t think my eyes were dry for two minutes following both services. I was humbled by the show of strength and support that was mirrored by my willingness to be vulnerable.

Of course, not everyone was as kind. In the weeks to come, I would learn of those who rather than speak to me personally, chose to do it behind my back. It was tough to still bless them, knowing that there was no explanation I could offer that would change their minds. But that was my only choice. I had so much on my mind, I had so many things to do and consider, I simply had no time to let their opinion of me determine my actions.

On Monday morning at 8:55 a.m. I was seated in the reception area of Johnson, Hendricks & Randolph, Inc. The entire west wall featured windows from the floor to the ceiling with an impressive eleventh story view of downtown Los Angeles. As a matter of fact, everything about the reception room was impressive, from the imposing reception desk, to the large plumed birds of paradise shoots thrust into a huge vase with clear marbles. On the opposite wall was a large rock face waterfall. Water shimmered down the artificially smooth surface with only the tiniest bit of splash. Elegant straight back chairs faced each other over a massive stone coffee table. Classical mu-zac played in the background.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., I was ushered by the receptionist into what had to be the most impressive office in the firm. The entire wall of Mr. Hendricks office offered the same view as from the reception area. His desk alone was the size of my entire office. Although there was a sitting area off to the side with a small love seat and two chairs, Mr. Hendricks stood next to his desk, shook my hand politely, waved me into a chair and then returned behind his small fortress.

The man before me was probably no more than mid-forties in age. Of medium height and physique, he wore an immaculately tailored dark brown suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His hair matched his suit, with only a hint of silver at the side. His smile was courteous, but noncommittal. I was beginning to think this was a big mistake.

“Ms. Martin,” he said, once I’d taken my seat. “I’ve taken the liberty of contacting Bander and Bander and requested a copy of the will so that we could discuss your needs more fully this morning. I trust that was okay with you?”

“Sure,” I answered, amazed at how quickly he appeared to be willing to go to work.

“I also had the opportunity to chat with Mr. Bander in an attempt to determine exactly what we are up against.”

Hmmm? He seemed to be assuming a lot at this point. I nodded for him to continue.

“Bander and Bander is a very reputable firm here in LA,” Mr. Hendricks said as he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “They’ve been around for a long time. Although I don’t know Herb Bander personally, his reputation precedes him. I asked him directly about his confidence in contesting the will. To be quite frank Ms. Martin, he feels they have a very strong case against you.”

“Obviously,” I answered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice. “And you Mr. Hendricks? What kind of case do you think I have?”

“I believe in the legal validity of the will, as well as the no-contest provision. From the point of law alone, I think we have an impressive case against them. However, during my conversation with Mr. Bander, it became fairly clear that the opposing side plans to pursue their position vigorously, and by whatever tactics necessary. With that in mind, we may want to consider our options.”

“Options?” I could feel my throat growing tight. Why did it feel like this man was on someone else’s side?

“Perhaps, in light of the time, effort and emotional toll it will take to pursue your rights, we may want to consider a settlement. It could take months before this issue is resolved. And quite frankly, there is a possibility that the ruling may go against you. Rather than risk that, alternatives may be the answer.”

“Mr. Hendricks, you’ve been up front with me, so I’ll do the same with you. I am here because you were recommended to me as a lawyer that goes for the jugular and gets the most out of any judgment.” I met the gaze of his steel gray eyes and matched them with my own resolve. “Now, I’m not in the habit of hanging out with sharks, but if I was going to roll over and take any old offer that they threw at me, I can’t imagine why I’d need you. And, to use your own words, quite frankly, I’m beginning to wonder exactly why I am here.”

“Ms. Martin,” Mr. Hendricks continued with a trace of a smile on his lips. “I believe it is my duty to discuss every possibility with you and let you make the final decision. An aggressive course of action could be very tough, and expensive, and I would be avoiding my obligations if I didn’t make you very aware of that.” He paused, choosing his words carefully, “It appears that you have the determination necessary to pursue what lies ahead. If anyone can get you your rightful inheritance, I believe I am the person. You’ve come to the right office Ms. Martin, but that doesn’t mean it will be a walk in the park. Understand?”

I didn’t like him, and something in me said I should stand up and walk out. Still I did appreciate his candor. And supposedly he was the best. Perhaps that was the lesson I was supposed to learn in all this? Let an expert handle it? Especially if it takes a shark to know a shark. If I didn’t turn it over to him, what then? No, I’d best let him figure it out.

I almost choked as I heard their hourly rate and then how it would be adjusted as a percentage upon settlement or completion of the will. It was clear that the only people guaranteed to benefit would be the attorneys. No wonder he seemed so eager to begin.

It started with a barrage of paper work. I never did understand exactly all the steps he took, only that I was asked to sign paper after paper of small type. According to Hendricks, we first needed to “prove” the will by filing it with the probate court. If Ron and Angela were bent on contesting the will itself, they would be required to file a lawsuit in objection to the filing.

I suppose I could have talked about a settlement. After all, hadn’t Mrs. Pettermint in her letter even requested that I give her children $1 million each? Yet her request had also asked that I do it only if they didn’t contest the will. Besides, something told me that Ron, especially Ron, would not rest as long as I had any part of the inheritance. Talking settlement would only delay the inevitable confrontation. I could also walk away. I was still toying with that idea. As long as I had the church and myself, the money wasn’t really that important, was it?

In the meantime, I had the house. Like the most comfortable pair of shoes I’d ever owned, I could wander from room to room and be nurtured by the very atmosphere. I stayed away from Mrs. Pettermint’s bedroom though. It was silly, but part of me felt that as long as her bedroom remained intact, I didn’t have to face the fact that she was gone.

Things at the church were going smoothly. From what I could tell two-thirds of the congregation were willing to stick it out and move on from the financial loss we experienced. The other third made their unhappiness known through letters, a few phone calls and whispers, and frowns before and after the Sunday service. Not surprisingly, they disappeared in a few weeks to never be seen again.

If it sounds like everything was going well, that’s probably a reflection of my own innocence. Two weeks after Michael Hendricks filed the petition to open probate, he called and said he had received a copy of the lawsuit filed by Ron and Angela Pettermint as the rightful heirs of the Pettermint estate. Would I be available to come by and talk about it?

As I sat on the opposite side of Michael Hendricks’ desk, I kept wondering if he was wearing the same suit as I’d seen him in several weeks ago? No, he probably had ten different suits of exactly the same kind. His crisp tailored attire made my jeans and tennis shoes seem almost irreverent.

“Well,” he began with an air of complete detachment, “this document spells out exactly what they are contesting. As I mentioned before, there are really only a few things available to them to argue. Those are, as I’m sure you remember, that an illegal act was committed through either fraud, duress or undue influence. It is further complicated for them because their attorney drew up the will in the first place, and even served as one of the witnesses.”

Michael picked up a stack of papers from his desk and continued, “Their approach it seems, is to attack you for duress and undue influence that results in their questioning their mother’s ability to freely sign her will, and for all intents and purposes, to disinherit them.”

“That’s pretty much what you’d said they’d do, right?” I asked.

“Yes, except that they are taking a somewhat novel approach,” he answered with a slight smile of sarcasm on his lips. “They are claiming that because of you, their mother was lured into a cult. The cult leader of course is you, and the entire congregation served to brainwash their mother over the course of many years.”

“You’re kidding,” I said more to God than to Michael Hendricks. “Mrs. Pettermint introduced me to the church in the first place. Beyond that, she was the most mentally competent woman I have ever seen. Old Bander knows that too. He’s sort of sleazy if he came up with that one.”

“Now remember, I told you that it’s best not to take any of this personally,” Michael said as though chastising me. “They are taking the approach they believe has the greatest probability of success. Our next step is to immediately counter their claims by backing up and interviewing a score of people who support your side. You can be sure they’ll be doing exactly the same.”

We just never suspected they’d attempt to influence the entire southern California population. The next morning, the Ontario Daily Bulletin ran a front page article with headlines that screamed, “Cult Leader Claims Multi-Million Dollar Inheritance.” Underneath was a photo of me taken candidly one Sunday morning by a less than professional photographer. Taking a deep breath, I began to read.

ONTARIO—The will of wealthy longtime resident Mrs. Ronald Pettermint revealed that the bulk of her multi-million dollar estate is earmarked for an orphan she unofficially adopted years ago and who has grown to become one of the most popular New Age leaders in Southern California, the Reverend Grace Martin. Martin is the minister of a large independent religious organization, which falls outside of the traditional Christian faith. It promotes a focus on positive thinking and remaking the experiences of one’s life. Herself a product of a broken, unhappy and poor family, Martin and her position within the Pettermint Estate clearly demonstrates the success of her belief system.

The deceased’s two children, Ron and Angela Pettermint, are contesting the will. They argue that Rev. Martin and her church unduly influenced their mother over the course of ten years. They are being represented in their challenge by Herbert Bander, a half-century-long Pettermint Family lawyer who himself believes Mrs. Pettermint was changed by her association with Martin.

That part was true at least. I knew Mrs. Pettermint was changed because of me. I also knew I was changed because of her. Didn’t that count for something? Besides, what was wrong with that? How did the newspaper get this information? And why? Was this really news? Part of me knew that the public was all too ready to gobble up details like this. I’d never had the focus on me before. I took another breath and read on.

Martin is the pastor of the Riverside Center of Positive Living with a congregation of approximately 2,000. She took over as spiritual leader of the church four years ago after serving at the Seal Beach Center of Positive Living. According to a member of her staff, Martin has never attended any seminary or college and was ordained merely as is customary within her organization. Her background suggests an eclectic study of numerous religious persuasions spanning the globe. The growing number of supporters and members of her church evidence her charisma and influence.

That was sort of a low blow. What member of the staff? Had someone called my office? Strange how even the most innocent and true statements can be made to sound derogatory—especially when they’re in the newspaper for the entire world to see.

The late Grace Pettermint was married to Ronald J. Pettermint of Glendale for over 55 years. They were never divorced....

They were never divorced! I didn’t know that. Of course I didn’t even know if or when her husband had died. I assumed that when she left the family, he divorced her. Ah, what dark secrets we all have. Then again, maybe Mrs. Pettermint never knew herself. It’s possible she assumed it as well. Would I ever know?

...however, in 1962 a separate house was purchased in Ontario where Mrs. Pettermint lived until she passed away. The house, along with several pieces of prime Southern California land parcels and a trust fund, constitute the bulk of her estate. Although the property was held in her name and designated as “separate property” on the deeds, the children of Pettermint insist that the estate should be considered as community property of both parents and rightfully pass to the actual blood heirs of the Pettermint family.

The original Ronald Pettermint made his fortune developing and building homes and subdivisions in the 1940s and 1950s. His son Ronald Pettermint, Jr. continues the family business of R & G Development and Construction, which is responsible for such landmarks as the Westend Mall and the Santa Monica Civic Center. Ron, and his wife Betty, have two children, Ronald III and Geraldine. The daughter, Angela Pettermint, is single and a design consultant. Both families reside in Glendale.

Well that was news, even to me. These two paragraphs offered more information than I had ever gotten from Mrs. Pettermint about her family. It proved only one thing from my position—there was very deep pain in that family. It shows that no matter what any of us do, every step we take has deep repercussions.

According to a lawsuit filed in the probate court of San Bernardino County, both Pettermint children are contesting the will of their late mother. The will appoints Martin as both executor and primary recipient of the estate. The blood heirs argue that, “Their mother was under the influence of a charismatic religious leader who used excessive control in determining the outcome of Pettermint’s estate resulting in an incompetent or unsound mind.” The estate itself is estimated to be $100 million.

One hundred million? Where did that come from? All I knew was what Bander had told me. How much was the property really worth? Did it matter? From where I sat it would be hard to guess if I’d ever find out. Besides, what did this article mean? Was it merely an irritant or did it really make it hard on me in some way? I reached for the phone.

Hendricks took my call immediately. “I suppose you’ve seen the article?” was the first thing he said. His voice was smooth and very level.

“I know you said not to take it personally, but isn’t this a little beyond normal?”

“I think I told you that the Pettermint family would be pursuing this case rather vigorously, didn’t I?” he countered.

It felt like his words coiled around me with the slightest bit of a squeeze. “So, what do I do then? Just take it?” I asked.

“Well, don’t speak to any newspapers without speaking to me first. I’m not sure if they’ll come sniffing around...but they could.”

Oh great, was all I could think. Like my congregation needed another scandal? With no reassurance, we said our goodbyes.

Sunny was much more sympathetic. “God, can you imagine! They made it sound like you hypnotized the woman and held her captive in her own home for 20 years!”

“Thanks, Sunny,” I said with a laugh. “You’re helping so much. Remember girl, they’re bound to find out you’re part of the inheritance too. When they do, they’ll throw stones at both of us.”

“I know sweetie,” Sunny said with a more soothing voice as she patted my arm, “it doesn’t seem fair does it? Ol’ Lady Pettermint sure was a sweetheart. But you know, as well as I do, that she was also a very strong and determined woman. At least her kids got that much from her.”

“Then we’re in for the long haul,” I said. “And what about my congregation? How do I explain the newspaper article? What do I tell them?”

“The truth. You’re going to have to use it Grace. Isn’t that what we tell them week after week—use everything! It’s high time that everyone clearly sees that you and I are like them—doing the best we can in any given situation. You’ve taken some knocks lately, but you also have a lot stronger consciousness and faith than most people—so show them what you’re made of.” Sunny smiled softly and squeezed my arm again. “Just keep remembering, you’re not alone.”

Sunny’s pep talk lasted about a day. I felt pretty good until the next morning when I got up, and staring out at me from the morning newspaper was a photo of my sister Maggie and her three children. I fixed myself a cup of tea and attempted to calm myself before reading the article under the blaring headlines, “Sister of Cult Leader Disputes Inheritance.”

ONTARIO—Margaret Michaels, the sister of Rev. Grace Martin, the woman named as principle heir in the $100 Million Pettermint family fortune, stepped forward yesterday in opposition of the will. Upon learning the details of the Pettermint estate, Michaels joined sides with Ronald and Angela Pettermint in voicing condemnation of both her sister and the will. Although Michaels readily admitted that she knew little of the late Mrs. Grace Pettermint, she was well aware of the connection between her sister and the older woman. According to Michaels, their on-going relationship had caused Michaels and her husband, who is pastor of the local Calvary Community Church, deep concern. Although Michaels was not as convinced that Martin was solely responsible for the unsound mind of the former Mrs. Pettermint, she is convinced that, “the Riverside Center of Positive Living could be classified as a dangerous cult.” Adding further speculation Michaels said, “I never did understand their relationship.”

How could she? She didn’t have a clue what my church was about. I’d suspected we’d never see eye to eye on the religious thing, so that didn’t really surprise me. What hurt the most is that she would side with strangers over me.

Estranged for over 10 years, Michaels readily admits that the cause of their separation “is due to the unorthodox religious practices of her sister.” Michaels recalled the last attempt she made at reconciliation was at the funeral of their mother, the late Katherine Olson, nearly five years ago. During the ceremony, a small riot broke out, where Martin and the late Mrs. Pettermint contributed to the pandemonium by laughing loudly and hurtling hateful remarks. Michaels has had no communication with her sister since that time and was under the impression that their actions during the funeral were a “regular practice” of her sister’s group.

The Riverside Center of Positive Living has been in existence for 15 years and is officially a California Non-profit Religious Organization granted 501c(3) tax exemption from the IRS. Four years ago, Grace Martin became pastor and since then the church has grown considerably. Although visible in the community through on-going community service projects, details about the practices and ideas promoted within the organization are not widely known.

The rest of the week passed in relative peace after the article about Maggie. My heart was torn between calling Maggie and confronting her with her betrayal, and vowing never to see her or her family again. Of course that was no great sacrifice, I’d never seen our lives as reconciled anyway. So why call? I didn’t.

I didn’t see the next thing coming either. It happened on Sunday morning. Everything seemed normal. I arrived at the church at 6:30 a.m. and met several of the early morning volunteers. We normally gathered early to not only prepare the church, but to prepare ourselves as well. We flipped on the light switches and headed into the big empty room to start with a prayer. We all shivered a bit as we waited for the furnace to kick on. Our circle was small and tight as we huddled closer than usual and firmly clasped one another’s hands. I’m convinced that the spirit and the courage I asked to be present in me, and everyone there, was largely responsible for getting me through the rest of the day.

It was close to the 9:00 a.m. service when Alice came running into my office. “There’s a television news crew out front interrogating everyone as they come in.” Her voice was high and her face flushed.

It only took a few minutes to ask the reporter to leave, but the energy of his questions hung in the air like a prophecy of doom. We all felt it. From the back of the sanctuary I headed down the aisle to the platform in front, wading through the anxiety-filled air. People were nervous. It was one thing to attend the Riverside Center of Positive Living. It was another thing to have it show up on the nightly news for everyone to question. What had Sunny said, “Use everything?” Well, it was definitely time to use this.

By the time I stood up to speak, everyone had calmed down some. The announcements, prayer and opening songs had brought almost everyone back in focus. But the issue could not be avoided. I walked up to the lectern, took the several sheets of notes I had planted there and ceremoniously dropped them to the side.

“So much for my notes.” I faked a frown and looked out at hundreds of eyes. “I had planned this morning to talk about what was going on with me. I’m certain that all of you have seen the newspapers. I figured I owed you all an explanation. You are my family now and you deserve to know what I’m going through and how I’m facing it. But this morning, I also realized that this isn’t only about me anymore. They...they aren’t going to let it be just about me. This morning, they made it about us.” I stopped and let the words sink in and registered a few nodding heads.

“The truth is, I am not the only one named as a beneficiary of Mrs. Pettermint’s will—this church is too. So I suppose it is only appropriate that this church will also come under scrutiny. And while I don’t particularly like it—it is what’s happening. So we might as well prepare for it, and like every other experience, choose how we will respond.”

“And isn’t that what we teach? Week after week, we remind one another that we have choices—that we can choose to have a positive influence on any experience. Week after week, we tell each other that life is good, that God wants only the best for us. We repeat constantly that we deserve goodness, and that we can choose the idea of original blessing over original sin. But then something like this comes along and the first thing that pops into our head is ‘why me?’”

“I’m like you, you know? This last week when I went and got my morning newspaper and opened it up to see a photo of myself—and not even a good photo, I might add– I asked myself, ‘why me?’” A ripple of laughter waved over the audience before I went on, “You want to know what the answer was? Yes, I did get an answer! The answer was, ‘why not you?’ See, I know I’m no one special. I am not different from any one of you, or any other person on this planet. And while I believe that we are all glorious expressions of Spirit, there’s not one of us better, or one of us worse. Our only distinction is how clearly and frequently we realize our connection to the One.” With that, there were many more heads nodding in agreement.

“Now sometimes I’m really, really happy, because I remember my connection to Spirit. At those times, all is right in the world. Newspaper articles can appear from nowhere saying all sorts of things, and it doesn’t bother me. Television crews can show up on my doorstep and I’m as cool as a cucumber.”

“Then there’s the other times,” I said and paused as the laughter wave rose and fell over the congregation. “...don’t laugh. You all know what I’m talking about. Those are the times when all you can think of is, who is doing what to you, and how unfair it all seems. Times like that when you’re sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I paused and looked out at the waiting crowd. “Times when you’re not sure if the pain is worth it, and whether you want to go on.”

“What it comes down to...what it really comes down to is...do you honestly believe that you get to choose? Do you really believe you were made in the image and likeness of God? Do you really...and I mean really believe that God wants only good for you—or do you still secretly think that life is a scary place where anything can happen, at any time, for no reason at all?”

I paused and took a deep breath before going on. “Here at the Center of Positive Living we believe that you get to choose. Not sometimes, not just when it works out, but all the time. We believe that we were not only made in the image and likeness of God, but that we are all sons and daughters of the most high. And we believe, that God so unconditionally loves us, that our good is always, always a perception away.”

“But that doesn’t end it all, you know? We still have to live those beliefs every day. Even when we know what we know, it doesn’t mean things will never happen to us. No one said it was easy.” I let the idea sink in as I looked out and smiled at several familiar faces. “No matter how deep we grasp the concepts, stuff is still going to happen. Life happens. God happens. The events and circumstances that we judge painful or hard are merely reflections of our judgment—they are only combinations of events happening. We get to decide how they will impact us.”

I searched the sea of faces and could tell they still weren’t convinced. “Okay, I can see you want a better explanation. How about this? When I was six years old my father was killed in an automobile accident. Some people might view that as a very, very bad thing for a young family, a single mother with two small children. Some people could say that was a horrible thing to happen, and they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. On the other hand, other people could look at the same situation and see good there.”

“That’s what happened, you know. Because I lived where I lived and did what I did, I found a woman named Mrs. Pettermint. Not only was she one person in my life that loved me unconditionally, she was also the person who introduced me into this teaching. It proves to me that we can’t judge the outcome by the current event. The only true way to judge the outcome, is by judging our state of mind, our state of faith, and the level of peace we’re experiencing. Want to know what will happen in your future? Don’t bother looking at the ‘stuff in your life,’ simply look at what you think about the stuff in your life. That’s what your future holds.”

“Mrs. Pettermint was a very dear and loving friend to me. She was also a very dear and loving friend to this church. I know in her heart of hearts that she felt she was doing something extremely thoughtful and kind in naming me, and this church, in her will. I accept that gift. I accept it knowing that my judgments about it make it neither good nor bad. It just is.”

“So the question is...do we want her gift? If the answer is yes, of course, then along with the money comes certain responsibilities and obligations. And perhaps part of that obligation is dealing with the probate court, the heirs who were left nothing, and yes, even the media and the perspective they are sure to draw.”

I smiled out at them accepting the fact that my own internal reluctance registered on some of their faces. “You know this is one of the biggest lessons we’ll ever have to face, don’t you? See, God is continually giving us an inheritance. Always. Constantly the good of the Universe is right there in front of us. But, if we’re honest...we usually want to control how, when and what we get as gifts. If it isn’t wrapped up in a pretty little bow, if it doesn’t come from who we think it should come from, if it has strings (like responsibility) attached we tend to reject it. Then we spend the rest of our lives wandering around, complaining, because we don’t have what we want. Let me be really clear about this....I want to learn this lesson once and for all....and the lesson is, that our gift, our inheritance, has already been given. The problem is with our acceptance.”

“But what if we don’t take the gift? Does God care? Does God love us less? I doubt it. I believe God is unconditionally loving in every instant. So if we reject the gift, if we resist our good, I don’t think God loses any sleep over it. I believe the Infinite Power of the Universe knows that everything we could possibly want and/or need is right there in front of us. There is no loss to God, there is no bad to God. There is only choice and expression, and ultimately we get to make it up.”

“Can you grasp that? It’s hard for me sometimes. No matter how long I’ve been in this teaching it still amazes me how loving God can be. That’s because I keep expecting God to be like me, or like you, or like some human. I keep wanting to limit God so that I can understand the wholeness of it. But the truth remains; God is so much bigger, so much deeper, so much higher. And here I sit with my questions and my dilemmas and God says, ‘Yes!’

“So what’s it going to be? Are we going to say no to the money. Are we going to say no to the gift, the inheritance? Or, are we going to say yes? Are we going to accept that every action carries responsibility and that ultimately, ‘All things work together for good?’

“We’ve been through some tough times here in the last few months. And for whatever reason it doesn’t seem to be going away immediately. But I don’t think that Spirit gives a whit about our comfort. I think Spirit is here saying, “Go for it.” Do what comes forth. Do not falter in your belief. Trust. Know that everything is interconnected, that each of us is here to manifest the glory of Good. I think Spirit wants to grow through me, through this church and through everyone here. The inheritance is ours. Are we willing to accept the gift?”

With that, I stepped away from the podium and closed my eyes. At that moment I knew that I would accept any answer that was given. It started with one clap, then several more. Within a minute a thousand pairs of hands joined the chorus. When I opened my eyes, the whole room was standing and everyone seemed bathed in light.

I had my answer.

Chapter 18

People always want to know if I’ve ever talked to God. I guess on that day I could clearly say yes. It seemed obvious that God had used the people of my church to both ask and answer the questions in my mind. Sure there was doubt, hesitation, and fear. But by looking past those issues, I kept my focus where it needed to be, on God.

Several days later Michael Hendricks called. “We’ve got a court date, Grace,” said his voice in the phone receiver. “They’re pushing it fairly fast which I think is to our benefit. I’ve started the interviews with the character witnesses you’ve given me, and we should have our side ready in plenty of time.”

“What exactly is going to happen, Michael?”

“Well, as I’ve said before, before going any further we’ve got to prove the will. This proceeding is to do that. It’ll seem very much like a regular court session, except without a jury.”

“I suppose that’s good news.”

“But try to stay out of trouble between now and then,” Michael warned. “Plus, if there’s anything else you think they can use against you, to make you look bad, you’d better let me know. They’re certain to keep digging till the end,” Lawyers aren’t paid to be optimistic. On that basis, Michael was a very good lawyer.

Part of me wants everyone to believe that I had everything under control. After all, I’m in the trust business. If anyone has faith, it should be me. But like most people I swing back and forth between peace and panic. Oh, on the outside I was as collected as anyone, probably much more than others. It was really only when I was home alone that the fear bubbled up and doubting questions reappeared. My questions were as active as ever. But these days the answers scared me.

The morning before the August court date, I walked through Mrs. Pettermint’s house. I saved her bedroom for last. I had never gone through it, choosing instead to pretend that I didn’t have time to start the job of cleaning out her things.

I opened the door to her room and could smell her. Then again, maybe it was my imagination. It had been over two months since her transition. The heavy drapes were drawn exactly the way I had left them that morning when they had taken her body away. I had made up her bed those two months ago, so except for a fine layer of dust that had settled over everything, it looked exactly like it had always looked. I could easily picture her sitting in the chair next to the window reading. She had done that a lot, especially at night if she couldn’t sleep. She was always so quiet. It was still very, very quiet in her room.

Clenching my fists, I marched over, pulled back the front layer of drapes, and let sunlight stream in through the sheer window coverings and spill over across the room. Then, like I had done a thousand times before, I moved to her bed and sat down on the corner facing her chair. Its emptiness surprised me. Mrs. Pettermint was gone. Suddenly the weight of her abandonment fell like a heavy cloak over my head and shoulders. I could hardly breathe. Had I been fooling myself by believing that I could still sense her?

“How could you leave me Pet?” I whispered into the silence. “How could you, of all people? It didn’t seem so bad when Mom died because you were there. You were always there, even after all the others were gone.” I started to wipe the tears away as they began rolling down my cheek. Then sighed and submitted to the onslaught. Why bother?

“Dammit, I counted on you!” I shouted and blinked back the tears with surprise. I wasn’t sad, I was mad. I had trusted her. I had trusted her above all others. I needed her. She knew that, and she had left anyway. Mrs. Pettermint had served as an angel for me for as many years as I could remember, my own special angel. Now that angel was gone at a time when I felt I needed her desperately. What was I going to do?

I heard her voice as clearly as if she was sitting in front of me. “I am here Grace. Be still and hear me.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I heard myself answer. “I know what you’re going to say and I’m not sure that’s enough for me.”

“What are you afraid of my dear?” her voice asked gently.

“I’m afraid,” I choked back a new flood of tears as the answer hit me like a load of wet laundry, “I’m afraid that you’ll tell me I don’t need anyone but God, but it doesn’t seem to be enough, Pet. And I don’t want to be alone. I’m tired of being alone.” My hands covered my face as I sobbed great retching noises from the depth of my soul. “Maybe Pet, maybe, I don’t really believe in God? Because if there was one...surely I wouldn’t feel so desperately alone.”

I curled up on the bed, wrapped my long arms around my legs, and held them to my chest as the sobs continued to shake my body. All the people who had left me in my life began to parade past my consciousness, first my father, then my sister, my grandmother, the boys I had loved and the man I had married. But I didn’t stop there. Every person who I’d ever known, especially those who’d been a part of any one of my churches, every one of them came and then disappeared. In my memory there were thousands of them. I felt like the only person left on the planet. I was utterly, completely and totally alone.

I don’t know how long I stayed there in my aloneness. I remained until the tears were gone. The room was nearly dark before I realized that even in my aloneness, I was still alive. Apparently it wasn’t a fatal condition and it was beginning to look like God didn’t care one way or another. So be it. If that’s the way it’s going to be, I would learn. From now on I would play it from that perspective. If I were going it alone, I’d do it my way.

To begin with, maybe I wouldn’t care that I was alone so much if I had tons of money? Why not? Mrs. Pettermint had left her estate to me, so rightfully it was mine. Perhaps I’d ignored that fact till now. It didn’t seem like God cared about the money either way. Maybe I should? Something in that simple idea flooded me with a sense of calm and peacefulness. In the background I heard a neighbor’s lawn mower nearby and the normalcy of the entire house embraced me in its unfailing security. This house was mine. Perhaps Mrs. Pettermint’s estate would prove more long lasting than she had. If I had to be alone, then I would keep it all.

So here I was, in court for the very first time finding myself with Sunny and Michael beside me. Naturally, I had to turn down Ron and Angela’s first offer to settle. Even though I knew Michael was worried, I was convinced that I was doing the right thing.

Inside Courtroom 3B, Herb Bander and the Pettermints stood at their table near the front of the courtroom. Michael held the door open for both me and Sunny, and then walked around ahead of us and up to Mr. Bander. Steadying myself and taking a deep breath, I smiled at Sunny and together we walked towards the front of the room. I felt, rather than saw Ron Pettermint’s scowl, and could hear words of protest from Mr. Bander. Apparently they didn’t like our refusing their offer.

“So, do you think I’m crazy?” I whispered to Sunny.

“No more than me,” Sunny answered. “And I’m happy with my company.”

I smiled my gratitude and we sat down as Michael returned to our table. “Well, they weren’t happy about it, as would be expected.” Then he cocked his head to the side and continued, “I think they were surprised to be honest. If I’m not mistaken they were counting on the fact that you’d take whatever you could get, and be grateful to get the house. I’d say they are definitely underestimating us.” He smiled, the first genuine smile of the day.

At that moment the judge entered the courtroom, and we were all asked to rise. The bailiff introduced Judge Thomas and instructed us to be seated. Next, the bailiff read the case out loud while the judge bent his head over a stack of papers in his hands.

After what seemed like an hour of silence, the judge raised his head and asked, “Okay, what’s all this about?”

“Your honor,” Michael said rising to his feet, “I’m Michael Hendricks representing Grace Martin, the named executor of the estate of Grace Geraldine Pettermint. I would like to move that the court prove Ms. Pettermint’s will so that we can open probate and proceed to close the estate.”

“Your honor,” drawled Bander as he slowly rose to his feet. “Herbert Bander, representing Ronald and Angela Pettermint, the two children of Grace Geraldine Pettermint who are contesting the will offered by the defendant.”

“Yes, that’s fairly obvious from all the paperwork you both have filed.” Judge Thomas said ruffling through the stack of papers in front of him. “This is going to take a week to read. Is there anyway we can work this out? Mr. Bander, you know it’s difficult to prove that the deceased was incapacitated at the time of making the will. Are we sure we want to get into this?”

“It is exactly because we feel the atrocity of this will so deeply that we are more than eager to advance these proceedings, your honor,” answered Mr. Bander as he glanced at our table. “We have no interest in occupying valuable court time. However, we could not stand by and watch this injustice without some attempt to right the wrong.”

“Okay, enough with the theatrics. Get to the point.” said Judge Thomas.

“Judge Thomas, it is the intent of the contesting parties, Ronald and Angela Pettermint to prove to this court that their mother, Grace Geraldine Pettermint was insidiously swayed into donating her considerable fortune to a woman of questionable character and to an organization of suspicious nature. Not only were the true rightful heirs all but eliminated from the will, they intend to prove that the defendant Grace Martin used the tenuous mental and emotional state of the late Mrs. Pettermint to her own advantage. We feel confident that once the facts are presented, the court will have no other alternative but to move in favor of the contesting parties.” Herb Bander looked smugly at our table and with a flourish, sat down.

My heart was beating very fast. It took every bit of effort for me to take deep long breaths when I really wanted to snort and stomp and throw things. How dare he lie like that and accuse me and the church of such horrible things? He didn’t know me and didn’t have a clue what CPL was about. I looked at Michael expecting him to sympathize. Wrong expectation.

Without even looking at me Michael stood. With legal pad in hand he said sarcastically, “Your honor. I appreciate the drama presented by Mr. Bander on behalf of his clients. However, we move to immediately dismiss their case due to the fact that it is Mr. Bander himself who drew up and served as one of the witnesses to the will. Surely, his duty as barrister would have been to remove himself from that position if he detected any undue influence at the time of the will’s request.”

“Your Honor, I was against it,” Herb Bander said jumping to his feet. “My notes at the time reflect my advice to that fact. However, Mrs. Pettermint was adamant. And because I was by legal instruction the attorney required to handle her estate according to instructions by her late husband, I could see no alternative other than to express my disapproval on numerous occasions. I had only hoped that she would come to her senses before it was too late.” Mr. Bander sat down without the same air of confidence shown previously.

Before Michael could respond, Judge Thomas held up his hand. My heart continued to beat hard, but my mind latched on to the tiniest bit of hope. Then Judge Thomas opened his mouth.

“While I’ll admit that I would normally dismiss a case of this type without any more consideration, I do believe that based upon some of the documents I’ve read, there are some questions that deserve to be answered. I will take the documents submitted by both attorneys under advisement to determine whether the case shall be dismissed or whether a hearing is necessary.” Judge Thomas turned to the secretary and said, “Make sure we have everyone’s details so we can properly notify.” Then turning back to us, “I guess that’s about it for today.”

That’s it? How unsatisfying? Others who have been through court proceedings will know exactly what it’s like, the indecision and the frustration of not knowing. Courtrooms are filled with glimmers of hope and the shadows of doubt that seesaw from one day to the next. While the system may appear dramatic and quick on television and in movies, they very seldom portray the true confusion of what happens when you are caught in that limbo.

It was over a week before I heard from Michael. It was a long week. A week filled with indecision and denial. I gave my Sunday morning lecture to a room full of people, but I was beginning to feel like a phony. How could I tell them about the grace of God when I had recently come to the conclusion that God didn’t really care? The odd thing was, no one seemed to notice the difference in me. My receiving line after the service was as long as ever, and the congregation’s response was as positive as always. Was it that easy to hide? Had I gotten so good at speaking that it didn’t matter whether I believed what I said? Even then, something in me couldn’t do it. I spent Monday morning contacting other ministers to come in as guest speakers over the coming weeks. They didn’t ask why. I didn’t tell.

When Michael’s secretary called Tuesday morning to see when I could come in, I told her I’d be there within the hour.

“There’s going to be a hearing,” Michael said bluntly from behind his massive desk.

I suddenly wished I hadn’t hurried. There are some things you wish you didn’t have to face. “When?” was all that came to mind.

“The date has been set a month out. We’ll be into October by then. I think that gives us enough time.” Michael said as he flipped through his Day-Timer and frowned.

“Enough time for what? Is there something we need to do?”

“Well, you need to know that they are continuing with their strong accusations. In fact, I’d say they are trying to dispute your state of mind as much as Mrs. Pettermint’s. Can you handle that?” He looked up, and if I weren’t mistaken, I’d say he actually looked worried.

“I guess. I mean, how much worse could it be than that first day in court?”

“That was a G rated movie, Grace. The gloves are off from here on out. Do you want that? Are you ready for that?” Now he really had me worried, because I could clearly see his concern.

“Their best bet is to scatter mud as far and wide as they can and influence the judge. That’s it. That’s their strategy,” Michael continued, looking grim.

“So what’s our strategy?” I asked.

“We’ve got the law on our side. And I’d like to say that the law always wins out, especially with a judge making the decision. But that doesn’t always happen. So, the question is, do you want to keep going Grace, or do you want to see if they are still willing to settle?”

There it was again. Choices. Do I do it, or don’t I? Does it matter, or doesn’t it? Questions. Choices. Another chocolate chip cookie? One question flowing into another, asking us to decide things that could affect everything. My mind was suddenly swamped by all of the possible connections, repercussions, responsibilities, and answers. I wanted it to be over. The only thing that seemed to stand out, the only thing that seemed simple, was the money. Once I had the money, no one could touch me. Michael was staring at me, waiting.

“Let’s go for it. I want it all.” I set my mouth in a straight line and squared my chin. The choice brought a sense of relief. See, I thought to myself, it wasn’t that hard. Now Michael can do what he needs to do, and it’s out of my hands. You’d think by now I’d know that it is never so easy and never completely out of our hands.

Later that week, I was delivered the final blow. I received a letter from one of the former members of the board who had left the church after the recent financial mess. Bill Crosswich had never officially resigned like the others who had deserted. As Vice President and a solid member of the church before the embezzlement, Bill was one I had expected to stay through the transition, along with his wife Marjorie. I had been hurt when he not only stopped coming to the church, but even worse, he refused to attend any of the board meetings.

Bill was an accountant. We all suspected that he eventually hoped that the church business and books would be turned over to him. When the decision was made over a year ago to put an independent accountant in charge, rather than someone on the board, he was adamantly opposed. His opinion was that anyone within the church would be better suited because they would care more. Naturally, due to his involvement, he was convinced that he would be the ideal candidate because he had such intimate knowledge about who we were. It was a predicament I wrestled with because part of it made sense. However, I’d seen and heard horror stories of how it could go wrong. The board made the decision to keep the jobs separate, and I did not disagree. I don’t think Bill ever forgave me. Obviously.

The letter was addressed to myself, and the board of the Riverside Center of Positive Living. It stated that as acting Vice President he, Bill Crosswich, would like to call a special meeting of the board members to discuss the suitability and the continuity of my continuing as pastor of the church. It cited the correct Corporation Articles and Bylaws to both call the meeting and decide if a special election should be held regarding the minister. I’d never hidden any of those documents or details from them. I never even imagined the need. The chill of total aloneness settled over me again.

I don’t know how long I sat holding the letter in my hand. It was like a death notice of the only remaining thing in my life that I held dear. Now, even my church didn’t want me. They now recognized me for the fraud I had always suspected I was. Who did I think I was anyway? I had no answers. So, how could I possibly stand up in front of others with the audacity to think I could answer their questions? I had been found out. A tiny part of me actually felt relieved. It had been bound to happen at some point. I couldn’t even cry. My tears had left me, too.

Suddenly, it seemed once again that the only thing that could keep me from disappearing, from dissolving into nothing, was the inheritance from Mrs. Pettermint. Without it I could die tomorrow and no one would care. Without it, my life was empty and stood for nothing. I had nothing to show for it, no family, no children, no one to love me. It was as though the only remaining shred of my identity was wrapped up in the inheritance. There was no way I’d give up that money now. No way I would rest until it was mine.

I called Michael, “What do we have to do to win this thing? It was easy to tell he was surprised to hear from me. Before giving him a chance to answer I continued, “There’s something you need to know.“ I swallowed the lump in my throat before going on, “ I got a letter this afternoon from a board member. He is calling a special meeting of the board and will probably ask for my resignation. I don’t know what will happen, but if my own church fires me for this, I can’t imagine it will look good in court.” I stopped suddenly, realizing I’d been rambling.

“Well then,” Michael said in his slow deliberate lawyer voice, “they are sure to learn about it one way or another. But it doesn’t affect the law, Grace, and that’s still the strongest thing we have going for us. Obviously, that’s my job, so you leave it up to me.”

Some part of me, deep inside, raised a weak protest. But it felt so easy and made the fear abate, so I voiced my agreement and hung up the phone. The only other person I could have called was Sunny. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to hear her optimism. I didn’t want to hear how “all things work together for my good.” Because quite frankly, at that point she didn’t know. She didn’t know what it was like to be completely alone. She didn’t know what it was like to be betrayed by both my natural family, and now my church family. Sunny would only spout principles about God and spirituality and she didn’t know how it felt to be deserted by everyone, including God. No, I didn’t call Sunny.

After that, everything went black, white and gray. Nothing had color or energy. Even Mrs. Pettermint’s front porch refused to bring a smile to my face. It seemed listless, dull and limp, as though the life behind it had also deserted me. The house itself seemed dark and filled with shadows that I had never seen before. Even the silence, which I used to think of as rich and full, felt dank and empty. I sensed a smell there that I’d never recognized. It was a smell of fear. Inevitably, it smelled like me.

I went to bed and slept all weekend. Only another minister could realize what that meant. For the last eight years of my life, I had never missed a Sunday. I’d never been sick, or too busy. You could say Sundays were my life. In the back of my mind I recalled that I had already lined up a minister to speak. They didn’t need me at all and probably wouldn’t even miss me. I closed all the drapes in the house, turned the ringer off of the phone, and went to bed.

Chapter 19

How could it happen? How could one who not only taught others, but guided others through the darkest parts of their lives, not find the Light when she needed it? How could a spiritual leader for literally thousands of people, not have the strength to stay focused on God?

I lost myself for a while in sleep. I occasionally crawled out of bed to use the bathroom, or to cup my hand under the faucet for a drink of water. But my bed was like a cocoon that held me in its warmth and safety. The heavy thick drapes in my room made it impossible to tell whether it was day or night. It didn’t matter. I had no strength or desire to go anywhere. I had grown tired of asking questions that had no answers. My mind felt like mud, thick, deep, and dreary. I slept.

For a long time, there was nothing but blackness and silence. Then, like spring making herself known after a long and arduous winter, little bits of light and color drifted into my mind. I dreamt I was young again, standing outside a white steeple church. From inside, I could hear someone call my name. Was it Mom? Slowly, hesitantly, I crept closer to the building. The double doors beyond the porch were wide open and appeared to be billowing in a breeze. It was a surreal postcard version of a church. That was, until I peered through the double doors and all I could see was blackness, a void. Again, I heard my name, but this time it was in the voice of my Grandmother. “Grace,” she said, “Grace, I warned you.” I quivered in fear at the sound of her.

“Grace,” she whispered sternly, “I knew you’d end up all alone. See what you’ve brought upon yourself. God is not mocked, Grace. Remember I told you that?”

I peered into the darkness for a glimmer of my grandmother. Maybe she was right? Maybe she did know best? As I came closer, I could see many pairs of eyes looking at me. I knew without a doubt that they were the members of Grandmother’s old church. They too, called my name. Suddenly, I felt a vacuum, a force that started slowly, but grew and pulled me closer and closer to the door. It would be so easy to surrender. I saw an outstretched hand, a hand I knew was my grandmother’s, reaching for me. I heard her voice again.

“It’s not too late Grace,” her voice said, almost sounding tender. “Repent. Return to the real God, and you won’t be alone. As long as you do what He says, as long as you know your role and don’t question, you’ll never be alone. Your sin was believing you were something more than a sinner. The world is an evil place, my girl. Didn’t I warn you plenty of times? But, it’s not too late. Recognize your sin. Save yourself, Grace.”

I wanted to, one part of me really wanted to. I found myself surrendering to the force that pulled me forward. I didn’t have to be alone. All I had to do was submit. All I had to do was to stop thinking, to stop being me, and the flood of doubts and questions would be gone. Then I wouldn’t be alone, then I would belong.

I couldn’t do it. I awoke in my darkened bedroom with a jerk, with my head and shoulders soaked in sweat. I moaned and threw back the covers, then rolled over and buried my head in a pillow. While the bed no longer felt as safe or comforting, I still didn’t want to face the world. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep. Once again, I was in front of a little white church, being pulled forward by the force of my own fear.

I heard my name being called. “Grace,” it said. I recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it at first. “Grace,” it said again, and I knew then, without a doubt it was the voice of Mrs. Pettermint. But it wasn’t coming from inside the church. I looked behind me and saw her. She was sitting on a bench next to the old bus stop, exactly as she had so very long ago. She no longer looked old. She was probably somewhere around my age. Even then, I could see the ageless wisdom and the love in her eyes. How could I have ever thought of her as old?

I was aware that although the force that came out of the white steeple building still taunted and tugged at me, it wasn’t enough to hold me and held no more attraction. Glancing back, I saw the eyes of my Grandmother there, and even the eyes of Maggie. I smiled at them over my shoulder and began to walk in the opposite direction toward Mrs. Pettermint.

The wails behind me stopped me cold. “Grace, don’t go. This is your last chance. Don’t. You can’t. If you don’t surrender to us...we’ll have to destroy you. We can’t risk being wrong. We can’t risk that there is another way. It makes our lives senseless...” Grandma cried, and I could hear the laments of a thousand souls deep within the church. The further I moved away from the building, the lighter the pull and the dimmer the voices.

Mrs. Pettermint was smiling as I walked closer and closer to where she sat. When I reached her, she nodded and patted the bench beside her. “I’ve been waiting for you Grace. I’ve been waiting for you to get over your party-–your pity-party to be exact.”

Even in a dream she was using her own unique vocabulary. “What? How could you say that to me, Pet? You don’t know what it’s been like. I’m alone.” I could feel the righteous indignation rise up in me and almost got up off the bench and left.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she answered in a slightly sarcastic tone. “I forgot that you are the only person who’s ever had challenges. I suppose leaving my husband, my children and the only life I’d ever known when I was about your age doesn’t come close to the same challenge?”

“Well, I.... I assumed that was your choice.” I mumbled to myself.

“As yours is, too,” she answered more solemnly. “We all come to a point when we have to live by our choices, Grace. It happens sooner or later for everyone. But we all do it. We all decide. I decided to move out alone, because the compromise asked of me in order to have my family was too much to bear. It asked me to deny everything I knew inside me to be true. I decided it was better to be alone than to be untrue to myself. Sure, sometimes it’s lonely. Believe me, I know what lonely is. But there was no real choice for me. I had to. The question is, what is your choice? And who are you really Grace?”

I had been studying my hands, and when she asked her final question I looked up into her eyes. But they were no longer the eyes of my mentor. Instead they were my eyes. I was sitting on the bench next to myself. The voice I heard was my own.

Then in a moment of clarity, I realized that more than words of encouragement from a woman named Grace Pettermint, I needed words of love and encouragement from myself. Instead of searching, always hoping that someone else would make everything better, including my beloved Pet, I needed to rely on myself. I knew that all the times in the past when I had asserted myself, I had done it more out of rebellion than out of a sense of my own power. And even though I listened to that still, small voice within, I always double-checked it with people I trusted and believed more. While Mrs. Pettermint had been on the planet, I held myself back from trusting myself completely. As long as other people, places or institutions held my good in their hands, I wasn’t fully responsible. Part of me was ashamed to think I had done it within my church. I was very humbled to realize I was currently doing it with Mrs. Pettermint’s inheritance. As long as I gave others that power, I was truly caught in a limbo of massive proportions. Clearly I didn’t fit in my Grandmother’s religion, I also didn’t fit into the full empowerment of Mrs. Pettermint’s.

Who was I...and what was my purpose? It all boiled down to those two questions. Either I claimed my rightful inheritance as a child of God, or I’d spend the rest of my life trying to win it from others. Either the divine was manifest in me, or I was nothing more than an accident of birth. Either the life force itself was active, alive and awake in and through me, or I was merely a biologically evolved species with a conscience. I was either a Spirit incarnate, or I was a lost sinner with my only hope of salvation being a capricious and often vindictive God. The in-between, which I had unconsciously attempted to live, was the real purgatory. It was neither the grace of heaven nor the passion of hell. Now was the time to choose. I chose heaven.

The instant I made the choice in my mind, my eyes flew open and I was instantly awake. I struggled out of the mass of blankets covering me, took a deep breath of air, and looked around the dusk filled room. I heard someone calling my name. Someone was in the house. I was pretty sure it was Sunny.

“Grace, where are you? Are you here?” Sunny called as I heard her walk from room to room on the lower level.

I sheepishly swung my legs over the edge of the bed and winced when I saw its dungeon like appearance. The mirror above the dresser revealed my tousled hair and rumpled tee shirt. There was no avoiding it. I looked like I had wrestled with a devil. When I heard Sunny calling my name again as she lumbered up the stairs, the only thing I could do is laugh.

“I’m here Sunny,” I called out to her. “I look a fright, so why don’t you make some coffee and I’ll be right down.”

“You’re sure?” she asked suspiciously in the hallway outside my room. I resisted the urge to laugh again, knowing she’d burst in to save me from myself if she suspected anything more strange.

“I’m okay, really. I’ve been...meditating, for several days.” Again, I resisted the urge to laugh.

“Well, if you’re not down in 15 minutes I’m coming back up,” she said sternly as I heard her turn and go back down the steps.

In fourteen and a half minutes I was showered and presentable and headed down the stairs myself. It felt strange to walk. How long had I been asleep? I peeked my head around the corner and saw Sunny sitting in my favorite chair gazing out the kitchen window.

“Good morning,” I said, dazzled by the sunlight streaming in the open window and the love on Sunny’s face.

“Are you okay?” Sunny said with concern. “Are you sick? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Do you know what day this is?”

“Sunny...Sunny....” I said and held my hands up to silence her. “I’m fine, can I have a cup of coffee first?” I gave her my most pleading look and waited for her to smile. Then I filled one of the 17 oz. coffee cups to the brim and walked over to the table. I sat down, looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re dammed right you are! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? I’ve been calling for days. And then when you didn’t show up on Sunday. Grace! Do you have any idea how worried everyone was?” Her eyes were blazing and she looked like she would have preferred to shake me as talk to me. The energy of her love poured out and surrounded me. Acting on the impulse, I got out of my chair, knelt down next to her, and wrapped my arms around her. “Are you okay?” she whispered in my hair.

Then, with our hands clasped together on the table, she told me of the frantic calls she had received from my church members on Saturday. They hadn’t heard from me for two days and by then, everyone was worried. Alice and a few others from the board had driven by the house looking for lights, and thinking no one was home, eventually called her. When I hadn’t turned up Sunday morning, even though the guest minister I had lined up was perfectly capable, Sunny herself began to really worry. On Monday afternoon, today, she finally remembered she had a key to Mrs. Pettermint’s house. That’s why she was here.

Attempting to explain, I told her of my descent into hell. Then I explained the dream and my own eventual ascension. I regretted the pain I had caused, but one part of me also felt deeply grateful. If I had ever wondered whether anyone would care, I now had my answer. Now that I knew that I didn’t need anyone else, their love or their approval, it was obvious that it was there. Isn’t that usually the case?

The days that followed continued to affirm that none of us are ever alone. As a testimony of my change in perception, I was flooded with care and concern from every angle. To begin with, every person on my board of directors came in to see me and affirmed their commitment to our church and to me as their minister. While they had each received a letter from Bill Crosswich, they had all contacted him separately and expressed their unwillingness to place the entire blame for the problem on my shoulders alone. We were all in this together, and they couldn’t imagine me not being a part of the church’s future.

Then Bill himself called the next day. I could hear the emotion in his voice as he said, “Rev. Grace, I’m sorry. All I can say is, I was angry and hurt and I was looking for someone to blame. See, it actually was my fault.” He choked and paused for a moment before going on, “The truth is, I should have paid more attention. I’m an accountant; I should have been able to spot the deception right off. Instead, to cover my shame, I wanted to blame you, to put it all on you.”

“Oh Bill,” I said, barely able to control my own tears, “it wasn’t anybody’s fault. I know we all would have preferred it not happen, but it sure gave us a good opportunity for growth. Sometime in the future we might even be able to appreciate that,” I said with a bit of humor, before getting serious again. “But what’s very obvious is how much you really care for this church. And that’s a very precious thing. We need you Bill; we need your caring and your passion. Will you consider remaining as part of the board?” We both cried then. And before we hung up, Bill agreed to retain his position on the board.

Once I was able to compose myself I called my lawyer. “Michael, not to worry. I’ve talked with everyone on the board and everything is fine. Seems we had a bit more laundry that we all needed to air. But all is well now.”

The tone in Michael’s voice surprised me. “It’s okay then? They’re not going to impeach you?” It was as though he had never once been given an unexpected piece of good news. I suddenly felt like I had renewed his faith in humanity.

“No, Michael. I’ll admit I jumped to a negative conclusion myself there for a while. But I have been painfully reminded that the greatest lesson I can teach is that we are all responsible for our stuff—and that all of us are works in progress.”

He liked that, I could hear his chuckle. “Well, it’s certainly good news Grace. Some of the pre-lim items the opposing counsel sent over are directed against your belief system. I think we’ve talked about that haven’t we? Actually, it might be a good show of strength if some of your congregation showed up at the hearing.”

“I won’t ask that of them, Michael. It’s not that I won’t ask for their support and prayers, but I won’t make it about them coming to save me. It’s time I stood on my own two feet. Besides, I am very proud of what I believe, and I can do that by myself.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone line, but I knew Michael was still there. I could only imagine what he was thinking. Something told me he was wrestling with some devils of his own. Then, after making plans to get together in a couple of weeks to go over my legal strategy, I started to say goodbye, then stopped.

“Michael, do you believe we live in a friendly Universe?”

“What?” he questioned, in a tone that suggested he returned to the idea that I had gone around the bend.

“Nothing really,” I said keeping my voice light. “Only, that’s what Einstein said it all boiled down to. Do we believe the universe, or you could say God, is friendly? Or don’t we?”

“I guess I’ve never thought about it,” he said finally. “It’s not usually a question that comes up in my profession.” He was silent for a minute before continuing, “But strange as it sounds, something in me says, yes.” He paused, “ Don’t let that get out will you? My peers would crucify me.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I answered. I suddenly realized that Michael was indeed the right lawyer for me. I hadn’t known that until that moment. With something approaching real affection, we said our goodbyes.

The morning of the hearing arrived quickly. I wore my most conservative dark blue slacks and matching jacket. My shoulder length hair was pulled back neatly into a hair clip and my makeup was sparse. I looked about as radical as an IRS agent. Michael nodded his approval when I walked through the double doors of the courtroom.

I sat next to Michael at one of the tables near the front. Michael recommended Sunny sit behind us in the audience area. I knew he wanted things to stay short, simple, and to the point, so we did as he said. He continued to remind us that, “the law was on our side.”

“Remember, no matter what they say, don’t take it personally,” he leaned close and said softly. “They want you to get upset so they can distract from the issue. They will be making outrageous claims. And they’ll probably start with their biggest assertion first. Try to stay calm.”

I should have been prepared, but their opening statement was like a plank being slammed across my chest. “Your honor,” began Herb Bander as he stood and walked in front of his table. “We intend to prove today that Grace Martin, the named executor in the will of Grace Geraldine Pettermint should be removed as executor, as well as denied benefit of the will.” Looking first at his clients, Ron and Angela Pettermint seated at his table, he then turned confidently to me. “We intend your honor, to prove beyond a shadow of doubt, that Ms. Martin used her undue influence and religion to both terrorize the late Mrs. Pettermint, and to persistently brain wash the older woman over the course of 20 some years into making irrational choices and decisions. Obviously, the most misguided of those choices and decisions, are the details of this will.”

“Objection your honor,” said Michael as he rose to his feet looking annoyed. While my heart was beating like a cymbal, and it was everything I could do to keep breathing, he acted nothing more than perturbed. “We know what they’re claiming. They are very good at throwing stones without substantiation.”

“Thanks for reminding me of my job,” Judge Thomas said sarcastically. “Let’s get on with it. I’d like to have this thing wrapped up sometime today. What’s your evidence Bander?”

“Your honor, to begin with we would like to cross examine Grace Martin, herself.”

They wanted to question me? Michael had said it was possible, but he had never warned me that it could come first. When I looked at his face, I could tell he had not expected it either. “Your honor, this is highly unusual,” he said rising to his feet. Still, he did not act anything more than annoyed.

“Probably,” muttered the Judge, “but it was bound to happen sooner or later, so let’s get it over with.”

Michael turned to me and nodded. I stood to my feet and walked over to the wooden box next to the judge’s platform. The bailiff held open the door and I stepped inside. I looked expectantly at the Judge, Michael, and then Mr. Bander. It was only then that I saw my sister Maggie sitting in the back of the courtroom. I looked down at my clutched hands, closed my eyes briefly, and began to breathe as slowly and deeply as possible.

“Ms. Martin,” began Herb Bander, “when did you meet the late Mrs. Pettermint?”

“I think I was eight,” I answered slowly looking him straight in the eye.

“What were the circumstances of your meeting?”

“Well, I met her at a bus stop, actually,” I said. This was easier than I thought. I could almost picture our meeting place and decided to elaborate. “She was going somewhere. She never was much of a driver.”

“Right, but what was the nature of your relationship? She obviously was an older woman. You were a child. What were the subjects of your conversations?”

So that’s where he was going. “She was a very loving and kind woman, Mr. Bander. We talked about many things. But one of our frequent conversations was about God.... if that’s what you’re digging for.”

“God, you say,” Bander responded without hesitation, “what a big topic. What exactly did you talk about?”

“Well, I hardly remember the details at this point,” I answered honestly. “But I will say, that she was the first person I ever met that presented God in a way that fit me. Besides that, she listened to me, and most importantly, she answered my questions.”

“Okay, let’s see if we have this clear. Here we have a mature woman, who has deserted her husband and her children....”

“Objection your honor,” Michael said with a bit more vigor. “Counsel is painting a picture that has not been proven.”

“Right,” said Judge Thomas, “he’s being a bit dramatic, but it will come out eventually, so let’s ride with it for now. Go on....” he nodded at Bander. Michael sat back down with a frown.

“As I was saying, Grace Pettermint deserted her husband and her two children barely six months before meeting you, an eight year old child. What do you think her real motivation was?”

“Do you really want an answer, or are you speculating?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Have you ever, in your life, wondered why this woman took an interest in you? That is what I want to know,” Bander answered.

“I suppose I’ve thought about it. But I never considered it to be a big, deep psychological issue any more than I would wonder what it is that your wife sees in you.” I blushed a bit, knowing my sarcasm had snuck out. “Some people are drawn to each other, as friends. Who knows why exactly?”

“Oh, and it was that innocent?” Bander said with equal sarcasm. That was the problem with sarcasm; it tended to open the door to more. “Do you not see a similarity between Mrs. Pettermint being mentally and emotionally distraught over the leaving of her two children and your appearance in her life?”

“At the time, I had no idea. You seem to forget I was eight years old. I needed a friend. She was what I needed at the time. Do you really believe as an eight year old I had designs on her fortune?”

“Ms. Martin. While I don’t believe that as a child you had any ulterior motive, I’m sure at some point in your life you realized your influence over her and what was at stake.” Mr. Bander said in continued sarcasm.

I could feel my face flushing with anger and took a moment to regulate my breathing. “Mr. Bander, there was never, and I repeat never, any time in my life when I had ulterior motives about my friend Grace Pettermint. And I think I can pretty safely say that I seem to be the only person in this room who would prefer that I had died rather than her. If I could trade my life for hers—at any time—now included—I would. She was a very, very special woman and the only tragedy that exists, is that she is now being remembered more for the money she left behind, instead of as the good, kind, and loving woman that she was.”

I couldn’t stop the tears. I felt them slide out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. But I didn’t try to hide them, I stubbornly held my gaze on Mr. Bander. To my surprise, Angela Pettermint jumped up and hurried out of the courtroom. The room was quiet. Mr. Bander averted his eyes and suddenly became very interested in his notes.

After several minutes, he continued, “While that’s very touching Ms. Martin, you continue to avoid the question about what you actually knew about Mrs. Pettermint’s financial situation.”

“That’s because I knew nothing. When I got older I assumed she had some sort of pension or divorce settlement. But Mrs. Pettermint was a conservative woman and she lived that way. She never gave me any money. Ever. Oh, she let me stay with her, and she fed me when I was down and out. But she never gave me money. I assumed, always, that she was on a limited budget—and never questioned her about it.”

“Oh, and what about her donations to your church?”

“Mr. Bander, I am certain that you are aware that a person’s charitable contributions to a federally approved non-profit religious corporation are confidential. And certainly, you are also aware that any donations to a church—are to the church—regardless of who is pastor? In other words, the money donated is never to me personally.”

“Of course. What I am asking is, did you not notice that she gave substantially to the churches that she belonged to? Or are you asking us to believe that you never paid attention?”

“Mr. Bander, while none of us will ever know the exact amount she gave to charity. She never lived extravagantly. If that is the picture you are trying to paint, it’s not valid. None of her actions, donations included, ever suggested that she was a rich woman.”

Realizing that this train of thought was getting him nowhere, he launched a new approach. “What about the house?”

“What about it?”

“Can you honestly say you never thought of the house as something you’d like to own?”

“No,” I answered, then shook my head. “I mean yes. I love that house. I lived there for many years. Some of the happiest times of my life occurred there. My dearest friend and I lived there. Of course I’ve always imagined myself staying there.”

“Did you suspect she would leave it to you?”

“Again, I want to be very clear that her house meant nothing to me in comparison to the woman herself. I’d give it away in a second if it would bring her back.”

Looking slightly frustrated, Mr. Bander picked up his legal pad and continued. “Okay, now, I’d like to ask you about your church. When exactly did you become pastor?”

“Three years ago.”

“And before that?” asked Mr. Bander.

“For four years I was the pastor of the Seal Beach Center of Positive Living.”

“And what was your training for such a position?” said Mr. Bander.

“Objection your honor,” Michael said with a scowl. “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“We’re attempting to trace the history of Mrs. Pettermint and Ms. Martin in context with some of their thought patterns and teachings.”

“I’ll allow.” was all Judge Thomas said.

“I had studied under Reverend Sunny Barns for a total of eight years. Rev. Sunny’s church is a non-profit religious corporation, and is a member of the United Church of Spirit organization. According to their guidelines, I more than fulfilled their requirements for ordination. Both the Seal Beach Church and the Riverside Church where I now serve are members of that organization. I serve a legitimate church, Mr. Bander with all of the rights and privileges of any, and I’ll repeat, any religion.”

“But would you agree Ms. Martin, that some of your church’s practices are unorthodox?”

“If by unorthodox you mean different, then I guess we’d have to define different. In my understanding there are nearly seven billion people on the planet. Only one third of them practice what is traditionally called Christianity. So while not specifically Christian, we do share an amazing amount of similarity with about every religion. Besides, there are hundreds of Unity, Centers For Spiritual Living and other independent New Thought churches all over the country. I hardly think that makes us unorthodox.”

“Regardless,” answered Mr. Bander with little apparent understanding of what I had said. “Your practices vary from Christianity in many aspects.”

“Objection your honor,” said Michael rising to his feet with a scowl. “Again, that is both speculation and hearsay. I doubt Mr. Bander has any personal knowledge of the religion practiced by Ms. Martin or Ms. Pettermint. Besides that, I think we’d better be careful that we don’t put her religion itself on trial here today. I don’t think that’s our intent...”

“Thank you for helping me out again, counselor,” interrupted Judge Thomas. “I think I’d better be the one deciding what’s on trial here.” Then looking at Mr. Bander he asked, “Where are you going with this Bander?”

“Your honor,” answered Mr. Bander, “it has become increasingly clear to us that in order to show the state of mind of the late Mrs. Pettermint, we must reveal some of the beliefs and practices of the religion promoted by Ms. Martin. Obviously we don’t intend to,” he looked over at Michael, “put their religion on trial... that would of course be unconstitutional. But we do believe that in order for this court to make an informed judgment about the ability of Mrs. Pettermint to make an important decision, it will be necessary to present the facts of her state of mind at the time.”

I scowled a bit and waited for the Judge to say something. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay counselor, I agree that we probably need to get to the bottom of this, so I’ll give you a bit more latitude. But I want you to get there quickly....understand? It will be lunchtime soon, and as I said, I would really like to wrap this up today.”

“Of course, your honor,” Mr. Bander said, looking very pleased with himself. “So, Ms. Martin, clarify something for me. I see, of the three churches you’ve served at, all have included the word...positive. What does that mean, exactly?”

“The use of the word positive carries no great meaning in my opinion Mr. Bander. I believe it is used merely as a common identifying element regarding the goodness of God. Certainly one of our major principles is a belief in the Goodness of all Life...the Goodness of God.”

“So...this Goodness of God? I suppose that includes many things.... like money? Or don’t you prefer to call it... prosperity?”

“No I don’t particularly like to call it prosperity myself, Mr. Bander. There’s too much confusion about that word. I do like the word affluence though, because that focuses on the deep and varied aspects of God’s goodness, rather than only the money part. While money is certainly one element of an affluent life, it is never primary.”

Mr. Bander frowned a bit. “Well, let’s talk a bit more about the goodness of God...”

“Objection!” said Michael, again standing to his feet. “This is beginning to sound like God is on trial here.”

Without waiting for Judge Thomas to respond, Bander said hurriedly, “Your Honor, if you allow me a little more time you’ll see where I’m going with this.”

“So get on with it,” answered the judge.

“Let me see if I have this correct Ms. Martin. According to your belief, and the one you taught the late Mrs. Pettermint...”

“Excuse me!” I said loudly in surprise. “If anything, Mrs. Pettermint taught me these ideas. While I may have helped her learn about a few things, I never taught her about God. She was my teacher.” I looked at Michael for help. I could tell from his steady gaze he wanted me to calm down.

“Ms. Martin, I’d appreciate it if you’d answer the question. Now.... according to your belief, prosperity...or affluence as you like to call it...is a natural, and expected part of your life. Isn’t that correct?”

“As I define affluence, yes.” I answered, feeling slightly confused. Hadn’t I already said that?

“So, it’s your right, almost your duty, to be affluent, or rich? I mean, you think God wants that for you, right?” Mr. Bander asked reading from his legal pad.

“I don’t like the way you’re using the word ‘right’” I answered with a frown.

“But you do expect it? You said that earlier. You said money was ‘an element of God’s goodness.’ You did say that didn’t you?”

“Sort of,” I answered.

“So, while you expect money from God and believe that’s part of being affluent, I need to ask you about a few other things. Is it true, that over the course of the last ten years you have been intimately involved in two separate churches that have experienced extreme financial improprieties?”

I suppose it shouldn’t have caught me by surprise. I figured at one point or another he would ask about the embezzlement at the church, but he was trying to tie it to something different. I couldn’t think fast enough.

“I...well, several months ago our church accountant embezzled money...if that’s what you’re referring to?” I knew I looked uncertain and confused.

“Not just embezzled some money, Ms. Martin. Isn’t it true that you reported a loss of over $100,000? In my books, that’s a significant amount.”

I heard a few gasps in the audience and felt dread covering me like a cloak. He sure had a way of making it sound awful. I took a couple of slow deep breaths, and waited to see where he went next.

“And let me ask you something else about that, Ms. Martin. While obviously it was a great deal of money, and you and your organization are convinced that your ex-accountant is to blame, isn’t it true that you have made no effort whatsoever to prosecute the man? That is, if he really is the guilty party?”

How did he get that idea? I looked out at the audience and could see a few of my board members. Then I looked at Michael.”

“Your honor...” Michael began, as he appeared to see my confusion.

“I’d like to hear the answer to this, counselor,” said Judge Thomas. Even he was looking at me suspiciously.

“Well...” I started. How do I explain the whole thing in a short and simple answer? “Your questions Mr. Bander, have a way of presenting the issue in a negative light that does not exist. We discovered four months ago that our accountant at the time had written a large number of checks from both our church checking and savings accounts. Although we did have some safety measures in place, they obviously were not enough. Once we became aware of the depth of the embezzlement, we took immediate action to correct it. However, not only was the money gone, so was Mr.Stargus, our former accountant. We later learned he had left the country. We spoke to the police, and a lawyer who is a member of our congregation about the matter. We were told that there was only the slightest possibility that we would ever be able to catch Mr.Stargus, and that the money was almost certainly gone.”

I took another deep breath and looked over at Michael to see if I was on the right track. He nodded. “We made the decision, and it was the collective decision of our entire church board of directors. That decision was to let it go. All advice told us that the money was unrecoverable, and that the only people who would benefit from a civil suit or court proceeding would, of course, be the lawyers.” I smiled and relaxed a bit thinking I had explained it about as well as possible.

“Okay, that seems like a reasonable explanation about one of the occurrences. Now what about the other?” asked Mr. Bander smugly.

Other? What was he talking about? What other? “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was all I could say.

“I’m talking about the scandal in Colorado. While it happened over ten years ago, I think it is another significant example of your financial irresponsibility. Would you please explain your involvement.”

Colorado. He was attempting to tie what happened in Colorado to all this? I looked at Michael and could see the frown on his face. I’d never told him about it. I never even imagined that any of that would have any influence. I looked back at Mr. Bander and swallowed.

“Objection,” Michael said in a weak attempt to save me.

“Overruled,” answered Judge Thomas.

“Mr. Bander, there was no impropriety on my part in Colorado. I was married to the pastor of a church there and served only in that capacity. While a certain fundraising decision was made by my ex-husband and his board that affected the church financially, I was only indirectly tied to any of those decisions.”

“And those decisions very nearly devastated the church and eventually caused your ex-husband to be removed from his position there, isn’t that true?” Mr. Bander was looking very smug.

“I have not kept in touch with my ex-husband, so I have no idea why he chose to leave.”

“So, Ms. Martin,” asked Mr. Bander, “you want us to believe that as the wife of the pastor you had no influence on the people in your church? Didn’t those people trust you and do exactly what you and your husband suggested? How can we believe you had nothing to do with what happened there?

He had me. “Mr. Bander, my husband at the time, and I, both believed that the multi-level marketing program that we were involved in was a very good thing for the church. What we did, we did out of ignorance. We underestimated our influence, and overestimated the possibilities. I do take responsibility for that.”

“So, here we have two examples of your fiscal irresponsibility....” Mr. Bander said.

“Objection” interrupted Michael, “...while Mr. Bander may have identified two examples of financial challenges, my client was never legally responsible, so I believe they are irrelevant.”

Mr. Bander turned to Michael, “By her own admission she accepts a level of responsibility. I think we’re talking about moral responsibility here anyway.”

“He has a point,” responded Judge Thomas, and my heart shrunk. Then he nodded at Mr. Bander, “Let’s see where he’s going with all this.”

“As I was saying, while not legally guilty of any financial deceit, there has obviously been a trail of financial mismanagement in your experience, Ms. Martin. Did Mrs. Pettermint know of your involvement?”

“Yes, but I know that she knew my intentions in both cases were clear.”

“Did she ever offer to bail you out?”

“No, as I said before, she never gave, or even offered me, money. In both situations she saw them as a learning experience. She encouraged me to remain optimistic and continually reminded me of what I knew.”

“What you knew....?” Mr. Bander asked hesitantly. “And what was that?”

“Another one of the principles we ascribe to is the idea that all things work together for good. That everything is a learning experience, and that only good can come of any experience.”

“So, you figured you’d be taken care of...that someone would bail you out, no matter what happened? No matter what you did?” asked Mr. Bander coyly.

“If you’re insinuating that I thought Mrs. Pettermint would take care of me, no. Definitely not. Instead, I knew that the Spirit in me would take care of things. That things could get messy, but in the end I would be stronger for it.”

“There’s something else I need to know,” Mr. Bander said, ignoring my answer.

“Are we about through here?” interrupted Judge Thomas.

“Certainly sir,” answered Mr. Bander. “If you could indulge me for a few more minutes I can wrap things up.”

The Judge nodded and Mr. Bander continued, “Ms. Martin, you’ve mentioned a couple of the principles of your church here this morning. One is the idea of being positive. Looking on the bright side, no matter what’s happening, or no matter what mistakes have been made.” He stopped and smiled at the audience as though placating a child. “And then you mentioned that it’s important to learn from things, that there’s nothing really wrong with anything, and all you have to do is learn something from it and everything will be okay.” Again he paused and then looked me directly in the eyes, “Seems like a pretty convenient religion if you ask me.”

“Objection your honor,” Michael said. “We don’t need Mr. Bander’s interpretation do we?”

“Mr. Bander,...my lunch is calling me,” Judge Thomas said sarcastically.

“Of course your honor,” Mr. Bander said with a smile. “My final question regarding your practices is, what are the principles in your organization regarding families, Ms. Martin?”

I know my face expressed my confusion. “What do you mean, Mr. Bander?’

“Let me put it another way. You were obviously estranged from your own family, isn’t that true Ms. Martin?”

“Well, certainly with my sister and her family,” I answered.

“And with your grandmother? Isn’t it true that she had been dead for two years without your even knowing it? This was the grandmother that literally raised you?”

“That’s only because my sister withheld that information from both my mother and me.” I said feeling another wave of guilt, and resisted the temptation to glare at my sister who was still sitting in the audience.

“And what was the reason you never bothered to contact her, or your sister for that matter, for years at a time?”

“We don’t exactly get along.” I answered, thinking it was much too complicated to even try to explain.

“Don’t get along...,” Mr. Bander repeated. “And could that be because you have always been a rebel, and have chosen to live a life in direct rebellion to your Christian up-bringing?”

I felt my face flush and tried to remember to breathe. “Mr. Bander, both my sister and I were raised in both a neglectful environment, and then later one that bordered on Christian religious abuse. While I accept that both my mother and my grandmother were doing the very best that they could at the time, I will not say I so much rebelled against them, as their repression. While my sister may have chosen to remain under that repression, that does not make me the guilty party.”

“Interesting,” said Mr. Bander. “I was about to ask you if you still feel the same way about your sister and your grandmother, but I think your reply already answered that.” He smiled and looked down at his notebook. “My next question is, is there something in your religion that encourages estrangement from one’s family or is that just your personal belief?”

“If you’re insinuating that I had anything to do with Mrs. Pettermint’s break with her family you are absolutely wrong. I never even learned about her family until I had known her for years,” I said.

“Oh, so you had talked about it with her?” asked Mr. Bander.

“During the entire time I knew her, we only discussed her family, briefly at that, once or twice, tops. She was always reluctant and I never pressed her.”

“Isn’t that rather strange? Here you were living with a woman that lived in a big impressive house. A woman that had abandoned her family, and you knew about it, and you never questioned her about it? Why was that?” Mr. Bander asked accusingly.

“I respected her,” I answered sincerely. “And I could tell it caused her great pain. I don’t think it ever got easier for her, not her whole life.” I looked up in surprise when I heard a snort of disbelief from Ron Pettermint. The scowl on his face showed me he didn’t believe it for a second.

“Then let me ask you a question a bit more specific. The last time you saw your sister you were at your mother’s funeral. Correct?” He waited for my answer.

“Yes,” I said.

“At that time Mrs. Pettermint accompanied you?”

“Yes,” I said again.

“Then,” said Mr. Bander acting very serious. “Is it true that at the funeral of your own legal mother, in a house of God, you and the late Mrs. Pettermint contributed to the pandemonium by the two of you laughing uproariously while others around you were fighting?”

“Let me clarify something Mr. Bander. I think God is present everywhere—in church—and out. So, there was never any irreverence on either my, or Mrs. Pettermint’s part. Besides that, have you never laughed at an uncomfortable, awkward moment?”

“I’ll ask the questions here,” Mr. Bander said looking annoyed. “So, you never did answer what you teach in your church regarding families, Ms. Martin. Is there a reason you’re avoiding that?”

“No Mr. Bander. There is no formal policy regarding families, only that we are to treat everyone as lovingly and compassionately as we can.”

“So families have no priority?” Mr. Bander asked with raised eyebrows.

“Not really...” I was wracking my brain trying to think of what sort of answer to give.

“Yet, isn’t it true,” Mr. Bander said, “that on several occasions you publicly have promoted the idea that if you can’t get along with your family you should stay away from them? That if they don’t support you in your goals or the pursuit of your...affluence...you should find others that do?”

I winced a bit knowing that didn’t sound like a good thing for our side. Until I remembered, “Mr. Bander, you must have forgotten that even Jesus taught that a person’s real family were fellow believers. Didn’t he himself reject his mother and say that if you found yourself in a town of people that didn’t understand or appreciate you, you were to shake the dust from your feet and move on?”

“So, anything goes?” Mr. Bander said snidely, “And if people don’t understand, you leave them? Couldn’t we say that that’s what Jim Jones, David Koresh, Heaven’s Gate cult or Mrs. Pettermint herself did?”

“Mr. Bander, Mrs. Pettermint once told me that in her opinion a cult was a group of people who blindly followed any one religious belief or leader. Any group that won’t allow questions about their belief or their leader, to the exclusion of all others, qualifies. Our teaching is the exact opposite from that because we are inclusive, and encourage people to question all authority...yes, even the authority of family. We also teach people to follow their individual guidance or their Spirit within. We share no similarities with the groups or names that you mention.”

“But it still sounds like you’re a group of anarchists. Are you suggesting that everyone be their own judge and jury on everything? What’s to keep people from only considering themselves? What would require people to act morally or ethically if there is no ultimate religious authority?”

“The basic goodness of God, Mr. Bander.....” I paused, and let the sound of that sink into my soul. “The basic goodness inside each of us is the thing that keeps us moral. I’ve already told you that is one of our main principles. I don’t think that we need some man, no matter how exalted his titles, to tell us to be good. We are already good, because we are children of God, and made in Its image and likeness, even if we don’t know we are.” I smiled, aware that merely talking about it seemed to fill me with peace, and helped me to relax.

“Now wait a minute. You really believe that people are good?” asked Mr. Bander. “What about people like Hitler, Ms. Martin? What about Saddam Hussein? What about the hundreds of other murderers we hear about daily? And you can still call people good?”

While I could tell his question was still part of his strategy, I knew I was also dealing with his own fundamental belief. He did not believe that the Universe was friendly. I winced knowing that there was probably little I could do to change that, but at least my answer might shine some light into the dim recesses of his fear.

“Mr. Bander, I do believe in the goodness of man. And while I agree that there are many people who do cruel and evil acts—and the newspapers and television love to tell us about them daily—there are billions, I repeat billions, of people on this planet that do good, and loving, and kind things every day. We don’t hear about those people very much, do we? As humans we have many choices and decisions to make. And the major one we all face every day, is today.... this day, will I be loving and kind.... and reflect the glory of God? Or will I choose something else? Most of the time, not all, but most of the time.... I think we choose good.”

We were both startled by the sound of Judge Thomas. “Well, I personally think it would be not only good.... but essential to break for lunch. This philosophy class...or maybe it’s a church...is over with for now. Court dismissed till 2:00 p.m.” Without another word, Judge Thomas banged his gavel, rose from his seat and hurried out his back door.

I glanced back at Michael who nodded slightly to my questioning face. As I started to rise, from the corner of my eye, I saw my sister. She sat with her eyes closed and her cheeks were wet with tears. Already, Mr. Bander was conversing with Ron Pettermint as he shoved a file in his briefcase. Then the two of them left the room. Every other person present seemed to also hurry for the door. I looked again at Michael, and then let my eyes turn to my sister. He saw, and nodded at my question. Closing his briefcase, Sunny and he walked out of the room whispering.

At last. It was just Maggie and I. Time for another trial to begin.

Chapter 20

I left the witness box and quietly walked over and sat down next to my sister. The light reflected off her wet cheeks and I could hear the congestion in her nose as she tried to breathe. Still her eyes remained closed. I too, closed my eyes and offered a prayer. Maybe there was nothing to say. I didn’t know whether she cried for me, or herself. Maybe she cried for both of us.

We sat in the silence for quite a while. Finally, from my down turned eyes I saw her reach over to her large purse, dig around for a while and eventually claim what looked like an old napkin. She wiped her cheeks with it, and then blew her nose. I sat, waiting to see if she would acknowledge me. After another period of silence, she eventually said, “Is it true? Do you really believe that people, all people, are good?”

I had no idea how to answer. The question was beyond me, beyond both of us. Part of me felt that if I answered a certain way, perhaps we would be reconciled. If I answered another, perhaps she would finally see my point of view. I was suddenly aware that I was very, very tired of attempting to answer questions in ways that I thought would be the most beneficial. Maybe it was time to let my heart speak, and not my head.

“Yes, Maggie. I don’t know how I know it, but I do,” I answered wearily.

“Even after everything that has happened to us? To you? You still believe that?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why is it...? Why is it....?” Maggie began as her voice caught in her throat, “that after all the work I’ve done.... after all the commitments I’ve made…”

Then suddenly with anger she burst out, “I did…I did everything we’re supposed to do, everything I was told. And there you were, with all your sin, with all your mistakes. And I can see you possess more of a feeling of God than I think I’ve ever felt in my whole life.” She looked me straight in the eyes with a challenge of soul-like proportion.

“I don’t know Maggie. I really don’t know,” I answered as I studied the clenched hands in my lap. “It’s like we took different roads at some point..two different roads in two different directions.”

“Maybe it’s because they loved you more?”

“Who?” I asked incredulously.

“All of them. Dad when he was alive, Mom, even Grandma. They all loved you best. I imagine you worked your spell on the old woman, Mrs. Pettermint, too. I suppose it’s no wonder that God would love you better as well.” Maggie said.

“You’re kidding? You think they loved me better? Where on earth did you get that?”

Maggie, as though not hearing a word I said, continued, “I try so hard, I try so very hard, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I thought by being a minister’s wife, by devoting my life to my husband and children, that God would show me His grace.” She clenched her fist and wiped angrily at the tears still flowing down her cheeks. “I did what Grandma said, what my husband said. Still the demons haunt me, still I see no goodness. I see evil everywhere! I did what they said would eliminate Satan, and yet I appear to be the only one who’s bothered by him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” She looked at me again with anger, fear and pain blazing from her eyes.

“Maggie,” I said softly as I reached over and took one of her hands in my own. I felt her pull back slightly, then submit. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Things change all the time. There is another way to look at life.”

“Oh, and I suppose you have the answer?” she asked suspiciously.

“No Maggie. I don’t have answers for you. I tend to believe that Spirit holds the answers these days. But sometimes...the hardest thing to do is get out of the way and listen.” I smiled softly to myself remembering so many of my own mistakes.

“Maybe your God holds some answers, but I’m about to give up on mine,” Maggie said with bitterness. “Maybe I have been wrong, maybe my God isn’t the real God.”

“Maggie....Maggie....” I said as carefully as I could. “I don’t think there is a ‘my’ God and a ‘your’ God. I believe there is only One, only one God, but the One wears many disguises. Thankfully, we don’t limit God by our meager understanding of It. Besides, I don’t think that we are punished for our sins, but by our sins.”

“I don’t understand,” Maggie answered. “It sounds blasphemous for you to even say that.” She stopped and shook her head, “But, I do sense a peace in you I’ve never had. I’m so confused. Tell me what to do? I’m about ready to try anything.”

I felt a softening in her and a reaching out that was seductive. Finally, my sister was asking for my advice, and I felt my ego’s desire to flood her with everything I knew. But grace stepped in and reminded me of what needed to be said. “Maggie, much as I’d like to share with you everything I’ve learned, all the love I feel, and the inner strength that comes from it, I can’t. Not really. It’s something everyone must find on her own.” I looked into her eyes and felt my own grow large with tears. “But I will tell you that if you look, you will find It. God doesn’t desert us, ever. We only forget who we really are.”

I put my arm around her and we sat with our hands clutched in silence. This simple action seemed to wash away years of anger and pain. I had not thought beyond the immediate moment. That too, would be in God’s hands.

Finally, I glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw it was 1:45. In 15 minutes things would resume and I hadn’t even gone to the ladies’ room. I glanced at Maggie, and she pulled away. I started to tell her what I needed to do, when she grabbed my hand again.

“I think you’d better know what I’ve told them Grace.” Maggie said. “They asked me all these questions about you. They wanted to find out if you were really a minister, what kind of sister, all that. I told them, I told them the worst.” Maggie looked down at her lap and said, “I told them that you’d had an abortion.”

“The abortion? How did you know about that?”

“The clinic called our house...Grandma’s and my house back then. I guess the name Martin or something. They didn’t say, I didn’t ask. I was so shocked. They were checking up on you to make sure you were okay.” Her face showed her conflicting emotions and beliefs. “I told Grandma of course, and we prayed for you. Did we ever pray for you. I don’t think Grandma ever got over that.”

I stared out at the empty courtroom. What to do? It couldn’t be that big of a deal could it? After all, this was 2004? I had never even considered that it would come back to haunt me. Now here it was, and for the first time I was faced with the idea that the whole world might know. Ironic that an action that had been legal for nearly 30 years still had the ability to intimidate.

I thanked my sister for warning me, and then hurried to the ladies room. After washing my face and clearing my thoughts, I returned to the courtroom where most of the attorneys and audience had resumed their seats. I made my way to Michael’s table. Perhaps he could block things before they got too personal. As I was about to ask, Judge Thomas entered the room from his private door with a flourish. I grimaced, and Michael pulled out a chair for me to sit next to him.

“Okay, where were we?” said Judge Thomas after the bailiff had called things to order. “I believe you were still on the witness stand, Ms. Martin.” He motioned for me to rise and return to my seat.

I nodded and walked across the courtroom as Judge Thomas continued, “I trust you are about done here Mr. Bander? Remember, I want to wrap things up today.”

“Of course your honor,” said Mr. Bander. I could see Angela Pettermint had rejoined her brother at their table. Then I noticed that Maggie was no longer in the room.

“Just one short line of questioning.” Mr. Bander said as he picked up his legal pad, cleared his throat and asked, “Ms. Martin, do you consider yourself to be the moral and spiritual leader of the 2,000 members of the Riverside Church of Positive Living?”

“Mr. Bander. I’m not certain what you mean by that question?”

“Are you their leader? Can they look to you for both guidance and instruction? And do they have the right to expect you to serve as the highest moral example available? Mr. Bander asked without looking up from his pad.

“While I’m sure I serve in that capacity some of the time, Mr. Bander, I do not serve as any kind of intermediary for the people. Everyone is encouraged to have their own individual experience of God, and to act from their own guidance.”

“I object your honor,” Michael said rising to his feet beside the table. “I fail to see what this has to do with anything concerning today’s proceedings. Ms. Martin has been extremely open regarding her beliefs—but again, those beliefs are not on trial here today.” It was then I saw concern in his eyes. I think he knew that I had tried to tell him something, and that had him worried.

“He’s right counselor, I’m not sure this has anything to do with the proceedings,” said Judge Thomas. “So get on with it.”

“It has to do with her character, and the nature of the relationship between the two women your honor,” Mr. Bander replied and waited for the Judge’s nod before going on. “Ms. Martin, do you think the late Mrs. Pettermint felt you were a person of high moral and spiritual example?”

“I don’t know, we never exactly used those kind of words.” I answered.

“Do you think she was proud of what you had accomplished, becoming the leader of a large and successful church?” asked Mr. Bander.

“I suppose so. She loved me very much and was always very encouraging.”

“Is it possible that a large reason she appointed you as both executor, and a large beneficiary of her will, was because you figured so prominently as spiritual leader of her church?” said Mr. Bander reading from his note pad.

“I don’t really know about that. She did tell me at one time that she felt I was like a daughter.” I bit my lip when I saw the wince on Angela’s face. I could only imagine how much that might hurt to hear.

“So, if you don’t know exactly why she left you the money, it is possible that it may have been tied to her feelings regarding you as spiritual leader of a church as well as any ‘daughterly’ feelings?” asked Mr. Bander.

“I suppose so,” I answered, frowning with doubt. What did it matter?

“Then Ms. Martin, how do you think Ms. Pettermint would have felt if she discovered that her protégé, her daughter, her spiritual leader, had participated in a morally reprehensible activity?” I could hear a few murmurs of interest from others in the audience.

“Objection!” said Michael leaping to his feet. “He’s asking her to be a mind reader and appears to be misleading this court.”

“Rephrase the question counselor,” ordered Judge Thomas.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Bander, clearing his throat. “Ms. Martin, you’ve already acknowledged that the late Mrs. Pettermint, and your organization, hold you up as a prime example of your spiritual beliefs. We’ve also concluded that the inheritance itself may have been motivated by this sterling example of morality. With that in mind, how do you believe that Mrs. Pettermint, and the rest of your congregation would feel about you as their minister if they knew that you had an abortion several years ago?”

It was very quiet in the room. I took a deep breath, looked down at my clutched hands and reminded myself that there was nothing to defend. There was no enemy. The only thing to fear was my own fear and self-doubt.

“Objection your honor,” Michael said, out of what seemed like more courtesy for me than any real conviction. “I think this line of questioning is irrelevant. Abortion is legal in this country...”

“Overruled counselor,” Judge Thomas said in a stern voice. “The answer might have some bearing.” He looked down at me from his elevated platform and I suddenly felt like I was being tried on a cosmic level. “Go on.”

I swallowed first and said, “Let me begin by addressing the fact that my religious denomination takes no stand on the abortion issue. Because it is a legal right for a woman of age within this country, we believe it is a private choice of each individual. Almost thirty years ago, when I was a legal adult, I made the choice to not have a child. I aborted a fetus, not a baby. I have not regretted that decision either mentally or spiritually since that time. My spiritual beliefs are that I am solely responsible for every decision I make, exactly as I am fully responsible for my own relationship with God. I accept that responsibility and every other one I have made. While some people may not like that decision, or others I have made, their opinion does not concern me. Let them answer to their concept of God, I’ll answer to mine.”

“So you’re saying that murder is okay in your religion?” asked Judge Thomas abruptly.

“Your honor?” asked Michael quickly, his face filled with concern. He was ignored.

I looked Judge Thomas in the face and said, “I do not consider abortion to be murder, Judge Thomas, and neither does the state. But I allow you the right to think any way you want...as long as you, and others, don’t insist I believe the way you do. That is not only the freedom of my religion, but the freedom I think our country promotes.”

“Oh, so as long as it’s legal, it’s okay?” Judge Thomas asked.

“Judge Thomas and Mr. Bander, my moral, ethical and spiritual guidance comes from within. If something did not feel right to me, like going to war and killing thousands in the name of our country, or executing someone on death row because the state said so...I would not do it. But this is a different issue. I honestly, and let me repeat honestly, do not believe aborting a fetus is killing a baby. That is my understanding, my choice, and I will not let anyone tell me otherwise. I live with my choices. As do you.”

“So you have no guilt?” spit out Mr. Bander.

“My only guilt is that I haven’t been more supportive of other women who are willing to make and live with that decision. The really guilty people should be those who use their opinion, righteousness, and God to control and manipulate women into doing what they believe is acceptable. Even though abortion is a legal and individual right and while more than 50% of the population agrees with that, women continue to be intimidated and persecuted for it. Opponents say they are doing it for God. The truth is, they do it out of their own ego control issues...their own demons, fears, and limitations.”

With an angry red face, and as though he had not heard a word, Mr. Bander blurted out, “But aren’t you ashamed?”

“Mr. Bander, we live on a planet that we are polluting and destroying every minute of every day by our collective actions. You and I live in a world where at least 30,000 children die every day of starvation. We live in a country that spends seven times as much on defense, as it does on its children’s health or education. Within our own city there are people who are hungry, people who are abused within an inch of their life, people with no hope. If I have any shame it is because I do so little to help those people. This planet, God, does not need us to continue popping out babies and overpopulating our planet. But I do think it needs more of us to stand up and be responsible for what we’re creating here, right now, today.” I looked at Judge Thomas to see if my words were having any effect. It was impossible to tell.

Shaking his head as though pushing me away, Mr. Bander asked, “But what about Mrs. Pettermint, Ms. Martin? You’ve avoided my question. Do you think she would have left you in charge of her estate, or as beneficiary, if she had known of the abortion?”

For the first time in what seemed like hours, I smiled. Then I took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye. “Mr. Bander, Ms. Pettermint was the first person I ever told.”

“She knew?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course, there were no secrets between us,” I answered.

“And what did she say when you told her?”

“Well, mostly she honored my decision, and at the same time, acknowledged the price my choice had cost. She was also concerned about me going through it alone. She recognized the shame all women who make this choice go through, not from the decision itself, but from society’s disapproval and unloving judgments.”

I paused and looked around the room. “Let me get something really clear Mr. Bander, Mrs. Pettermint was the most Christian woman I ever met. If Christian really means being “Christ-like” then no one I’ve ever met comes closer. She exemplified the unconditional love of God in a way that makes most of us pale in comparison. If you’re looking for a negative judgment from her on this, you’re not even close.”

“So Ms. Martin, you’re asking us all to believe that Mrs. Pettermint was such a saint that she overlooked the fact that you had an abortion, obviously had several failed love affairs, including a messy divorce, and have been involved in two different church financial scandals? Meanwhile, she was a woman that deserted her own husband and two children and never once bothered to contact them? I fail to see how that is so loving?”

“While I suppose it’s your nature to be suspicious, there is no easy way to explain it. She was a woman I will always look up to and love. I don’t understand what happened with her family and her kids, but I know it wasn’t easy for her. And I suppose the big question is, why me? Why did she leave it to me? And I don’t have the answer for that either. Except that,” I said and couldn’t help but smile, “she knew without a doubt that I wouldn’t be afraid to ask why.”

I could see that Mr. Bander was running out of his own questions. He cleared his throat and made a few notes on his pad. I glanced at Michael who nodded at me in support. I had no idea what was going on in his head.

“Is that it?” asked Judge Thomas.

“For now your honor,” Mr. Bander said looking resigned.

“Okay counselor,” Judge Thomas said to Michael. “Is there anything you want to add?”

“Yes, I have a few things Judge.” Michael remained seated and looked at me from across the room. He allowed silence to fill the space. I was grateful for his intuitive gesture.

“Ms. Martin, you’ve spoken very highly of the late Mrs. Pettermint. You obviously loved her very much. But I think the question left on everyone’s mind is, how could such a saintly woman do what she did to her family?”

I took a deep breath and thought about his question before answering. “To begin with, I don’t think Mrs. Pettermint herself would have ever claimed to be perfect. She had annoying habits like all of us. She literally scared me to death every time she got behind the wheel of a car.” I smiled remembering both my frustration and amusement. “But something within her drove her to always reach for the highest possibility. And when she was reaching, she was the brightest star I ever experienced. That is the greatest lesson she taught, by her example, always, always reach for your highest possibility. Even, even, and this is the one that probably causes the most confusion, even when others don’t understand. I think that’s where the presence of God is felt the most, not in a church, not in a book, not in any one person.”

“If the truth be known counselor,” I said smiling at Michael, “I’ve already received the largest and most rewarding inheritance that Mrs. Pettermint had to offer any of us. The gifts of her ideas, her teaching, and her presence, were more valuable than any money we are here to discuss today. If I have any regrets, it would be that I don’t always remember them as well as I’d like to all the time.”

I looked over at the Pettermint children. Angela’s face was streaked with tears and Ron sat still like a statue. “Whether you ever felt it, or knew it, I know she loved you both. If she gave you up, she either felt she had no choice, or that it was the best she knew how to do.”

Clearing his throat loudly, Mr. Bander said, “Objection your honor, this is all hearsay. The actions of the late Mrs. Pettermint speak for themselves.”

At that moment the bailiff’s phone rang loudly in the silent room. The heavy-set man in uniform picked it up, whispered a few urgent words, covered the hand piece, and leaned over and whispered to the Judge. For several minutes they mumbled questions and answers back and forth. The whole room was still, as though in suspended animation.

Finally, the bailiff hung up the phone, sat back down, and the Judge addressed us all. “It appears I have an emergency meeting this afternoon that cannot be avoided. I’m going to have to close this session today, much as I dislike doing that. We will meet here again tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. And we will conclude.”

I waited for Michael’s nod before leaving the witness box. Then walking across the room to where he sat, I watched Angela and Ron Pettermint standing in a tight circle with Mr. Bander. Angela was still visibly upset. Ron appeared angrier with her than at any moment until then. When I looked back at Michael, I saw Sunny’s smiling face coming in my direction.

“Ah sweetie, she would have been so proud of you!” Sunny said, warming my heart. With Michael directing traffic, and Sunny chattering away at my side, we left the courtroom, found the elevator and walked out into the mid-afternoon heat. Even the smog filtered sun felt good after being so confined.

“I’m not sure how it went, to be honest with you,” Michael said once we were out in the parking lot. “I’d like to believe that you handled everything great this morning, and there was nothing said that would allow the Judge to deny our probate. But, Judge Thomas was asking a few questions I didn’t like.” Michael looked at me with concern and asked, “Either way, there’s nothing more we can do now. Try to get some sleep tonight. If you can. You’ve had quite a day”

He was right. I suddenly realized how tired I was. When Sunny suggested having dinner together, the idea of more talking didn’t sound nearly as appetizing as a nap. I gave her a big hug and drove home to the house. By then, the late afternoon sun was streaking through the trees. I went in, and almost automatically went to the couch. Lying down, I allowed myself to drift off while affirming my favorite mantra, “all things work together for good...”

Somewhere a phone was ringing. The house was dark and filled with shadows. The only light came in from the street light out on the corner. I unconsciously felt my way through the living room to the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“Grace?” asked an unfamiliar voice. “This is Angela Pettermint.” She paused and I was suddenly wide awake.

“Hello, Angela,” was all I could think to say.

“Grace, I imagine this is a surprise.... but, if possible, I really would like to see you this evening. I think it’s important that we get together. Do you think I could come over?”

After recovering from my surprise, I choked out an okay. An hour later, she knocked at the door. I started to lead her into the living room when I realized that the place we needed to be was in the kitchen. That’s where Mrs. Pettermint would have had her sit.

I motioned her to a chair and began fixing us both a cup of tea. I glanced over at the woman sitting in my favorite chair and watched her nervously clutch her purse. “After we hung up I realized I hadn’t given you directions. I guess you must have known how to get here...” my voice trailed off.

“Yes, I knew where the house was,” she answered. Her eyes were lined with red and there was weariness about her. “I’ve never been inside but I’ve driven by many, many times.”

I realized what she implied and felt a tiny heart break inside. I was certain that Mrs. Pettermint would have liked knowing that. “I’d be happy to show you around after our tea, if you like.”

“Yes, I would, very much,” Angela answered, and nodded her thanks as I sat a cup of steaming water in front of her, and a plate with a selection of teas. She looked them over, picked one out, and set the bag soaking in her cup. Then she looked up and met my gaze. “Look, I came to say something so I’d better get to it.” She took a deep swallow and looked down at the steam coming from her cup.

“This afternoon I confronted my brother. We don’t speak that often...shoot, we’ve never really gotten along too well. Even when mother was there...” She was silent for a moment. “This afternoon I told my brother that I was tired of all this. That, and that I didn’t want to fight any more. I told him that I was willing to go along with what mother had wanted. We had a big fight as you can imagine.”

“He told me I was weak, like Mom. And for the first time in I can’t tell you how long, I actually thought of that as a compliment....But today,” she looked up and met my eyes. “Today you helped me remember things about my mother that I’ve long forgotten. Thank you.” Again her eyes welled up and a tear rolled out of the corner. I felt my own eyes pool up in response.

“Anyway,” Angela continued, as she attempted to stop the stream by reaching for her leather bag and digging for some tissue. “After Ron said I was weak and we yelled a while longer, I heard him say something that caught my attention. He said something about letters. Something like, I’d probably think those meant she really loved us, or something. So of course I asked him about them. He’d never mentioned letters before and the minute he realized what he’d said, he tried to avoid the issue. Anyway, to make a long story short...he finally confessed that after Dad had died he had found a stack of letters addressed to him, and a stack of letters addressed to me. They were from Mom. There was,” and here she began to cry openly again, “there was a letter there almost every week for the first year after she left. Some were addressed to the house, others to my school; apparently Dad had held them all, even had the school hold them.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue but the dam would not hold.

“The second year there weren’t as many, then the third year even less. Then they began to trickle down. The last letter,” a sob escaped and she held her breath before letting a little air escape, ”the last one was two years ago. It was short. She told me that she thought about us every day. And that although we apparently didn’t want to see her, that every day she wished she could see us. She said, she said that every day she imagined that we would drive up in our cars and come to visit. She told me about you, how you were very special to her but that it was sometimes very hard for her because you always reminded her of...of me.”

Angela cried then for a long time. So did I. We both cried for the woman who had loved us. And we cried for lost opportunity, and what could have been. Finally, after half a box of Kleenex littered the table, she looked up at me through glistening lashes. “Grace, she told me that she saw you as my sister and that she thought we would have liked one another. She told me in the letter she’d be leaving the house to you. She also said that she’d made her will out that day and left her fortune to you. She said, she told me....” again Angela burst into tears. Then willing herself to continue, “she told me that she knew that the only way I would ever be forced to get to know you, would be if there was a confrontation.”

“She knew, Grace. She knew that Ron would contest the will. I think she figured all this would happen. And perhaps the only way I would ever see a different picture of her was through your eyes, even if it had to get messy, and we had to go to court. She knew, she knew us all that well.”

“But if she knew that, if she wrote that, wouldn’t you have known about it two years ago?” I asked.

“I think by then...somewhere along the line she realized that we weren’t getting the letters. Dad never, ever said anything. Then Ron didn’t either. Ron’s known about the letters for almost a year and he still didn’t read any of them. I think he was afraid his whole world would be different. We both made our mother out to be the villain. Now everything is changed.”

A sweet sense of grace hung in the air. It was as though the three of us, Mrs. Pettermint, Angela and I all sat together, finally, at her kitchen table. This is what she wanted. This is what she had hoped for, and all of it had come together. Here I thought the whole thing was about me, and my own inadequacies, my own fears. Maybe in some ways it was. But as always, grace pervaded every circumstance. The inheritance was only a tool to bring it all together.

“I’ve called Ron, Grace, and told him that I wasn’t going to continue contesting the will. And although he’s throwing a fit about it right now, I know he’ll back down, too. He took his letters home with him and I think he will finally read them. It’s time we both knew who our mother really was, instead of what our father told us, or what our childish minds wanted her to be.” Angela smiled and continued, “But I would like to get to know you Grace, and perhaps if you can forgive me for all we’ve put you through, we can even be friends. After all, you are my only link to my mother now, and perhaps it isn’t too late to get to know who she really was.” That did it, we both started crying again.

When we finally dried our eyes for the last time and finished our tea, we realized how tired we were. With a promise to have her over and show her the house in the daylight, I opened the front door and turned to hug the woman who in many ways really was my sister. She was the same height as Mrs. Pettermint, and there was even a small sense of her there. That was another gift. Not only was Mrs. Pettermint still with me in spirit, now in a small way, she was still with me in form.

That night I slept more peacefully than any time I could remember since Mrs. Pettermint had died. As soon as it grew light out the next morning, I got myself a cup of tea and settled in my favorite chair for meditation. All was at peace. Everything had come full circle. I had met and conquered all my greatest fears. And on the other side, I found myself, I found grace. But there was still something else that needed to be done. The message was clear.

I dressed and was ready for court an hour early. Attempting to reach Michael, I left a message on his voice mail system asking him to meet me early. As I was driving to the courthouse I tried to reach Sunny by cell-phone. No answer. I wasn’t worried, my decisions didn’t affect her and I knew she supported me in my choices.

Within a few minutes Michael arrived. When I saw his car pull into the parking lot, I grabbed my purse and got out. He smiled when he saw me, but I could see the genuine concern on his face. Before we even met in the middle, he called out, “Are you okay? Yesterday was pretty grueling.”

“I’m great, Michael. Thank you.” I reached out and touched his sleeve. I could tell from the expression on his face that he had his doubts. But I also thought I saw something new there. It was a sense of respect, an admiration. He was the last person I expected to react that way.

We turned together and walked into the courthouse, rode the elevator in silence, and walked down the empty hallway to the courtroom. This early, the halls were relatively quiet and serene; it seemed a perfect backdrop for the day.

Inside the little conference room at the back of the courtroom, I put my purse on a chair and sat on the one next to it. Michael placed his briefcase on the table, opened it, then sat down without a word. He next took out a legal pad and looked at me closely.

“I wanted to meet with you so you’d know what’s happened,” I told him. From his somber expression I could tell that he was beginning to take things too seriously himself. That seemed an odd thing for a lawyer to do. I smiled, knowing he never would have expected this outcome.

“Last night I had a visit from Angela Pettermint. She said they would be dropping their case.”

“What?” asked Michael, disbelief written all over his face. “Are you sure, maybe it’s a trick?”

“Well, I suppose that’s possible, but I don’t think so. I’m almost certain that Angela’s had literally a ‘change of heart.’ I’m not sure whether it’ll be the same for Ron, but something tells me that if she backs out, so will he.”

“You’re probably right, of course.” I could see the wheels turning in his head. “Well,” he paused and looked almost uncertain. “That’s it then. If they back away the judge will certainly rule to open probate, and we can start the process.” A big smile broke out on his face and I could tell that the news, and all its implications, was beginning to sink in.

“There’s something else though...,” I said. “Mrs. Pettermint wrote me a letter that I read after she died. In it, she asked me to give each of her children $1 Million if they didn’t contest the will. I want that to happen. Can you take care of it?”

Michael was making notes on his legal pad, but I could see the frown on his face. He looked up, wrinkling his forehead in doubt. “Of course, I can do that,” he said. “But it’s not something you legally have to do, you know. Especially after the way they treated you. Technically, you are even entitled to the car and the rings if you want them.”

I ignored him. “Also... while I want to keep the house and the personal belongings...everything else left to me personally, after your fees and the estate taxes have been paid...I want it all to go to certain charities.”

“All of it?” asked Michael. His face reflected his astonishment. “I don’t understand. What was all this about if you meant to give it away?” It was clear that he didn’t get it. “You want to give it all away?” He looked at me like I had lost my mind.

“Last night I realized that all of this was about many things...the money was only a tiny part of the picture. And I don’t need it Michael. I have the house; I have a job that I love. I have friends, and family and most of all I have myself.” I smiled, feeling what I had inside. “And to be honest, yesterday, when I was talking about the shame that we all hold, how children are starving and the planet is being polluted, and people are hurting, I realized something. The easy thing would be to keep the money. That’s what a coward would do. That’s what most people do because they constantly live in fear in a Universe they do not trust. I don’t ever want to live that way again. That’s when I realized that the best thing I could do with Mrs. Pettermint’s money, the highest possibility, was to give the money away to those who can benefit from it. Mrs. Pettermint always told me, it was our duty to live our highest potential. If not us, who? And if not now, when?”

“But Grace, we’re talking about nearly $45 million?”

“Exactly! Isn’t it grand? Wouldn’t she love the idea? And I’m not going to change my mind either. You can tell anyone you want. I’ll let you know the charities next week. Maybe I’ll even ask Angela to help me pick them.” I could see the confusion building on his face as though he literally didn’t know what else to say. “Don’t worry Michael, your percentage comes off the top, remember. It doesn’t make any difference to you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Grace,” Michael answered almost sadly. “You’re wrong about that. How can anyone go on like business as usual when someone like you does something like that? When someone does something good like that, for no apparent reason...how can the rest of us carry on as before? It challenges us all. It makes us all question what we do. It makes us ask ourselves what’s important and we really believe.”

“Thank you, Michael, for saying that. That makes it all even more rewarding. I always did like shaking people up—especially my friends. I hope I can call you that now.” I smiled at him before reaching across the table and covering his hand with mine.

Turning his hand over and gently holding mine he said, “It would be an honor to be your friend, Grace.”

The morning session passed so quickly that I wasn’t certain what was happening. All I knew is that Judge Thomas dismissed the case by the Pettermint children and then ordered that probate be opened for the late Mrs. Grace Pettermint. Then Sunny was hugging me, and afterwards Angela Pettermint came over to my side and hugged me as well.

Then to my surprise, Ron walked quickly across the room and held out his hand. “This whole thing was a bit unfortunate. Perhaps next time we’ll meet under different circumstances.” While not an apology, it wasn’t without grace.

That was it. So imagine my surprise when the next morning I walked out on the porch and I opened up the LA Times. There, smiling back at me was a photo of myself—a good one, for a change. The headlines announced, “Local Minister to Give It All Away!”

RANCHO CUCAMONGA—Attorney Michael Hendricks announced yesterday afternoon that the Reverend Grace Martin intends to donate almost $45 million to a variety of charities. The cash amount represents the net of her recent inheritance from the late Grace Geraldine Pettermint. While Martin’s own church is also a beneficiary of the will, no portion of the cash amount donated to Martin separately will go to that organization. The total fortune is estimated at $75 million, and will be divided at the decision of Martin.

Until yesterday the will of the late Pettermint was being challenged by her estranged children Angela and Ron Pettermint. The challenge was unexpectedly dropped without explanation. While the character of Martin was attacked through testimony that revealed a past filled with the ministering of an unorthodox religion, several financial mistakes, and a personal abortion, none of that appeared to have any detrimental effect on the outcome.

This award makes Martin number three on Ted Turner’s list of the nation’s top benefactors for the year. Begun in 1997, the list distinguishes those in our country who gave the most, rather than made the most. Martin also carries another distinction. While most givers donate a small percentage of their net worth to form a self-perpetuating foundation, Ms. Martin intends to give 96% of her personal wealth in one gift with no strings attached.

News of this gift has come under considerable speculation. While many consider the act to be the work of a mentally unstable woman, others have expressed their admiration. Attorney Hendricks himself said, “I am humbled by such a selfless gift. It is a reminder to all of us that life is about much more than the accumulation of wealth.” Randall Thomas, who served as the judge during the court proceeding offered no comment. Long time friend, and another benefactor of the will, Rev. Sunny Barns said, “It’s like her to do something so grand. She’s the richest woman I know and by giving away the money, she’s proving it to the world.”

Martin’s sister, Margaret Michaels said, “Up till now I’ve never appreciated who my sister was. But one thing I know, the only way anyone can give so much away, is when they know who they are and when they have so very much to give.”

I walked back in the house holding the folded paper in my hand. Maggie’s words intensified my sense of all the grace I had in my life. Almost immediately the phone began to ring. It was Time Magazine, or Newsweek, and I had my fifteen minutes of fame. Eventually I did give the money away, all of it, to organizations that fed the children, helped women escape tragic conditions, and healed the planet. But best of all, were the friendships and love that blossomed from that experience. Maggie began letting me back into her life and into the lives of her children. Angela and I became the fast friends that Mrs. Pettermint predicted. Most surprising of all, Michael, my attorney Michael, became my best friend. Eventually he became my husband. But that’s a different story.

I’m also doing something else that Mrs. Pettermint recommended. I found a young girl one day who was looking for a friend and someone to answer her questions. Mrs. Pettermint remains my model. By example, I want to show my new friend that when you find yourself, you always find grace.

About The Author

Kathy Gottberg is the author of hundreds of newsletters, articles, blog posts and two books during the last twenty-five years. She started with a dream, and now millions of words later, finally has the confidence and consciousness to proudly claim to be a writer. Her insatiable curiosity leads her imagination, along with her writing, in all sorts of diverse and interesting directions. That’s why she is the author of two published works of nonfiction (one on spirituality as well as one on real estate) and is happy to add to that collection with this, her first work of published fiction. Her current passion is writing and blogging at SMART Living 365.com where she explores practical ideas and experiences that lead to happiness, peace and well-being for all.

Kathy and her husband Thom have been partners in life and love for the last 36 years. They, and their fur-baby Kloe, live in La Quinta, CA.

Contact The Author Online

To find current work and projects by Kathy Gottberg go to:

http://kathygottberg.com

http://smartliving365.com

Social Media Contacts:

Twitter:

http://twitter.com/gottgreen

Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/SMARTLiving365

Goodreads:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1211651.Kathy_Gottberg

Acknowledgements

Deep gratitude goes to my love and muse Thom, who is the very best friend, soul mate and husband a woman could ever hope to have. Thanks also to every single person who read Finding Grace and offered your help, encouragement and suggestions. No story can ever be written without the support of others. Finally, special acknowledgement and appreciation goes to all the current readers of Finding Grace. May this story remind each of us of the grace within, and by bringing us together, help to transform the world from the inside out.

While all organizations portrayed in this book are fictitious. Spiritual groups similar in philosophy to The Ontario Center of Positive Living can be located by searching the following websites:

Centers for Spiritual Living (CSL)

http://csl.org/

Unity--A Positive Path for Spiritual Living

http://www.unity.org/

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About The Author

Contact The Author Online

Acknowledgements