Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [78]
“I’m trying to remember. We’ve studied that passage in Sunday school. Pastor preached on it too.” Charles was reflective a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t mean all I’ve wanted it to all these years.”
Fran shrugged. “I’ve always assumed ‘pick up your cross’ was more of a reminder that I should be willing to go that far for him—to suffer as he did.” She chose her words carefully, conscious of the vulnerable path between them. “And to be willing to suffer—maybe to the point of actually dying for him. If that’s what he wants me to do. Kind of a ‘if you want to become my follower then you’d better count the cost’ kind of warning.”
Charles pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I guess so.” He cleared his throat, stalling for time. Struggling to control his emotions once again and find the right words. They were like fencers, dueling with parries, if not thrusts. Neither wanting to hurt the other, but defending themselves still, remembering too many wounds in the past. “It’s a stark image, isn’t it? The cost of being a Christian. Symbolically carrying the crossbeam to the place of crucifixion.”
He turned toward Fran, his face reflecting a mixture of pain and peace that would force him to look further inward. “I guess I’ve never really wanted to accept that kind of pain in a believer’s life. Not the concept of it. Certainly not the reality of it in my life—but more so, not in those I love.” His voice broke, and he stopped a moment. “My coping method,” he laughed cynically, shaking his head, “my way to cope—or deny, I suppose—was putting all my energies into my will to fight. And so I’ve fought, all right. Fought you. Memories. My dad and Sarah. My own son.”
Fran reached up to put her palm against his cheek again. This type of duel between them was new and untried, hesitant and unsure. Yet as she listened to the silence between them, she found it safe. And so she whispered, “I can picture that vulnerable little boy.” Her heart breaking at the scene in her mind’s eye, the child an exact replica of Charlie, she continued, “You were all alone. And you did what was needed to survive a devastating situation, Charles—one that might’ve broken a weaker man who hadn’t fought back. You thought you were doing the best thing for Charlie too—pushing him to do what would help him, all the while reliving your painful past through him. It’s no wonder you were so desperate, Charles.”
“I was afraid of being left alone again, Francine.” He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Lennie,” he whispered against her hair. “I need you so much. I need you both so much. I’m afraid, Lennie. I’m so very afraid.”
“I’m afraid too, Charles. But even in the leaving, God’s there. Maybe it’s like the cross is the bridge between death and resurrection. Doesn’t God become the bridge between our fears and our ability to trust in him?” Fran stared off into the distance as though attempting to bring something unrecognized into focus. “I want to believe that being alone is different than being lonely. And being left isn’t as frightening when I know I’m in the bridge of God’s love.”
“I do too. But I’m thinking that’s merely my coping and denial tendencies again. Fact is: Sarah left.”
“She must’ve been in horrible pain, Charles. And afraid. I wonder if the responsibility of you weighing on her was just more than she could handle.”
“As a young boy, I was so angry at her. But now? Well, now I just feel … sad. Sad for her and me. We both missed out, didn’t we?”
They had no conscious realization of time passing. Of how long it was before the receptionist came to beckon them back inside. The two apprehensive parents who stood to walk back into the building had ventured onto new paths: revelation of a past that had bound and chained them in covert ways. A present that offered glimpses of hope for the future.
The young man who looked up to greet his parents glowed, proudly standing