Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [109]
“What is her prognosis?”
“You have a difficult time ahead, sir. Her demise is not imminent, but it’s unlikely she will improve. There will be the occasional remission where she’ll feel herself again, but over the long haul, say the next decade, she will need more rest, more treatment, more medication. Eventually you will want help and perhaps a hospital bed in your home, unless you choose to institutionalize her.”
Thomas bit the inside of his mouth to steady his lips. “Oh, never. No. I will take care of her until I am unable.”
“Well, thankfully, that is a long way off, sir.”
Thomas could only hope.
It was clear Grace worried about Thomas too. He wanted to be chipper, to keep her happy and motivated. Her enthusiasm and spirituality never flagged, but her body was simply unable to keep up most of the time, and Thomas regretted having taken so long to do what he knew was right.
Another thing he was unable to forgive himself for was Ravinia. Grace continued to pray for her, and Thomas did too, of course, but he despaired over having lost her. When she and Dirk, after several years of living together while slaving in low-paying jobs after law school, finally decided to marry, Ravinia actually asked Thomas if he would conduct the wedding ceremony.
Thomas had decided he would not even attend, let alone be a part of it, but Grace’s cooler head prevailed. She told Ravinia it was not fair to ask her father to appear to condone this unequal yoke, but that of course they would attend so as not to cause an irreparable tear in the relationship.
“Well, without Dad, it’s going to be a civil ceremony. I thought he might want to pray or something.”
“Believe me, we’ll be praying.”
“And you need to know too, Mother, that this is not an unequal yoke. I don’t mean to hurt you, but you cannot claim me for the faith.”
Thomas and Grace had attended the tiny ceremony, held in the home of friends of the bride and groom. There Ravinia proudly announced that her new last name would be Carey-Blanc, obviously assuming this would please her parents.
Thomas forced a smile. His name would carry on, despite his never having had a son, but he feared what kind of spiritual heritage might be passed down.
Thomas and Grace agreed privately that the wedding was one of the most difficult ordeals of their lives, and it only exacerbated his spiritual doldrums. Would God ever again work in his life, answer a prayer, give him a victory?
Every day he rose early to read and study and pray, and then it was off to the prison, where he slogged through the monotony of days and weeks and months and years of the same old same old. The few convicts who asked to see him had their own agendas and didn’t care about his. They were all angling for something.
If nothing else, Thomas had changed in one regard. He was no longer a softy, a pushover. He could see the cons’ games coming a mile away. And while he was known as a gentle, devout soul, no one could work a scam on the chaplain.
He gradually allowed himself to be drawn back into work at Village Church, especially when the little flock had to replace pastors. That happened four times in nine years, not unusual for a small church. They saved money on interim pulpit supply because Thomas was there and willing. But just as in every other area of his spiritual life, he found little to encourage his own soul.
What was he missing? What more could he do? He had made an irrevocable commitment to spend his life—and he meant that—in the service of God. Was there to be zero payoff for that this side of heaven? If the answer was yes, so be it. It wouldn’t change his decision. But his enthusiasm for the task waned with the years and showed in his graying hair and the deep lines in his face.
At work,