What Dreams May Come

CHAPTER 1 Snow fell from the sky at a listless, melancholy pace. Susannah was early, like normal. Susannah was always early. Early to graduate high school so that now she was the only teenager she knew who was already this bone-crushingly, soul-wearyingly tired. As if she’d lived four or five decades already. Dear God, when did I grow so old? She slipped into her regular spot in the sanctuary. Folks at Orchard Grove Bible Church worked themselves up about a fair number of important issues, pew placement being fairly high up on the list. Some things would never change. Her aching spirit knew that much with an unyielding certainty. Like the snow. It would keep on falling, keep on covering the drab, muddy winter scene in a beautiful, pristine white, but by tomorrow the landscape would be painted only with grays and browns. Murky, dirt-stained, a smudge of mud and slush, just like it had been when she woke up this morning. Father, forgive me for grumbling, and help me to be thankful for everything. Even the snow and the mud. “Good morning, Susannah.” She forced herself to smile at the pinch-nosed woman leaning over the pew in front of her. “Good morning.” Susannah accepted Mrs. Porter’s stiff, awkward hug. Most folks at Orchard Grove were content with a handshake from a comfortable three feet away, but since last fall, Susannah had been hugged, embraced, or otherwise enfolded against every bosom of every retired farmer’s wife in town. Mrs. Porter clasped Susannah’s hand in hers. “And how are you doing?” She put special emphasis on each word, as if to convey a hidden meaning behind the otherwise mundane question. Last fall, Susannah might have lied that she was fine, but she knew better now. Knew that Mrs. Porter and those like her expected a certain degree of dignified stoicism. It was a role. The role of the tragically bereaved heroine. “Thanks so much for asking. I’m feeling ok.” She also attached some unstated significance to this last word, and Mrs. Porter smiled, apparently satisfied at the depth of expression in Susannah’s inflection and features. She held onto her hand for just a second more before adding, “You know, we’re all praying for you,” and dismissed herself without another word. Susannah had only recently learned how these promises to pray could abruptly end any conversation. She’d heard it all too often. People had no clue what to say, so after an awkward moment of trying to cheer her up, they simply told her they would remember her in their prayers. Words that might make a newcomer to Orchard Grove grateful, but Susannah had been born and raised in this congregation. She knew enough to suspect that Mrs. Porter and her friends from the church’s women’s missionary league spent ten minutes gossiping about Susannah’s personal life for every two seconds they actually prayed about it. Did you see the Peters girl in church yesterday? I thought she looked a little pale. Or maybe it was just the dim light. No, I ran into her at the store just a few days ago, and she was in such a rush to get by, she didn’t even notice me. It’s to be expected. You know, she’s not even twenty yet, poor thing. Poor thing … Poor thing … Susannah glanced at the Bible in her lap, drawing a small dose of comfort as she ran her fingers across the leather cover. Thank you, Father, for the precious gift of your Word. The book binding was fancier than she might have liked. She didn’t want people to think she was the kind of Christian who paid more attention to her Bible’s exterior than to the holy words it contained. She also had to fight off a twinge of guilt when she thought about believers in other countries where Scripture was so scarce. Where she could send ten or twelve or twenty paperbacks for the price of this one engraved edition. But it was a gift from her mother, a gift she would cherish. One of Susannah’s only belongings that she planned to take with her when she made it to the mission field. If she made it to the mission field. When, God? Is it ever going to happen? Why would you put this desire into my heart if you’re never going to bring it to pass? So many questions. So much silence. That was all she’d encountered during the past four months. Four trying, exhausting, torturous months. The din from the foyer increased. Almost everybody at Orchard Grove Bible Church arrived exactly five minutes early. Any sooner and it looked like you were trying too hard. Any later, you’d get glared at as you made your way to find an empty space in the pews. Not that Orchard Grove was overly crowded. There were as many empty seats as filled ones, but they were interspersed so inconveniently across the sanctuary that you would have to step over five or seven or ten different pairs of legs before you could sit. Orchard Grove’s self-imposed punishment for those guilty of tardiness. Susannah inhaled deeply. Well, Lord, I’m here. It’s been such a long week, but you know how much I’m craving to connect with you today. Please show up, Lord. That had been her prayer so often lately. Just asking God to show up. Crying softly in her room, unable to accept the reality of what had happened. Please show up, Lord. Stroking Kitty’s forehead, wishing for some kind of breakthrough. Please show up, Lord. Staring at her phone, knowing she would never hear his voice again, still holding onto some sort of senseless hope that he might call. Please show up, Lord. Pastor Greg made his way up front. He and his wife were new to Orchard Grove, but he had already learned that the retired orchardists’ and farmers’ wives here appreciated — no, demanded — punctuality. Each week he opened the service at 10:29 and ended at 11:44 without fail. This morning, with about thirty seconds to spare, he smiled at the congregation, and Susannah ran her fingers over her name embossed on her Bible. Susannah Wesley Peters. A play on words. An homage to some great-uncle or other distant ancestor named Wesley as well as a tribute to Susannah Wesley, the mother of John and Charles. The original Susannah Wesley had never traveled to foreign countries spreading the gospel, never preached to crowds of thousands, never penned hymns or sermons that survived to this day. But she interceded for her sons, who rose up to serve foundational roles in the enlightenment movement on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Susannah had lost track of how many times her mother had told her about Mrs. Wesley’s commitment to God, how she would flip the skirt of her apron over her head in order to create a mobile prayer closet. How she devoted several hours a day to interceding for her family and maintained regular times of fasting to ask God to use her children to advance his kingdom. Susannah was grateful for the prayerful example of her namesake, but on days like this, she wondered if praying was the only work for God she’d ever accomplish. Father, don’t you see I want to do so much more? Sometimes the hunger to move from Orchard Grove, to be God’s agent of revival and salvation to distant shores was so great it was like a tidal wave ready to surge through her spirit. And when it came crashing down, she couldn’t be held responsible for whatever damage was caused by the tsunami of her passion. And other times, she felt like Orchard Grove’s dried-up riverbed, its smooth and rounded rocks the only indication of the rushing waters that had once flowed so powerfully through her.