#

David drove the two hours to school once a week to spend a day in the library doing research and to confer with his committee chairman. Juggling school, family, and church provided more than adequate stimulation for the five semesters it took him to research and write a dissertation, defend it, and find his way down the aisle to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance. While the boys, Nicole, and I cheered, my husband became Dr. David Webb Lander.

While the title had academic value, David quickly demonstrated that knowledge sometimes has no practical affect on daily life. The graduates were warned to be careful not to catch their long doctoral sleeve extensions on the stair railing as they exited the stage. I have the photo to prove that my husband promptly forgot the most practical advice he received while at seminary. As he started down the stairs with a huge victorious grin on his face, his right sleeve caught on the stair railing, stopping his triumphant march in mid-stride and forcing him to halt and release his accidental tether.

The day after David's graduation ceremony, we got a call from Daddy.

"Hello there, Dr. Lander," he said. "How would you like to submit a resume to be the new preaching/evangelism/worship and whatever-else-is needed professor at Rimrock Baptist College in Billings, Montana? The preacher guru is retiring at the end of the summer."

"That's an interesting proposition," David said. "I didn't care for teaching high school, but I think it might be fun to teach preachers."

A new challenge, the possibility to use his new degree in a different arena, David was intrigued. He put together a resume with his new title and educational achievement and sent it to Daddy. I feared that even if the college didn't want him, our tenure at our inaugural church was coming to an end. David had done everything he set out to do. He was looking for a new outlet for his preaching skills.

Understanding David's personality, I knew better than to try to talk him into staying because the boys and I liked our current living situation. As far as he was concerned, this was not a logical reason to stay. I needed something more.

The one thing about David that seemed inconsistent for someone with his logical bent was his spirituality but even that he came to partially through logic. He concluded that believing the Bible required faith, but disbelieving it required the same amount of faith. Neither was a logical decision, in that it could be proved. After considering the claims of the Bible, he asked himself what he would lose if he used faith to decide to reject Christ.

"If I chose to disbelieve the Bible," he told me once, "and I died and discovered the Bible to be true, I would lose everything. If I chose to believe the Bible and died and discovered I was wrong, I would lose nothing."

Since he had chosen to believe the Bible and commit his life to God, figuring the will of God into a decision became logic rather than mysticism. So, I played the 'spiritual' card.

"Are you sure this is what God wants you to do?" I asked David. "Have you even prayed about it, or are you just looking for a new challenge?"

"I have prayed – am still praying," he said. "What about you, have you prayed?"

He had me there. Here I was asking him to consider God's will when I hadn't really given God a chance to reveal His will. We both agreed to pray.

After a week of prayer, and even some fasting, neither of us had a definitive answer from God. We both knew what we wanted, but neither of us was certain we knew what God wanted.

At that point in the impasse, a phone call came from Montana. They wanted David to send them a preaching video. Wonder of wonders, they wanted a preaching professor who demonstrated the ability to use the skills he proposed to teach.

For David, the phone call was affirmation that God's hand was involved in this opportunity. I was still unconvinced.

"They have to follow up," I told him. "You sent them a resume."

David became increasingly confident that God was leading him towards the teaching position. I was still skeptical. After two more weeks of intense prayer, a letter from the college came. It asked David to come for an interview. They would pay travel costs. They gave him some potential dates and indicated that someone would make a follow-up call to finalize plans.

"You haven't told the church," I said. "How are you going to go without arousing suspicion?"

"Maybe I just need to tell them," he said.

"Not yet," I said. "Don't burn your bridges. I'm sure the college has a lot of good candidates. I'm going to ask God to provide a way for you to go without the church knowing."

"Whatever," he replied with a shrug.

The next day a pastor from Billings called and asked David to come to his church and preach a revival. Daddy had given the man David's name as a prospective revival preacher. The date he suggested coincided with one of the potential dates provided by the college. I was beginning to think that my own father was a traitor.

David took this as another sign of God's moving. I took it as a sign that God was keeping him from burning his local bridges. He now had a reason for going to Montana that was not guaranteed to make our church members worry that he was looking for another job.

David was increasingly certain that God was leading to Montana. I was even more resistant to the possibility. I explained to him that the winters in Montana were beyond his ability to comprehend, with howling winds, blizzards, and frozen rivers. I told him about men freezing their lungs trying to run from the car to the house in 40 below temperatures. I reminded him of a recent news story about a whole family that froze to death in a stalled car during a snowstorm.

I even enlisted Nicole. She told David that she didn't want him to take her grandbabies to such an inhospitable clime and one so far from grandma. She even asked her pastor to pray that God wouldn't call David to Montana.

When the time came for the revival and the interview, my campaign of discouragement had failed to dent his enthusiasm.

Upon his return, he told me the interview went well. Not only had the trustees been pleased with his credentials and his interview, they had attended the revival to hear him preach. They told him that his message was powerful, and it also showed good organizational skills and development.

"If they offer me the job, I'm going to accept, Syd," he said. "I'm certain this is what God wants me to do."

I was miserable. That night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally I decided to take a cue from Gideon and put out a proverbial fleece. I told myself that I wanted to be absolutely sure that God was speaking, so I chose a fleece that was practically impossible.

"God," I prayed, "if you want us to go to Montana, then let David offer to get up with the boys in the morning and let me sleep."

David was a good Dad, but his mind didn't function until doused with at least two cups of coffee. He wasn't prepared to interact with his sons early in the morning. Occasionally he would get up with the boys, but only if I were deathly ill or if I begged and pleaded and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He had never once voluntarily gotten up with the boys.

The next morning I heard my usual alarm, Zach calling, "Mommy, I'm hungry."

Remembering my prayer, I ignored Zach, thinking I'd give God a chance to rouse David. Zach called again, "Mommy."

I waited a few more seconds. Just as I started to roll over, David said. "I'll get up with the boys, Syd. You can sleep in this morning."

God had spoken. When the school called and offered David the job, I was ready to follow.

As we were packing to leave, I told David of my fleece.

"You know what, Syd," he said. "That morning when I heard myself offering to get up with the boys, I couldn't believe it. I asked myself, 'Where did that come from?' But, I couldn't take it back. The words were already out, so I got up. . I guess if God could put words in the mouth of Balaam's ass, then I wasn't much of a challenge."

"An apt comparison," I said.

#

Faith had gone to sleep with the story of her parents' divergent views on their move to Montana uppermost in her mind. She dreamt of a family driving down a highway in a beat-up station wagon. Tied to the top were an assortment of bags and boxes. Attached to the back were bicycles. All four windows were rolled down. Inside two boys complained that they were hot and thirsty. A woman sat sulkily in the passenger seat, while a male drove with a thin-lipped stare.

The grump mobile blew a tire. The man wrestled with the steering wheel, finally bringing the vehicle to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. The boys spilled out, overjoyed to play on the shoulder of the road while the man silently changed the tire, and his wife mutely handed tools. As he was tightening the lug bolts, she went into the bushes to relieve herself. She heard the squeal of brakes. Standing quickly and pulling her jeans up, she emerged just in time to see a truck toss her sons through the air before hitting the car and pinning her husband. As she ran towards the accident with the sound of wrenching metal ringing in her ears, the truck backed up and drove off, dragging a dislocated bumper along the highway and sending sparks shooting.

The woman ran to where her sons lay, broken and still. Finding no pulse, she left them and went to her husband. He was bleeding profusely. His eyes were open, but they stared uncomprehendingly. She dropped to the asphalt beside him and cradled his head in her lap, tears running down her cheeks.

"Hold on, Sweetheart," she said. "Hold on. Someone is bound to come along soon. I need you. Hold on."

As she spoke a box fell from the roof of the car with a thud, spilling its contents across the road. Photo albums and papers scattered. One blew against the woman's foot. It was their marriage license. She reached for it, but a gust of wind blew it beyond her reach.

Faith struggled to emerge from the nightmare. Sitting up, she shuddered, still caught in the catastrophic scene. Going into the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face.

"It was just a dream," she told her reflection.

Her emotions were still in turmoil.

"She didn't get to tell them goodbye or that she loved them," she whispered to the wide-eyed likeness in the mirror.

The doorbell interrupted her introspection. Pulling on her bathrobe, she rushed down the stairs, still filled with foreboding. Peering through the peephole in the door, she saw a stranger standing on her porch holding a cup and Styrofoam container with the words Starbucks on them.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Delivery."

She opened the door without removing the chain lock. Peeking out the crack, she saw a smiling teen with spiked hair and multiple piercings.

"Since when does Starbucks make deliveries?"

"Since some love-struck moron offered me folding money to make a delivery. Do you want this stuff or not?"

She felt his eyes rake over what was visible of her rumpled form, taking in the rat's nest hair, sleep-encrusted eyes, and bare feet. She knew she looked a fright.

"I'll just leave it here, lady," he said, setting it down on the stoop.

As he walked away, she released the chain and reached out to pick up the offering. He glanced back over his shoulder and called, "I hope you clean up good. If he saw you like that, he might want his money back."

Laughing, Faith retrieved her breakfast. She took a swig from the cup as she sank into her overstuffed easy chair. It was Spiced Chai tea, her favorite. The smell of cinnamon coffeecake wafted from the box. When she lifted the lid, she found a note taped to the inside. She ripped the fork from its plastic cage and took a satisfying bite before reading Aaron's epistle.

Faith,

Don't eat the coffee cake too fast; take your time and savor it. Sip the Chai tea. Take a trip down memory lane. We're sitting at the small intimate table for two in the window of Starbucks. You just completed your last final exam for the semester. I just got off work. I hand you an envelope. . . .

Faith had opened the envelope. A flyer fell out. It read: "The Heavenly Brew's Open Mike Nite debut, Thursday, May 5. Bring your tape, CD, or live accompaniment. Try your hand at standup. Do a dramatic reading. Clown around. Whatever your talent, we'll showcase it. Must meet the Master's standards."

"So, what do you think?" Aaron asked.

"About?" She feigned ignorance.

"About singing at Open Mike Nite."

"I don't know, Aaron. Singing in church is one thing, but in a coffee club?"

"A Christian coffee club. One where people bring their unbelieving friends to show them that even Christians know how to have a good time – without booze and sex."

"But with a jolt of caffeine."

"Beats the alternative."

"What would I sing?"

"I don't know. Surprise me."

So she did. They went together. She signed up to perform. When her turn came, she handed her CD to the sound tech. She had chosen nostalgia over contemporary hits. The song was one of her Mama's favorites, but standing at the mike, she sang for Aaron alone, "You Light Up My Life."

She got a standing ovation. When she sat down at the table, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I love you." She murmured back, "I love you, too."

It was the first time they had exchanged those words.

Suddenly the dream came back full force.

Faith picked up her cell phone.

"You're welcome," Aaron said when he answered on the first ring.

"I still love you," she blurted.

"Wow, I knew you were addicted to coffee cake and Chai tea, but they had a much better outcome than I expected."

"It wasn't the eats, you dork. I had a dream where a woman's husband died after they were arguing. She didn't get to tell him that she loved him. Your invitation down memory lane brought me face to face with our love. That love still lives. I wanted you to know that, even though I don't know if it's strong enough to get us through this crisis."

"It's strong enough. And I love you too."

"I wish I was as certain as he seems," Faith said to herself after hanging up. Her mind continued the train of thought. "Going back and forth between loving him and anger at him is like taking a daisy and chanting, 'I love him. I love him not. I love him.' He's sure the last petal will be 'I love him.' I'm hoping the last one won't be 'I love him not,' and I'm not usually a glass-half-empty kind of person. Maybe I just need to embrace optimism and put my gloomy thoughts aside." She sighed. "If it were only that easy."

She shook her head to clear the dismal thoughts. Maybe reading would banish the melancholy mood induced by the dream.