Wren turned on the faucet to give her some privacy. It still felt awkward to her, lingering in bathrooms while visitors used them. Most didn’t speak to her or even seem to notice her, which wouldn’t have surprised her if she had been working at an airport or a mall. But being disregarded at a retreat center where people were coming to explore deeper intimacy with God struck her as ironic.

  The toilet flushed; the stall door opened. “Do you work here?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.” Wren expected her to say they were running low on toilet paper or the floor needed to be scrubbed.

  Instead, she said, “I haven’t seen you before. I’m Mara. Mara Payne.” She stuck out her hand, and then said, “Whoops! Better wash it first. Hold on.” She thrust both hands under a faucet and lathered up like a surgeon. “So, are you new?”

  “Pretty new.”

  Mara tossed a paper towel into the bin, then rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Okay. Take two. I’m Mara.”

  Wren took her outstretched hand. Everything about the woman was soft: her eyes, her hands, her skin. Her mother would envy that kind of porcelain complexion. “I’m Wren.”

  “Wren? Oh, I love that name! Is it a family name or something?”

  “Sort of.” This was probably the sort of woman who would believe a story about a bird landing on a pregnant woman’s lap to bring a message from God.

  “Well, I love it,” Mara said. “Are you a student around here or . . . ?”

  “No, not a student. I’m taking a bit of a break from my job—I’m a social worker—and I wanted something a bit less stressful for a while—”

  Mara nodded. “I totally get that.”

  “—so my aunt, Kit—Katherine—told me I could pick up some hours here.”

  “Wait! Katherine Rhodes is your aunt?” Mara looked as if Wren had just announced she was related to a celebrity.

  “Well, not aunt-aunt, I mean, my dad—my stepdad’s her nephew so . . .”

  “Oh, wow! Katherine’s amazing. I love her. She’s my spiritual director.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  “Yeah. Very cool.” Mara pushed back lime green bangles to check her watch. “And I need to go. Appointment’s starting.”

  Have fun, Wren almost said, then changed her mind. “Hope it’s good.”

  “Oh, it will be. Always is. Nice to meet you, Wren. I’ll probably see you again.”

  “Yes. Okay. Thanks.” Thanks for being kind, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Mara left the bathroom humming.

  “I just met your niece!” Wren heard her exclaim out in the hallway, and then a door closed.

  She wiped the remaining sinks and got her mop. Someday she would like to sketch Mara. Mara’s eyes told a story. And she was beautiful.

  Wren was getting ready to leave work to go to her counseling appointment when her mother called with news. “I sold Weemoed !” she exclaimed.

  “You what?”

  “Not my copy. I would never part with the one you drew for me. But I hosted a group of pastors’ wives here this morning, and one of them was so captivated by your sketch and the meaning behind it, she said she had to have a copy. And then the others all chimed in too, how they also wanted one. So, I’m not sure how this works, whether I should just go and make special photocopies of it or—”

  “Wait, Mom. Slow down.” Wren rubbed her forehead. She had never sold any of her art before, not a single painting or sketch. She had never intended for the sketch of her mother kneeling in the hand of God to be copied. It wasn’t good enough quality for that. But she could picture her mother showing it proudly to the group, telling them about “active melancholy” and her daughter, the artist.

  She wasn’t an artist. Not a real one. “They want to buy copies of it?”

  “Yes. At least ten. And I told them I didn’t know how much it would cost to reproduce them professionally on special paper, but I’d find out and let them know. I thought ten or fifteen dollars apiece. Is that okay? I mean, because they’re copies, not originals.”

  Ten copies at ten or fifteen dollars each? She could buy paints. And a few more canvases.

  “Is that too cheap? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, you did great! I just can’t believe it.” She sat down in a lounge chair beside the exit door.

  “A couple of them thought people from their churches might also want to buy copies, or family members. It won’t appeal to everyone, the depth of it, but it’s speaking, Wren. It’s already speaking.”

  The melancholy spoke. The lament and the hope and the longing to trust that God held all of it—the active melancholy spoke. Jesus.

  Tell Vincent, she wanted to say. But that was silly. So instead, she murmured, Thanks.

  “I’m glad to see you, Wren. How are you?” Dawn, her new counselor, settled into the chair across from her and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Okay, I think.”

  Though it had taken a few weeks of trying, she had finally connected with someone on Hannah’s recommended list of therapists who seemed like a good fit. At least for now. It was the Van Gogh print on Dawn’s office wall—Vincent’s The Good Samaritan—that had caught Wren’s attention during their introductory visit and served as a possible confirmation of God’s leading. She hoped it would work out. Her physician had agreed to oversee her medications, but only if she would commit to regular, ongoing therapy. And she didn’t have the energy or patience for many more false starts, like the woman she’d seen in Dr. Emerson’s old office, who ran half an hour late for their appointment and who, when she wasn’t eyeing Wren over the rim of her spectacles or staring at the pad of paper in her lap, was glancing up at the clock on the wall. In their forty-five-minute session she said little more than, “So, what I hear you saying is . . .”

  No. Not a fit.

  In the silence she mentally sketched Dawn, whose tight ebony curls were restrained by her African print cloth headband, the navy spirals swirling on a lime background with hints of citron yellow, the movement reminding her of Vincent’s stars. Dawn. That was a good name for a counselor. Sunrise. Light. Hope.

  Dawn smiled at her, and her brown eyes were kind. “Tell me more, Wren. What does ‘okay’ mean?”

  Wren did a quick mental inventory of the past week. “I’ve been sleeping okay, that’s huge for me. And I think my new meds are working. I don’t like being on them, but I know I need them. At least I’m not feeling completely numbed out. That always scares me when I feel numb. I’d rather feel sad than numb, if you know what I mean.”

  Dawn nodded.

  “I mean, it hurts, and it’s hard dealing with all the stuff we talked about last week, like losing Casey and Theo. I’m still grieving all that. Even though I know some people would say, It’s only a cat.”

  “He was your cat,” Dawn said, “and he was connected with your friend, with your friend leaving. And you loved both of them.”

  Wren bit her lip.

  Like Dawn had told her last week, she needed to be patient with the grieving process and not let others’ voices or the voices in her own head rush her through it. Or make her feel guilty for taking too long or being too sensitive. But those old scripts were hard to ignore and replace.

  “I’ve been trying to paint, like you suggested, because that helps me process how I’m feeling and not be so scared of feeling the hard things. I guess it helps me get the feelings out so I can see them and work with them. Except I’ve mostly been sketching lately because painting can be expensive, especially if I don’t really have something specific in mind. But my mom sold a sketch I made for her—I just found out a little while ago—so I’ll be able to buy more art supplies.”

  On second thought, she would probably pay medical bills. That’s what she should do with the money.

  She would likely be paying off her medical bills for the next five years, given the payment plan she had negotiated with the hospital. But at least she was on a plan. She had given up her apartment—it didn’t feel safe for now, living on her own—and Kit was letting her stay at her house indefinitely and wasn’t charging her anything for rent or food or utilities, an extraordinary gift of generosity she felt guilty for accepting. But because of Kit’s help she could pay her medical insurance bill and prescription costs and doctor office and counseling co-pays from her New Hope paycheck and her savings. She had enough money in savings to supplement her income for about four months. That was all. But it was more than most people had. And maybe soon she would be able to work full time again, if she could find a job that didn’t completely stress her out. That was the nice thing about pushing a mop or a broom at New Hope. There was something soothing about it. But it wasn’t a long-term solution.

  Don’t rush it, Hannah had said. It was important for her to take the necessary time to recover. And there was an emergency fund at the church, subject to a pastor’s discretion, that she could access for help if she needed to.

  But she didn’t want to be a charity case. There were so many others who lived in more desperate need.

  She already was a charity case. But Kit didn’t make her feel like one.

  She stared at Vincent’s painting on the wall behind Dawn, the generous, uncomplaining Samaritan bent backward under the weight of lifting the limp, left-for-dead man onto his horse. In that moment of rescue the wounded man probably wasn’t feeling guilty for accepting help. Only grateful. But it was still hard to receive.

  “Tell me about your sketch,” Dawn said.

  “My what?”

  “The sketch you said you made for your mom.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Wren shifted position in the armchair and crossed her ankles. “I drew it after I got out of the hospital. It’s a picture of a woman kneeling in a hand, like the hand of God. My mom was the model.”

  “Why your mom?”

  “Because she was the only one available. I didn’t think I could draw it freehand”—she was like Vincent that way, better able to work from a model than from imagination or memory—“so I asked her to kneel with her head in her hands and pose for me.”

  “What was that like for you, sketching your mom in that pose?”

  “I—” Wren stopped and tried to remember. She was in such a fog of grief when she first went to Kit’s and when her mother arrived. She couldn’t remember when she’d drawn it. She only knew they were outside in Kit’s garden. “Sorry. I’m not sure.”

  “It’s okay.” Dawn paused. “How about the feelings behind the sketch?”

  “You mean, while I was drawing it? Or what it means in general?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Well, I called it Weemoed, that’s a Dutch word Van Gogh used in his letters. He said it means ‘active melancholy.’”

  Dawn raised her eyebrows. “That’s an interesting phrase. What does that mean to you?”

  “Vincent said it was a compound word with ‘woe’ and ‘courage,’ so it’s like you have to combine both together. You can’t have melancholy without courage. Because then it’s just despair.”

  “And how about you? What do you say about the word?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s true, that we have to choose, as much as we’re able to choose. Sometimes it’s hard to choose hope when all you feel is sadness.” We must choose, Kit had said. And keep choosing.

  Dawn said, “Is that where you find yourself right now, that it’s hard to choose hope?”

  “Some days.”

  “What helps you on those days?”

  Wren thought a moment and then said, “Art. Beauty. Being outside in nature, going for a walk. Prayer, when I can pray. But sometimes I can’t come up with the words, and sometimes I don’t have the mental energy to read my Bible or a devotional or anything. That’s how I got the image for the hand, because my pastor came to the hospital to visit me, and we were talking about how I felt too tired to cling to God, like I was trying to climb this jagged cliff face, and I was losing my grip. But then it was like the cliff shifted into a hand, and I was held. And she told me that was a good image for me, that when I don’t have the strength to cling, I can trust that God is holding me.”

  “So, you’re the one in the hand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you sketched your mom there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she in the hand too?”

  Surprised by the force of emotion rising to the surface, Wren pressed her lips together and nodded. She had put her there.

  “Your mom has her own journey to make,” Kit commented as they sat in her living room that night in front of the fireplace.

  “I know. That’s what my counselor said too.”

  Yes, her mother had her own sorrow to process, Dawn had said, her own fears to navigate, but Wren wasn’t responsible for her mother’s feelings. She knew that, Wren said. But she still felt as if her mother was suffering because of her. All the emotions had returned while she sat in Dawn’s office, the memory of her mother kneeling there in the grass, face in her hands, embodying sorrow. There was nothing false about her posture. That’s what had helped give depth and passion to the sketch. All the emotion was true. Every bit of it.

  “I think Mom’s disappointed I’m not there for Thanksgiving.”

  Kit did not reply.

  “Did she call and talk to you about it?” Wren asked.

  “She worries about you. But I reminded her of the boundaries we set.”

  “Thanks.” It was something the three of them had agreed to before her mother returned home in October: there would be no reporting back and forth without Wren’s knowledge or approval, not unless there was an emergency. Kit wanted her home to be a safe place, a refuge for as long as she chose to remain. That was really wise, Dawn had said. That’s a good boundary for all of you.

  “But if you change your mind about your plans, Wren, you’re welcome to come with me to Sarah’s.”

  “I know. Thanks. But I think it’ll be good for me to serve. I’ve been living so much in my own head lately, I think I need to be reminded of all the gifts I’ve got.”

  She wouldn’t be responsible for anything other than showing up at the homeless shelter on Thursday with the other volunteers from her church. And afterward she would join Hannah and her family for their own dinner and celebration.

  It was an honor, she’d told her mom, a privilege to be invited to her pastor’s house for the holiday. And her mom had said, I’m happy you’re going. We’ll miss you, though. Maybe you can come for Christmas.

  Yes, Wren had said. If she felt up to traveling, maybe Christmas. But no promises, okay? She couldn’t think that far ahead. And her mother had said, Okay.

  That night as she lay in bed, she took Kit’s suggestion and visualized herself in God’s hand. Then she pictured her mom in God’s other hand, both of them upheld in anxiety, in sorrow, with love.

  19

  Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and bright without a trace of the forecasted snow in West Michigan, not even at the lakeshore. Before Kit drove to Grand Rapids to spend the day with her daughter’s family, she dropped Wren off at Crossroads. Hannah met her at the entrance and ushered her into a large dining hall where tables were set with harvest linens and centerpieces. “We’re expecting so many this year, we’re going to run it as a buffet line rather than serving at tables,” Hannah said. “Any preference for what you’d like to do?”

  Wren scanned the auditorium, trying to ground and center herself in an unfamiliar, cavernous space. “I’m not sure.”

  Through the glass of the far double doors she saw guests lined up, three and four deep, clamoring to enter. Volunteers—none of whom she recognized—carried food from the kitchen to buffet tables, swerving to avoid one another. “Hot tray coming through! Careful! Hot tray!”

  Wren jumped back to avoid a collision with two children who were ducking and dodging around tables in a game of tag, the girl managing to avoid the boy even while maneuvering with two canes. Wren had seen a lopsided gait like hers before. There was a little boy with cerebral palsy in one of her groups at Bethel House. Nicholas was one of the brightest six-year-olds she had ever met. She hoped he was okay.

  “Hey, hey, son!” The father grabbed the boy by the arm as he tried to weave around another table. “Cool it, Collin. Stop the roughhousing. Leave your sister alone.” The girl stuck her tongue out at her brother when her dad wasn’t looking. Then she started the game again.

  With all the noise and commotion, Wren hoped she didn’t have a panic attack. Maybe she had overestimated her emotional and mental capacity.

  “Wren!”

  She spun around. “Mara!”

  Mara wrapped her in the sort of hug one would offer a long-lost friend. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m serving with my church. This is my pastor, Hannah Allen.”

  Mara laughed. “I know Pastor Hannah. Hannah and I go way back.”

  “Mara’s one of the directors here,” Hannah said. “She oversees the food ministry side of things.”

  “I try to, anyway. It’s loosely controlled chaos in here today.”

  “Hey, hey, Collin,” the dad yelled. “I said enough! Do you need a time-out?”

  “Well, put us to work,” Hannah said. “What do you need?”

  “Watch out!” someone called. “Hot tray!”

  Mara said, “Another runner to make sure there’s enough food in the trays. If you could do that, Wren. And Hannah, could you keep Charissa company at the drink station?”

  “You bet.”

  One of the volunteers tripped trying to avoid the game of tag, and his tray of mashed potatoes crashed to the floor with a clatter. Wren clutched her chest.

  “Clean up on aisle six!” Mara called, and returned to the kitchen.

  Hannah touched Wren lightly on the elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Wren wasn’t sure.

  “What can I do for you right now?”

  She didn’t know.

  “I know a quiet place where we can sit a minute. Come with me.”