4: The Cherubim

    Diligent gardeners, in general, are known to retreat to their chosen hobby during a time of emotional crisis, and this was the case now with Karen. Dressed in perfect neatness, and satiated by a cup of coffee and two slices of jam-spread wheat toast, she tramped out towards the toolshed. She ignored her husband as she brushed past him at the back-door, and he ignored her also, being mentally lost in a road map of the surrounding area. She wished that he hadn’t. She wished that Connor had looked up from the crinkled paper and given her a broad, normal smile, to reassure her that everything could go back to normal.

    Karen gingerly reached into the little old shed, past a gray coil of hose, and pulled out a recently purchased pair of long garden shears. They shone brightly in the sun. As she worked away at her rosebushes, she looked past the glare and stewed upon the thought of her husband’s transformation.

    Perhaps an entire hour passed, perhaps even two; a diligent gardener often loses track. The sun had warmed the day. Karen laid her shears on a small ornamental table in the front yard and went inside for a glass of water. There was Connor in the kitchen. Now he was showered and dressed, and had his cup of coffee steaming on the counter, but he still held that confounded map.

    “The quickest way to get to Sycamore, I think,” he said, half to himself, half to his wife, “would be by this old, narrow highway. It’s the fastest shot, but the road sure winds back and forth a lot. It’s probably fallen into disuse, too. The concrete’s probably shot full of old potholes.”

    Finishing her glass, Karen mustered as composed a manner as she could. “And you know how unreliable the car has been lately. I asked you to take it down to the shop last week. Imagine getting stranded there in the middle of nowhere, and probably nobody even passing by to be able to help. Perhaps this is God’s way of telling you to nevermind this silly impulse and stay away from Sycamore after all.”

    If Connor noticed her perturbed manner, he pretended not to. “Or, perhaps,” he replied calmly, “it’s God’s way of testing my resolve to follow the Spirit.” For a bare moment he looked up from the map with that old, familiar smile. “Don’t be worried, my dear. No serious harm can come to a man while he’s acting out the will of God.” Karen thought that she might be able to cite the circumstances surrounding some prophets to contradict his reasoning, but she kept it to herself.

    In another 30 minutes, Connor had loaded the car. Karen was busy again with her clippers. He stepped into the middle of the garden to meet her for the farewell.

    “I’m sorry, my dear,” Connor began. “I’m sorry that I must trust God, even though you mistrust my actions. I tell you, I’ve never felt anything as real as this, this feeling that I’ll be successful. I’m about to go and change a young man’s life, my love. I’m going to save a soul. Those men at the retreat, they need help, but of a different nature, and Erickson is competent to supply what they require. This young man, Jason Hanover, I feel that he’s an urgent case, and I must be there today. I’m sure I won’t be gone long. Perhaps I’ll even return by tomorrow night. How beautiful it would be if I were to convert him this very night, and have a glorious baptism in the bright and early morning. Within 24 hours a life can be changed; I’ve seen it myself. Please trust God, and trust me.”

    Karen looked at him with tears in her eyes. “I don’t get the same feeling, Connor. I feel like if you go then you may never come back. Maybe it is silly, but it’s just what I feel this moment. I’ll try to trust. I’m afraid I’m ruining your big moment.” She laughed away the tears and embraced him. “Please just come back, and I’ll be right here.”

    As Connor pulled away, Karen walked slowly to the end of the driveway. She smiled and waved, and the shears gently swung back and forth from her right hand. In the rearview mirror, Connor saw her there, resolute as a sentinel, and the swinging shears glowed like fire in the glare of the sun, and Karen’s favorite tree stretched beautifully behind them, and Connor felt strangely for a bare moment that coming home again may not be quite so easy after all.

Author's Note

This chapter is in need of reworking in light of the story's context. Any constructive criticisms are appreciated.