I have bad news, and some good, to report today. I will give them in that order, so as to leave you with a note of hope in the difficulty. This is, after all, what I tried to do with Morgan and Brooke.
Morgan had a very unhappy morning. She has had no luck finding another job, nor has she heard from her parents since she informed them of her decision. When the mail came, she found a third pain waiting for her: a letter from the minister at Emmanuel Baptist Church.
It was this that drew me to her—I felt her pain even from heaven, heard her tears and her cries. I came upon her weeping over the letter, and reading it, was likewise hurt by its words, but not surprised.
Your recent decisions have led the church leaders to believe that you are no longer fit to be a member here. We urge you to pray and find the truth in the scriptures, and if the Spirit changes your heart, you will then be welcomed back into the family where you belong. Until then, however, we cannot in conscience allow your continued presence in the sanctuary.
Brooke was not home, so she could not comfort Morgan as she cried. I was a poor substitute, as she could not feel my wing or my arms around her, and I could not wipe away her tears. I suffered her grief with her, for the people at Emmanuel had been her protectors and her guides for many years. This betrayal, this exile, cut deep into her tender heart, and she wept for a long time, deaf to my words of reassurance.
I remained with her even after her tears had dried, feeling the heavy fog of depression clouding around her. She even thought briefly about telling Brooke that she couldn’t do this any longer, that it wasn’t right—but I did not even have time to panic before she shook her head hard, denying the thought. Now that she has realized her feelings, Morgan is astonished that she denied it for so long. No man has ever bothered to know her as Brooke does, and she knows her heart is safe with Brooke.
It was only an hour or so after she read the letter that someone buzzed at Morgan’s door, seeking entrance. Puzzled—Morgan was not expecting anyone—she went to see who it was, and I could feel her heart’s sudden leap from all the way across the room. She unlocked the apartment door and went running down the stairs, heedless of her bare feet and mussed hair.
“Mrs. Yates!” I heard her cry as she skidded to a halt on the lower level.
I caught her memories before I caught sight of the woman. This elderly lady of the church, a brisk, busy woman who arranges many lunches and heads the decoration committee every year in the season of the Birth, was standing there in the lobby, wearing a hat, leather gloves, and a sharp expression. Morgan’s stomach was twisting—she had no idea what to expect from this woman, but she was very glad to see anyone from the church.
“I do hope this isn’t a bad time,” Mrs. Yates said, looking Morgan up and down. “I can come back.”
“Oh—no, I’m not busy,” Morgan said. “Would you—would you like to come up?” She blushed, remembering the letter, and said more quietly, “I understand if you don’t want to.”
Mrs. Yates angled her head, and her chin firmed up. “I would like nothing better, Morgan,” she said. She held out a heavy bag. “If you would, please, though—I would rather not have my attention divided on those stairs.”
This made Morgan laugh, and her heart was a bit lighter as she took the bag, which was full of food.
“Did you stop on the way back from the grocery store, Mrs. Yates?” Morgan asked as she pushed the door open with one hip.
Mrs. Yates took a few steps into the center of the room and looked around. “I have a granddaughter your age,” she said, giving Morgan another one of those pointed looks. “I know how most of you eat—microwave dinners and ramen.” She spoke those words with such scorn that I gathered these were quite wicked and insufficient forms of sustenance. [1] With her long chin, she indicated the bag of groceries. “That is much better for you.”
Morgan stood for a moment, stunned. Her eyes, still sore from the tears she had shed, began to water yet again. It amazes me, the humans’ capacity for tears. Also, that one reaction can show both sorrow and joy. “For me?” she asked, her voice cracking.
Mrs. Yates glanced away from Morgan’s face, running a gloved finger along the bookshelf. “Both you and your—partner,” she said. “Perhaps you could make her something nice.”
By this point, I had come to understand that this was more than a simple gesture. Mrs. Yates was well aware of the contents of the letter—though she is not a leader in Emmanuel, she remains quite involved in the decisions of the church. This visit was a sign that she had decided not to support the most recent decision.
Morgan was nearly overcome, but my own rush of gratitude to Mrs. Yates made her strong enough to say on a laugh, “I’m not much of a cook—too many microwave dinners. But it’s a nice thought. I’ll give it a try.” She turned to the kitchen to put the groceries away, hastily wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she went. “Any ideas?” she asked over her shoulder.
Mrs. Yates sighed and followed Morgan into the kitchen. “Children are not taught anything useful these days,” she said. “Get me a cup of coffee and I can get you started.”
Mrs. Yates stayed for two cups of coffee, helping Morgan prepare to make grilled asparagus, potatoes with rosemary, and sautéed salmon for dinner later that evening. They talked of inconsequential things and never said a word about the church, but there was perfect understanding between the two of them. Is that not astounding? Perhaps communication is not nearly as difficult to accomplish as I once believed.
When Morgan escorted Mrs. Yates to the door, she broke the veneer of the everyday and seized the older woman’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Yates,” she said.
Mrs. Yates looked at her, and in her mind were her memories of Morgan, first coming to the church years ago and throwing herself into the worship of our Father. She cleared her throat and nodded once. Then she cleared her throat again and gave Morgan’s hand a squeeze. “My daughter attends a nondenominational church in the Bronx,” she said. “I’m sure she would be glad to have you join her there, if you are interested. I’ve been wanting to introduce the two of you for a long time.”
Morgan smiled. “Brooke and I would love to go. Why don’t you give me her number?”
[1] In fact, a microwave is a device that uses radio waves to generate heat within food. It is often used as a shortcut in cooking. Ramen, similarly, consists of dried noodles and powdered seasoning—simply add boiling water and it is ready to eat. I can understand the desire to save time (and money, which is also a factor in this way of eating) but I agree with Mrs. Yates—cooking is an art, not just a means to an end, and making a meal for someone—or better, with someone—is a lovely way to spend time.