One
Noble Wife Journey: a blog
Title: The Calling
Published: September 14, 2011
There is a message being delivered in Bower, Minnesota, and the world needs to hear it.
I want the same things as any other teenage girl: romance, love, adoration. I want a boy who will claim me as his own, who will win my heart and spend every day trying to keep it. But I know the way to find these things is not what the world tells me is so.
The secular world tells us to be selfish. It tells us to go after our own desires, seek pleasure, chase success, embrace what they call progress. And what are the results of this?
Broken families. Disease. Poverty. Despair.
What if there is a better way?
My church may be small, but my pastor’s gifting is powerful. And with his permission, I am sharing his message with the world. This blog might reach ten people or ten thousand, but my purpose is clear: we are sharing a way for the next generation to learn from the mistakes of our elders.
So much of what is wrong with the world today is blamed on men. Like their centuries of achievement
should be canceled out by the terrible actions of the few. As if my namesake, Eve, were not the first to eat the forbidden fruit.
No. If I want to see this broken world heal, it starts with me—with us. Women. In pursuit of the equality the world has told us to desire, we have sacrificed our very nature. We have corrupted ourselves, turned our softness into hard angles, filled our gentle mouths with harsh rhetoric. We have stripped off our strength and dignity in favor of anger and bitterness.
That stops with us. There is a movement among the girls in Bower, and we invite you to join it. We are setting aside the glossy magazines full of women with impossible figures we are taught to emulate. We are turning off the movies and TV shows that tell us to be more seductive, more carefree, more independent.
Pastor Rick tells us women are created to serve, to be pure, to submit, to be a delight to their husbands. Who are we to deny the very nature our Creator has built within us?
“A wife of noble character who can find?”
We will be found. We are the future.
I am following the lessons in Pastor Rick Franklin’s revolutionary series. Every girl between fourteen and sixteen is invited to do the same in our church, and we meet weekly to go through the lessons. However, there is no age limit on this wisdom. If you want to, I will make it as easy as possible for you to follow along.
Subscribe to watch my journey, and you will see the results for yourself. I have faith.
We each have it within us to be a Noble Wife.
Two
I AM GOING TO KILL my boyfriend. The carbonara on the table in front of me has taken on the sheen of lightly scrambled eggs, and his hard lump of steak has a pool of fat hardening in the center. Halfway through my second glass of red wine, and he is still not here. Word has spread with the waitstaff, because every time one of them passes, I see them steal another glance at the uneaten food before casting their eyes on me in pity.
I would hate them if I hadn’t done the same thing back when I tended bar.
I haven’t been stood up, I want to snap. My boyfriend just has lots of things to do. We’ve been together seven months, which is the longest I’ve made a relationship last in a while, and it’s because I don’t complain about meaningless stuff like him being an hour late to our dates. Although that has been happening more often than not lately.
Dan is very important. A medical student, he is always sure to mention.
A mumbled “There you are, Del” announces his arrival. His hand scrapes across the dark blond stubble on his jaw as he sits down, meeting my gaze across the movie-set-cold plates of our dinner.
I say nothing.
“What’s wrong with you?” His tone is curious.
“You told me to order almost forty minutes ago.”
Dan sighs. “I know, I was on my way out and Dr. Freedman caught me.”
“You didn’t tell him your girlfriend was waiting?”
His mouth tightens as he pours himself a glass of wine from the half-drunk bottle. He hates when I use labels. My question apparently doesn’t warrant a response.
I stick my fork in the pasta.
“Don’t eat that. We’ll send it back.”
“We can’t send it back, Dan. They didn’t do anything wrong.”
He shows me his palm. “Calm down. I’ll just explain the situation. They’ll understand.”
Heat stings my face as I watch him look around for a server. At last, he spots someone and waves her over. “Hi there. I’m sure you noticed our food has gone cold. I got caught up with something after she ordered. Can we get you to remake it for us?” He smiles the same way he did when we first met, when he came looking for a pair of shoes. Even in the too-bright fluorescents of the department store where I spend thirty hours every week, that smile hooked me like one of my dad’s brightly colored fishing lures.
It’s working on the waitress, too, annoyingly.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault it’s cold,” I tell her. As much as I don’t want to eat gluggy pasta, the thought of them rewarding Dan’s behavior by making us fresh meals is worse.
He glares at me for half a second before turning the charm back on. “It would be such a big favor. Long day at medical school, and I could sure use a hot steak.”
He hasn’t apologized; Dan never does. The “sorry” is implied in his tone but carefully not stated. That way he can get you to do what he wants without ever admitting he’s wrong. It took me a few months to notice.
The woman hesitates for a valiant three seconds before her shoulders relax in her starched white shirt. “Of course, I’m sure there’s something the chef can do. I’ll be right back.” She picks up our plates, and then she’s gone.
“Seriously, what is the matter with you, Del?” he asks.
“Me? You’re the one who’s demanding special treatment. If you don’t want to eat cold food, don’t be late.” A warning snags somewhere inside me as I hear the venom in my words. I’m being too harsh. I try to dial it back. “I know you didn’t mean to, but it seems unfair to ask them to throw out what was perfectly good food a half hour ago.”
“I’m going to tip well.”
That’s true. He does do that, at least. I let out a tight breath. Nothing I want to say will make him happy.
“You know, you’re being pretty dramatic. She said it was no big deal.”
“She has to say that; you’re the customer.” My fingers close around the stem of my wineglass, and I tip another gulp of red into my mouth.
We sit in silence until the food comes. Dan thanks the waitress effusively before sawing into his steak. I twirl my fork in the glossy pasta, betrayed by my growling stomach.
“There, now isn’t that better?”
It tastes divine, but I can barely swallow around the knot of anger in my throat. That tone. My lips pull up in
what I hope is a convincing smile. Maybe if I keep eating, he won’t try to talk to me. I take another bite, and another, and another, trying to drown my irritation with carbonara. But I can’t drown out the sound of his knife squealing against the plate, or his mouth masticating that steak with the repetitious insistence of the animal it came from.
He picks up the knife to cut off another knob of meat, and I’m struck with the urge to reach across the table and stab it into his hand instead.
“You could at least say thank you.”
I blink at him.
He gestures at my plate. “For not letting you eat that shitty pasta.”
My lips part, but I can’t force the words out. Instead, I pick up my fork and shove more food into my mouth, staring at him as I chew.
After another minute, he sets down his cutlery with a sigh. “You know what? I don’t need this. I told you I don’t like girls who are all emotional.”
I say nothing.
His voice is calm, casual. “If this is how it’s going to be, then I’m out.”
“What? Dan.”
That hand goes up again. “Don’t. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and you just made the decision really easy. We’re done. Now finish your pasta, and don’t make a scene.”
And then I do the worst thing I’ve done all night.
I do what he tells me to.
“I’VE GOT EXCITING news!” my roommate, Jess, says before I can even get our apartment door shut behind me. Her face falls when she sees the tears on mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, go on. I could use some exciting news. What’s happening?”
She’s obviously trying to look concerned, but her smile splits her face wide open. “Simon and I are moving in together!”
I freeze for a second. “Oh. Oh, that’s great. Congratulations!”
Jess nibbles on the corner of her lip. “I know, I know. We should have talked about it first. But it just kind of happened. He asked me tonight, and I said yes before I could really even think about it.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, Jess. So, are you moving out?” I shed my winter coat, drop my purse on the counter, and open the fridge to hunt for a bottle of hard lemonade. It’s way too cold for a drink like that, but it’s the only alcohol I’ve got in the house. Unscrewing the cap, I take several slow gulps before I notice she hasn’t answered me.
When I lower the bottle, she isn’t meeting my gaze.
“Jess.” Then my shoulders drop. “You want me to move out, don’t you?”
“Not right away! I mean, you don’t have to. We can find a place for ourselves. It’s just, you know, I’ve lived here for a few years and it would be easier if . . .” She looks up at me.
I stare back over the bottle and take another drink. “It would be easier if I stopped mooching off you and found another apartment.”
“You’re not mooching, Del. I’ve never thought that.”
“But I only pay a third of the rent, and I’m guessing Simon can go full halfsies.” I set down the bottle and sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m excited for you, and you’re right. I only moved in here last year. It makes sense for you guys to stay.”
Thirteen months ago, I found Jess through an ad at my favorite café. She had just started work as a law associate at a high-powered firm in downtown Minneapolis, so she could have afforded the apartment herself but didn’t want to live alone. I called her, we met up for coffee and hit it off. I moved in two weeks later. Most of the roommates I had before her were various levels of civil acquaintance; she and I had actually turned out to be pretty good friends. Just over a year, and it’s the longest I’ve lived in any apartment since I moved to Minneapolis. I shouldn’t be hurt, but I didn’t think she’d want to get rid of me so easily.
Jess’s cheeks pull up in a smile that is distinctly more pitying than the one from a few minutes ago. “There’s no rush, though. Really.” She rubs my arm. “And you don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry for springing this on you when you’ve obviously had a bad night. What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just tired—going to call it a night.” There’s no point in ruining her excitement. I can tell her all about Dan dumping me over waffles and coffee tomorrow.
Simon pokes his head out of her bedroom door. “Coming, babe? Oh, hi, Del.”
I return his smile and look back at Jess. “Go on. I’ll talk to you more in the morning.”
She doesn’t need much convincing. A few minutes later, she’s safely shut away with her boyfriend in her bedroom, and I’m on my own with music playing, my laptop open, and a full bottle of hard lemonade in hand. I am tired—that part wasn’t a lie—but I’m too wound up to go to sleep. A quick apartment search yields results too depressing to deal with tonight, and I quickly shut the tabs. I open Facebook next, scrolling through my timeline as I drink the sour alcohol.
It’s been days since I logged in. The people on my account fall into four main categories: those I grew up with, extended family, people I went to college with, and coworkers from the various jobs I’ve had since I graduated. Dozens of girls have gotten married and changed their last names, and I don’t even recognize half of the profile pictures on my timeline. It’s why I barely ever log on here anymore—the word friend has lost all meaning.
I’m just about to close out the tab when I scroll to a picture that makes my heart tilt. It’s been years since I’ve seen it in person, but the face hasn’t changed: strong chin that never managed to stay free of stubble, full lips, light brown eyes. Lars Oback smiles at me from the screen. When I tear my eyes away from his face, I see the caption.
Something hollows out inside me. Breathing hard, I click to view the comments. It’s more of the same: people sharing memories, broken-heart emojis, RIP after RIP, and promises to pray for his family. When I get to the end, I search his name. There are dozens of posts, almost all of them by people I’m connected to from Messiah Church, where I grew up. It’s not a mistake, it’s not a joke.
Everyone is saying the same thing: Lars Oback is dead.
My hands shake as I open another tab, searching for the local news in my hometown. There is one short article, posted around noon today.
Twenty-eight-year-old Bower resident Lars Oback was shot and killed while hunting early yesterday morning. The Green County Sheriff Department attended the scene and assessed the circumstances of the death, providing a brief statement to the public this morning.
A video is embedded in the article. I click play. Sheriff Wilson stands behind a cheap-looking podium, florid cheeks shaking as he talks into the microphone. “As you all know, our community was hit with the tragic loss of a godly young man yesterday. Our department responded to a 911 call from Lars Oback’s hunting companion early yesterday morning, saying that he had been shot. Upon attending the scene, our deputies sadly confirmed that Mr. Oback was already deceased. They interviewed his friend and spent hours investigating the scene. We have determined that this was a tragic accident—a stray bullet, likely from a passing hunting party.”
The sheriff looks up from his notes. “Lars Oback was a husband, a father, and a beloved member of Messiah Church, where many of my deputies and myself enjoyed fellowship with him. Our pastor, Rick Franklin, would like to say a few words as well.”
Something moves at the edge of the screen, and then he’s there, on camera. He steps up to the microphone next to Sheriff Wilson with his trim shoulders wrapped in an expensive suit, black hair frozen in carefully styled waves. Pastor Rick’s jaw and cheekbones are sharper than I remember, but my nightmares have made it impossible to forget that voice.
“It is difficult to capture the depth of our sorrow, but fortunately the Word of God is here to help us. Psalm 118 says, ‘In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free. The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’”
He looks at the camera, and I feel his gaze slicing through me. I can’t breathe. “I would like everyone to know that counseling services are available from the church at any time. Free for members, of course, and at a very generous rate for anyone in Bower who is struggling. We are here to help our community grieve and process this terrible, tragic accident.”
The video ends there. A line of text appears below.
I stare at the screen until the words blur, becoming a fuzz of black on glowing white. It’s real. Lars is dead. Lars is dead, and Pastor Rick has somehow managed to make it an advertisement for Messiah Church. Lars is dead, and my mother didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me.
She let me find out on social media like he was just another person, some random resident of Bower, Minnesota, instead of the only man I’ve ever loved. I would have known something was wrong the second I saw her name come up on my phone. I could have used those seconds to prepare myself, to brace to hear her voice for the first time in months, not to mention the message she would deliver. But she never called.
Maybe it’s for the best. I can’t imagine her delivering the news without somehow implying it was my fault.
If you’d just been able to keep him happy, who knows how differently things could have turned out? Maybe you two would have been on a winter vacation and he’d still be alive.
My mom somehow believes that even my worst experiences were God’s will, but also that they could have been avoided if I made better life choices.
I go back to Facebook, look at the photo of Lars again. It must be recent; he has aged since I saw him six years ago, but it suits him. The angles in his face are more defined, his eyes sharp and wise. His mouth is the same, and I’m struck by the memory of his lips on my neck. It’s so strong that I close my eyes, momentarily drowning in it. I once thought I’d spend the rest of my life with him. I fell for him weeks into my freshman year at college, but it didn’t seem strange at the time. Most of the girls I knew were married by junior year. For us, going to college was much more about earning the MRS degree.
It might have been years since I saw his face, but it hasn’t been that long since I heard him speak. The voicemail he left only four days ago is still on my phone. I never returned it.
Guilt hits me viciously, too fast to stifle the moan of grief that escapes my lips. I swipe to my voicemail and open the message Lars left last week. Last week, when I thought things were fine with Dan. Last week, when I lived with a roommate I liked and felt like I was finally settling into some sort of rhythm. Last week, when he was still alive.
“You have one saved message.”
Then his voice is there, the rich baritone that sent a shock of longing through my system when I first listened to it. I know that’s really why I didn’t return the call. I couldn’t bear the fact that a part of me was clearly still in love with him after all this time.
“Delilah,” he says, his tongue wrapping around my name in a way that used to give me goosebumps, “call me back. I need to talk to you. You . . . you were right. I’m sorry.”
I stare at the screen as the robot asks if I want to save or delete the message. I end the call. Those are the last words I will ever hear him say. They’re six years too late, but they’re something.
I’m sorry.
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