IN DIFFERENT WORLDS

The card from John came at the end of the first week of September. It said, "I'll be home the fourteenth. Can't wait to see you."

   I read and reread the card a dozen times before the date hit me. The fourteenth? That's the night of the Christian Businessmen's dinner! Ralph had recruited me to go and sing with an informal choir that would provide the special music. I liked to sing and had enjoyed getting together with Ralph and his friends to learn a small repertoire of praise songs and gospel choruses.

   As soon as I got the card, I called Ralph, intending to back out of the dinner. "That's going to be John's first night back in town," I told him.

   "Why don't you invite John to come along?" he asked.

   "I don't know." I somehow had a hard time picturing John at a Christian businessmen's dinner. And yet, I thought, that might be a good chance for him to see the change in me. "Maybe I will," I finally said.

   By the fourteenth, my mind was made up, but as the afternoon waned, I wondered if I would even have a chance to ask John before I had to leave for the dinner. I put on a nice dress and was working on my makeup when the phone finally rang.

   "I'm over at Pam's." The voice was John's. "And I found out you moved."

   "Yeah, just last month. There was no way to let you know. I'm sorry."

   "How do I find you?"

   I gave him the directions and sat down to wait. I had found an apartment — actually the upstairs of a house owned by an elderly widow. I shared the front entrance of the house, but for the first time in my life I wasn't sharing a place with anyone else. The apartment was all mine.

   The moment I heard the motor outside I rushed to the window and saw the familiar turquoise pickup roll to a stop in the driveway. I was halfway down the steps by the time I heard a door slam, and I threw myself into John's arms before he got halfway up the sidewalk.

   "Oh, I missed you!" I told him in the middle of a long embrace. "I'm so glad you're back!"

   "I missed you, too," John responded as I heard another door slam. I released John and looked over to see another guy walking around the front of the truck.

   "Becky," John said, "I'd like you to meet Brent. He was my college roommate, and he's gonna be staying a couple of days before he heads on down to San Diego."

   I greeted him and Brent grinned. "I've heard a lot about you."

   John took my arm. "What do you say we all go out and celebrate?"

   "Oh, I almost forgot, I said. "I've got to leave for a meeting in about fifteen minutes."

   John looked me over and I knew he was noting the dress as he said, "I wondered what was up." It may have been the first time he'd ever seen me in a dress outside of work hours.

   "It's a dinner for local business people. Over at the Holiday Inn. You're both welcome to come."

   "Do you have to go?"

   "I promised I would."

   "All right." John looked at Brent. "We'll go, and afterwards we'll go dancing at Tia Maria's and celebrate."

   "Sure," I said. "That'll be great."

   I didn't tell John about the singing. I figured that would be a surprise. I also figured he'd be proud of my singing and the changes in me.

   I was partly right. John was completely surprised by what he found at the dinner. Everyone who stood at the microphone at the head table said something about "praising the Lord," enjoying our "Christian fellowship," feeling "the presence of the Holy Spirit," or some similar terminology. I saw John look at Brent and kind of roll his eyes in amusement when a smattering of "amens" or "praise the Lords" sounded around the room.

   When I went and stood in the front with the rest of our little choir, I kept my eyes on John. I hoped he was listening to the words of the songs, "They'll Know We Are Christians by our Love," and "He's Everything to Me." But the smile on his face seemed forced and I could tell by the disbelieving look he gave me when I returned to the table that he was puzzled by the whole scene.

   "We'll, this wasn't exactly the way I figured you'd meet Becky," he said to Brent as we walked out of the Holiday Inn at the close of the dinner. "But I did tell you she was crazy and unpredictable, didn't I?"

   He and Brent laughed. I realized I had some serious explaining to do.

   We found a table in the back of Tia Maria's, a Mexican restaurant with a bar and a dance floor. John and Brent ordered beers. I told the waitress, "Just ginger ale for me, thanks."

   John gave me a funny look and I added, "I'm not drinking anymore."

   "You're not?"

   I shook my head. "No."

   "When did this happen?" John wanted to know.

   "It started when I decided I was an alcoholic."

   "You are not!" John quickly replied. He seemed as intent on denying it for Brent's sake, or his own, as he was on convincing me.

   "Well," I said, "I felt I was an alcoholic."

   "Maybe you thought it, but you're no alcoholic, Becky."

   I didn't argue but I just went on to tell John and Brent about how I'd turned to God, how my life was different now, and how I didn't even want to drink.

   I expected John to be excited for me, to want what I'd found. He wasn't — he didn't.

   He listened — probably because he could tell what had happened was important to me. But he acted uncomfortable and a little embarrassed as I talked so intensely about God in front of his friend Brent. Whenever I'd toss a Scripture verse into the conversation, he'd try to change the subject until I finally quit talking and decided to dance and just enjoy John's company again. I knew there would be more time to talk later.

   Even in the days after Brent left, John wasn't any more receptive to the spiritual things I wanted to tell him.

   "Religion is just a crutch for weak people," he said. "If you were an alcoholic, maybe that was just your weakness. I don't know. If religion helps you, fine. I don't need it."

   I remained convinced that he did need it. I was reading and studying the Bible and learning what the Scriptures say about heaven and hell and eternal life. When Ralph showed me where the Bible said believers shouldn't marry unbelievers, I saw even more reason for convincing John. But the more I talked, the harder I pushed, the more resistant he got.

   It was as if we were walking hand in hand down a path until we suddenly came to a crack in the earth — splitting our path right down the middle. We kept walking, holding hands over the crack, which gradually widened between us, but before long we were having to stretch to reach each other over the fissure.

   I told John what I saw was happening. "We're in different worlds, going in different directions. There's a chasm opening up between us, and if you don't cross over soon, John, it's going to separate us forever."

   We both tried to ignore the increasing tension between us and continued to spend hours together every day, dinner every night, movies, dancing. Yet there was no denying our growing differences were tearing at our relationship.

   We had at least one major conflict — the same one every night. When John would take me back to my apartment, or if we'd be at my apartment and bedtime came, he always wanted to stay, and I'd firmly insist he go home.

   After a few nights of this, he finally exploded and demanded to know, "Why can't I stay?"

   "Because it's not right", I said, "and it's part of what I believe."

   "Then why didn't you believe that before?"

   "I don't know," I replied. "But now that I'm reading the Bible, I do know that sleeping with you would be wrong."

   "Who says it's wrong?"

   I showed him a few verses I had found, but that only made him angrier, and he demanded to know where love fit into the picture.

   That's when I turned to 1 Corinthians 13 and defined love for him: "Love is patient and kind..."

   Moments later I heard his truck door slam and the tires squeal as he backed out of the driveway and raced off down the street. I cried as I prayed and asked God to make John see, to make John change. I was beginning to realize I couldn't change him.

   One Sunday morning in Sunday school as we closed the hour by saying the Lord's Prayer together, the words Our Father suddenly stabbed me like a sword. Throughout the entire prayer I could think of nothing but my father, my parents, and how much pain I had caused them. By the time we got to the glory forever tears of remorse were coursing down my cheeks.

   "Becky, what's wrong?" Ralph wanted to know.

   "I think maybe I ought to go home and let my parents see the change in me." Just saying the word home made it sound so good, so appealing and secure.

   "I think that's a good idea," Ralph said.

   I sadly shook my head. "But how can I go home? I've gone home so many times, and it's always been a disaster. My mom and I have such awful fights. I always end up hurting them.

   "Besides, I have job," I added. "I was just home two months ago, and I don't have the money for transportation across the country. I can't go."

   Ralph gently put his hand on my shoulder. He understood much of my hesitation; in the weeks after I asked God to take over my life we'd talked a lot. I'd told him virtually everything about my life. I'd confessed all the wrong I had done, all the lies I had told, all the hurt I had caused, and he continually assured me, "God will forgive that, too, if you just ask him, Becky."

   Now in the empty Sunday school room he said, "If God wants you to go home, he'll open up a way. Why don't you take the first step and see what happens?"

   So that very afternoon I picked up the phone to call my parents. I held the receiver and stared at the numbers for the longest time thinking about the times I had called home from Wisconsin, from college. This is different, I told myself. But each time I've talked to Mom about coming home, she's been more reluctant. We start fighting at a moment's notice. Maybe they won't even want me to come home this time. I wouldn't blame them.

   As I thought about these things I almost hung up. But then I thought of praying. "Lord, if you want me to go home, you've got to work this out. " Slowly, deliberately. I began to dial Chicago.

   "Hello," Dad answered. That was a good start; it wasn't Mom.

   "It's Becky, Dad."

   "I was just thinking about you, honey. We haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

   So I told him — told him all about my turning to God, how I had stopped drinking, about how much I'd changed, and how excited I was to feel so different. He listened, now and then offering "Really?" "That's good," or "I'm glad" to keep me pouring out the details.

   When I finished, there was a long pause, as if Dad could tell I was leading up to something. Finally I just said it. "Dad, I'd like to come home."

   "When should we expect you?"

   There had been no pause — no hesitancy. Just those immediate words of acceptance. I had never felt more loved than I felt in that moment. My father wanted his prodigal daughter to come home. And his only question was when I'd be there. He wanted to be ready.

   A million thoughts flashed through my mind. Home. I'm going home. My dad wants me to come home! I'll be able to show him and Mom I have changed. I'm going home. But how? When?

   "I don't know," I said, pondering Dad's question. "I've got a lot of details to work out. Probably in about two weeks."

   "Wonderful," Dad replied. "We'll see you in two weeks."

   After I hung up the phone, I just sat reflecting on everything that had happened. I picked up the phone again and called Mrs. Felton at home. She had really begun to count on me at the office, so I didn't think she would be very happy about my plans.

   I told her I felt I needed to go home to let my folks see how I had changed, and she said she thought that would be a good idea. She had seen the change and realized how important it was to me for my parents to see it, too. She immediately offered to give me a one- or two-month leave of absence, but I would need to spend the next couple of weeks training the other girls in the office how to cover my duties.

   When I hung up from talking to her, my mind was racing again. I couldn't believe how quickly things were falling into place. I would have to sell my little car so I could pay off my credit union loan before I left town, and I still had to figure out how I could afford to go home! But two major hurdles had been crossed in two brief phone calls, so I felt certain the Lord would work out the rest.

   I was going home!

   That very week a salesman who called occasionally stopped at my desk at the office to chat. He asked what was new with me. So I told him everything — about finding God, about quitting drinking, and about my plans to go home to Chicago as soon as I could find a way.

   "You're not going to believe this," the man said when I finished, "but I've got a friend who has been looking for someone to drive his motor home back to Chicago for him. It's parked right now at my place up in Oakland. I'll give him a call tonight and see what he says."

   A couple of days later I got a telegram from the owner of the motor home, authorizing me to drive his vehicle across the country. He was even going to pay for the gas.

   Just two days before I planned to leave, someone at the dealership saw my For Sale sign and bought my car. He paid my asking price without a question. All the hurdles were crossed.

   John drove me up to Oakland to get the motor home. I felt none of the hysteria I had felt about leaving at the airport back in July. He hadn't argued about my decision to go home. In fact, I had been a little hurt that he hadn't been any more reluctant to see me go. Yet he seemed to understand how important it was for me to see my parents and for them to see the new me.

   Ralph had been planning a visit with his family back in Wisconsin, so he volunteered to go with me and share the driving of the twenty-six foot motor home. When one of us slept, the other one drove, and with the only stops being for gas and occasional meals, the miles and two-thirds of a continent rolled by quickly — the Sierras, the flat deserts of Nevada and Utah, the Rockies, and the endless plains.

   There was a lot of time to think. I recalled the excitement I had felt when I first headed west. Fiddling with the radio, I remembered the words I had adopted as my personal fight song:

Somehow, someday, we need just one victory
and we're on our way
Prayin' for it all day and fightin' for it all night
Give us just one victory and it will be all right.

   I had spent two years in California fighting for some sort of victory, some sense of self-worth. I had succeeded in business, only to see that accomplishment crumble away when my personal life caved in. Now God had given my the victory I had been searching for, and my whole life was beginning to fall into place.

   I still had some problems to work out, but he farther east I drove, the more certain I was that this homecoming would be different because I was different. Everything would be all right.

   I could hardly wait to get home and share my victory with my parents and friends.

Table of Contents  ||  Chapter 14