Dogwood by Chris Fabry Page B

dishes are clean in the dishwasher. Most times I can’t remember if I’ve done them, so I pat my hand there to see if there’s any water. You can’t get much, but there’s some.”
    Then she turned her glass over, grabbed the pitcher of tea,and poured with abandon until the glass overflowed, ran down the sides onto her hand, and spilled onto the porch.
    I picked up my feet as it gushed past Tarin, who looked on in amazement.
    Ruthie’s eyes were on me, burning through. “Which do you want?” she whispered. “Do you want to live on the surface of the bottom, as shallow as the bottom of this glass? Or do you want something else?”
    “I want to be filled. I want to overflow.”
    Tears rimmed her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Good. You struggle and fight with everything in you and don’t take the easy way out. Wrestle those demons in that closet and don’t stop struggling until you’ve written it down for every one of us.”
    It took a long time to digest that.
    Later, when a cool breeze had blown past us, carrying the scent of dinners on the wind, Ruthie spoke again. “Most people have given up on their heart. They’ve settled for less. Like a married couple on treadmills, both working hard, spewing out sweat, but never getting anywhere. They’re content to sit on the porch in rocking chairs and watch life. At one point they had some vague sense when something deep down inside called to them and they wanted to follow, but the ticking clock and the kids and the mortgage drowned it out. It’s a rhythm, a beat in the background you have to strain to hear. You have to push things out of the way to really listen.”
    “I think I know what you’re talking about,” I said reluctantly.
    “You hear it clearly when you’re young. There’s a freedom when you’re a child that sets the heart on the right path. But something happens. Especially with girls. We sense something. We feel uneasy in our gut because of someone’s words or an action, something that doesn’t feel quite right, but then we push it down. We don’t listen.”
    “Why?”
    “For a million reasons. We don’t want people to think we’re judgmental. We don’t want to hurt another person’s feelings. We’re afraid of what others might think.”
    “Example,” I said.
    “When I was younger, I sang in a church group. We’d travel around to different places. There was something about the leader, though. It was a gut reaction—stay away; don’t get too close. But I didn’t listen.”
    “Did he ever do anything to you?”
    Ruthie bit her cheek. “Yes. And here I am an old woman, and I still remember that night. Like it was yesterday. To this day I feel vulnerable around people who are supposed to be spiritual leaders. That’s the terrible thing. You stop listening to your heart and you become a shell of who you were meant to be.”
    Exactly what I felt like. Empty. “Can you ever get that back? regain the power to listen to your heart?”
    “You bet. That’s the great thing about God. He can restore the broken places. It’s really what he’s all about. Beauty for ashes.”
    If you’ve ever had a friend who cares enough about you to get down in the dirt and roll around, to cry and laugh and shovel the manure of life, you’ll know how I felt when Ruthie leaned forward. I still get shivers thinking about her words and how true they were. How true they are.
    “God is taking you somewhere, Karin. Someplace deep. He wants you to go with him. Most people never hear that call, never follow. They’re too busy or too successful or have just stopped listening. He’s making you uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to let you settle for chicken feed, where you hunt and peck what you want and leave the rest. I don’t know where you’ll wind up, but I’ll bet it’s going to feel a little bit lonely. He probably won’t take away your sadness. In fact, he might add to it. But when you’re closer to God and the things he cares about, there’s