âI have to go finish packing.â
âIf I canât stop you, let me help you, at least,â Catherine had offered.
âOkay.â Nel wrapped her arms around her mother, the one to whom sheâd confessed most of her secretsâher first kiss, her first breakupâalthough sheâd spared Mama the news of her first sexual encounter with the neighbor boy, Walter Prescott, a triple-varsity-lettered, hairy kid who lived down the street. And other than her best friend, Lori, sheâd told her mom before anyone else about the unexpected pregnancy with Tom. Nel knew she and Catherine shared a unique mother-daughter relationship and that many would call her crazy to leaveâmaybe she was. But she was determined to find a place where she could start new.
They wiped their tears, and Catherine had called her tennis partner to cancel their match. Upstairs, Nel explained to Catherine more about the artist colonies and what she hoped to do in Santa Fe, which was to apprentice with someone and then start selling her own jewelry designs. She told her mother about her love for the flowers of Georgia OâKeeffe; the landscapes of Peter Hurd; the oils of Oscar Berninghaus; and the cowboys, Indians, and cavalry of Frederic Remington. How surely breathing the same air and walking the same paths of such great artists would inspire her art to new levels unattainableâlost, evenâif she stayed in the tiny tourist town of South Haven.
âThose arenât jewelry artists,â Catherine had pointed out, tugging a large, sparkling amethyst back and forth along the silver chain around her neck. Jakob had faceted and set the brilliant pale-purple stone for her most recent birthday.
Nel had grinned a little, trying to lighten the mood. âI know, but there are so many kinds of artists out thereâall kinds. Art feeds art. Iâll find my way.â She folded a corduroy blazer and added it to the contents of the suitcase, which was almost full. âMaybe Godâs in the desert. He was there with Moses. Maybe Heâll be there. In the sunrise and the sunset.â
âHeâs here, too, you know.â
She looked at her mother apologetically, Catherineâs pointed response reminding Nel to avoid the topic of faith, about the only topic in their relationship that caused any major disagreements between them. It wasnât that Nel didnât believeâshe did. It wasnât that she hadnât accepted Christ as her Saviorâshe had, the first time as a small girl in white tights and a pale-peach, lace Easter dress. Kneeling on a dusty tile floor before Warner Sallmanâs Head of Christ in a Sunday school room at the Presbyterian church her parents attended, sheâd asked the gentle-eyed man in the frame to come into her heart. His skin, pale and smooth like velvet, and His golden hair, edged with supernatural light, were forever etched into her memory.
The second time, sheâd thought of the serene man in the painting and asked Him to please come into her heart again. She was sure Jesus had left her after she got caught making out with Brad Stanislawski under the bleachers at the high school football stadium. The dean of students, Mrs. Edwards, spent an entire hour lecturing her about the dangers and abomination of teenage sex, then called Jakob and Catherine into the office and lectured her some more.
The third time Nel had asked Jesus into her heart was while sitting around a bonfire at Young Life Frontier Ranch camp in the summer of 1969. At the time, Jesus looked more like one of the camp counselors she had a crush on than Warner Sallmanâs portrait. Over and over and over again, sheâd asked Jesus into her heart, though she supposed she knew she only had to accept Him once. But mistakes and regrets and certainty followed by the fumbling darkness of uncertainty had caused her to come to God again, begging for pardon, for acceptance, for some kind of
âIf I canât stop you, let me help you, at least,â Catherine had offered.
âOkay.â Nel wrapped her arms around her mother, the one to whom sheâd confessed most of her secretsâher first kiss, her first breakupâalthough sheâd spared Mama the news of her first sexual encounter with the neighbor boy, Walter Prescott, a triple-varsity-lettered, hairy kid who lived down the street. And other than her best friend, Lori, sheâd told her mom before anyone else about the unexpected pregnancy with Tom. Nel knew she and Catherine shared a unique mother-daughter relationship and that many would call her crazy to leaveâmaybe she was. But she was determined to find a place where she could start new.
They wiped their tears, and Catherine had called her tennis partner to cancel their match. Upstairs, Nel explained to Catherine more about the artist colonies and what she hoped to do in Santa Fe, which was to apprentice with someone and then start selling her own jewelry designs. She told her mother about her love for the flowers of Georgia OâKeeffe; the landscapes of Peter Hurd; the oils of Oscar Berninghaus; and the cowboys, Indians, and cavalry of Frederic Remington. How surely breathing the same air and walking the same paths of such great artists would inspire her art to new levels unattainableâlost, evenâif she stayed in the tiny tourist town of South Haven.
âThose arenât jewelry artists,â Catherine had pointed out, tugging a large, sparkling amethyst back and forth along the silver chain around her neck. Jakob had faceted and set the brilliant pale-purple stone for her most recent birthday.
Nel had grinned a little, trying to lighten the mood. âI know, but there are so many kinds of artists out thereâall kinds. Art feeds art. Iâll find my way.â She folded a corduroy blazer and added it to the contents of the suitcase, which was almost full. âMaybe Godâs in the desert. He was there with Moses. Maybe Heâll be there. In the sunrise and the sunset.â
âHeâs here, too, you know.â
She looked at her mother apologetically, Catherineâs pointed response reminding Nel to avoid the topic of faith, about the only topic in their relationship that caused any major disagreements between them. It wasnât that Nel didnât believeâshe did. It wasnât that she hadnât accepted Christ as her Saviorâshe had, the first time as a small girl in white tights and a pale-peach, lace Easter dress. Kneeling on a dusty tile floor before Warner Sallmanâs Head of Christ in a Sunday school room at the Presbyterian church her parents attended, sheâd asked the gentle-eyed man in the frame to come into her heart. His skin, pale and smooth like velvet, and His golden hair, edged with supernatural light, were forever etched into her memory.
The second time, sheâd thought of the serene man in the painting and asked Him to please come into her heart again. She was sure Jesus had left her after she got caught making out with Brad Stanislawski under the bleachers at the high school football stadium. The dean of students, Mrs. Edwards, spent an entire hour lecturing her about the dangers and abomination of teenage sex, then called Jakob and Catherine into the office and lectured her some more.
The third time Nel had asked Jesus into her heart was while sitting around a bonfire at Young Life Frontier Ranch camp in the summer of 1969. At the time, Jesus looked more like one of the camp counselors she had a crush on than Warner Sallmanâs portrait. Over and over and over again, sheâd asked Jesus into her heart, though she supposed she knew she only had to accept Him once. But mistakes and regrets and certainty followed by the fumbling darkness of uncertainty had caused her to come to God again, begging for pardon, for acceptance, for some kind of
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