Good Heavens by Margaret A. Graham Page A

you could write the book on psychology.”
    I laughed and we parted at the door leading up to Ursula’s apartment. Linda went back to the field.
    The apartment was sparsely furnished, and the computer sat on the only table, with piles of papers and books. They were probably all necessary to writing proposals for grants, but they made for a big mess. Ursula thanked me, but I guess she was too worried to smile. Pale as a ghost with dark circles under her eyes. I wished she’d quit spending so much time on those appeals and get more rest.
    She sighed. “Sit down, Esmeralda.”
    I took a pile of books off a chair and drew the chair up to the table.
    Ursula was on the verge of tears. “Esmeralda,” she began, “I must not fail in this job . . . I simply cannot fail.” Handling that sandwich the way a sick person does who hasn’t the strength or the will to eat, Ursula sighed and put it down. Her eyes were brimming; I handed her a tissue. “I’ve been here nearly two years and have nothing to show for it except a pile of bills. I want so much to serve the Lord . . .”
    I did the best I could to comfort her—told her she was serving the Lord.
    â€œAm I? Am I serving the Lord?” She lifted her eyes from the plate and looked at me. “I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
    â€œOh, come now—you’re working so hard you’re bound to succeed. You’ll succeed, Ursula. I guarantee it!”
    â€œI have to, Esmeralda . . .” She fingered the glass of milk.
    I rattled on, hardly knowing what I was saying. “Well, now, Ursula, there’s more than one kind of success . . .”
    I don’t think she heard me. “You see, my parents . . . well, my parents disapprove of what I’m doing. Theywant me to pursue an academic career such as they have. The only way I could persuade them to let me take this job was to present it as a practicum in my major, psychology.”
    Now, in my book, a woman her age should be able to make her own decisions. “Ursula, if I may ask, how old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-nine next month. . . . You’re thinking that I’m old enough to choose what I want to do without asking anybody’s consent. Well, I am old enough to do that, but my parents aren’t Christians, and I don’t want to do anything that might keep them from coming to Christ.”
    â€œI see,” I said, but I really didn’t see that being tied to their apron strings would have anything to do with winning them to Christ.
    â€œMy parents are both scholars. Mother teaches humanities, and my father is a professor of antiquities.”
    â€œHe teaches about antiques?” I couldn’t believe it. “People go to college to learn about antiques?”
    â€œNo, not antiques. Father lectures in the university and all over the world about ancient civilizations.”
    â€œI see,” I said. Ancient civilizations. That sounded as dry as moldy bread.
    â€œFather wanted me to follow in his footsteps, and I would have, but I would’ve had to learn Semitic languages. I don’t have his gift for languages. In fact, I failed Latin, French, and Spanish. I had to pursue graduate work in a field that had no language requirement. That’s why I chose psychology.”
    I was seeing another side to Ursula and beginning to understand a little better why she was the way shewas. Chances were, since she only knew English, she was determined to know every word of English in the dictionary.
    â€œMy parents are very disappointed in me. I have a brother who was a Rhodes Scholar. Now he’s in the state department. When I accepted Christ and began to talk about Jesus, my parents were so alarmed they sent me to one of those places to be deprogrammed.”
    â€œOh my!”
    â€œI went through the program but came out still knowing that what I believe is true. My parents were devastated— humiliated