Monday Morning Faith by Lori Copeland

Maltese’s black button nose quivered; his mouth dropped open, tongue pink and lolling, as Sam scratched behind the dog’s ears.
    I dropped down in the nearest chair and Sam sat across from me. We sat for a moment in silence. Sam looked as uncertain as I felt. He cleared his throat as if he’d just made a decision. “Shall we have takeout tonight or should I cook for us?”
    That is the moment I made my second serious mistake: I allowed the relationship to shift to a different level. We were now talking like a couple.
    â€œTakeout.”
    â€œTakeout it is. I vote for Chinese.”
    I did too.
    Right there, right then, on a darkening mid-December afternoon, our relationship turned a dangerous corner. We liked the same things — basically. We were both willing to change. If he’d suggested Thai food I would have agreed to please him. I was sure the change would lead to disaster, but I was powerless to stop it.
    Not unlike a hapless driver of an out-of-control car, watching the headlights of an approaching semi.

EIGHT

    I continued to sow a failed crop, dating Sam, aware the ever-growing relationship would never work. But somewhere in my heart I hoped for a miracle. Sam would change. I would change. I was sure of it.
    And I was wrong. Nobody changed.
    Christmas arrived, and Sam spent the morning with Belinda’s parents, then we joined Mom and Pop for late-afternoon church services at The Gardens. We stayed for the evening meal, then headed to my house to exchange gifts. I oohed and aahed over my favorite perfume; he loved the silver cuff links I’d bought for him.
    Like a Norwegian freighter, Sam plowed on with his plans to leave for Papua New Guinea. His departure was down to days now. I continued my work at the library and my halfhearted apartment search. Mom and Pop were thriving in their new atmosphere, a fact I resented. I smarted off a lot the few times I was invited to have dinner at their table.
    I eyed my dinner plate the Thursday night after Christmas, replete with garnish. “It must be nice to have three hot meals a day.” I now existed on Very Cherry yogurt and packaged peanut butter crackers.
    â€œJohanna — ” Pop reached for a pat of butter — “I brought you into this world, and I can just as easily take you out.”
    Pop had never lifted his voice to me, let alone a hand, but I knew I was crossing the line with my persistent resentment. What could I say? I still had bruises from being kicked out of the nest.
    On New Year’s Eve, Sam and I had a dinner date, and I sensed something different about him. Sort of a suppressed excitement tempered by anxiety. There had been a quiet edginess between us all evening. I think he was feeling his imminent departure as much as I. After dinner, he pushed his dish aside and rested his folded arms on the table.
    â€œWe need to talk.”
    Yes. Be still my heart. He sounded so serious. Could it be … Was he about to mention marriage? Nothing had been mentioned, but we could feel the connection between us — the unspoken longing. Was it possible?
    Was he going to give up mission work for me?
    I didn’t know whether to feel glad or culpable. What about God? Would he be mad at me? Why, of course not, Johanna . Was he mad at the hundreds of thousands of disobedient children he smote?
    I shook my head. Of course he was! And if he still smote people, I was edging to the front of the line.
    Still I was geared up to give Sam at the least an “I’ll think about it” when he held up a warning hand. “Don’t interrupt until I’m finished, okay?”
    I eyed him. Somehow he didn’t look like a man on the verge of proposing. Well then, what was on his mind? Oh dear … breakup. He was going to break off the relationship!
    He reached for my hands, expression sober. Soft candlelight splayed across the white cloth. His eyes searched mine, and I realized whatever he had in mind