The Perfect Life by Robin Lee Hatcher Page A

finally he gave his head a nod, turned, and walked toward the garage. As soon as the door closed behind him, I went into the family room and sank onto the chair, clutched my hands over my knees, and leaned forward until my forehead rested on my hands.
    â€œGod, make it stop. This is too hard.”
    Oh, the wretched silence.
    I’d never been bothered that God didn’t speak to me the way He seemed to speak to others. The way He apparently spoke to Brad. A part of me thought believers were putting on airs when they claimed to have heard God’s voice. I’d never made such a claim. I thought it presumptuous. I did my best to walk in obedience according to the Scriptures. I knew that pleased God because the Bible said so. That should be enough.
    Shouldn’t it?
    I thought of the way Brad looked sometimes after a period of worship or following his prayer time. A look of joy that spoke of something beyond my reach.
    Maybe my obedience wasn’t enough. Maybe there was more.
    The telephone rang, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, friend or foe, loved one or stranger. If I answered and heard the wrong voice, the wrong tone, on the other end of the line, I would shatter. I knew I would.
    The ringing stopped. The caller hung up without leaving a message on the machine. That was a relief.
    I sat upright and reached for a tissue to dry my eyes. I hated these tears. I hated the emotions that careened out of control. This wasn’t me. This was someone pretending to be me.
    â€œKatherine!”
    The urgency in Brad’s voice brought me to my feet.
    â€œIt’s Hayley.” He held up the cell phone in his hand. “She’s bleeding. Steve’s taken her to the hospital. Grab your purse while I put on my jeans and shoes.”
    I’m not sure how I made it from point A to point B, but sometime later I found myself in the passenger seat of the Tribeca, hurtling down the road toward St. Luke’s Regional Medical Center.
    â€œFather, keep her safe,” Brad prayed. “Protect her, Lord. Protect the baby.”
    Please . . . Please . . . Please . . .
    When we arrived at the hospital, Brad dropped me near the entrance to the ER and went to park the car. I dashed inside, looking right and left for someone who could tell me
    where my daughter was. Before I could ask, I saw Emma hurrying toward me.
    â€œIs she here?” I asked. “Is she all right?”
    â€œShe’s here, Mom. She’s okay.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “But she lost the baby.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œWe’ll have to wait. They didn’t want anyone back there besides Steve.”
    I feared my knees would buckle. It must have shown on my face, for Emma put an arm around my back and escorted me to the nearest chair. I sank onto it without encouragement.
    I thought of Job at the beginning of his Old Testament story, one messenger after another arriving with worse news than the one before. Job, your donkeys were stolen and your farmhands killed. Job, fire consumed your sheep and all the shepherds, too. Job, raiders stole your camels and killed your servants. Job, a wind swept in from the desert and collapsed the house, and all your sons and daughters are dead.
    Like Job, I felt like tearing my clothes in grief. I felt like falling to the ground and crying out that all God gave me had been taken away. But Job ended his lament with, “Praise the name of the Lord!”
    Could I do the same? How did one praise God in the midst of so much loss? Once I would have thought I could do it. Today there was no praise in my heart. Only terror and despair.
    Emma stepped away from me. “Dad.”
    I raised my eyes to watch his approach.
    â€œHave you heard anything about Hayley?”
    â€œShe lost the baby.” Emma took hold of both of his hands. “She’ll be okay, but the doctor may want to admit her overnight.”
    Father and daughter embraced,