Free Roadside Assistance by Amy Clipston Page B

She never missed a service — until the week before she died.
    Some nights I would curl up in her arms while she held me and I cried to her, asking her why God had given her that wretched disease. She told me all things happen for a reason, and it was all part of his plan. She insisted that even though we don’t understand why God chooses certain people to be ill and others to be healthy, we have to trust him and believe he’ll take care of us.
    The words offered me no comfort. It still didn’t make sense why he’d bestowed the incurable disease on her. I’d continue to cry and she’d tell me that her love for me would live on forever and would hold me close with invisible arms whenever I was sad. She’d kiss my cheek and say, “Now Emily, just remember my favorite verse, and it will get you through.”
    That verse was Hebrews 11:1. She recited it often and even requested we have it engraved on her headstone. The verse floated through my mind: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” I understood what it meant, but I couldn’t put any stock in it.
    She also told me that if I was ever sad, or angry, or lonely, I could open my heart to God and he would get me through. And when the waves of grief threatened to drown me, I tried to open my heart. I tried with all my might.
    But I couldn’t.
    It was as if my faith had evaporated and I was left an empty shell of the Christian I used to be.
    Music from the organ brought me back to the service. I lifted a hymnal from the pew pocket and flipped it open. The series of chords flew together in my mind, and I realized what hymn was playing: “Beautiful Savior.”
    My mother’s favorite.
    At her request, it had been the last hymn the congregation sang at her memorial service.
    My eyes filled, and I gnawed at my lower lip, trying in vain to stop the tears. A hand covered mine and I looked up at my dad, who gave me a sad smile as if to tell me he understood. I cupped my mouth with my hand to stifle a sob, but the tears flowed, betraying my efforts and rolling down my hot cheeks.
    Consumed with embarrassment, I slipped by Logan. As I started down the aisle, I felt dozens of eyes focused on me. For a split second, I met Zander’s gaze and thought I saw a concerned expression.
    My body shuddering with sobs, I pushed through the ladies’ room door and locked myself in the handicapped stall at the far end of the restroom. I leaned against the wall, hugged my arms to my chest, and cried, silently cursing myself for losing it in public. What was my problem?
    The restroom door opened and slammed shut, and I held my breath, willing the tears and sobs to stop.
    “Emily?” Darlene called. “Emily, dear? Are you in here?”
    “Yeah,” I said, my voice thin. I snatched a handful of toilet tissue and wiped my eyes and nose.
    “Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.
    Clearing my throat, I unlocked the door, and it swung open with a groan. “I’m fine.”
    She clicked her tongue and pulled me into a hug. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known we were going to sing that.”
    “It’s okay.” I held onto her, thankful for her warm, comforting arms, despite her past criticisms. At that instant, Ijust needed a hug, and she provided it. “I should’ve kept it together.”
    She pulled back, her eyes serious. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t need to be strong. Let God do that for you.”
    I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d been hearing phrases like that since my mom was diagnosed, and each time the words were like a placebo the speaker believed would cure me. If it were only that easy.
    The door opened and banged shut again, and Whitney rushed over, looking panicked, with two girls about our age in tow. Leave it to Whitney to make this a social event.
    “Are you all right, Em?” Whitney asked.
    Her friends looked on, their eyes assessing me.
    “I’m fine, thanks.” I moved to the mirror and examined my