Free Evidence of Mercy by Terri Blackstock Page A

himself. How could I say that?”
    â€œYou’re human,” Abby said. “Girl, I’ve been spit on, slapped, kicked, cursed, screamed at, puked on—and as much as I pride myself on keeping my cool, I have been known to say some nasty things, just because I’m human. You aren’t even getting paid for listening to it. You can’t expect to grit your teeth and smile through it. That takes something bigger than either one of us.”
    Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a tissue, and Lynda wiped her eyes.
    â€œYou know where I go when I can’t take much more, and I feel that old dark side of Abby taking over?”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThe chapel. It’s on this floor. I’ll take you there if you want me to, child. Maybe you’ll find some peace there.”
    Lynda nodded. “Yes, that’s where I need to go.”
    â€œFine.” Abby got to her feet and pushed her out of the ICU doors. “When I get off tonight, how ‘bout I come by your room and wash your hair? I’ll bet you’re a pretty brunette when you don’t look like you’ve lost a fight with a grizzly.”
    Lynda managed to smile under the tissue. “That would be great. I have trouble lifting my arms.”
    They reached the double doors to the small chapel, and Abby pushed her inside. The room was dimly lit with candles at the corners of the altar, and it was only big enough for three small pews on either side of the wide aisle.
    Abby rolled her to the front and then in a more reverent voice, said, “There’s a phone here at the back, honey. You call me when you’re ready—extension 214—and I’ll have someone come get you.”
    â€œThank you,” Lynda whispered.
    Abby smiled, then closed the doors on her way out.
    Lynda sat still for a moment, staring at the cross behind the small lectern and then behind that, at the stained glass window. A white dove was etched into the glass, flying down to the shoulder of a silhouette kneeling in a pool of water.
    This is my son, in whom I am well pleased . God’s words echoed through her mind, their very praise an indictment of her own actions.
    Tears stung her eyes, and she sat before the altar, wishing to be judged, ready to be condemned. “I don’t know what to say to him,” she confessed aloud. “I don’t even know what to say to you.”
    It had been too long since she’d had a serious heart-to-heart with God, too long since she’d sat in his presence. Now she felt her inadequacy like a verdict.
    Awkwardly, she tried to thank him for her survival, but Jake’s injuries limited her gratitude. And then she thought of the plane she had loved so much, destroyed in a matter of minutes, leaving her to face the solitude of her life without it.
    As her own thoughts condemned her, she looked up to the window again.
    . . . in whom I am well pleased . . .
    It was from the New Testament, she thought quickly, but she couldn’t remember where. It had been too long since she’d read her Bible, and now she wasn’t even sure where she’d put it.
    But she didn’t have to recall the reference to know what it meant to her.
    God wasn’t pleased with her. How could he be when she’d made a god of an airplane, an altar of her job, and an idol of her own ego? How could he smile on her when she’d spoken to a sick man the way she had today or when she’d ignored the needs of a poor battered wife who depended on her?
    The truth was that she’d just quit caring. She hadn’t cared about her relationship with God or her friends or her family. She hadn’t cared about anything except her job and that plane. Not in a long time.
    Like Peter after he’d denied Christ, she wept bitterly, brokenly, not expecting God to recognize or comfort her, not expecting his peace—
    But suddenly it came.
    Her tears slowed, her sobbing stopped, and she looked