Christina's Gift

By Penelope Gladwell

Set in Pittsburgh in the 1980s, Christina's Gift begins with the death of Christina Martin Andrews, a minister serving an established congregation in the city. As her friends and family try to make sense of how her life ended, they realize that her friendship was an invitation to become friends with Jesus and, in doing so, to discover their true selves, their true purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644719053

Book preview

9781644719053_cover.jpg

Christina’s Gift

Penelope Gladwell

ISBN 978-1-64471-904-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64471-905-3 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Penelope Gladwell

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Reading Group Guide

About the Author

For Dave, who knows me well and loves me still.

Acknowledgments

My heart is grateful for so many who have nurtured this story into telling. I begin with thanks to the members of the Women’s Bible Study at Hedges Chapel in West Virginia. Together we spent months reading John’s Gospel, searching for women who met Jesus, embracing their stories, and making them our own. Our conversations and the framework of the gospel story itself were the inspiration for the creation of Christina and her friends.

To Lynn Swanson, my editor and writing coach, who saw so much that I could not see and graciously took up her cheer-leading pompoms once more on my behalf.

To my sister, Kathie Houchens, for her first reading of the bones of this story, the inspired comments and questions she offered, and unfailing encouragement as the manuscript took on flesh.

To Rebecca Almeter and George and Margarita Lannon for sharing their insights and expertise.

To Rachel and Samantha, granddaughters extraordinaire, for listening with rapt attention as I read aloud the first draft.

To my daughter, Jennifer, for always telling me, Mom, you can do this!

To laugh often and much;

To win the respect of adults and the affection of children;

To earn the appreciation of honest critics, and endure the betrayal of false friends;

To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;

To leave the world a bit better,

whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;

To know even one life has breathed easier because you have breathed

This is what it is to truly live.

—Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

Prologue

Giving birth is natural for us females, but it’s not always easy. That was the seed of wisdom Marial Martin had planted in the heart of her young daughter one early morning as the veterinarian climbed wearily back into her truck and pulled away from their neighbor’s barn. Christina was ten years old and had accompanied her mother to help with the birth of a new calf, a breech that had needed to be turned in its mother’s womb. The mother and child lived on a small farm in southern New Jersey and loved everything about that life: fresh vegetables from the garden, sweet apples from the orchard, plump blueberries ripe for the picking, and of course, the animals. How fortunate they were to be part of a community where people could be counted on to help each other at a minute’s notice.

All of Christina’s childhood memories were of women working together, quilting, canning, singing, praying. Marial’s husband had died in an accident when Christina was just four years old. After that only a few gentlemen would visit the farm occasionally, usually the postman delivering a package or the old country doctor making a house call. They always took the time to enjoy a cup of tea in the farmhouse kitchen when they came by. But mostly it was the women with tanned and lined faces and deep, wise eyes whom she remembered.

Birthing is not always easy. That was what Christina thought some thirty years later, as she was being wheeled into the hospital delivery room. Years before, she had set aside a successful teaching career to marry well. Becoming restless in her role as wife, she opened herself up to a spiritual dimension of her life she had been ignoring and then discovered gifts for ordained ministry. The role of pastor was challenging for a woman, particularly a married woman, but the rewards were myriad. And now she had made another choice, even more exhilarating, more risky. This birth represented another new beginning, the beginning of her life as a mother. In her very body she was about to experience something brimming with both concern and hope, both darkness and light, both incredible pain and unspeakable joy. Did God feel this at the birth of Jesus? she mused.

Natural, but not easy. This phrase continued to echo in Christina’s mind as she lay in the delivery room on this October day. It was 1952, and her husband, Jude Andrews, had walked away from her and their marriage the past summer when she announced she was pregnant. I’m too old for any more of this nonsense was his final comment. This nonsense included Christina’s call to ministry, which required his needs to take a back seat at times to those of parishioners and of church life. This nonsense was his wife’s devotional practice, Scripture study, and sermon preparation that kept her from attending the many important social events associated with his business. This nonsense was her trip one summer to rural El Salvador when she was out of touch for weeks, and he was fretting over both her safety and his loneliness. And now this nonsense was an unexpected, unplanned pregnancy so late in his life and hers. They had not fought, she recalled now pensively. He just said he was done and went away. He had had enough. Her choice to keep the child meant that she would be doing this alone.

Now the bright lighting overhead seemed blinding, so Christina kept her eyes closed, even when the labor pains eased. Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried to picture herself somewhere else, anywhere besides Elizabeth Steel Magee Hospital in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, preparing for the birth of a child. In that moment, she wanted to be back on the farm. She imagined that she heard the soothing sounds of the cow chewing her cud, the doves murmuring in the rafters, or newborn kittens mewling in the loft. She felt the muzzle of her pet sheep gently nudging at her arm. She awoke from her musings to find the nurse checking her blood pressure and the obstetrician pressing on her abdomen. She was sure it was childhood memories of her farm community that had guided her to choose a female physician. Now she realized another deep longing: to bring her mother, Marial, back to life to be with her at this moment. Giving birth was both incredibly beautiful and frightening at the same time. It would be a holy moment, and if she could stay focused, she might catch a glimpse of God.

Crying out in pain, Christina complied with all the instructions from the OB tech, delivery nurse, anesthesiologist, and other neonatologists gathered around her. Focus. Breathe. Wait. Push. One more time. The mystical harmony of a mother’s deep moan and then a newborn’s cry. The miracle of birth was complete. It was finished, and yet it was just beginning. Light and life filled the room and her heart. Christina smiled and relaxed.

Moments later, someone placed in her arms a tiny human being. A baby girl swaddled in a soft blanket. This little one had been with her, unseen for the past nine months. Now the invisible had become visible. A life, pliable bones wrapped in wrinkly flesh, had come from the arms of God to her embrace. Natural, but not easy, is what Marial had said. It was true.

She named the child Laura, a reminder of the beauty and fragrance of the laurel shrubs which filled the woods around Christina’s family home in New Jersey. A reminder too of the wreaths of laurel placed on the heads of those who had fought the good fight and won the prize. She thought of this child as a gift from God, a prize given for her faithfulness, and yet a gift to the world for some reason yet to be revealed. She prayed that her daughter would become what her name promised: a victory for love and a promise of redemption.

Chapter 1

November of 1982 had been a bitter cold month in western Pennsylvania, and today it seemed unusually dreary for early afternoon. The sky was slate gray, a backdrop for bands of dark scudding clouds. It held the expectation of the first big winter storm. Bradford pear trees lined the sidewalk. They seemed to groan against the relentless wind, as if complaining of stiff joints and cold feet. In warmer seasons, it was their petals showering down and covering the path in front of the church. But on this bleak day the limbs were bare, and snowflakes, not flowers, turned the ground white. It all seemed an appropriate setting for a funeral.

East End Cathedral in the city of Pittsburgh had been built at the corner of Crucible Street and Central Avenue sometime around 1900. The church stands to this day in a park-like neighborhood of once-grand residences surrounded by expansive lawns and mature trees. By the standard design for many houses of worship in the city, East End’s exterior was understated, somewhat plain. Its architect, however, had made clever use of the play of light and shadow to create decorative, ever-changing patterns on smooth granite walls, then added several arched colonnades and a deeply recessed doorway at the front.

It was out through these dark doors, propped open for a recessional, that the mourners flowed, snatching scarves and grasping coat collars close under their chins as the cold air hit them. Their steps matched the slow pace of the pallbearers who carried a polished cherry wood casket holding the remains of Christina Martin Andrews. Dr. Andrews had been the pastor of visitation for East End, coming there some six years earlier, after distinguishing herself as a pastor in Pittsburgh’s South Hills. In her late sixties at that time, she had more vitality and energy than people half her age. She was a breath of fresh air in a rather stodgy congregation, and people anticipated she would be with them until her dying day, which turned out to be true, but not in the way anyone expected.

As Christina’s coffin was placed in the back of the waiting hearse belonging to Garwin’s Funeral Home, her friends, still stunned by her sudden death, shuffled down the remaining steps, then along the sidewalk and into the cars queued up for the procession. They kept their faces down, eyes on the pavement, partly in reverence but also to guard against the chill. There were about twenty cars in all, not counting the hearse. In the back seat of the first car, driven by one of the funeral directors, was Laura Marshall, the dead woman’s only child, and Laura’s husband, Calvin. Laura had just turned thirty and had been preoccupied for some time with building a law practice in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, the state capital. Laura always admired the selflessness and sense of purpose that had been a trademark of her mother’s life. Laura, however, was driven by other motives as she set about establishing herself in her male-dominated work environment. The result, she realized now, was that she did not have the close relationship with her mother that she had treasured growing up. A quick note or even quicker phone call between clients had been all she thought she could spare to keep in touch with her mother. And yet, Christina was perhaps the one woman who understood better than anyone the obstacles Laura was facing.

And then the surprise: Laura was pregnant! With that news, the communication pattern between mother and daughter shifted to frequent phone calls filled mostly with Laura providing updates on her condition, discussing the plans she was making for maternity leave, and relating funny comments from Cal. The last conversation had been about a week ago. Laura’s due date was mid-December, and she wanted to be sure her mother had cleared her calendar. Christina indicated there would be no problem being with Laura for the delivery as long as the baby was born before the week of Christmas. After that every day would be filled with special demands and additional worship services.

There was one commitment still pending, Christina explained. A young man named Alan Wellman had died several weeks before, and although they had already held the memorial service, the family was still waiting for the delivery of the urn containing his ashes. He was to be interred at East End, in the columbarium wall in the Chapel of the Resurrection, and Christina was to preside at that event. Not to worry, she had reassured Laura. Such services were usually brief, and at this point the timing was completely negotiable. Laura kept going over in her mind that last exchange with her mother, just as she had a hundred times in the last few days. Christina’s comments still seemed harmless:

Alan was a gentle young man with so much potential. His younger brother is so full of questions. I’ll be following up with him. I am not sure how Alan’s mom is dealing with this. The delay is bothering her, I think. The dad seems passive, so I don’t sense she will get much support from him. Her doctor ordered some sedatives for her that she says are helping. The entire family will be relieved when his ashes are finally put to rest.

Laura felt as though she had missed the true meaning hidden in those words. Had there been a hint of something about the Wellmans that was concerning to her mother? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the now familiar squirming and kicking inside her took on a new intensity. Could her mother have done anything to prevent what happened? she wondered. What about her colleagues on the staff? Or should she, Laura, have paid more attention to what her mother was doing? Helplessness and grief overwhelmed Laura once again. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her belly. Her eyes burned, and her husband gently pulled her to him as he saw the tears begin.

Just behind the funeral director’s car was a mortuary limousine designated for the church staff members from East End Cathedral. Nicola Simmons, the slim, attractive black woman who was parish secretary, sat sandwiched between the Most Reverend Harvey Blaugh, senior pastor of East End, and the most chatty Fiona Cartwright, now in her fifties and fully ensconced in her role as administrative assistant to the clergy.

Nicola’s family had been part of the second wave of what had been called the Great Migration, black southerners heading to the northeastern industrial centers. Nicola’s dad found work in one of the steel mills. Her parents had settled in the Hill District of Pittsburgh in the 1950s, along with her grandmother Anna. A baby girl was born the next year. She was named Nicola, after the dark-haired, dark-eyed Greek wife of one of her dad’s friends at the mill. The family adapted quickly to their new community, joining a local church and making friends in various organizations. Her mother and grandmother found part-time domestic employment in the city. They arranged their work so they could take turns caring for baby Nicola. Anna was never completely comfortable with her family living in the north, and felt it was her responsibility to make sure her granddaughter understood that a smart, ambitious black woman could take advantage of the benefits of the Steel City, but that in the end Nicola would have to return to her roots in the south to be successful and to find a proper husband.

Nicola was now in her mid-twenties and had graduated from one of the city’s prestigious universities with a degree in public relations. Her grandmother had died several years ago, and when the steel industry started its initial downturn, her parents moved back to Atlanta. Nicola was planning to finish her degree, then follow her family south to look for work. One afternoon during her junior year, she had been jogging on campus and Ben Simmons, a fifth year engineering student, originally from Richmond, Virginia, ran into her, literally. They exchanged phone numbers, then began dating, and the relationship quickly turned serious. But they each had their own career goals. So when she started her senior year, Nicola rented an efficiency apartment in the basement of a home in the East End, close to her college internship assignment, and began exploring her options for the following year, looking for employment opportunities in Atlanta. Ben graduated and joined the marines. Over the next year, the two stayed in touch through letters and lengthy Friday-night phone calls. It became clear to both of them that they wanted a future as a couple, and they looked for ways to snatch whatever time together they could find. On one of his weekend leaves from Parris