Irene Brand - The Test of Love

“When are we going to talk?”

“Now is as good a time as any,” Connie answered. She walked away from the building, and when they were out of hearing of those leaving the dining hall, she said, “I will not resume our relationship. I’m happy this way—our engagement was a mistake, but I hope we can still be amicable associates. It isn’t good for NLC when we’re at odds.”

“You’re sure you want it that way?” he asked angrily.

“Yes.”

“What if I tell you I’m leaving?”

“I don’t want you to resign, but that decision is up to you. If tension between us affects the health of our patients, it will be best for you to leave.”

“So I’m good enough to manage your gym, but not good enough to marry,” he retorted angrily.

Ray stalked angrily toward the gymnasium. Another chapter in her life closed. “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead…” Turning toward the dorm, she noticed that Joseph sat on a bench in front of the building, looking her way. Why did she mind that he’d witnessed her encounter with Ray?

She smiled at him. “Ready?”

“No, I haven’t been to my room. I had to rest.”

Contritely, she said, “I hope that trip on the ATV didn’t add to your discomfort.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. My injury isn’t any worse, but the least amount of exertion saps my energy.”

“Rest as long as you want to—we aren’t on a tight schedule this morning.”

When Connie left her room a half hour later, Joseph wasn’t in sight, but he soon joined her, dressed in denim shorts, a green knit shirt, and sturdy walking shoes.

“Good choice of clothing,” she said approvingly. “Let’s go this way.” She directed Joseph along a smooth-surfaced, shaded walk behind the administration building. Connie wore khaki shorts and shirt, and a water bottle hung at her waist.

“This is our easiest walking path,” she explained, “We have three other trails requiring various degrees of physical skill, and the test of your graduation from NLC is to climb Faith Mountain.”

Connie matched her steps to Joseph’s slow gait, and when they were out of sight of the buildings, she said, “Now, give me your cane.”

He paused, startled. “I can’t walk without it.”

“Have you tried?”

“Only a few steps without holding on to something.”

“You must start depending on your own strength instead of the cane.”

His facial muscles contracted into grim lines, and the skin whitened around his lips. He struggled with fear.

“What if I fall and end up worse off than I am now? I had a few nasty spills in the hospital when I was in therapy.”

Connie understood his hesitancy, for she remembered how frightened she’d been to trust her own strength when she was a child. “I can’t guarantee that you won’t fall, but I’ll walk beside you, and you can put your hand on my shoulder and lean on me.”

He handed her the cane, and she tucked it under her left arm. “Just swing your arms slowly and walk as naturally as you can,” she encouraged. He took a few experimental steps, and pain etched deep lines on his face.

Connie laid a hand on his shoulder, and her pulse quickened at the touch. You’re a trainer—he’s your patient! she reminded her heart. “I know that must hurt dreadfully,” she said, “but you have pain when you walk with the cane, don’t you?” He nodded and gritted his teeth. “There’s a bench up ahead. Look toward it as your goal—you can sit down as soon as you reach it.”

Joseph moved forward slowly, but relentlessly, and occasionally he grunted in pain. Once he stumbled, and Connie’s right arm circled his waist. “Put your arm on my shoulder now,” she commanded.

With her support, he walked the rest of the way and collapsed on the bench. Tears of pain and distress seeped from his closed eyelids. Connie sat beside him, took a towel from her pocket and mopped perspiration from his face. She placed the water bottle in his hand.

“Take a drink when you feel like it.”

With his eyes still closed, he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank several long gulps. Water dribbled down his face, and Connie wiped the drops from his chin.

Joseph’s heart pounded, and he knew the extra stress wasn’t all a result of the exercise. First, Connie’s arm around his waist, and now her gentle touch when she wiped his face, drove a small wedge in the barrier he’d built around his heart. Considering the problems he faced, the barrier had to remain intact, but it had been a long time since anyone had fussed over him, and her kindness soothed his troubled spirit.

“I’m so ashamed,” he said. “I haven’t been this weak since I was a baby. I’ve never depended on a woman for strength since my mother cut the apron strings.”

“I told you it’s sometimes necessary to change trainers. Some men resent taking help from a woman. It will be no problem to assign a man to take over your program.”

His eyes popped open. “I didn’t mean that. It’s humbling for me to depend on anyone. I want you to continue.”

“I wanted to give you a choice, but you must learn to trust me. I won’t ask you to do more than you’re capable of doing. One of the first steps in healing is to admit you need help and can’t handle your situation alone.”

He closed his eyes again. “I trust you.”

“But you must also trust God.” He didn’t respond.

Connie massaged Joseph’s neck and shoulders and waited for him to find the courage to go on, looking with pleasure around the little glade where they sat. The trail at this point was overhung by huge spruce trees, and a patch of wild roses bloomed in a sunny spot. Pink flowers grew in clusters on the young branches. A downy woodpecker, oblivious to their presence, dug in a tree trunk for insects. She’d always enjoyed this spot, but it seemed even more precious today, and looking at Joseph, she reluctantly admitted the man by her side had made the difference.

Joseph breathed deeply, and Connie thought he slept, for he jumped when a Steller’s jay flew into the tree above them, announcing its arrival in strident tones.

Joseph stirred and opened his eyes. “Shall we go on?” he asked reluctantly.

Connie grinned at him. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it, but I would like for you to continue to the next resting spot. If you make a round-trip to that point, you’ll have walked a quarter of a mile.”

He struggled to his feet, his hand on her shoulder.

“It feels like a streak of fire is running up and down my leg, but I’ll try to make it to the next bench.” He peered at her. “If I can’t make it on my own, will you carry me back to the dorm?”

She smiled at him. “I won’t have to carry you. You’ll manage. Do you want your cane?”

“Not yet.”

Connie laid the cane on the bench. “I’ll leave it here until we come back.”

He looked longingly at the cane, but with an effort, he started walking. “It gets easier after I’ve taken a few steps.”

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