From Today's Christian Woman
March/April 2004
Copyright © 2004 Liz Curtis Higgs

Daybreak
Kate didn't even like her stepmother—and now God wanted her to love Sandra?

by Liz Curtis Higgs

The church parking lot was already crowded when Kate Davis arrived, guiding her silver Jetta up one row then down another in search of an empty space. She squinted in the predawn darkness, surprised to find so many cars for the sunrise service, relieved not to see a maroon LeSabre among them. Her stepmother's car. No, her father's car. Except everything was Sandra's now, and had been for almost a year. His car, his furniture, his house. All hers.

Stop it, Kate. Not on Easter. She pulled into a vacant spot and shoved the gearshift into park with a weary sigh. Wasn't that why she'd chosen the early service? To avoid her stepmother? Sandra Davis never rose before the sun did, often sleeping until eight or later. Kate grimaced at the memory of her dear father fixing his own breakfast every morning, eating alone in their high-ceilinged kitchen.

"I don't mind, Kitten," Walter Davis had assured his daughter, though his tone had hardly convinced Kate, who'd minded very much.

She buttoned her blazer against the damp chill of mid-April and hurried toward the entrance to Miller Memorial Church, named for a famous Keokuk citizen, appointed to the Supreme Court by Abraham Lincoln himself. "My church," Kate mumbled, reaching for the worn brass doorknob. "Not hers." The Methodist congregation met less than a block away, and the Baptists a block in the other direction. Why couldn't Sandra fellowship with one or the other, and let Kate worship in peace?

Heat rose to her cheeks as her own mother's voice echoed inside her: Kathleen Grace, you're behaving like a child. Chastened, Kate ducked her head and headed for her usual spot, two rows from the front. An usher pressed a program in her hands and motioned her across the empty pew. "To make room for late arrivals," he whispered.

She settled into her seat and slowly exhaled, reminding herself of what mattered most, not just this morning, but every morning: Christ is risen. Above her the chandeliers had been dimmed to a faint glow, anticipating the light of dawn that would soon pour through the eastern windows.

Her mother had always loved Easter, the sunrise service especially. One year when Kate and her older brothers were little, their mother had stitched them Easter outfits from the same bolt of navy blue corduroy—suits for Michael and Jack, a dress with a white portrait collar for her daughter.

Oh, Mama. Had she really been gone seven years?

Kate was halfway through college when Eileen Davis succumbed to throat cancer at 51. Two years later Kate graduated from the University of Iowa the same month her father remarried and Sandra Logsdon Davis moved into the family's rambling Victorian home.

Sandra had started altering things from the minute she unpacked. Small changes at first. New wallpaper, fresh curtains. Then bigger changes, including hiding their beautiful hardwood floors beneath cheap brown carpeting.

Most of all Sandra had changed her father. He'd grown complacent, quelling his Irish temper, giving in to his new wife at every turn. Kate's brothers, who'd married and moved on—Michael to Cedar Rapids, Jack to faraway Sioux City—hadn't spotted the differences in their father, but Kate had.

"Sandra's not a bad person," Jack had protested. "Besides, she makes Dad happy."

Too happy. As if he didn't even miss their mother.

One hot August night when she was visiting her father and his new wife, they'd stood gazing out the back door at the lawn bathed in twilight. "I can still see you and Mama," Kate had confessed, blinking away tears as she pointed. "Over there, lounging in your Adirondack chairs beneath the sycamore, drinking iced coffee."

He father had slipped an arm around Sandra and pulled her close. "You need to picture us differently now, Kitten. Your mother and I sit on the front porch eating ice cream."

Remembering, Kate gritted her teeth, the pain as fresh as ever.

Sandra isn't my mother.

When her father's weak heart gave out last spring, Kate's own heart had broken in two. One of her students at Hawthorne Elementary heard the news and approached her teacher's desk, eyes wide with sympathy. "Miss Davis, are you an … orphan?"

"Only a child can be an orphan," she'd told the girl gently. "I'm 26 and have my own apartment." And a widowed stepmother she preferred not to think about, then or now.

"Kate?"

She jumped with a guilty start and looked up to find a young couple sliding in next to her, their arms laden with offspring. Though fairly new to Keokuk, Ruthie and Peter Milburn were already involved in the children's ministry, working with the same group of eight-year-olds Kate taught during the week.

Ruthie held her newborn son tightly against her as she wriggled out of her coat. "He just had breakfast," she explained. "Pray he sleeps the whole hour." Their toddler, fully awake, dove into Kate's open lap.

"Jamey!" his father scolded softly, reclaiming him. "Miss Davis is here to worship, not to babysit."

"No problem." Kate smiled at the boy, her melancholy mood lifting. "I love kids."

Ruthie's eyes shone with gratitude. "It's awfully early for both of them. We're going to my mother's house in Davenport for Easter dinner. This service was more practical than the one at 10:30."

The one Sandra always attends.

"I'll be happy to hold either of your children," Kate offered, as the organ prelude ended with a flourish. "Just say the word." She plucked her hymnal from the rack, automatically turning to the first Easter hymn: "Christ the Lord Is Risen Today."

The music minister, his blue robe swaying, marched across the platform, then turned toward the pews, his expression triumphant. "He is risen!" he declared and lifted his hands, urging them to their feet.

"He is risen indeed!" the congregation responded heartily. Holding her hymnal high, Kate sang the familiar words, her gaze fixed on the cross, draped in white and hanging above the altar. She barely noticed when Ruthie moved closer to make room for another worshiper in their pew.

"And the Spirit, ever blessed." Kate sang out the last line with gusto, "One true God, by all confessed. Alleluia!" Reclaiming her velvet-padded seat, she offered a silent prayer of thanks. God had come to her rescue once again, banishing her self-pity with a child's exuberance and a song of praise.

With a light heart she scanned the sea of friendly faces until her gaze landed on the newcomer seated at the end of their pew. Her smile faded.

Sandra.

The woman's pale blond hair, sheared close to her small head, gleamed in the dim sanctuary. She seemed preoccupied, tucking her purse beside her, her mouth set in a firm line. Though Sandra was barely 60, her manner made her seem older. Stuffy. Formal. Aloof. Sandra showed no interest in the latest books and movies, turned her nose up at fast food, and bristled when people called her "Sandy."

"As lively as Chief Keokuk's statue in Rand Park," Kate had grumbled once, though the memory of it shamed her now. She looked straight ahead, pretending to give the minister her full attention. Now who's being aloof? She would have to speak with Sandra at some point. On the way out, perhaps. They had so little in common, so little to talk about. Were they even related, now that her father was deceased?

I don't need a mother, she protested in silence, then was shocked at her heart's response: What if Sandra needs you?

Kate shook her head, relieved when Pastor Howell led them in a lengthy prayer. Chin lowered, eyes shut, she pushed aside the notion of Sandra Davis needing anything from a stepdaughter. Weren't her father's earthly possessions enough?

Another hymn came and went—sung with less enthusiasm on her part—then a soloist filled the sanctuary with the resurrection story. When the congregation burst into applause, the sound startled Ruthie's sleeping babe awake, and a wail arose from the second pew. Not to be outdone by his younger brother, Jamey joined in the fray, adding his toddler cry.

Ruthie did what she could to calm them, while Kate dug in her purse for something to amuse Jamey. She came up empty-handed, and so did Peter, his shoulders sagging in defeat. All around them necks craned and stares grew chilly.

"We'd better take them to the nursery," he whispered, collecting their belongings.

Ruthie apologized—to Kate in particular and anyone else within earshot—then the little family made their way into the aisle, leaving a wide chasm yawning between Kate and the woman at the other end of the short pew.

Their gazes met in a furtive exchange. Kate looked away seconds after Sandra did. Was she imagining it, or did Sandra seem … contrite? Or was she merely disappointed to see the Milburns depart, forcing her to acknowledge Kate's presence?

No. That's not what Kate saw in her stepmother's gray eyes.

It was sorrow.

Sympathy, like an ocean wave, washed over Kate, stinging her eyes. If Walter Davis was the reason for the woman's sadness, Sandra had every right to mourn. Not even a year had passed since his funeral.

Michael's words came to mind: "Sandra must be a decent person, or Dad would never have married her." Her brother was right. Hadn't Sandra seen to her husband's well-being, taken him on long walks, fed him healthy foods, cared for his needs to the very end?

Kate swallowed hard. Sandra loved my father. There was no denying it.

She stole another glance down the pew. Sandra had turned toward the pulpit, so Kate did the same, watching Pastor Howell shuffle his papers, wondering what his Easter message might be. The program simply listed it as "Sermon."

His smile seemed aimed in her direction. "Our passage this morning is a brief one, found in 1 John. Don't let the length of it fool you. This may be the most difficult thing the Lord ever asks you to do." He held up his open Bible and read, "Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another."

Kate sank under the weighty words.

"We're to love people," he explained, "not because they are loveable, but because we are loved by God." Pastor Howell's tone was kind, yet each sentence pierced her heart with the precision of a scalpel. Love Sandra. That was the whole of it.

Kate loved her brothers, she adored her students, she cared for her neighbors, and she cherished her friends. Could she show Sandra the same affection? Could she offer her stepmother the same compassion, the same trust? Not because Sandra deserved it—though, in truth, she did—but because God required it?

The answer was painfully simple: Yes.

But how?

An usher's voice, low and urgent, traveled down the pew. "Mrs. Davis, would you mind moving toward the center?" A red-faced couple hovered behind him, clearly anxious to be seated.

Kate watched her stepmother gather her things, then slide a little to the left. Then a bit more, drawing closer. Finally she looked straight at Kate. Her eyes implored her. Is this all right? Do you mind?

Kate couldn't speak. But she could nod. Yes. It's fine.

Sandra settled less than a foot away, the scent of her perfume—Elige—arriving before she did. She didn't look at Kate again, not directly, yet she angled her body slightly toward her, a silent acknowledgment.

Together they listened as Pastor Howell dissected the last five years of their lives. Not by name, not by circumstance, only by actions too familiar for Kate to ignore. He spoke of loving actions, but all Kate could remember was the time she'd taken her father to dinner and left Sandra at home. "It's a private father-daughter banquet," she'd said airily, knowing better. When the minister listed a handful of ways to demonstrate Christ's love, Kate realized she'd done none of them where her stepmother was concerned. Not a kind word, not a thoughtful gesture, not an unexpected gift.

Did Sandra hear it as well? The obvious similarities, the uncomfortably accurate parallels? Kate couldn't bring herself to look over, certain she would find judgment in her stepmother's eyes. You, Kate. He's talking about you.

The sermon ended on a quiet note. "If we love one another," the pastor assured them, "God lives in us and his love is made complete in us."

As he relinquished the pulpit to the music minister, Kate felt the touch of a hand on hers. Cool, tentative. Sandra.

She turned toward her stepmother, fearing what she might say. Were you listening, Kate? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

But that wasn't what Sandra said. With watery eyes she whispered, "Your father loved you so much."

Kate's mouth fell open. The words were out before she could stop them: "He loved you, too."

"Yes, he did." Sandra's gaze fell to her lap. "Much more than I deserved." She tightened her grip on Kate's hands. Around them friends and neighbors stood to sing the final hymn, but Sandra did not move. Neither did Kate.

Now what, Lord?

Like an elbow poked in her side, one of Pastor Howell's examples nudged her into action. "Sandra," she asked softly, "have you had breakfast?"

Her stepmother looked at her in amazement. "Breakfast?"

Kate stood, tugging Sandra up with her. The organist had pulled out all the stops for a spirited postlude, shaking the rafters of old Miller Memorial; conversation was no longer an option. Summoning her courage, Kate motioned her forward into the aisle. "We'll talk outside," she promised, trailing after her into the parking lot.

A damp morning mist still clung to the ground, while streaks of pink and orange stretched across the pale blue sky. Never had a day looked more like Easter.

"Now then," Sandra said, turning her gray eyes on Kate. "What's this about breakfast? I can't imagine any restaurant being open this early."

"My kitchen is." Kate smiled, surprising herself. "I have a wonderful recipe for cinnamon rolls, if you don't mind waiting while the dough rises." She could already smell the yeast baking. Her mother's recipe. Her father's favorite.

Sandra shrugged lightly. "I don't mind waiting."

Kate thought she heard the sound of ice melting. Hadn't her own heart warmed just a little? "We'd better take both cars. They'll need our parking spaces for the next service." Kate waved toward her Jetta. "Want to follow me?"

"Don't drive too fast," Sandra cautioned. "I've not been to your apartment."

Kate gripped her car keys. I never invited you. A sense of shame came and went, though it did not stay. Something was happening in the Davis family. Something good.

Kate blinked at the sun, watching it clear the horizon, bright as gold. "Hope you've got shades. We'll be driving straight into the sun."

"No problem." Her stepmother pulled out a pair of bright red sunglasses. "I'm ready if you are."

"More than ready," Kate promised. And finally, she was.

Liz Curtis Higgs, a TCW columnist, is the best-selling author of Thorn in My Heart and Fair Is the Rose. She lives with her family in Kentucky.

Copyright © 2004 Liz Curtis Higgs