The Shack Read online

  “Mack, look at you!” she fairly exploded. “Here you are, and so grown up. I have really been looking forward to seeing you face-to-face. It is so wonderful to have you here with us. My, my, my, how I do love you!” And with that she wrapped herself around him again.

  Mack was speechless. In a few seconds this woman had breached pretty much every social propriety behind which he had so safely entrenched himself. But something in the way she looked at him and yelled his name made him equally delighted to see her too, even though he didn’t have a clue who she was.

  Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the scent emanating from her, and it shook him. It was the smell of flowers with overtones of gardenia and jasmine, unmistakably his mother’s perfume that he kept hidden away in his little tin box. He had already been perched precariously on the precipice of emotion, and now the flooding scent and attendant memories staggered him. He could feel the warmth of tears beginning to gather behind his eyes, as if they were knocking on the door of his heart. It seemed that she saw them too.

  “It’s okay, honey, you can let it all out… I know you’ve been hurt, and I know you’re angry and confused. So, go ahead and let it out. It does a soul good to let the waters run once in a while—the healing waters.”

  But while Mack could not stop the tears from filling his eyes, he was not ready to let go—not yet, not with this woman. With every effort he could muster, he kept himself from falling back into the black hole of his emotions. Meanwhile, this woman stood with her arms outstretched as if they were the very arms of his mother. He felt the presence of love. It was warm, inviting, melting.

  “Not ready?” she responded. “That’s okay, we’ll do things on your terms and time. Well, come on in. Can I take your coat? And that gun? You don’t really need that, do you? We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, would we?”

  Mack wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. Who was she? And how did she know? He was rooted to the spot where he stood but slowly and mechanically took off his coat.

  The large black woman gathered his coat and he handed her the gun, which she took from him with two fingers as if it was contaminated. Just as she turned to enter the cabin, a small, distinctively Asian woman emerged from behind her.

  “Here, let me take those,” her voice sang. Obviously she had not meant the coat or gun but something else, and she was in front of him in a blink of an eye.

  He stiffened as he felt something sweep gently across his cheek. Without moving, he looked down and could see that she was busy with a fragile crystal bottle and a small brush, like those he had seen Nan and Kate use for makeup, gently removing something from his face.

  Before he could ask, she smiled and whispered, “Mackenzie, we all have things we value enough to collect, don’t we?”

  His little tin box flashed through his mind.

  “I collect tears.”

  As she stepped back, Mack found himself involuntarily squinting in her direction, as if doing so would allow his eyes to see her better. But strangely, he still had a difficult time focusing on her; she seemed almost to shimmer in the light, and her hair blew in all directions even though there was hardly a breeze. It was almost easier to see her out of the corner of his eye than it was to look at her directly.

  He then glanced past her and noticed that a third person had emerged from the cabin, this one a man. He appeared Middle Eastern and was dressed like a laborer, complete with tool belt and gloves. He stood easily, leaning against the doorjamb with arms crossed in front of him, wearing jeans covered in wood dust and a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled just above the elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms. His features were pleasant enough, but he was not particularly handsome—not a man who would stick out in a crowd. But his eyes and smile lit up his face, and Mack found it difficult to look away.

  Mack stepped back again, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “Are there more of you?” he asked a little hoarsely.

  The three looked at one another and laughed.

  Mack couldn’t help but smile.

  “No, Mackenzie.” The black woman chuckled. “We is all that you get, and believe me, we’re more than enough.”

  Mack tried again to look at the Asian woman. This wiry-looking person appeared to be of northern Chinese or Nepalese or even Mongolian ethnicity. It was hard to tell, though, because his eyes had to work to see her at all. From her clothing, Mack assumed she was a groundskeeper or gardener. She had gloves folded into her belt, not the heavy leathers of the man, but the lightweight cloth-and-rubber ones that Mack himself used for yard work at home. She was dressed in plain jeans with ornamental designs at the fringes—knees covered in dirt from where she had been kneeling—and a brightly colored blouse with splashes of yellow and red and blue. But he knew all this as more of an impression of her than from actually seeing her, as she seemed to phase in and out of his vision.

  The man then stepped in, touched Mack on the shoulder, gave him a kiss on both cheeks, and embraced him strongly. Mack knew instantly that he liked him. As they separated, the man stepped back, and the Asian lady moved toward him again, this time taking his face in both her hands. Gradually and intentionally, she moved her face closer to his and just when he imagined she was going to kiss him, she stopped and looked deep into his eyes. Mack thought he could almost see through her. Then she smiled and her scents seemed to wrap themselves around him and lift a huge weight off his shoulders, as if he had been carting his gear in a backpack.

  Mack suddenly felt lighter than air, almost as if he were no longer touching the ground. She was hugging him without hugging him, or really without even touching him. Only when she pulled back, which was probably just seconds later, did he realize that he was still standing on his feet and that his feet were still touching the deck.

  “Oh, don’t mind her.” The big black woman laughed. “She has that effect on everyone.”

  “I like it,” he muttered, and all three burst into more laughter, and now Mack found himself laughing along with them, not knowing exactly why and not really caring either.

  When they finally stopped giggling, the large woman put her arm around Mack’s shoulders, drew him to her, and said, “Okay, we know who you are, but we should probably introduce ourselves to you. I”—she waved her hands with a flourish—“am the housekeeper and cook. You may call me Elousia.”

  “Elousia?” asked Mack, not comprehending at all.

  “Okay, you don’t have to call me Elousia; it’s just a name I am rather fond of and has particular meaning to me. So”—she crossed her arms and put one hand under her chin as if thinking especially hard—“you could call me what Nan does.”

  “What? You don’t mean…” Now Mack was surprised and even more confused. Surely this was not the Papa who sent the note? “I mean, are you saying, ‘Papa’?”

  “Yes,” she responded and smiled, waiting for him to speak as if he were about to say something, which he was not at all.

  “And I,” interrupted the man, who looked to be in his thirties and stood a little shorter than Mack himself, “I try to keep things fixed up around here. I enjoy working with my hands, although, as these two will tell you, I take pleasure in cooking and gardening as much as they do.”

  “You look as if you’re from the Middle East, maybe Arab?” Mack guessed.

  “Actually, I’m a stepbrother of that great family. I am Hebrew, to be exact, from the house of Judah.”

  “Then…” Mack was suddenly staggered by his own realization. “Then, you are…”

  “Jesus? Yes. And you may call me that if you like. After all, it has become my common name. My mother called me Yeshua, but I have also been known to respond to Joshua or even Jesse.”

  Mack stood dumbfounded and mute. What he was looking at and listening to simply would not compute. It was all so impossible… but here he was, or was he really here at all? Suddenly, he felt faint. Emotion swept over him as his mind attempted desperately to catch up with all the information. Just as he was about to crumple to his k
nees, the Asian woman stepped closer and deflected his attention.

  “And I am Sarayu,” she said as she tilted her head in a slight bow and smiled. “Keeper of the gardens, among other things.”

  Thoughts tumbled over themselves as Mack struggled to figure out what to do. Was one of these people God? What if they were hallucinations or angels, or God was coming later? That could be embarrassing. Since there were three of them, maybe this was a Trinity sort of thing. But two women and a man and none of them white? Then again, why had he naturally assumed that God would be white? He knew his mind was rambling, so he focused on the one question he most wanted answered.

  “Then,” Mack struggled to ask, “which one of you is God?”

  “I am,” said all three in unison. Mack looked from one to the next, and even though he couldn’t begin to grasp what he was seeing and hearing, he somehow believed them.

  6

  A PIECE OF π

  No matter what God’s power may be, the first aspect of God is never that of the absolute Master, the Almighty. It is that of the God who puts himself on our human level and limits himself.

  —Jacques Ellul, Anarchy and Christianity

  Well, Mackenzie, don’t just stand there gawkin’ with your mouth open like your pants are full,” said the big black woman as she turned and headed across the deck, talking the whole time. “Come and talk to me while I get supper on. Or if you don’t want to do that, you can do whatever you want. Behind the cabin,” she said, gesturing over the roof without looking or slowing down, “you will find a fishing pole by the boat shed that you can use to catch some lake trout.”

  She stopped at the door to give Jesus a kiss. “Just remember,” she said, turning to look back at Mack, “you gotta clean what you catch.” Then with a quick smile, she disappeared into the cabin, armed with Mack’s winter coat and still carrying the gun by two fingers, a full arm’s length away from her.

  Mack was standing there with his mouth indeed open and an expression of bewilderment plastered to his face. He hardly noticed when Jesus walked over and put an arm around his shoulder. Sarayu seemed to have just evaporated.

  “Isn’t she great?” exclaimed Jesus, grinning at Mack.

  Mack turned and faced him, shaking his head. “Am I going crazy? Am I supposed to believe that God is a big black woman with a questionable sense of humor?”

  Jesus laughed. “She’s a riot! You can always count on her to throw you a curve or two. She loves surprises, and even though you might not think it, her timing is always perfect.”

  “Really?” said Mack, still shaking his head and not sure if he really believed that. “So now what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re not supposed to do anything. You’re free to do whatever you like.” Jesus paused and then continued, trying to help by giving Mack a few suggestions. “I am working on a wood project in the shed. Sarayu is in the garden. Or you could go fishing, canoeing, or go in and talk to Papa.”

  “Well, I sort of feel obligated to go in and talk to him, uh, her.”

  “Oh”—now Jesus was serious—“don’t go because you feel obligated. That won’t get you any points around here. Go because it’s what you want to do.”

  Mack thought for a moment and decided that going into the cabin actually was what he wanted to do. He thanked Jesus, who smiled, turned, and headed off to his workshop, and Mack stepped across the deck and up to the door. Again he was alone, but after a quick look around, he carefully opened it. He stuck his head in, hesitated, and then decided to take the plunge.

  “God?” he called, rather timidly and feeling more than a little foolish.

  “I’m in the kitchen, Mackenzie. Just follow my voice.”

  He walked in and scanned the room. Could this even be the same place? He shuddered at the whisper of lurking dark thoughts and again locked them out. Across the room a hallway disappeared at an angle. Glancing around the corner into the living room, his eyes searched out the spot near the fireplace, but there was no stain marring the wood surface. He noticed that the room was decorated tastefully, with art that looked as if it had been either drawn or handcrafted by children. He wondered if this woman treasured each of these pieces, as any parent who loves her children would. Maybe that was how she valued anything that was given to her from the heart, the way children seemed to give so easily.

  Mack followed her soft humming down a short hallway and into an open kitchen-dining area, complete with a small four-seat table and wicker-backed chairs. The inside of the cabin was roomier than he had expected. Papa was working on something with her back to him, flour flying as she swayed to the music of whatever she was listening to. The song obviously came to an end, marked by a couple of last shoulder and hip shakes. Turning to face him, she took off the earphones.

  Suddenly Mack wanted to ask a thousand questions, or say a thousand things, some of them unspeakable and terrible. He was sure that his face betrayed the emotions he was battling to control, and then in a flash of a second he shoved everything back into his battered heart’s closet, locking the door on the way out. If she knew his inner conflict, she showed nothing by her expression—still open, full of life, and inviting.

  He inquired, “May I ask what you’re listening to?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  “Sure.” Now Mack was curious.

  “West Coast Juice. Group called Diatribe and an album that isn’t even out yet called Heart Trips. Actually,” she said, winking at Mack, “these kids haven’t even been born yet.”

  “Right,” Mack responded, more than a little incredulous. “West Coast Juice, huh? It doesn’t sound very religious.”

  “Oh, trust me, it’s not. More like Eurasian funk and blues with a message, and a great beat.” She sidestepped toward Mack as if she were doing a dance move and clapped.

  Mack stepped back. “So God listens to funk?” Mack had never heard “funk” talked about in any properly righteous terms. “I thought you would be listening to George Beverly Shea or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir—you know, something churchier.”

  “Now see here, Mackenzie. You don’t have to be lookin’ out for me. I listen to everything—and not just to the music itself, but the hearts behind it. Don’t you remember your seminary classes? These kids ain’t saying anything I haven’t heard before; they’re just full of vinegar and fizz. Lots of anger and, I must say, with some good reason too. They’re just some of my kids, showin’ and spoutin’ off. I am especially fond of those boys, you know. Yup, I’ll be keeping my eye on ’em.”

  Mack struggled to keep up with her, to make some sense of what was happening. None of his old seminary training was helping in the least. He was at a sudden loss for words and his million questions had all seemed to abandon him. So he stated the obvious.

  “You must know,” he offered, “calling you ‘Papa’ is a bit of a stretch for me.”

  “Oh, really?” She looked at him in mock surprise. “Of course I know. I always know.” She chuckled. “But tell me, why do you think it’s hard for you? Is it because it’s too familiar for you, or maybe because I am showing myself as a woman, a mother, or—”

  “No small issue there,” Mack interrupted with an awkward chuckle.

  “Or maybe it’s because of the failures of your own papa?”

  Mack gasped involuntarily. He wasn’t used to having deep secrets surface so quickly and openly. Instantly guilt and anger welled up, and he wanted to lash out with a sarcastic remark in response. Mack felt as if he were dangling over a bottomless chasm and was afraid if he let any of it out, he would lose control of everything. He sought for safe footing but was only partially successful, finally answering through gritted teeth, “Maybe it’s because I’ve never known anyone I could really call ‘Papa.’ ”

  At that she put down the mixing bowl that had been cradled in her arm, and, leaving the wooden spoon in it, she turned toward Mack with tender eyes. She didn’t have to say it; he knew she understood what was going on inside him, and
somehow he knew she cared about him more than anyone ever had. “If you let me, Mack, I’ll be the papa you never had.”

  The offer was at once inviting and at the same time repulsive. He had always wanted a papa he could trust, but he wasn’t sure he’d find it here, especially if this one couldn’t even protect his Missy. A long silence hung between them. Mack was uncertain what to say, and she was in no hurry to let the moment pass easily.

  “If you couldn’t take care of Missy, how can I trust you to take care of me?” There, he’d said it—the question that had tormented him every day of The Great Sadness. Mack felt his face flush angry red as he stared at what he now considered to be some odd characterization of God, and he realized his hands were knotted into fists.

  “Mack, I’m so sorry.” Tears began to trail down her cheeks. “I know what a great gulf this has put between us. I know you don’t understand this yet, but I am especially fond of Missy, and you too.”

  He loved the way she said Missy’s name and yet he hated hearing it coming from her. It rolled off her tongue like the sweetest wine, and even through all the fury still raging in his mind he somehow knew she meant it. He wanted to believe her, and slowly some of his rage began to subside.

  “That’s why you’re here, Mack,” she continued. “I want to heal the wound that has grown inside you and between us.”

  To gain some control, he turned his eyes toward the floor. It was a full minute before he had enough to whisper without looking up. “I think I’d like that,” he admitted, “but I don’t see how…”

  “Honey, there’s no easy answer that will take your pain away. Believe me, if I had one, I’d use it now. I have no magic wand to wave over you and make it all better. Life takes a bit of time and a lot of relationship.”