LOANING, Chapter FIVE, Section FOUR THE STORY

 Shortly after America’s bicentennial celebration, a barely sixteen-year-old Maggie came to our small California town from Scarsdale, New York; from a prosperous, caring Jewish home and community. She came into our lives as thoroughly not Christian as we thoroughly are. Our Australian daughter, Lynde, introduced her to us. AFS exchange students both (Maggie, domestic; Lynde, foreign), they became best friends in this, the middle of their senior year of high school. Lynde prepared Maggie to meet me by saying, “My mum is a Christian.”

 

“Of course,” said Maggie. “Big deal, she’s not Jewish.”

“No,” said Lynde. “I mean, she is really a Christian. I don’t mean non-Jewish. I mean religious.” 

 

Maggie was baffled. She had never met “really Christian” before but it was not long before Maggie knew what Lynde meant. We met. I loved her quickly and thoroughly. She was, at sixteen, what she is now: beautiful, dark-eyed, and dark-haired, nonreligious, powerfully opinionated, and powerfully tender. She soon loved me, too. She was intrigued by my faith and we talked about it at great lengths.

 

I was unaware of internal turmoil that in part led Maggie to the West Coast. I did know that while she was assigned to a different family, she spent much of her time with ours. She traveled with us, she ate with us, she laughed, watched TV, and played with us. And, in the Aristotelian sense, Maggie and I enjoyed leisure time together. We grappled with moral and religious issues. All the while, unbeknown to me, she wrote to her parents about our family, our friendship, our conversations, our discussions of faith.

 

When the season of exchanges neared an end, Maggie’s parents came to retrieve her. We met. We also very much liked each other. We balked at giving Maggie back, we made plans to visit New York, and before long, I found myself there. My first few hours in New York allowed for little more than a quick hello before dressing for a dinner party. 

 

As a West Coast, politically conservative, evangelical Christian, the party was for me, an education. I sat in a beautifully appointed, art-bearing dining room with intelligent, sophisticated, gracious people who knew the merits of wines and the worth of salad greens hitherto unknown to me, with a host who had just returned from a meeting with the president of the United States, with bright, liberal people who made things happen. Like a wandering plow horse, I was having a great time plodding in the pasture of tolerant thoroughbreds.

 

When guests moved to the living room and to individual conversations, Maggie’s mother and I settled on a cushy, white sofa. At last we had a moment to meet again, to talk to one another. I was not expecting what I got, hot on the heels of hello.

 

“Maggie loves you very much,” she said.

“I love her too. You have a wonderful daughter.”

“You know she came to California needing to work out some things. You were such a help to her. I must admit,” she continued, “because of your influence, I was afraid you would try to convert her to Christianity. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

 

I must be honest. I was glad none of my Christian friends were around. I was glad that my Bible class women were still on the West Coast and that I was not, even though the next week I told them this story. I needed a moment to breath, to pray, to think, to weigh my sense of guilt, to respond honestly. My answer satisfied her but it forced me to see that what I always thought I shoulddo in such a circumstance was not what I did when I loaned my life to Maggie. What I did,was undeniably influenced by these people to whom I was now so affectionately attached. I loaned myself and our home and as a result, they affected me.

 

I answered the question. “Suppose our daughter came to your home, fell in love with your family and you, especially. As Maggie was, suppose Kim was looking for identity, and was fascinated by the history and meaning of your family’s belief system. If you took advantage of that situation, if you used her distance from us and her trust in you as a catalyst for conversion, as I could have with Maggie, I would be furious with you. Even if you were right, still, I would not respect you. I would not be glad my daughter knew you. I would not respect your religious ideals. I would resent your intrusion, your timing, your lack of restraint or respect for who we are.”

 

I admitted that had Maggie been an adult, had she understood all it meant to step against her own history of connections, of family and beliefs, and wanted to convert, I would not hesitate to urge her to Christian faith. I am a Christian, after all. But no, I confessed. I could not use her love for me to coerce conversion, to pull her away from all that it means for her to be in her family. 

 

“I didn’t think you would,” came a gentle reply. Time in New Your flew by, then I began my long journey home. Waiting for me aboard the giant 747 was Guilt. It flew as my uninvited seatmate. It was far more talkative than Nick ever had been and was perfectly armed with certitude. 

How hungry Guilt was for my mind and spirit. How ready it was to dominate my time. “How dare you not try to convert Maggie. How dare you admit it! Does her soul not outweigh courtesy to youth, to family? Who cares whether conversion involves advantage, manipulation, a broken sense of respect, or limited understanding of consequences, for goodness sake.

 

“Good job, Pine. Now go home and teach the Bible study,” Guilt said, laying one sharp blow below the belt. “Tell those women what sort of evangelism you practice. Let’s see, you can title it, ‘Hands Off for Jesus.’

“Wanna know why your seat on this flight is so badly located? Why your meal is cold? You do not deservea good seat or hot food. No more blessing-perks for you. You blew it.”

 

Ah, the voice of Guilt to born-agains. A pile of should-havesshouted at me and encouraged shame. I had an enormous amount of sorting to do as a result of loaning my life to Maggie. As much as I affected her, she affected me. She illumined my value system. Obviously, I valued some things above immediate conversion. I valued my responsibility to her family and their trust in ours. I valued the seriousness of conversion. I respected the vulnerability of her youth, my adult advantage, and truth. 

 

Guess what. Down the line Guilt helped me see that I also value my reputation. Even now, as I write, I want to admit honestly that loaning affected me. I wish I could write truthfully but avoid censure. Some readers will disapprove of my choice, and that matters to me. Those of us who care about people care about people caring about us!

 

So, like a bright, new, jacketed book, I loaned myself to Maggie, and now to you. In both cases I come away a bit tattered, maybe even jacketless and by my choices, less appealing to some. But loaning strengthens me. I have learned. I am not the greatest example of Christian zeal. That is a relief, actually. I confess, in my opinion many current conversion tactics are rude, unloving, and often thoughtless. A loan to Maggie cemented my respect for dialogue without hidden agendas, for process, for other people’s families, for varying points of view. It is quite a challenge to be involved, to be affected, to be faithful. What could be worse? Not to be challenged at all. 

Coming up:  CONCLUSION, chapter 5  -- Great sorrow attends the privilege of loaning

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