Page 92 of When Love Is Lost and Found

When I pull into the church parking lot on Sunday morning, I'm shocked to find Sharon's new car already there. The excitement that stirs inside me is mingled with resentment. Sharon only attended church once when she was living here. I have to wonder whether she's here for God or for me.

"Lord, forgive me for my arrogance," I whisper out loud when God puts me in check by bringing to mind Proverbs 16:18: Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.

The rest of my time with God doesn't go any better. Today's message is about forgiveness, and I'm squirming in my seat not five minutes into it. I forgave Sharon for breaking my heart just like she forgave me for breaking hers. Forgiving and forgetting are two different things, but not to God. When He forgives us, He also forgets. No matter how hard I try, I can't forget how she walked out of my life without so much as a backward glance and without giving me a chance to explain.

I sit in the back of the auditorium to avoid Sharon, who's sitting towards the front. Her hair is draped around her shoulders. She's wearing a dark green blouse that I'm sure matches her emerald eyes. The teenager I once knew is now a woman, more beautiful than ever. I reach for my tie and pull on it until it's loose around my neck.

As soon as service ends, I make a beeline for the door.

"Hey, Jon!" Patrick's greeting stops me in my tracks.

"Hi, Patrick, how are you?"

"Good, man, I'm doing good. Just confirming we're still on for Wednesday night?"

"Wednesday night?"

"Youth Night."

"That's right. We're playing basketball with the kids from the church."

"Great," he says, handing me a sheet of paper with the list of names.

"A lot of these kids are in my class," I say, looking through the list until I see Sharon's name. "You have Sharon Hansen down as a coach."

"Yes," Patrick says. "She volunteered when I told her we needed one more coach."

"What does Sharon know about basketball?"

Patrick's belly laugh tells me I'm missing something.

"Sharon played basketball for UCLA."

"I didn't know that," I say, realizing there's so much I still don't know about her.

"She's only five foot seven and skinny," Patrick continues, "but she has a quick first step and an impressive outside jumper."

"You sound like a seasoned NBA commentator," I laugh.

"Hi, Jon." Sharon's sweet voice is like hot coals to my pride but like the balm of Gilead to my spirit, having the power to soothe and heal the resentment that's been festering in my heart for years.

I turn around, and when I meet her gaze, I confirm that her eyes match the ruffled blouse she's wearing. I can smell the delicate scent of her hair. Without touching her, I know her pale skin is warm and smooth. I can close my eyes and count all the freckles on her face. Her lips are pink, like the ripest strawberries, and taste like honey. I scold myself for having these ridiculous, romanticized thoughts.

"Hi, Sharon," Patrick's voice ends the awkward silence. "I was just telling Jon about your outside jumper."

She smiles and takes the list from Patrick.

"Are these the teams?"

"Yeah," he says, glancing towards his wife and baby, who are heading in our direction. "I gotta go, guys, but I'll see you both on Wednesday night.”

Sharon waves at Patrick's wife and then turns to me.

"Do you have lunch plans?"

An invitation to lunch? Now that I wasn't expecting.

I step forward, and with only inches between us, I ask, "What are you doing?"

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