“Our exciting lives,” Gloria muttered. “Grocery shopping and church.”
“What’s
that you say?” Bud asked loudly enough to be heard four aisles away.
Gloria
shook her head and sighed. Where had that
man learned to whisper? In the woods surrounded by chain saws?
All
the years of farming on equipment without cabs hadn’t helped Bud’s hearing, and
he refused to get tested for hearing aids.
“I
hear everything I want to hear,” Bud said.
She’d
reminded him of the time at church when the pastor had said, “Don’t think I’m
preaching at you. I’m as big a sinner as any of you!”
Bud
had thought the pastor had said he was preaching to the big sinners and had let
out a loud and hearty “Amen!”
Gloria
had felt the warmth creeping up her neck into her face when she’d heard smothered
giggles. Even the pastor had grinned.
“See?”
Gloria had said to Bud when she’d told him after church what had happened. “You
do need hearing aids.”
Bud had just shrugged. He wasn’t easily embarrassed. He hadn’t gotten hearing aids, and he hadn’t quit being a big part of the amen corner either, something the young people at church found amusing. She had to admit people at church loved Bud. He and his warm laughter were the center of many after-church conversations.
Gloria
thought about church as she and Bud walked up and down every aisle doing the weekly
grocery shopping she hated. Maybe it was time, after fifty years, to look for a
new church. She’d felt vaguely dissatisfied for quite some time, and she wasn’t
sure why. It wasn’t the people; her life-time friends attended the little
country church. It wasn’t the young preacher. His sermons were good. Just last
week he’d preached on “a wise woman builds her house, but the foolish pulls it
down with her hands.”
Maybe it’s me, Gloria thought.
It’s a new year; maybe I need a change. I
wonder what Bud would say trying out one of those bigger churches in town. Or,
quitting church altogether. She sighed. She knew what Bud would say. She
always knew what he would say about everything, and she was tired of that too.
Bud
steered the cart down the mustard aisle, and something in Gloria snapped when Bud
reached up, as he always did, for the same yellow plastic bottle of mustard he
bought every single week. How much mustard had the man bought in the last fifty
years of their marriage?
Just
last week Gloria and Bud had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The
kids had wanted to give them a big party, and Gloria had loved that idea. But not
Bud. He’d finally agreed to renew their vows in front of the church and have
cake after, but he’d been uncomfortable doing even that. Gloria had hoped he’d
kiss her after they’d renewed their vows, but she’d known better.
“Did
you feel bad when Dad didn’t kiss you?” their daughter had asked. Gloria had
shrugged. Her daughter had smiled, stooped, and kissed her cheek. “You know he
adores you, Mom. He reminds me of a joke I heard once. An old lady asked her
husband why he never said he loved her. He answered, ‘Told you I loved you when
I married you. If I ever change my mind, I’ll let you know.’”
Gloria
had managed a weak chuckle. That was Bud alright. She’d loved him unwaveringly
through fifty years of five children, little money, and cows and crops coming
first. She’d always hoped their retirement years would be different, but
nothing had changed. He still never said he loved her. And he still bought
mustard. Every. Single. Week.
“Think
I’ll get two this week,” Bud said in his normal shouting level voice.
Gloria,
who hadn’t raised her voice in fifty years, out-shouted him. “You put that
mustard back on the shelf! This is ridiculous! No one buys the same thing every
week when he already has it at home!”
Bud
stared at Gloria like he’d never seen her before. Then he threw his head back
and laughed. People in the aisle laughed too; Bud’s laugh always had been
contagious. Gloria wished she could evaporate like steam from her tea kettle.
“Hey
ladies!” Bud’s voice boomed. “I’m taking a survey. What do you buy here even
though you have it at home? Speak up, now, please; I’m deaf!”
An
amused crowd grew around him. Bud put the mustard in the cart, whipped out his
old fountain pen, and started writing down the answers people shouted out.
“My
little boy begs me to buy ketchup in case we run out of it. He’d eat it
straight out of the bottle if I’d let him. “
Bud’s
list grew as did the laughter and the camaraderie in the mustard aisle. Cheese,
milk, ginger, eggs, coffee, spring water, chicken broth, Oreos, popsicles,
crackers, sour cream, fruit, tortillas.
When
someone hollered, “chocolate!” people cheered.
“You
people are all foodies.” A woman laughed, steering her cart around the group.
“What about toilet paper?”
Finally
people drifted away, smiling. Gloria glared at Bud.
“I
was just trying to show you I’m not the only one who buys something they
already have. When I was a little boy we could never afford mustard.”
“You
might not be the only one who buys what you don’t need, but you’re the only one
I have to live with!”
Bud’s
smile faded. He put the two mustards back on the shelf. Quietly the two of them
walked to the check-out. The line was long. Gloria looked wistfully at the
self-check-out. It was empty, but she knew better than suggest it. Bud liked
real people to check him out, not a computer who wouldn’t repeat things when he
couldn’t hear.
Chatter
at the front quieted. Gloria saw ambulance lights outside of the window. An elderly
man lay on a stretcher, and paramedics were carrying him from the store.
Even
Bud was quiet for once. Without saying anything to him, Gloria left and
returned with two mustards. She put them in the cart and looked straight ahead.
Tomorrow
was Sunday. Pastor was going to preach part two of his sermon on how a wise
woman builds her house. Perhaps it was never too late to build—or to rebuild.
Maybe she’d made a start with two yellow plastic bottles of mustard.
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Thanks to my good-natured husband for being my model. He has always been supportive of my writing. Once he measured a grasshopper for me, no easy task. In case you wonder, the only thing he has in common with Bud in my story is a love of mustard and of old fountain pens.
The only sounds in the room were logs breaking apart in the fireplace and Grandpa Bob turning the pages of his book. He looked up at a loud snap, saw sparks shoot up the chimney, and smiled. He liked nothing better than spending a snowy morning next to the fire with a good book, and he loved the new mystery he’d gotten for Christmas. It was a perfect, lazy-day Saturday. He pushed aside the thought that he had too many lazy days. He might be too old to work, but he was too young to do nothing day after day.
Bob looked over at Bella. She was wrapped in her new
blanket, cuddling her Christmas teddy bear, and sucking her thumb. The picture of four-year-old contentment,
he thought.
Alice stuck her head in the family room door.
“Bella! Act your age! Quit sucking that thumb! Even your preschool teacher
complains about that.”
And
about other things too, Alice thought as she headed to the
kitchen. Maybe they shouldn’t have put Bella in the expensive preschool that
promised to have students working at a first-grade level by age five. Bella had
tested ready for the accelerated curriculum, but lately her teacher had been
suggesting they place her in an easier program.
Bella’s thumb made a popping sound as she pulled it
from her mouth. Her face crumpled as she thought about preschool. She didn’t
like preschool. The other kids could read a few sight words; she couldn’t even print
the alphabet. The others could add and subtract small numbers, but she couldn’t.
She was the only one who could count to one-hundred though.
Bob hoped his face didn’t express his thoughts. Alice, can’t you just let Bella be a kid? And I wish you and Andy would reconsider my offer of letting me homeschool her until she starts first grade. I miss teaching, and I know how to help Bella. She needs manipulatives for math and phonics for reading. I was an expert in both, even published papers in educational journals. A slower pace would help her too. Does it really matter if she learns to read when she’s four?
But Bob didn’t say a word. He’d learned not to
interfere with Alice and Andy’s parenting. He appreciated living with them, but
in many ways, it wasn’t easy.
Bob heard Alice rattling pans in the kitchen. He
hoped she’d be in a better mood by lunch. He heard Bella sniff. One tear ran down
her cheek, and Teddy was on the floor.
“Hey! What do you say we teach Teddy how to do somersaults?
Prop him up on the couch there so he can watch us.”
“Are you going to do somersaults, Grandpa Bob?”
“Sure! Why not?”
Bella giggled and put Teddy on the couch, giving him
a good view of the floor. Bob struggled a bit getting out of the recliner. His
right knee snapped, and he winced. He intended to put that knee replacement off
as long as possible.
Bob tossed a sofa pillow on the floor, gingerly put
his head on it, and rolled over with a crash. Bella roared with laughter, and
Andy came running.
‘Bob! What in the world are you doing?”
“We’re teaching Teddy how to do somersaults!” Bella
said, still laughing.
Andy wasn’t laughing. He helped his father-in-law
off the floor. “It’s a miracle you didn’t break something. Act your age! Seventy-year-old
men don’t do somersaults.”
“Obviously, some do,” Bob said dryly. Everything
hurt, especially his knee, but it was worth it to see Bella laughing instead of
crying.
Andy looked at Bob and Bella grinning at each other.
In spite of himself, he laughed. “You’re
two of a kind!” He left to help Alice in the kitchen.
Bob could just imagine the kitchen conversation.
Would he end up in a nursing home next?
“Grandpa Bob, why do Mommy and Daddy keep saying to
act our age?”
He hugged her. “Oh, honey, they want the best for
us, and they don’t always know how to make that happen. Hey, speaking of age, do
you know how many years older I am than you are?”
Bella shook her head. “I know you’re seventy and I’m
four, but I can’t do numbers. I heard teacher tell the parapro I’m not smart.”
That
teacher is looking to get fired. Bob swallowed his
anger. “Get me your scissors and some paper, please.”
Bob cut seventy squares and laid them on the coffee
table. “That’s seventy squares, one for each of my years. You take away how
many years you are.”
Bella picked up four squares.
“Sit on those.”
Bella laughed and sat on the four squares.
“Now count how many squares you have left. That’s a
way to subtract your four years from my seventy years without using paper.”
Bella knew she could count to one-hundred, and there
weren’t that many squares. This was going to be easy.
With their heads close together, neither Bob nor
Bella noticed the noise from the kitchen had stopped. They didn’t see Alice and
Andy standing in the doorway, watching them.
Bella yelled, “Sixty-six! You are sixty-six more
than me! I subtracted from a bigger number than they do at preschool! I did it!
I’m not stupid!”
About half an hour later Andy called, “Get your
coats. We’re going out to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” Bob asked. “I thought I heard
Alice fixing lunch. Why aren’t we eating here?”
“We’re celebrating New Year’s a little early,” Andy
said. “Do you want to come or not?”
“I’m always good for a meal out.”
Bob looked around the upscale restaurant. It had
been a long time since he’d enjoyed a nice steak dinner out, and this was
Bella’s first time.
Alice looked up from cutting Bella’s steak into tiny
pieces. “Happy New Year, Dad,” she said. “Here’s to new beginnings. How would
you like to homeschool Bella until she starts first grade? Andy and I’ve
decided you’ll do a much better job than the teacher she has now.”
“Really?” Bella squealed with delight.
Bob sat silently, unable to say anything.
“Dad, don’t you have anything to say?”
Bob swallowed the lump in his throat. “Can we hold
hands and pray? I suddenly feel about ten years younger and very thankful.”
Andy sighed. “Make it snappy; I don’t want my steak
to get cold. And about that ten years younger thing? You have to promise, no
more somersaults!”
Bob nodded. It was a small price to pay. Anyway, his
knee didn’t seem to appreciate somersaults as much as he did.
“I don’t think so, not this year.” Annetta shook her
head. If it weren’t for the white curls and deep lines in her face, she’d look
just like a stubborn child.
Kate and Bob looked at each other. “Mom, come on!
The candlelight service has always been your favorite! You know Bob will help
you get into the church.”
After repeated refusals, Annetta’s family left. “Maybe
she’ll change her mind before Sunday,” Bob said, but Kate cried.
As Bob pulled out onto the gravel road, Kate looked
back at the old farmhouse thinking of Christmases past when Dad had been alive
and the aroma of fresh cut pine and an impossible amount of baked goods had
filled the home. Now the house smelled old and musty. It had been years since
Mom had been able to host family Christmas. They couldn’t even let her walk to
the end of the driveway to get her mail anymore; her balance was that bad. Mom couldn’t
stay alone much longer, and that was going to be a battle Kate dreaded. After
the holidays, they’d give her a choice, live with them or go to assisted
living. She sighed; neither option was optimal. Kate felt sure Mom had no idea
what they were thinking. Let her enjoy one last Christmas at home.
Annetta sat in her rocker; she too was thinking of
Christmases past. How could she tell her family she didn’t want to go to the
candlelight service because she was tired to the bone of having nothing left to
share? Once she’d had so much to give her family and her church family. For
many years the congregation had sat in awed silence at the candlelight service as
she’d offered Christ and them her soprano solo of “O Holy Night.”
When her cracked and aging voice had stopped her
from singing, Annetta had started writing short stories she’d read to the
church children at the candlelight service. The adults had liked them as much
as the kids. But then the cloud in her mind had ended the stories.
“It’s the beginning of dementia, hardening of the arteries,”
the doctor called it.
“It’s hardening of the ought-eries,” Anetta murmured
to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember what she ought to do, and when she
did remember, she couldn’t find ambition to do it.
Annetta picked up her worn Bible, shivered, and
pulled a quilt around her knees. Why is
it always so cold?
“Lord, Lord,” she murmured, as a tear traced its way
down a deep wrinkle in her cheek, “I can live with my body being so cold, but I
can’t live with this empty, cold heart. I’ve nothing left to give.”
Everything was gone, even joy. Christmas would be at
Kate’s again this year. Bless her heart; Kate tried, but she was busy. She
worked full time, as did all of her siblings. No one cut a real tree anymore.
No one had time to make crescent rolls or beautiful, layered Jell-O. And no one
had read Luke chapter two on Christmas Day since her beloved Jacob had died.
What she wouldn’t give to hear his strong voice read that once more.
Annetta sighed and opened her Bible. As she read
about the wise men giving the Christ-child expensive gifts of gold, frankincense,
and myrrh, more tears followed. She longed to give the Lord Jesus something
special this Christmas as she had so many years in the past, something of
herself, but she was broken, body, soul, and spirit.
Blessed.
Broken. Given. The words stirred a memory in Annetta’s
foggy brain. Hadn’t Jesus used those words? He’d accepted a little boy’s meager
lunch, blessed it, broken it, and given it to the hungry crowd and had miraculously
fed a multitude.
Before He’d died on the cross for the sin of the
world Jesus had taken bread, blessed it, broken it, and given it to His
disciples. “This is my body, given for you,” He’d said.
Annetta remembered that after Christ’s resurrection
His followers had recognized Him when He’d blessed, broken, and given them
bread.
It
must have been a habit of His, this blessing, breaking, and giving, if His
friends recognized Him because of it, Annetta thought. But what does it mean? What does it have to
do with me?
“I’ve been greatly blessed,” Annetta murmured, “and
now I’m broken. Can I be given? What’s left of me to give?”
Annetta chuckled, remembering the year the pastor
had preached, “Just give what you have to Jesus.” The next Sunday, Annetta had
been shocked to see five-year-old Kate drop her favorite doll in the offering
plate.
After church, the treasurer had come to Annetta,
holding the grubby doll that was missing both an arm and a leg. “What exactly
am I supposed to do with this?”
Annetta had laughed. “You’re the treasurer; you
think of something. It’s Kate’s favorite doll, and she sleeps with it every
night. I don’t know how she’ll get to sleep without it tonight, but she wanted
to give it to Jesus.”
“What do you want, Lord?” Annetta whispered. “Do you
want this mind, getting worse with dementia every year? Do you want this body,
crippled with arthritis? Do you want this empty soul? It’s all less than
worthless, but I give it to you.”
There. Her broken gift lay next to Kate’s grubby doll
offering. Of the two, Annetta thought her present looked worse by far, but a
quiet peace filled her soul.
Annetta went to the candlelight service. Bob helped
her struggle to her feet, and in a halting voice, stumbling over words and
missing several, she read Luke chapter two. There wasn’t a dry eye in the
congregation.
On the way home, Annetta said to Kate and Bob, “I
have a Christmas gift for you.”
Kate frowned. “Mom, we agreed, no gifts this year.
No one needs anything.”
“Oh, you need this,” Annetta said mysteriously.
“What is it?”
“You have to wait until tomorrow.”
Christmas at Kate’s was nice. The catered ham dinner
wasn’t too bad, and Annetta didn’t mention the dry rolls.
After they ate, Annetta handed Kate and Bob a small
box. They opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. On it Annetta had written,
“I’ve decided to go into assisted living at Maple Lawn after the first of the
year. I love you, Mom.”
As Kate cried and hugged her, Annetta thought, blessed, broken, and given. It felt good
to still have something to give. And to
receive. The thought came suddenly. Adventure.
It had been decades since she’d thought of that word in connection with
herself, but who knew? Was she actually looking forward to a new life at Maple
Lawn? Maybe. Maybe she was.
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Photo credit: Drones Over Broome: used by permission
The bottle of Dom Perignon was half-empty, but Jer
hadn’t touched the Champagne. He wasn’t interested tonight in the pricey, popular
Treasure Chest of drinks. Its dry ice drifted in a lazy fog over their table of
four. He yawned and looked at the yellow-gold Rolex Lisa had given him.
“Here,” she’d kissed him lightly and laughed. “If
you’re going to be appearing on billboards all over Chicago with my Dad,
advertised as his brilliant, young, new law partner, you need to look the part.”
He hadn’t wanted to accept the watch; he and Lisa really
weren’t at that point in their relationship. He didn’t know if he ever wanted
to be, but things were complicated. He’d never have moved up so quickly in the
law firm without Lisa’s dad, so he felt obligated to take the watch, obligated
to keep being with Lisa, and he didn’t like the feeling. Jer sighed. He was
tired and suddenly homesick for a place he hadn’t been in years, the hills of
Tennessee.
“Hey!” Bud laughed. “What’s up, Jer? It isn’t like
you to look bored at Three Dots and a Dash! This is our third club of the night,
and you’ve only had one drink. Something wrong?”
Jer pushed aside his memories of a small church in
the Tennessee hills where it snowed every Christmas, all roads led home, and
grown men still called their fathers “Daddy.” His Daddy was the pastor at that
church. Right now they were having the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and
he knew light from inside was shining through the stained glass windows and
reflecting on the snow. When Jer had been a boy, Daddy had always left the
church lights on all night Christmas Eve, and as Jer’s family had left the
snowy parking lot and headed home to the farm, he’d loved looking back at that
reflection. It had seemed magical.
“Jer? You still with us?”
Jer looked at Bud, shrugged, and glanced at his
watch. In a half-hour it would be Christmas. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”
“And leave the rest of the Treasure Chest? Well,
it’s your buck! It you want to spend $400.00 for drinks plus your usual big tip
and then not finish drinking, okay. The rest of us have probably had enough
anyway.”
Enough
and too much, Jer thought as he helped his friends
out the door and waved for a cab.
Bud laughed again. “What’s that drunk doing here?
He’s a long way from the mission!”
Jer hesitated, then walked over to the man lying on the sidewalk. What was a drunk, homeless-looking man doing in front of this trendy, expensive bar? Even in the dim light Jer could see the deep yellow of the man’s skin. If he wasn’t dead already from liver damage, he soon would be.
The man started shivering violently. Obviously not dead yet, Jer thought. But he’s soon going to freeze to death. They
don’t call this the Windy City for nothing.
“Give
him you coat, son.” Jer’s father’s voice sounded so clear,
he looked around, startled.
Why
not? It’s not like I can’t afford another one. I can afford to buy anything I
want or need.
“Are
you sure you don’t need something money can’t buy?”
Again, Jer looked around started. Why did he keep thinking he heard his father’s voice? He wasn’t drunk, not on one drink. Was he losing his mind? He took off his coat and bent to cover the man on the sidewalk.
Jer’s friends laughed. “Hope you never want to wear
that coat again; it’s covered with lice and fleas now. Come on, Jer, cab’s waiting.
Leave that guy. He’s just going to die anyway.”
“Not on my watch, he isn’t,” Jer said abruptly. “You
guys go on. I’ll catch you later.”
Jer ignored his friends’ laughter and sarcastic
comments as he dialed 9-1-1. He did hear Bud jeeringly call him a Good-Samarian
Jeremiah. Bud knew he hated the name Jeremiah and all its biblical
connotations. Jer was definitely not
a Jeremiah, and he hadn’t been one, not for a long, long time.
Jer felt a hand grab his ankle. “Afraid,” a hoarse
voice moaned.
Jer squatted next to the man. “What’s your name? And
what are you doing here?”
“Samuel. Walked from the mission. Wanted to see
Three Dots and a Dash one more time. Used to come here with my buddies.”
Jer’s thoughts raced. Wait. Three Dots and a Dash had only opened in 2013. This man looked
like he’d lived on the streets at least forty years. When had he been sober and
wealthy enough to have come here? And how had he walked from the mission?
Jer had volunteered at the mission when he’d first
come to the city, before he’d left his faith behind, so he knew its location.
It was a brisk forty minute walk away for a healthy man. It must have taken
this man at least two hours to stumble here in his condition.
“Rum? Got rum?” Samuel’s voice was so low Jer could
barely hear it.
Jer shook his head, and tears stung his eyes. It had
been a long time since anything had made him cry.
“Don’t leave me. Don’t want to die alone.”
“I won’t leave, and you aren’t going to die, not on
my watch!” Jer peered through the crowd of bodies that had gathered to gawk. Where was that ambulance? Finally.
The paramedics rolled Samuel onto a stretcher. He
grabbed Jer’s hand.
“May I ride with him? I promised not to leave him.”
“You a relative? You can only ride in the back if
you’re family.”
Jer shook his head, but Samuel muttered, “He’s my
brother.”
“Get in.” A paramedic chuckled and motioned to
Jer.
Samuel kept a grip on Jer’s hand. Jer had never seen
such grime on a human body.
Again Samuel said, “Don’t want to die alone.”
“Hey! I told you. You aren’t going to die! Not on my
watch.”
The paramedic caught Jer’s eye and shook his head
slightly.
“Afraid, afraid!” Samuel moaned.
Jer was surprised to hear himself say, “For God so
loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“John 3:16,” Samuel whispered. “I believe. So sorry.
Almost forgot Jesus. Not alone. He’ll walk me Home.”
A few minutes later Samuel relaxed his grip. Jer
didn’t need the paramedic to tell him Samuel was gone. Jesus had come and walked
him the rest of the way Home.
“What happens to guys like him if they die without
insurance or families?”
The paramedic shrugged. “DHS might help with
cremation.”
“You look like an honest guy. “ Jer slipped off his
watch. “Will you sell this, pay for a funeral for Samuel, and give the rest to
the mission? I’d do it myself, but I need to catch the first flight to
Tennessee.”
The ambulance pulled up to the hospital
The paramedic’s eyes widened as he looked at the yellow-gold Rolex in his hand. “Isn’t this thing worth like forty-grand? Sure, I’ll take care of it for you. It just so happens my grandpa is one of the chaplains at the mission. Who should I say the gift is from?”
Jer jumped down from the ambulance and turned to shake the paramedic’s hand. “Tell them Jeremiah gave it to you,” he said, “Jeremiah from Tennessee.” Then he sprinted off to find a cab.
Photo Credit: Drones Over Broome. Please visit their Facebook page for more breathtaking photos.
Which is true?
You can’t go home again, or the greatest adventure of our lives is finding our
way back home?
One hour
and fifty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took to fly from Boston to Detroit.
“Under two hours to fly to a different planet,” Darla muttered, “and wouldn’t
you know, Mom and Dad would be late picking me up.”
Holiday
music filled the crowded airport lobby. Travelers rushed to get to their
destinations this Christmas Eve morning.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” the old song
crooned. Darla wished she had earplugs. Detroit was only the beginning of what
was sure to be an almost unendurable week. The ride to the family home south of
Jackson, Michigan, would take thirty minutes longer than the flight from Boston
to Detroit had. From experience Darla knew the trip would be filled with Mom’s
irritating, optimistic chatter. And the questions! Mom’s questions never ended,
but Darla dreaded most the one question she knew Dad would ask.
Who was
it who said, “You can’t go home again?” Maybe they should have said, “Only a
fool tries to go home again.”
Darla
retrieved her bags, found a seat, and sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted to
spend the holidays. She and her friends had planned to party through Christmas
and then go to Times Square in New York to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.
Darla
almost wished she’d refused when Mom had called asking her to come home for
Christmas and to stay for Grandma’s memorial service on December 31.
Grandma.
In spite of her black mood Darla smiled, visualizing her short, white-haired,
grandmother. Darla could almost smell Grandma’s Christmas cookies. Every
Christmas of Darla’s childhood had been spent at Grandma’s house, and at
Corners Church.
Finally.
There were the parents, hurrying toward her. She stood to accept Mom’s
hug. People always smiled at the
contrast between her and her mother. Mom said Darla, at five-eleven, looked
like Beauty in Beauty and the Beast,
and that she looked like Mrs. Potts—the little talking tea pot.
As a little girl, Darla had sung, “Mommy’s a little tea pot, short and stout,” until Dad had made her stop. He’d feared she’d hurt Mom’s feelings. Darla still referred to Mom as “The Tea Pot” when she talked about her to her Boston friends.
As
always, Darla felt half-amused and half-embarrassed by Mom’s looks. The way Mom
dressed did nothing to enhance her five-foot frame. Even on tip toe she
couldn’t quite reach Darla’s cheek.
Darla bent for Mom’s kiss. Then she felt the crush of Dad’s arms. They didn’t feel as strong as she remembered. She was surprised at the amount of gray in Dad’s hair and at the many wrinkles that lined Mom’s face. She glanced again at Mom’s cheeks. The pink cheeks she remembered were gone. Mom’s face looked pale and fragile.
The ride
home was emotionally exhausting. Darla bit her lip more than once to stop from
snapping.
“No,
Mom, Devon and I have no plans to get married.”
“Yes,
Mom, I know The Boston Globe is New
England’s largest newspaper. I’ve worked for them for two years.”
“Yes,
Mother, I keep my doors locked when I’m driving around the city.”
“No Mom, I don’t eat three healthy meals a
day. You have no idea how demanding my schedule is.”
Finally! Blessed quietness. Mom slept, her head leaned against the window. Darla noticed how the sunlight made Mom’s hair look even grayer than it had in the terminal.
Dad
cleared his throat. Oh no, here it came. “The Question.” Might as well get it over with.
“I’m
retiring the first of the year,” Dad said unexpectedly.
“What?”
Darla bolted up in her seat. “You told Mom not to talk to you about retiring
until you were seventy-five! Dad, why retire? You love your job!”
“Guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. Mom needs too much help now. I’m retiring to spend what time she has left with her.”
“What do you mean ‘what time she has left?’ Does anyone in this family ever tell me anything?”
Dad’s
voice was quiet “I wanted to wait and tell you in person. Mom has lymphoma.
Stage four.”
The size
of the lump in Darla’s throat surprised her. She hadn’t felt close to her
parents for years. Truthfully, she seldom thought of them except when she
skimmed their too long weekly letters. Darla hadn’t been home for five years,
and Mom and Dad had never visited Boston.
Darla was just as happy they didn’t come. The parents meeting her Boston
friends?
Darla
didn’t know what to say to Dad. The car was silent except for Mom’s soft
snores. Darla texted Devon the news of the lymphoma.
“So The
Tea Pot’s going to whistle her last tune?” he texted back. It was exactly the
kind of sarcastic, dark humor that had drawn Darla to Devon, but now it made
her inexplicably angry. She turned her cell phone off and shoved it into the
pocket of her jacket.
The trip
took an eternity. Ann Arbor. Chelsea. Jackson. Spring Arbor. As Darla well
remembered from her college days, there were still thirty minutes of car travel
left before they reached her parents’ farm at the end of a dirt road.
Dad slowed as they passed the college. It
looked even smaller and quainter than Darla remembered. She’d tried to forget
her years there. If anyone asked where she got her education, she always said
NYU, where she’d done her graduate work in journalism.
“Do you
want me to stop at your old Alma Mater?” Dad asked.
“Don’t
bother.” Darla sighed. “Let’s just get home and get this week over with.”
Dad
glanced at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked sad. That was another
thing Darla hated about coming home. It seemed she always said or did something
to hurt Mom and Dad.
“Here,” Dad reached back over the seat and handed Darla an ad ripped from the paper. “I thought you might want to see this for what it’s worth.”
Darla
couldn’t help it. She laughingly read out loud: “Wanted. Experienced journalist
for the Hudson Daily Reporter. Salary
based on experience. Benefits.” She remembered as a kid snickering at a story
the paper had carried on its front page, “Calamity Cow Causes Car Crash.”
So the
“Daily Blues,” as some called it, wanted to hire a reporter? Darla was
surprised the paper hadn’t gone belly up years ago. When even Newsweek couldn’t survive the upheaval
in print journalism, how had that little newspaper survived?
Hudson
was only about ten miles from her parents’ home. Did her dad really think she’d
return home and work for that nothing newspaper? Ludicrous! She crumpled the ad
and put it in her jacket pocket. Her fingers touched her phone. Should she text
Devon so they could mock her Dad’s idea together? Somehow, she just didn’t feel
like it.
Darla
carried one suitcase into the house, and Dad carried the other. Mom held his
free arm. Darla knew she should say something to Mom about the cancer, but
what? They’d never communicated well, not even when Darla had been a child. Mom
was all the things Darla secretly despised, a stay-at-home Mom, with no higher
education, and church as her only social life.
Darla felt she’d walked back in time when she stepped into the farmhouse. The tree was in the same corner. As usual, the top was crooked, and the tree topper had the same crack she remembered. The scent of pine filled the air. Darla sneezed. She’d forgotten about her allergy to pine.
Looking
around, Darla sighed. Every nook was filled with something red and green. Her
eyes widened at the array of home baked goods that filled the kitchen counter.
She hoped her parents didn’t expect her to eat those. It took strict discipline
to stay in her size six clothes. Dad saw Darla’s glance and smiled proudly.
“You think
that’s something?” Dad said. “Wait until you taste the turkey, the ham, and the
pork roast Mom has in the fridge.”
“I’m a
vegan!” Darla hadn’t meant to sound so angry.
“What’s
a vegan?” Dad asked.
How
could anyone not know the definition of vegan? Darla tried to be patient. “I
don’t eat anything that causes an animal to suffer. I don’t eat meat, eggs or
dairy.”
“What do
you eat?” Mom sounded stupefied.
“Veggies.
Lots of veggies. And no baked goods.”
Mom took
a long look at the counter. Tears came to her blue eyes. “I think I’m going to
go take a nap,” she said softly.
Dad
helped Mom into the bedroom and returned to Darla. “Sit, young lady!” he
thundered. Darla almost laughed, but she sat. “Your Mom has been cooking for days
for your visit. She has so little energy, and she used every bit of it to
prepare for you to come home for the holidays.”
“OK,
well I’m sorry.” Darla almost winced at the weak sound of her own voice. She
spoke louder, “I’m a vegan by conviction. I’m not going to change just because
Mom cooked!”
Dad’s
face reddened. “By conviction!” he thundered. “Since when do you have any
convictions about anything? You don’t even bother attending church. And do you
think Mom and I are stupid? We know you and Devon are living together. And that
last article you wrote for the paper on abortion? That made Mom cry. We prayed
none of our friends would see it.”
Darla
could feel her heart pounding in her head. One of her migraines was starting.
“This isn’t going to work,” Darla said. “Home for Christmas? What a joke! This
place isn’t home. I shouldn’t have come here. We live in two different worlds,
and there’s nowhere left for us to meet. I’m flying back to Boston.”
“Maybe
that would be best.” Dad sighed. “We’ll take you back to the airport in the
morning. Perhaps you’ll stop thinking of yourself long enough to go to the
Christmas Eve program at church with us tonight?”
Selfish?
Dad thought she was selfish? She almost told him how much she’d donated to
Planned Parenthood last year but realized just in time Dad wouldn’t consider
that a point in her favor.
“Speaking
of church,” Dad began.
Darla
interrupted hastily. She already regretted her bitter words and didn’t want to
argue anymore with Dad. “I’m going to do like Mom and take a little nap if I
have to go to church tonight.”
Lying on
the twin bed in her old room, Darla tried to sleep in spite of the pounding
headache. Had she ever been that girl who loved pink gingham? Everything in the
room looked like cotton candy. Pink was now her least favorite color.
From
downstairs Darla could hear Christmas music playing and Mom and Dad talking
softly. Her angry words with Dad must have prevented Mom’s nap. Was that noise
Mom crying? Darla buried her head under a pillow. She would get through church.
She would spend the night. She would fly back to her world in the morning and
bury this one in the past where it belonged. Home for the holidays was just an
outdated phrase; it had nothing to do with her.
Surprised
that she’d slept so long, Darla woke. Downstairs Mom and Dad were waiting
supper for her. No meats or treats were in sight. Two large trays of veggies
and fruits sat on th counter.
“Are
fruits okay?” Mom sounded timid.
“Oh
Mom!” Darla reached down, hugged her, and realized Mom’s clothes no longer
covered a plump frame. Mom was so tiny Darla could feel her bones. Darla pulled
away, shocked.
“You didn’t tell me about the lymphoma.”
“I
didn’t know what to say,” Mom said simply.
Darla
nodded. She understood that, the not knowing what to say.
The
three of them walked together through the snowy parking lot and into Corners
Church. This part of Michigan enjoyed a white Christmas only fifty percent of
the time. For some illogical reason, Darla was glad that it was snowing this
year. She liked hearing the snow crunch under her feet.
The
white frame church was even smaller than Darla remembered. Just like every year
of her childhood, there was candlelight, laughter, and music. The children in
the play forgot their lines, just like they always did. Grandpas dozed and
Grandmas looked proud. Babies fussed and were comforted. The same wreaths hung
in the same windows. The same ridiculous Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood in
the same corner. Its only ornaments were construction paper handprints. Must be
the children were still tracing their hands to make Christmas ornaments.
Could it
be? Darla leaned forward and peered at the tree. There it was—the handprint
she’d made so long ago. It was the only one with a big yellow smiley face on
it. At age seven, Darla had decorated everything with that silly smiley face.
Mom
leaned close and whispered, “Do you remember the year you had to be Joseph in
the Christmas play because there were no boys? You hated that. You wanted so badly
to be Mary.”
From
somewhere deep inside laughter bubbled. Mom started chuckling too.
“Shh,”
Dad whispered, but he was grinning broadly.
A little
boy, reading, stumbled over the words in the old King James Bible, “And she
brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and
laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”
I still believe those words, Darla thought, as a little girl placed a blanketed doll in a crude manger. That’s one thing Mom and Dad and I have in common.
Suddenly
she no longer felt angry. Darla knew she couldn’t leave before Grandma’s
memorial service. She leaned over and whispered to Dad, “I’m going to stay
through the holidays.”
Dad poked Mom, winked, and grinned. Had he
known all along she wouldn’t leave?
I’ll answer Dad’s unasked question before I go
to bed, Darla thought. It will make him happy. “Yes, Dad, I’ll look
for a church when I get back to Boston. It’s not going to be anything like
Corners Church, but I’ll start going back to church.”
She knew
what her Dad would say. “Well, that’s a start.”
She
wasn’t going to argue with him or Mom again, not about religion, or politics,
or vegans. She was just going to enjoy being home, home for the holidays,
perhaps for the last time.
Or . . . perhaps not for the last time. Darla reached into her jacket pocket and fished out the crumpled ad. It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the paper and just talk to them for a minute…. Had Dad just winked at Mom again? She watched him a minute, but he and Mom were staring straight ahead, holding hands, and smiling at the little angels with crooked tinsel halos who were singing quite off key, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”
Photo Credit goes to Drones Over Broome who captures beautiful views in the area of New York where I spent many of my growing up years. Please visit the Drones Over Broome’s Facebook page for many more lovely scenes.
Quiet mystery hung over the restless night that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Sometimes lazy snowflakes drifted down; other times the moon peeked out from behind dark clouds. Two snow people yawned on a front lawn facing a white house that smiled welcome with its green shutters. A Christmas wreath with silver bells hung on its red front door.
“You’re so tall and handsome,” the
short snow person said to the other. “I like your black hat, your shiny
straight buttons, and your glasses. What’s your name?”
“You may call me Professor. What is your name, little snow girl?”
“I. . .don’t know. I don’t think I have a name.”
“Silly child! Everyone has a name.”
The professor studied her. She was a
chubby little snow girl with crooked buttons. Her red knit hat sat sideways on
her head, and she had only one mitten. Her carrot nose looked ready to fall
into the snow. The professor frowned. He disliked untidiness. Still, there was
something charming about the little snow girl’s lopsided smile.
“I shall call you Scruffy,” he said.
“Scruffy? What does that mean?”
In his best lecture voice Professor
said, “It means untidy, messy, shambolic, or disorganized.”
“Oh dear,” Scruffy said. “Am I all
those things?”
“Yes, but it’s not your fault,”
Professor said. “Things like this just happen.”
“So someone made me messy?”
“Silly child! Don’t you know
anything? No one made us. We evolved.”
“What does ‘evolved’ mean?”
Professor frowned. How could he explain such a complex science to a simple-minded snow girl? “I’ll give you the easy version. First you were a snowflake. After a million years, you became a snowball. After a million more years you divided into three snowballs. By a process even I don’t fully understand the three snowballs stacked one on top of the other and. . .ta-da! You became you.”
“But who made the first snowflake?
Who made my face?” Scruffy persisted. “Who gave me my hat and my mitten?”
The exhausted professor sighed. “Oh, do go to sleep, Scruffy. No more questions tonight. And look at that.” He sounded disgusted. “Your nose has fallen into the snow.”
Soon the professor was snoring
softly, but Scruffy felt sad about her nose, and she had too many questions to
sleep. So no one had made anything? That didn’t seem right. The snowflakes and
the moon were so beautiful; she thought someone beautiful must have made them.
Lights came on in the house. Scruffy
saw a tall man with a pipe and a messy little girl laughing together. The
little girl pointed out the window and tugged the man’s hand. He nodded.
Silver bells rang as the red door
with the Christmas wreath opened. The little girl and the man came outside. The
little girl wore a red coat and red mittens, and the man had a long black coat.
They walked right up to Professor and Scruffy.
The little girl bent down and picked
up the carrot nose. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t put your nose on very well.
I’ll fix it.” She put the carrot back on Scruffy’s face and straightened
Scruffy’s hat. “Look at that!” She laughed. “I forgot to give you your other
mitten.” She pulled one off her own hand and put it on Scruffy. Scruffy felt
happy and loved.
“Daddy,” the little girl said, “your
snowman looks almost perfect. He looks like a professor, just like you. He’s
just missing one thing. You should give him your pipe. You promised Mommy you
would quit smoking. It could be your Christmas gift to her!”
The tall man shook his head and
laughed. “You and your mom, always asking me to give up my pipe. It’s not even
lit half the time, but if it will make you two happy, I guess I can live
without it.” He carefully put his pipe just so in the snowman’s mouth. “Now
let’s have some hot chocolate before bed. You’re already up too late; it’s
Christmas Eve!”
The little girl tucked her hand in
her dad’s hand. She smiled and waved at Scruffy.
As soon as the red door closed, Scruffy called, “Professor! Professor! Wake up! You missed it! We didn’t evolve from snowflakes. A man made you, and a little girl made me! Look! The little girl fixed my nose and gave me another mitten. The man gave you a pipe! Look in that window, and you’ll see them.”
Professor looked in the window. He
saw no one. “Silly child! Next thing you’ll be telling me someone made the moon
and the snowflakes. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.”
Scruffy went to sleep, and she
dreamed about a kind little girl.
Professor couldn’t sleep. Something puzzled him. Where had the mitten and pipe come from? How had Scruffy’s nose gotten back on her face? He thought evolution took millions of years. Surely his nap hadn’t lasted millions of years. Suddenly he saw something in the window. A tall man was carrying a small child in rumpled pajamas. Could it be? No! It went against everything he’d learned in all his years of study. Still. . . what if? He looked at the moon and the beautiful snowflakes. He looked, and he wondered for a long, long time.
“Over
the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go,” the kids used to
sing when they were little and we made our annual Thanksgiving trek, the van
loaded with food, to celebrate the holiday with family. How blessed we are, I often reflected on the drive, to have three of the four sisters living in
Michigan. Who would have thought?
We Piarulli girls spent our growing-up years in New York State. My sisters, Eve and Ginny, along with their husbands and families, ended up in Michigan before we did. I never dared hope I’d live anywhere near a sister, but a year after John graduated from Bible college in Iowa, a tiny country church in Michigan asked him to come as pastor. There we’ve been ever since. So we became three sisters living in Michigan and deeply missing Mary, our New York sister, every time we gathered together.
Let me tell you something about Michigan. Just because three sisters live in Michigan doesn’t mean they will live anywhere near each other. The distance from our house in southern Lower Michigan to Eagle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is over 590 miles and takes over nine hours to travel in light traffic. Chattanooga, Tennessee is closer to us.
But we three sisters were blessed. It took no more than a three hour drive for any of us to reach the other.
The drive to and from Eve and Bruce’s was full of traditions. “There’s the spanking place,” one of the kids hollered every year.
I always felt a bit miffed. Why, when we had so many wonderful memories, did they always point out the place where just once, years before, we’d pulled into an empty parking lot and spanked all of them before we arrived in time to stuff our faces with turkey and give thanks?
On the
ride home the kids traditionally begged, “Wake us up to see the Christmas
lights.”
When we got to the town that always lit its tree on Thanksgiving evening, John woke sleepy kids and sleepy me. I’m notorious for falling asleep in the car. There’s something about the rhythm of the wheels singing that lullaby, “Over the river and through the woods. . . .”
Years
passed, and the stuffed turkey had nothing to brag about in comparison to the
stuffed rooms at Eve and Bruce’s. Kids grew up, married, had children of their
own, and still we all gathered “over the river and through the woods.”
That beautiful tradition ended when God called Eve home. Extended family began driving over the river and through the woods to gather at our home. Everyone helps with the meal and the food is as good as it ever was; our home rings with love and laughter, but it’s not the same. How could it be? Eve isn’t with us. This year another family member joined her in heaven, and more than one heart will smile through tears on Thanksgiving Day.
Thanksgiving was Eve’s holiday. I’m just pinch-hitting for her for a while. I do my best to spread the love for as long as I’m here, because someday someone will have to take over for me.
When Thanksgiving Day ends all too soon, we linger first at the door, then on the porch, next in the driveway in the traditional, drawn-out Midwestern kind of goodbye. There are a few rounds of hugs.
When Ginny can be with us I always fiercely hug her and whisper, “When will I see you again?” I cry because I love her. I cry because I really don’t like goodbyes.
One by one, cars and trucks leave. Our volunteer fireman son flashes his lights in the driveway so his nieces and nephews—and his mom—can see them and smile with delight.
John and I are two old people with tears in our eyes waving until the last taillights disappear down our gravel road, thanking God for memories of yesterday and today, and wondering how many more times we’ll have to gather together. Will someone else be missing next year when family gathers from over the river and through the woods?
I know what Eve would do if she were here. She’d hug me tightly. She’d remind me we’ll have forever together in heaven. She’d tell me to get back in the house before I catch cold. In my heart, I can see her beautiful smile and hear her say, “Good job, Donna. Thank you. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving.”
We get out of the truck, zip our hoodies tighter around our necks, and walk hand-in-hand through the field.
“Aren’t they cute?” someone says. “That old and still holding hands!”
We smile and keep walking. Yes, we still adore each other, but that’s not why we’re holding hands. We’re trying to keep from falling.
“Where’s the finish line?” we ask the first person who looks like he might know.
Reece, our grandson, placed second in this year’s community turkey trot race, and we missed it. We seem to be running for the worst grandparents of the year award, and we’re near the front!
Reece is only twelve. “I beat highschoolers, Grandma!” He grinned. “I even beat my athletic director.”
“Of course you beat him,” Reece’s mom said. “He has a bad knee.”
I ruffled Reece’s curls. I’m rather partial to them and to him. “Hey! You still beat him! Take what you can get!”
Reece’s sister, Megan, runs for Hillsdale College. I’m more than a little partial to her too.
I don’t often get to see my grandkids run, but every time I see their long legs flying around a track or through a field, I say to John, tongue-in-cheek, “They run that fast because of all the practice they got running away from their dad. And their dad was a good runner because of all the practice he got running from you!”
“Can I tell you a story?” Reece, our runner-grandson, asked in Sunday school this past Sunday.
“Is it a Bible story? Does it have any spiritual significance whatsoever?”
Looking disappointed, he sighed and shook his head.
“Tell you what. You tell me any story you want. I’ll make a spiritual application.”
“Really? Well, after I finished the turkey trot, lots of people were still running. I took my snowboard to the hill near the race. People were watching me. I was doing good; then all of a sudden I started. . . . .” He made a rolling motion with his hands.
“Head-over-heels? Not the impression you’d hoped to make?”
We both laughed. “Well, life is going to send you tumbling down many hills you didn’t choose, and sometimes people will be watching.”
We talked about how Reece didn’t get angry, put his snowboard away forever, or hide in his room. He picked himself up and laughed. We discussed the possible stroke or seizure I’d had a few days prior that today’s MRI will hopefully confirm or deny.
We can’t always choose our hills, roads, or tumbles, but we can get up, give God the pieces we have left, and keep going.
That kid snowboarded again Sunday afternoon.
Me? I just finished my MRI. The tech told me he did a special test for memory issues. That’s a good thing, because I walk Muddled Memory Lane often now, and I know many of you walk it with me.
Because of physical limitations, some of us may never again run a turkey trot or snowboard down a hill. I know some of you would love to just be able to get out of a wheelchair and meander a back country road. But there’s something we can do. We can help each other stand. We can keep walking each other Home. And we can cheer on those reaching the finish line.
Of course it was raining. I’d forgotten how muddy these backroads get in the rain. I’d forgotten many things, how to laugh, how to love, how to live.
The May lilacs drooped heavily over the country roads leading home. I’d once loved their scent. Now, all I could smell was myself. I smelled of the pigs I’d been sleeping with, animal and human, and I smelled of shame. You think shame doesn’t have a scent? You’d know better if you’d been where I’ve been, done what I’ve done.
I never expected this ending. Since I’d been a little girl, family and friends had remarked on what they’d called my unusual talent and radiant beauty. Convinced I could make fame and fortune my own, I’d fixated on one thing. Money. I needed money to get my start. Farm-life would wrinkle my skin, make me old before my time, and suck the life out of me. I had to get away from home.
So, I begged Dad for money, and I was relentless.
My brother, Eliab, was furious. “How could you! Do you know how Dad got that money he gave you? He cashed in his life insurance policy and gave you the half you would have gotten when he died. I heard him sobbing last night. He hasn’t cried since Mom’s funeral! This might kill him!”
I tried to care, but I was too excited. City lights were calling, and I had more money than I’d ever dreamed. Why try to explain to Eliab? He wouldn’t understand me; he never had. I edged passed him with my suitcase and headed out the door.
“Marion! Don’t leave like this when Dad’s not home! At least wait and tell him goodbye!”
“It’s better this way,” I said.
It was a beautiful, sunny September when I left. Hitchhiking was exciting, and contrary to all the warnings I’d heard, no one robbed or assaulted me. Not then.
My dream city job never materialized, but I was having so much fun with my new friends I didn’t care.
It’s amazing how fast you can blow through a hundred grand in the fast lane. The night life, breathtaking at first, eventually left me feeling so empty I almost didn’t care when my cash ran out. I wasn’t worried the first night I couldn’t pay the tab; my new friend would pick it up. He did but not willingly.
It’s amazing how fast you can blow through friends when you’re broke and need a bed or a hot meal. I was too proud for a shelter or the mission, and I vowed I’d never go home. I’d die first. And I almost did.
You don’t need to hear how I ended up on the streets and the things I did to survive that cold winter. No one would hire me. I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have hired myself.
One night I met a group of men who taught me quickly that not all farmers were the gentlemen my dad and his friends were. I’d already learned too much about men from sleeping on the streets to trust easily, but when I saw those farmers in a bar, their flannel shirts and jeans made me nostalgic for home and lured me into a false sense of security. When they offered me a ride and a place to stay, I went with them, like the idiot I was.
I don’t want to say much about the nights I spent with them in their shack or out in the barn with their pigs just to keep warm.
One early May morning, I woke from a nightmare. The men were still sleeping when I left. I tried hitchhiking, but no one would give me a ride.
So, I walked. Over and over I rehearsed my speech, “I’m not worthy to be your daughter. If you’ll just let me sleep in a clean bed, I’ll do anything! You can fire the cook and housekeeper; I’ll do all their work, and I can help Eliab do his chores. . . .”
I scratched at the lice on my head and dug at the flea bites on the skin I’d once admired. Once I’d worried about wrinkled skin, but now I shrunk in horror from my scarred soul.
When I didn’t think I could take another step, I saw it, the place I’d once called home, a white farmhouse with its wraparound porch. It looked so clean. I wouldn’t blame Dad if he shoved me away and shouted at me to go back to the filth I’d come from.
I saw a man push himself out of the porch rocking chair. It couldn’t be Dad; this man was older, stooped, and weighed about fifty pounds less than the strong father I’d left. He shaded his eyes with his hands, looking at me. Then he started running and shouting for my brother.
“Eliab! Eliab! Come quick! It’s our Marion!”
“Dad,” I choked out, “I’m not worthy to be. . . .”
Dad was laughing and crying. He smothered my words in his hug.
“We’re going to have the biggest party this county’s ever seen! Eliab, you have to help me. We’re going to take Marion shopping for new clothes, and I want to give her your mother’s diamond ring. Hey! Why aren’t you hugging your sister?”
He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred on Eliab’s face and the venom of his words.
“How can you even stand to touch her? She smells like trash and worse. You’re going to have a party for that slut who squandered your money on booze, drugs, and who knows what else? What about me? What have you ever done for me?”
“You’re the most faithful son a man could have, and all I have is yours. But can’t you rejoice with me? We thought your sister was dead, and she’s come home!”
Dad kept one arm around my shoulder and led me toward the house. Eliab didn’t follow. Would Eliab ever love me again? I didn’t know, and my cold heart melted with warm tears. I looked up at the joy and undeserved love in my father’s face.
If Dad could look at me like that, was he a figure of the True? Could my heavenly Father still love me too?
I fell to my knees, sobbing myself clean in the mud. God did love me still. He loved me with a beauty only the broken see. And I could love Him; I would love Him with a depth no righteous elder brother, only other forgiven sinners like me can understand.
“Daughter! Marion, come inside. Soon we’ll have you smelling as sweet as the lilacs. Aren’t they beautiful this spring?”
I took a deep breath. The lilacs were lovely that spring, lovelier than they’d ever been.
This narrative is based on one of my favorite Bible stories. You can read it in Luke 15:11-32.
The sun is turning the snow-packed gravel roads to diamonds on this frosty November morning. After the funeral we will drive down a diamond road to lay Anna May, one of our own, to rest in the Lickly’s Corners Cemetery.
The next stop will be the “Corners” where two dirt roads meet. Neighbors and family will sit around tables in the old one-room school where Anna May was part of the last graduating class back in 1948. Anna May was also part of the community club that met in the schoolhouse for many years. So was I.
We opened each community club meeting by singing, “Sew, sew, sewing on our quilts, helps brighten someone else’s world. We are happy as can be, because we’re community clubbers, you see….”
I wish I could remember the rest of the song. Sadly. of the twenty-four members there were then, only one other is still alive to ask. Perhaps I’ll see Sandy today and ask her if she can remember the words to our club song.
The community club sold the building to the church at the corners for $5.00, and the church has used it for potluck dinners ever since. For many years, Anna May was part of that church, our church.
Our church ladies will serve the funeral meal, a turkey dinner, at the old schoolhouse. Two of our women offered to make turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. The rest of us will fill in things like salads, rolls, meatballs, calico beans, and a dessert table worthy of the name. There will be lots of hot coffee to warm frigid hands and laughter to warm hurting hearts. Fixing food for others is one of the things the church at the corners does best. It’s one way we can show our love and the love of Jesus.
“How do so few people make so much food?” someone once asked of our church ladies. The question surprised us. We just do; doesn’t everyone? I suppose they don’t, but sharing food, love, and support is still a way of life at our Corners, and I hope the same is true in many places.
“Little House on the Prairie” knew the value of community. We’re lost, isolated, stranded without each other. You don’t have to be back roads country the way we are to cultivate community. It can happen anywhere. It just takes one person to realize we all need each other and to do something about it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone needs you where you are right now.
We could talk about community today as we walk together through the snow on my gravel road and listen to the snow crunch under our feet. But first, I have a funeral dinner to help serve, and a few hugs to share. I might need a hug myself. I’ll dearly miss my friend.
