The Golden Gift

by Donna Poole

The old lady’s eyes were closed in prayer, but she knew the scene by heart. Seven half pews lined each side of the tiny church, just as they had for the last fifty plus years her husband had been pastor here. The bare wooden floor, worn and stained from one-hundred-fifty years of use, still creaked in the same places. The views outside of the six windows, three on a side, changed with the seasons. Today they showed empty fields gifted golden with round bales of hay. The last cutting of the year.

Eyes still closed, she pictured Macy, her granddaughter sitting next to her, light brown hair in one thick braid tied with a pink ribbon and hanging over her shoulder, paisley ruffled dress, and brown and turquoise cowboy boots. How she loved this granddaughter, the one who found school lessons difficult but spoke expertly a language few can master, the language of love.

It was communion Sunday. The pastor, her husband, had said what he’d always said. She knew those words by heart too.

“To be sure our hearts are right with the Lord, let’s spend a few minutes in silent prayer before we begin.”

A baby whimpered, but other than that, she heard only a holy hush that called her spirit to prayer.

Lord, I think things are better between you and me than they’ve ever been. Today’s the day we eat the broken bread and drink the cup, symbolizing your death when you gave all you had to give so we could have eternal life. I put my faith in your sacrifice long ago, and I know that’s all I need to do to live in heaven with you. But because I love you and your people, I’ve tried to follow in your steps. I’ve given everything I have to you.

Have you though?

She knew in an instant what he was talking about. Not that. Please, not that. But if everything isn’t everything it’s nothing.

What to do? The old lady knew well joy comes from giving, but this was almost too much. A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away before Macy noticed. Always compassionate, Macy lived the motto: your pain is in my heart. She could not, she would not worry this woman-child.

I’ll do it, Lord. I’ll give that too.

Softly she slipped passed Macy and out of the pew. What would she say when her granddaughter noticed she was leaving? But Macy seemed unaware.

She tiptoed up the wooden floor trying not to make a sound, hard to do with a cane and her lack of balance. She caught herself on a pew and stepped down hard on a creaky place, but no one opened their eyes. Strange. She looked around. Even the fussy baby had her eyes closed now.

She glanced out of the windows as she continued to the front. The fields whispered back to her, See, we’re empty now; our round bales say how happy it is to give until you have nothing left to give.

The old lady went into the room where the children had junior church. They were still in the pews; her husband didn’t dismiss them until after communion. She found what she was looking for. She’d left it there the previous Christmas, and in that little country church, no one threw out anything.

She unrolled the sparkly gold paper, fit for a gift for the King, and cut off the right size. She wrapped her gift quickly; she didn’t have much time to get back to her pew. With a smile, a tear, and a prayer, she left her gift on the communion table.

Here, my sweet Lord Jesus, this is for you. I promise I’ll never ask for it back. You deserve so much more, but I’m old now, and this is all I can think of to give you that I haven’t already given.

She was amazed on her return trip to her pew. No one seemed to hear her cane tapping on the hard wooden floor. Macy didn’t notice when she slipped back into the pew.

Macy nudged her. A deacon was offering the silver plate with the broken crackers.

“Grandma,” Macy whispered, “you’re not supposed to fall asleep in communion!”

Confused, the old lady looked at the communion table, but her precious gift wasn’t there.

She put the cracker in her mouth and bowed her head.

I guess the golden gift was a dream, Lord, but I do give you what was inside the package—my precious hope of retiring someday. I’ll never ask my husband about it again. I see the pain in his eyes when I do. But you’re going to have to help me because I’m a tired eighty years old. I’d hoped for a little place for the two of us. I’d imagined coffee on the porch in the mornings with quiet days stretching in front of us and nothing to do except maybe welcome the grandkids running in and out. . ..

Macy patted her hand. A deacon was offering the tiny cup full of grape juice.

Her husband was quoting the words of Jesus as he had done for more than fifty years, “‘This do as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

He added, “Let’s remember him together.”

Together they raised their cups and drank. Together they remembered.

After church Macy hugged her, a worried look in her blue eyes. “Are you okay, Grandma?”

“Never better, Macy. Never better.”

She walked slowly to her car, leaning heavily on her cane, smiling at the harvested fields as she passed.

Was it her imagination, or did the fields look a bit sad? Maybe it was just that the shadow of a passing cloud hid the sun, and the golden field looked a drab brown.

In the rustle of the late-summer breeze, she thought she heard the fields speak.

It’s okay to be sad about the death of a dream. Just remember seasons change; they always do. And a season better than any dream is coming soon for you.

“Thank you,” the old lady said.

Macy came up behind her and touched her arm.

“Who are you talking to, Grandma? No one’s out here. I think I better help you to your car.”

The old lady laughed. “I think you better.”

And they walked slowly on together, the young woman child who knew the language of love and the old dreamer of dreams.