That Favorite Time of Day

Its pitch dark and a heavy cloud of sleep presses upon her like the downy comforter in which she is curled up. In her dreams a bird is screeching in her ear and as she fights to ward it off it slowly transforms into a round metal ball. The metal ball continues to screech until finally the noise penetrates a new level of consciousness and she fumbles through the tangle of sheets and blankets to reach for the annoyance. 

Groping blindly her hand makes contact with the metal object, searches out the button and finally—silence! Exhausted from her efforts to protect her sleep, she now rolls onto her back and admits defeat. Forcing her eyes open, she searches the ceiling for the meaning of life, waiting for her brain and body to reconnect and allow her to negotiate her way out of bed.

Scuffing down the hall, her robe securely tied around her, she is aware that certain parts of her anatomy are more awake then others. Morning rituals must be followed. When she finally makes it to the kitchen she sniffs appreciatively; the auto setting on her coffee maker is a life saver.

Taking the first cup black, she lifts the mug to her mouth and sips slowly. This is nectar of the gods she thinks. This is a holy moment. She senses before she sees, her husband, ensconced in his chair in the living room already sipping his coffee. He lifts his mug in silent greeting; he knows the rule. No speaking till her cup is almost gone.

“There isn’t enough coffee in all of Central America to make me a morning person.” She once told him and he believes it. It is safe to say that early morning is not Jane’s favorite time of the day.

The early morning routine rarely changes and soon Jane has eggs frying while she tucks sandwiches into Sam’s lunch box. It’s amazing what a person can do in their sleep, Sam has said, after watching her shut the refrigerator door with her hip, while balancing juice, and a pot of jam in the crook of her arm. Although occasionally an unintended item makes its way into his lunch (the raw egg that was thought to be hard boiled comes to mind) Jane pretty much has getting him out the door each morning down to an exact science, whether she’s fully awake or not.

With Sam out the door and daylight still fuzzy on the horizon, Jane pours a second cup of coffee and adds her daily treat of half and half. Settling into her own chair, she is soon joined by a purring Marley. The tuxedo cat stretches across her lap and lets her scratch him between the ears for a few moments before taking his sentinel place on the back of the couch. This is Jane’s quiet time.

She will read her bible and perhaps a page or two from a favorite devotional before flipping open her journal and jotting down any significant thoughts. It is safe to say that without this quiet time each day Jane will flounder. It has taken her a long time to learn this and now it’s a habit she cannot afford to give up. As she returns her bible and journal to her chair side table, a little sigh of satisfaction escapes her. This might be my favorite time of day, she thinks.

The next thing of habit for Jane is a brisk walk through the neighborhood. She rarely misses a morning, regardless of the weather. On a cold or rainy day the exercise is especially invigorating. but on a sunny day she turns her face upward and soaks it up. Breathing deep makes her feel as if she could swallow the sun like a tall glass of orange juice.

When her walk is done and she places her shoes and coat back in the hall closet she feels accomplished and gratified. She truly enjoys the physical movement and the benefits she gains from being active. With her endorphins pumped up Jane is ready for anything. “Bring it!” she challenges. There is no doubt that her daily walks are a favorite part of her day.

Being a stay-at-home-wife and-empty-nest –mother means the rest of her day is quite practically hers to command. Household duties are easily interwoven with volunteer activities and outside interests. Doing laundry or running to the bank, a trip to the grocery store or to the library, women’s bible study, or preparing a meal for a shut in, all of these things bring Jane fulfillment. Contentment is a rare gift but Jane has learned that it is also a choice. Reaching out with both hands she grabs hold of it vigorously and tries to live in the moment. Could it be safe to say that those are her favorite times of the day?

Yet, when Sam returns each evening and she hears the motor announcing his arrival, a little pitter-patter occurs in her chest. Like the nervous flips her tummy did when they went on their first date, or the way her heart picked up speed when his eyes locked with hers, his return at the end of each work day still brings her pleasure. She kisses his cheek and tells him often that this is her favorite part of her day; his return. Watching his eyes light up when she says this only makes it all the more true.

And yet… when Jane sips her after dinner tea and reviews her day she is often surprised to realize how fast the day has gone. Keeping busy will do that but for Jane this goes deeper. She has spent a greater part of the day in her own company, something probably only an introvert can truly appreciate, but she is also aware that she doesn’t really walk alone. The presence of the Holy Spirit is always there, strengthening her, guiding her, teaching her. And when she offers her humble prayers of thanks for another day in His presence, she arrives at the conclusion that for every moment she recognizes this,  its beyond a doubt, the very best and most favorite time of her day.

The Preacher's Wife

Alice let the screen door slam behind her as she stepped out of the steamy kitchen onto the back porch of the café. Pulling an empty milk crate away from the wall with one hand, she scrounged her apron pocket for her cigarettes with the other. The carton had one slightly bent Virginia Slim left in it and she withdrew it carefully. Her tips had been good this morning. She’d be able to buy another pack before withdrawals kicked in.

She perched daintily on the milk crate and lit her cigarette with a shaky hand. Blowing out the smoke, she leaned back against the wall intent on relaxing. Behind her, the sounds of the kitchen echoed across the fresh fall air.

Rattling dishes, sizzles from the grill, the chatter of the other waitresses seasoned with occasional laughter all offset by Murphy growling orders. He hadn’t been happy when he saw her edging towards the door but he couldn’t exactly fault her for taking her break just then. He knew who had just settled herself at the lunch counter. Knew and understood.

Alice flicked ash off her apron and grimaced. That woman. Came in every day at the same time and always sat in Alice’s section. Her ample figure spilled over both sides of the stool but it would have been more difficult to fit in a booth.

“Order up!” She heard Murphy bark. One blue plate special being handed across the serving window where little Amber Dawn would stand on tippy-toes to reach it before delivering it with a big smile to the woman at the counter. Let Amber Dawn be the benefactor of Mrs. Horseman’s unsolicited advice today. Alice wasn’t going to rush back in there.

She finished her cigarette and glanced at her watch. She still had a few more minutes before she had to head back inside—enough time to pop over to the Shell Station and grab another pack of smokes. She hated that she’d picked up this nasty habit again but, C’est la Vie. 

She peeked in through the screen. Mrs. Horseman was bent over her plate, the floppy hat she favored bobbing slightly as she scooped up her mashed potatoes. Next to her on the counter, being jostled by her elbow was the main reason Alice had needed to escape. Feeling heat rising inside her, Alice whirled around and headed to the gas station.

For the entire three months Alice had been working at Murphy’s Diner, Mrs. Horseman hadn’t missed a day. At first it had been fine; Mrs. Horseman was trying to be supportive of Alice’s need to work. But as the weeks went on and it became clearer that the older woman had an agenda, it had become awkward. Now it was just plain irritating. The final straw had come over the last few visits, when Mrs. Horseman had pulled her bible out of her purse. Alice did not need this woman preaching at her. That was when she started pulling her disappearing acts.

The beeping of the delivery truck woke her from her reverie. She grinned when she saw the bearded face of the driver through the cab window.

“Hey Bernie!” She waved. Bernie leaned out the window, one beefy arm resting on the opening.

“Hey yourself.” He swung down from the truck cab, stretching as he did. “Taking a break?”

Alice crossed her arms tightly and jerked her head in the direction of the restaurant. “Oh, that old biddy Horseman is in for lunch. I needed to escape for awhile.”

Bernie chuckled. “She’s trying to save your soul Alice.”

“Yah, well, I don’t need saving. Why doesn’t she go after Marshall? He’s the one who walked out.”

Bernie scratched his beard.

“Alice! Yoo-hoo, Alice!”

Good grief, it was Amber Dawn hollering from the back door of the café. Alice waved, “Be right there!”

Turning back to Bernie she pressed some money into his hand. “I gotta get back over there. Be a doll for me Bern and buy me a pack of Virginia Slims. Menthol.”

Before Bernie could protest Alice was gone.

Back inside the kitchen Alice met the stony glare of her boss. “Sorry Murph. I lost track of time.”

Murphy nodded towards the dining area. “Your presence is requested out yonder.”

“My presence...?” She whirled around to see Mrs. Horseman still at the counter. Her heart sank. “Lord, have mercy.” Mustering up her strength she squared her shoulders and marched through the swinging café doors.

Determined to be polite Alice forced a smile. “Hello Mrs. Horseman.”

“Oh there you are Alice. I was afraid you’d taken ill. I haven’t seen you for a few days.” Mrs. Horseman beamed. “I just wanted you to know our ladies circle is still praying for you. We wanted you to have this.” With a flourish she presented Alice with a book.

Alice read the title. “The Power of a Praying Wife.”

Lovely.

Woodenly she listened as Mrs. Horseman plowed on. “Our ladies circle did this book as a study last year and it was simply amazing! One can never underestimate the power of prayer my dear.”

Alice felt the heat returning around her collar. Her palms itched. She hoped Bernie showed up with those cigarettes and soon. “Thank you Mrs. Horseman but I don’t think--”

“Oh no need to thank me hon. just knowing you’ll be reading and praying is thanks enough.” Mrs. Horseman stood, sweeping her purse and bible from the counter, nearly knocking her dishes off in the process. Alice reached out to settle them and the book slipped out of her hand. As she bent to retrieve it the empty carton of Virginia Slims fell from her pocket.

She heard the gasp from Mrs. Horseman and didn’t need to look up to know how aghast the woman was. Alice contemplated her choices.

She scooped up the book and the crumpled cigarette carton and straightened. Facing Mrs. Horseman she took a deep breath.

“I appreciate your prayers and your concern, I really do. But I’m doing fine. I know Marshall’s decision to leave has been a shock to everyone but he’s not coming back. The sooner we all accept it the better. I’m making peace with it and I hope you will too. But” she pushed on, ignoring Mrs. Horseman’s’ sputtering.

“I can assure you, I have not turned my back on God. I just need some time to figure things out.”

“We—we’d love to see you in church again Alice.”

Alice sighed. “It’s not a good place for me right now. Surely you can understand that. ”

“I know it must feel awkward Alice, but we’re your family. Regardless of what Pastor Marshall has done…”

Alice held up her hand. “I need time. You need to respect that.”

Her eyes locked with Mrs. Horseman and for the first time since she’d started working at Murphy’s she sensed something other than sympathy coming from the older woman.

With a deep sigh, Alice dropped her hand and turned away. She felt Mrs. Horseman’s hand on her arm.

“Of course dear. You take all the time you need. And remember, we’re here for you. I’m here.”

Nodding, Alice retreated to the back room. Ignoring the looks from Murphy and the other waitresses, Alice pushed her way back outside. There on the milk cartoon she found a fresh carton of Virginia Slims and a chocolate bar. 

Bless that Bernie.

* written in response to the writing prompt of incorporating the following characters into a story: chain smoker, preacher's wife, delivery man. 

Pink and Perfumed

I put out the challenge to my women writers group this week to write a story that incorporated certain words in the text.Well, of course, I included myself in the challenge. The assigned words were: magazine, she froze for a moment then, clever, it doesn't matter


Spilling the mail on the floor as she tripped over the entry way rug, Margo cursed under her breath. She watched as the new home design magazine slid across the freshly polished mahogany floor. Flinched inwardly as it ended up against the closet door, cover flipped back, crinkled, and slightly torn.

“Well, aren't you the clever one.” She muttered crossly. “Dan’s bound to be unhappy about that one.” Stomping to the closet, she grabbed the magazine as one would grab an offensive child by his collar. She smoothed the pages down and shoved loose inserts back inside, kicking off her boots as she did so. 

Satisfied with her efforts to restore order to Dan’s precious periodical, she slapped it down on the side table along with her car keys. Shrugging out of her jacket she marched back to the door to gather the rest of the wayward mail. Having grabbed the mail from the outside box on her way up the walk, she’d not yet scanned the contents and now took the opportunity to do so. Flipping past utility bills and bank statements, she smelled it before she saw it. Pink and petite, addressed to Dan in a loopy feminine handwriting, the perfume wafted up and tickled her nose.

She froze for a moment, then using her thumb and forefinger extracted the letter carefully. She flipped it over. No return address. Her golden-green eyes narrowed to slits. What the heck? Margo tapped the letter against the palm of her hand contemplating her next move.

She could set it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail and watch Dan’s reaction when he came home and saw it. She’d be able to tell a lot by his face. Poker-face was not a word you would use to describe Dan by any means. Would she confront him then and demand to know what was going on?

Or she could open it, obviously, and find out just who this brazen woman was and know exactly what was going on. She wouldn’t need to wait for some limp excuse, or worse, something she wasn’t ready to face.

Carefully now she laid the letter down on the kitchen counter and put some water on for tea. Paced back and forth across the tile kitchen as she waited for the water to heat. Picked up the letter. Set it back down. Paced some more.

When the tea kettle began to emit its whistle, Margo snatched the letter back up. Holding the letter in one hand she moved the tea kettle off the burner. What if the seal of the letter just happened to be in the path of hot steam… what then?

Lips pursed, Margo allowed the envelope to dangle in front of the tea kettle. Eyes wide with fascination she watched as the envelope flap curled slightly. Forgetting the tea making, she slipped one perfectly manicured finger against the flap and slightly under. With just a little more pressure the seal would give and the letter would be opened.

Aware she was about to cross a line she forced herself to take a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. Was not her and Dan’s relationship built on trust? Did she really believe something less than honorable might be going on here?

Yes, she reasoned, she did trust Dan. It was the sender of the fragrant letter that she wasn’t sure about. She laid the card back on the counter and crossed her arms.  

Slowly she began ticking off all the reasons she could think of that someone would write to Dan using pink and perfumed wiles.

Perhaps it was a thank you note. Dan volunteered often with Habitat for Humanity. It could be from one of the office gals. Or maybe it was from an aunt. She couldn’t remember Dan mentioning an aunt but she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt here.

After that, Margo was stumped. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I know! Maybe it’s a gift card for me and Dan wants to surprise me with it later!” Then, “But why would they send it looking all girly-girl and smelling like…” she took a closer whiff. “… Vanilla Musk”

She slapped her hand against her forehead. Of course. Vanilla Musk. Her favorite. Available only from the Secret Pantry, where she had added Dan’s name to their mailing list a few months ago to help him remember upcoming events. Like their anniversary.

Her cheeks flushed, she hastened to the hallway table and laid the letter carefully among the rest of the mail.

“And if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter. I trust Dan.”

Her decision made, Margo returned to the kitchen for her forgotten cup of tea. 

Choices

 The set up:the women's writing group I belong to offered me a challenge with a writing prompt via a selection of photographs. Instructed to choose one picture and write a story about it led me to this.(photo credit Anita van der Elst) 

Shandy was walking across campus when she saw the reporter setting up. Instinctively she ducked her head, hugged her bag of textbooks closer to her chest, and picked up the pace. She’d seen the journalist around the campus earlier; her political agenda crystal clear as she’d barraged some of Shandy’s friends with questions about pro-choice vs pro-life. The last thing Shandy needed was to be intercepted by this reporter.

Then, out of the corner of her eye she saw something then that gave her pause. Stopped in her tracks, she let her book bag sag beside her. Why in the world would Drew Kirkland allow himself to be pigeon holed by the reporter?

She didn't know Drew very well. Which was a shameful thing to say considering the one night they’d spent together several weeks ago. The party at a friend’s house off-campus had been exactly what you might expect for the college crowd. Shandy was introduced to Drew and there seemed to be an immediate attraction on both sides. Drew was attentive and kind, bringing her drinks and engaging her in enthusiastic conversation. There had been a lot of laughter, Shandy recalled, then kissing but after that things got hazy. Waking up the next morning with a cotton mouth, a pounding headache, and her clothes in disarray had been confusing enough. Realizing Drew was snoring next to her wearing even less than she was, was horrifying. Unsure at that moment of what had really taken place, she’d gathered her things and made a hasty escape, too mortified to face him.

Since then, whenever their paths had crossed, Shandy had avoided eye contact. Drew had made no attempts to interact with her and for that Shandy was torn. Embarrassment and disgust over what had obviously taken place that night won out over any desire to reconnect with Drew. The fact that she didn't seem to register on his radar told her he must feel the same way.

When the test result came back positive there was only one solution Shandy could think of, devastating as that seemed. But how could she tell anyone she was pregnant when she couldn't even recall the night it had happened? Forget about telling Drew. There was no way she could broach him about this!

And, now, here was Drew engaged in conversation with the reporter, presumably about the very thing weighing so heavily on her own mind and heart. Judging by the look on Drew’s face he felt passionate about whatever he was saying. Shandy wished she could hear him. Maybe she’d hear something that would give her direction about her pending decision. Something that would offer her even the slightest sliver of hope.

Cautiously she dared to come just a little closer.

A Breath of Fresh Air

I love going outside after a rainfall, when the air still feels fresh and moist. I'll breathe in deep and let out an audible sigh as the dampness that signifies a good washing down permeates my nose. I love to open a window on a warm day and feel the coolness a breeze brings. It refreshes as it delights. We all need a breath of fresh air don't we?

Speaking of fresh air, I want to share with you a delightful website that is all about a breath of fresh air! Yes, that is the name of the website: Breath of Fresh Air Press.It's a little publisher with a lot of heart, to quote from the website. BOFA is a Christian Publisher of encouraging, inspiring, fun fiction and non-fiction. I first learned of BOFA through my participation in Faithwriters, an online writing experience, where I entered weekly writing challenges. Because of the writing challenge, some of my short stories received the coveted Editor's Choice award, which were then selected to be published in anthologies. It's been awhile in coming but, the first of many (29 I believe) has at last been sent to the printers and are now available in the online bookstore at Breath of Fresh Air Press. 

I am SUPER excited to share this news with you because..... uh-huh-hum. One of MY short stories is in it!!! The book is called Mixed Blessings; Simple Pleasures. I will be having some of my stories appear in more books which will be coming out over the next several months. 

For someone who has been writing stories since she was about 10 years old, to have something published is really quite amazing, not to mention, such an honor! 

I hope you will take some time to check out BOFA's website and consider purchasing the book. You are sure to be blessed by the uplifting, fun, eclectic collection of simple pleasures!

Summer Day

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It’s hot, the kind of hot that makes the tar patches on the road soft and gooey, and dogs crawl under front porches to rut in the cool dampness of the earth. The kind of hot that makes Mama cranky and Grandpa lazy.

 Dawna June wishes she had fifty cents so she could buy an ice cold coke at the corner market. She sits on the top step of the peeling wooden front porch, absently scratching at a mosquito bite. She’s already ridden her bike through the sprinkler, steam rising as it sizzled off her shoulders. She wishes she lived closer to the creek. Her head tilted slightly she thinks longingly of the cool water trickling over rocks made slippery and smooth by the constant flow. She knows the perfect spot to wade in. Under a tall Elm tree, with a grassy knoll and a sandy strip of beach. She’s been there many times with her older brother Jake. But Jake is working in the fields with Papa and Mama won’t let Dawna June go to the creek by herself. But she might let her ride her bike to the corner market for a coke.

The screen door creaks and Dawna June glances up. Mama steps out, her plump cheeks rosy and glistening. She holds a shallow pan in one hand and Dawna June catches a glimpse of the green beans that will undoubtedly make an appearance at supper tonight. Mama’s gaze settles on Dawna June and a tired smile graces her face.

“Child, help me snap these beans.” Mama’s voice is soft; she never yells. Dawna June recognizes an opportunity to gain favor. She accepts the pan and a scoopful of beans and begins snapping.

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 “Mama, when I’m done with the beans could I ride over to Eli’s and get a coke?”

“May I and I reckon that’d be alright. You got money?”

“Um… no Ma’am…” Dejected, Dawna June sighs resignedly. Grandpa, who has been dozing on the sofa on the other end of the porch, his straw hat covering his face, mumbles something.

“What’s that Pa?” Mama speaks without turning to look. Dawna June looks hopefully at the overall clad figure, now swinging his legs over the cushions to upright himself.

“Said I reckon I can cough up a couple quarters for the girl. Providing she brings me back one too.” He fans his face with the hat and winks at his granddaughter.

Dawna June grins, her snapping picking up speed. Done with her portion she looks expectantly at both adults. Mama takes the proffered bowl of beans and adds them to her own. Grandpa struggles to fish the change out of his pocket, his ample girth making it all the more challenging. Dawna June has already mounted her bike by the time her grandfather has come down the stairs and places the warm coins in her eager hand.

“Come right back, y’hear?” Mama instructs. “And mind you watch for cars!” This last bit of instruction shouted as Dawna June’s short legs are already pumping her down the driveway.

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She picks up just enough speed to create a breeze and delights in the cool refreshment as it lifts her damp bangs off her forehead. She dips her head back slightly and grins. The road to Eli’s Corner Market is mostly straight and the traffic is nil. She experiments with riding one handed, then, recklessly outstretches both arms at her sides and whoops as the bike wavers. Three seconds. She’s improving.

Pretending she’s riding a horse, as she approaches the store she dismounts while the bike is still moving, nearly wiping out when she miscalculates her speed. Mrs. Finney, who has just left the store lets out a cry of alarm as the two nearly collide. Some fussing from Mrs. Finney makes Dawna June slow down, but just barely. 

Dawna June can almost taste that cold liquid gliding down her parched throat. She hurries to the deep chest located at the front of the store and plunks her money down on the counter with one hand, lifting the squeaky hinged lid with the other. Mr. Eli palms the coins and nods as Dawna June wrestles two green coke bottles out of the icy cavern. One she tucks carefully into the back pocket of her shorts, the cold wetness making her draw in a quick breath. The other bottle is immediately angled at the side of the cold chest, where the bottle cap is popped off by the built in opener.

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She walks outside and stands on the wooden porch, and lifts the bottle to her lips. The dark caramel liquid bites slightly, the peppery taste always a shock to her taste buds in that first sip. A hiccup breaks free and she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Finding a seat on the empty bench outside the store, Dawna June enjoys the soda while watching nothing. 

It is a perfect afternoon.  

A Broken Hallelujah

"I believe God wants to wreck you."

The words, spoken in a gentle voice, shake me. I understand immediately that 'wrecked' is not being used in a bad way. Not in a way that would leave me more damaged than I already feel. I understand what it isn’t, but I’m not sure I understand what it is.

I am sitting on a small couch in a cozy room. Cream colored walls decorated with peaceful paintings designed to soothe, enhanced by soft lighting and backed by melodic instrumentals mingled with the sounds of water trickling over rocks. I know the ambiance aimed for is working to some degree, for I feel lulled, almost heavy with a longing to sleep. But the part of me that wants, no, NEEDS, to be in control is fighting against sinking deeper into the couch and letting go.

I am a recently divorced, 36 year old mother of two. I come every week to this room to meet with my counselor where I emotionally vomit all the pent up secrets of my past, in hopes that bringing the wrongs into the light will somehow help me put my life back together. So far, I don’t think its working. I leave each week feeling fragile, exposed, raw. I worked so hard in the 10 years of marriage to hide everything. To put on the mask of perfection, to play make believe about our marriage. To say to the world that we were blissfully happy, that my life was charmed and blessed and wonderful. But now, with no reason to lie anymore, the truth can come out. It needs to come out.

So each week, I come and I talk, unpacking a trunk full of ugliness. My counselor helps me sort through the wreckage and prays for me but when the hour is done, the trunk has to be repacked until the next time. I have learned how to place the trunk in a closet for safe keeping until the next session but it’s not been easy. I must admit that the trunk seems less full now. Little by little, each week as we sort, I find more things I can toss. Perhaps good things are happening.

But now, I hear my counselor telling me she believes God wants to wreck me. I came to her already wrecked. After the years of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and psychological blackmail, I was little more than a shell of a woman, held together by a tenuous thread. But slowly, slowly, the strong-willed child that had been buried under the violence was making a comeback.

When I first started seeing Carolyn, I would sit tightly on the couch, my hands balled up into fists. I didn’t cry. Crying was something I did not do. It was one small thing I had control over. He could beat me, belittle me, shame, or humiliate me, but I had managed to turn off the faucet inside where the tears were stored. One small victory in the face of defeat. So, no tears for me. Instead I just shredded the Kleenex she always provided for me.

I had built a solid wall around my heart in the years I was married. A wall to protect myself, to keep some small part of me sane in the midst of the insanity we lived in. It was my only protection but now, living in a safe place, surrounded with a good, healthy support team of family and friends, Carolyn was trying to get me to see that the wall wasn’t needed anymore. It would be OK to let the wall down so others could get close. So that God could get close.

I wasn’t so sure. It felt very risky. Yet I longed to feel love and give love in return and I knew that as long as I kept that wall around me, relationships in my life would remain superficial at best. I had had enough of superficial living. I wanted, needed, authenticity in my life. I was tired of lies and pretending everything was fine. I wanted to live and live fully.

I knew God loved me. I had asked Jesus into my heart when I was a little girl. I had wandered away from the teachings of my youth however when I reached my teen years. I had decided sneaking out and dating boys my parents didn’t approve us was much more fun than going to bible studies. Still, the biblical truths I had been raised on and the knowledge that God was there for me held me together in my darkest hours. When I cowered in fear as my husband raged over me, when I hid in the closet to escape a beating, when I lay on my back, choking back screams as he raped me, what was going through my mind but cries to God. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. I prayed for the abuse to stop. I prayed for a miracle to occur. I prayed for escape. I prayed for someone to discover the truth of my life and rescue me.

There were times when I felt I was crying out to no one. I never stopped believing in God. I just thought I got myself into this mess and eventually it would be up to me to get myself out of it. And I did. I somehow managed, with all the courage I possessed, to leave.

And now, here I am, week after week, working hard to rebuild my life, regain my self esteem,and renew my faith in mankind.

Carolyn smiles as she pushes the Kleenex box closer to me. I take one out of the box and return the smile. We both know it will end up shredded but she keeps hoping. She believes eventually the faucet will be turned back on and that it will be a good thing. A healing thing. I’m not sure but if anything has happened over the past several months, it’s coming to know I can trust Carolyn and I am starting to trust myself.

A part of me would like to cry. I know I don’t need this tool anymore. For a long time having that one small thing I could control was a lifeline. As long as there was one thing I had control over, it meant I hadn’t completely disappeared. But I’m tired. Tired of holding everything back. I do want to feel. Survival in the past meant not feeling. But I want to know how to laugh—deep belly laughs that go on till I’m breathless. I want to know how to play again—without fear of consequence. And most of all, I want to know love. Love as it was meant to be. Pure. Respectful. Free.

“I believe God wants to wreck you.” Carolyn says and I nod.

I sense this means being rendered helpless before God, on my face, desperate for His Presence. I sense it means wrecked as in breaking down any and all walls that stand between me and The Creator of the Universe. I sense there are things I need to confess, choices I made that I need to own. That until I allow surrender to take place, full healing will not. I understand what God wants is a broken spirit. That like David in the book of Psalms discovered, God will not reject a broken and repentant heart. (Psalm 51.17)

The chorus from one of my favorite songs starts playing in my head.

"We pour out our miseries,

God just hears a melody,

Beautiful, the mess we are,

The honest cries of breaking hearts,

Are better than a Hallelujah,

Better than a Hallelujah, sometimes."*

I nod again and Carolyn places a loving hand on my bowed head. She begins to pray over me and suddenly I am overwhelmed with exhaustion. I wonder what would happen if I took the risk and let go. She prays some more and I am overwhelmed with an ache that threatens to split me wide open. A gasp escapes. And another.

And, I let go.

 I let go and as I do I feel a crack in the wall. I let go and I feel the wall begin to crumble. I let go and something rises up deep inside me. I can’t hold it back. I don’t want to hold it back. I let go of everything. Everything that is still in the trunk. All the emotions that have been stuffed away, all the hurts and fear, the hatred, the self loathing, the disgust-- it all comes rushing out. A tidal wave, a tsunami of emotions that have been locked away all this time. Carried on a wave of tears.

For I am crying. After all this time, I am crying. I am on the floor, on my face, desperate for God.

And then I fully, completely, understand “wrecked.”  

* Better than a Hallelujah" ~ Amy Grant. Lyrics by Chapin Hartford & Sarah Hart

**based on a true story. 

Field of Screams

"Put that snow ball down! I’m serious! Don’t you dare—"

Too late! The snowball makes impact with the side of my head and small particles of icy slush trickle down the unprotected gap between my hat and my coat collar. 

I shriek. I squirm. This only makes it worse as the snow continues to wriggle its way down my back. I scoop up my own slush ball and throw it like the girl that I am. It falls pitifully short of the goal and now he stands there laughing harder.

I scoop another and charge at him, with all my might. His laughing face turns to surprise as I run full blast with no sign of stopping and no sign of lobbing my slush ball. To be honest, I don’t know what my plan is, other than to convey my displeasure at his juvenile attempt at humor.

Full body contact happens before either one of us is prepared, and now we are a tangled heap in the snow. I realize just how much of my body is touching his. But my attempts to push off and stand fail as my boots slip and now I am flopped on top of him once again. I gasp.

He pushes me off but he is still laughing and I am panting. Getting up will take too much effort. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the sky. We are content to stay horizontal for just a second. Just long enough to feel the biting cold penetrate. He stands first, and now, all about being a gentleman, offers me a hand.

I shouldn't trust him. He is up to no good. But his face is sincere and he waits patiently for my mitten-clad hand to enter his open bare one. I accept his outstretched paw and the gentle tug he gives me tugs my heart as well.

And he lets go. I knew it! I can’t believe I fell for his trick! My shrieks equal that of a muffet on a tuffet with a spider dangling close by.

Then I am silent and I lay still, eyes closed no sound except for that of my breathing. He leans over me. “You okay?” 

Oh sure, now he wants to act sincere again. I refuse to acknowledge him or his stupid question. He leans closer; I sense his nearness. I can feel his body shifting as he drops to one knee, his face coming closer to mine. 

"Nina? Are you—OH!—"

Splat! I have delivered my surreptitiously gathered ammunition directly between the eyes! I give some extra smoosh action to his face. Oh- ho-ho! Who is laughing now? I am on my feet, whooping, doing my victory war dance around him as he struggles to stand. The gleam in his eye warns me and I turn to run.

Slipping across the surface, we lope. He is right on my tail and I am once again shrieking. I hear him yell and I turn to see him fall. I stop. Should I be concerned? He rises as far as his knees, and then in feigned defeat, hangs his head low in shame.

“Truce?” I say. I can be gracious.

“Truce.” He agrees.

Side by side, we walk towards the cabin. His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean into him, contentedly.

From the porch, we can hear the sounds of our audience: the disgusted groans of our children intermixed with the delighted laughter of our grandkids. Yes, the old folks are at it again. Will we ever learn to act our age?

Diamonds for Her Hair

The brides bouquet had pussy willows in it. Picked from a neighbor's tree, they blended nicely with the baby's breath purchased from the florist for next to nothing. The pink satin bow, laced around the floral arrangement, were leftovers from her sister's bridesmaid dress that added a gentle touch. The wedding was being done on a mostly non existent budget so Ruthie was proud of what they were pulling together. The year was 1936 and what they lacked in money they more than made up for it in love. The wedding, despite her parents concerned objections, was moving forward and the perfect date had been picked. February 14th, Valentines Day. Ruthie couldn't think of a more romantic choosing and was thrilled that Willem had been the one to suggest it.

Her dress, ordered from the Montgomery Wards Catalog  and now hanging on the outside of the closet door to avoid wrinkles, had arrived last week. The veil which occupied her lap at present was a tedious affair that Ruthie had bravely decided to make herself. She massaged her thumb and arched her back a bit. Pushing the needle through the thick velvet trim was proving to be a test of her patience, if not her sewing skills. But the finished product, which she could see so clearly in her mind's eye, was going to be perfect. As long she could finish it in time.

The wedding was tomorrow evening. Ruthie looked at her bridal bouquet, poised artistically in a quart sized mason jar on her vanity. Tomorrow she would carry it in her arms as she walked down the aisle to meet the man she would soon call 'husband'. She shivered with delight, but truthfully a small part of her was a little bit terrified. The thought of her wedding night made her heart speed up and her stomach flip. She had some idea of what their wedding night would entail but truly she was counting on Willem to lead the way. She trusted he'd be as gentle as he'd been all through their courting.

She set the veil aside, slipping off the bed she'd shared with her sister for almost 15 years. She stood in front of the vanity, peering into the mirror. The wedding dress visible in the reflection, she smiled. Then she focused on her hair and pulled the long waves up to contemplate how she would wear it tomorrow. Up or down, either would work well with the veil.

A glance at the clock on her nightstand warned her that it was nearing supper time. Willem would be joining them and Ruthie knew her help was needed in the kitchen. Joining her mother and sister, she slipped an apron on. The table was already set and she could hear Papa in the mudroom, his low rumbling cough alerting all of them to his presence. She watched surreptitiously when Papa entered, for the look that would pass between him and Mama. While public displays of affection between her parents were rare, the strong vibes of love and respect were undeniable. For not the first time, Ruthie wondered if the concerns her parents had raised about her marriage to Willem were something she too should be worried about. She shook the thought off quickly. She loved Willem. He loved her. Yes, they were young, yes they'd only been courting a few months. But she was sure, with a certainty she couldn't explain, that this marriage would last every bit as long as her parents.

Dinner was lively as final plans for the wedding were discussed. Willem spoke with confidence about the ways he would provide for Ruthie, assuring her parents she would not want. Ruthie knew her face was flush with excitement and each time her eyes met Willem's across the table the butterflies would flip inside her again. After dinner, Willem lingered.  She knew Willem well enough to recognize his desire to alone with her. Although  her parents might frown, she pulled a jacket from the closet and followed her beloved out the door for some moments of privacy before he departed.

The night was mild for February and the sky twinkled bright with stars. Willem reached high and swept his arm through the velvet sky. Bringing a cupped hand close to Ruthie's hair he turned his hand as if sprinkling something in it.

 "Diamonds for your hair my love."

This was why she'd fallen in love with him. His ability to make her feel like a princess, his romantic gestures, his way with words. But it was the gentle hand that steadied her, the confidence of his stance, the protective look in his eyes whenever he glanced at her, that would carry them through life as husband and wife.

Standing on tiptoe to receive his kiss, Ruthie once again felt the assurance that their love was the real deal.

Adventures in Bus Driving

(inspired by a true story, in 'fond' memory of my past bus driving experiences, and dedicated to the fearless bus drivers everywhere.)

The alarm clock buzzes. In desperation, my hand searches through the darkness. Squinting my eyes, the lumpy forms in the bedroom take on identity. Husband. Cat. Bathrobe. Yawning, stretching, I scuff my way down the stairs. O dark thirty is not my best time of the day.

The first sip of coffee is a holy thing. Reverently I bring the cup to my lips. I stand at the kitchen window, peering out, wondering what picturesque scene will be revealed upon daybreak. I look harder. The realization that we have snow brings a gasp of delight. It never fails to surprise me, even if it was predicted. Ignoring for the moment that I will soon be required to drive in it, I slip open the sliding glass door and let the sting of icy air greet me.

I live close enough to work to walk, even in snowy weather. It is the school bus I drive that will require careful maneuverings. The main roads will be wet and slushy. The narrow roads winding through housing developments are the trickier parts.

I drive for nearly 20 minutes through rural country side before I depart the highway and meander into the sub-division where my bus route truly begins. Weak light has barely penetrated the morning. The snow is coming down in earnest now, coating the roads with thick powder. White knuckled, I press on.

My Jr High students are charged with energy excited by the weather. The older ones barely register my presence, let alone the snow that is piling up. Without taking my eyes off the road, I remind the boisterous ones to please quiet down. The last stop on my route is at the corner market where I pick up six or seven passengers. I brake and assess my situation as they load the bus. 

For I have now reached the crucible of my journey. The Hill. As in Down. As in Covered In Snow. 

A small compact pulls out from the driveway to the right of me ready to descend. I watch in horror as the car immediately skids sideways, then fishtails onto the main road, barely missing a truck preparing to turn up. 

At that precise moment my bus phone rings. It is Sally, the bus garage secretary, calling for an update on weather in my location. I take this opportunity to fill her in on the challenge that lies before me, alerting her to the fact that I will be late as it looks like snow chains are warranted. She admonishes me to be careful and let them know if I need assistance.

Turning the bus engine off gets my passengers attention and I announce there will be a delay as I will need to put on snow chains. I speak calmly and with authority but in reality a knot has formed in my stomach. I know something no one else is aware of.

I have never put on snow chains in my life. 

Of course I was taught this in bus driver training. But pretending to put on chains in a dry warm bus garage is a heck of a lot different than kneeling in snow and wrestling with chains while being ever mindful of my charges on the bus. I murmur a prayer.

One of my high schoolers pokes his head out the bus door and asks if I want-- need-- help. I never expected this quiet senior to come to my rescue. Working together we get one side on. Before I can move to the other side, another student yells that my bus phone is ringing. I slip and slide my way back onto the bus, snatching up the phone breathlessly. My boss bellows instructions: the snow is coming down in full force, school is being called off, turn around and take my students home. 

I look around my bus. With the exception of one sleepy headed 7th grader, it is empty. While I have struggled with the chains, my students have wandered over to the corner market! When I holler that school has been canceled they take off, shouting with celebration. They are gone before I can finish telling them that I need to drive them home. I sink down in my bus seat with a groan. This is not going to go over well with my boss. A tap on my bus door snaps me to attention. The smiling face of the store clerk greets me.

"Want some coffee Miss?” 

"You bet!” I enthuse. 

He asks if I take anything in it. 

Whiskey I think. “Cream please.” 

I think I will just sit and savor the unexpected treat before I continue my merry journey through this winter-wonderland.

All They Want for Christmas

All she wants is the doll. She gazes longingly at it,  featured there in the Sears Christmas Catalog. The doll is beautiful. Long golden curls that you can brush and style, eyelashes that fringe ocean blue eyes--eyes that open and close, mind you! The doll comes dressed in a nightgown in the softest shade of pink she has ever seen.  A blanket and bottle were included. Of course optional equipment could be purchased; clothes, such as the red velvet dress or the yellow gingham, stroller, high chair, and a myriad of other things, but all she wants is the doll.

He dreams about the Lincoln log set day and night. The page, torn from the catalog, is posted above his bed where he can lay and stare at it, imagining all the fun things he will build. Cities surrounded by fortified walls, castles with towers, and of course, the basic log cabin. He could use his G.I. Joe figures to live in the houses he would build and maybe even ‘borrow’  a girl figure from his sisters stash so there would be a damsel in distress to rescue. Yes, that Lincoln Log set was impressive and so were his dreams.

The first section she turns to when the Catalog arrives is the jewelry section. There, on the bottom of page 98, lays her heart’s desire: a gold locket. Oval, engraved and on a long fine chain, it opens and can hold two miniature pictures, or, she thinks dreamily, a lock of her lover’s hair. She blushes at the thought. She doesn't have a boyfriend. And if she did, she would probably be studying the rings a few pages over. She carefully folds the corner of the page down, the locket circled with a yellow marker.

He wasn't usually fussy. But he knows what he wants and if he gets his wish this year, wow, will he ever be happy! The signature red Swiss Army Knife was every boy scouts dream. Sure he has a knife already, but this--THIS was the REAL THING! He can clearly see how much quicker he will be able to cut through a rope. The bottle opener would come in handy on a warm day when you wanted to buy an ice cold coke from Sam’s Mini Mart. It had a screwdriver, tweezers, magnifying glass and even a toothpick! And it came with the official Boy Scout Logo on the handle. Oh it was a fine tool and wouldn't it look impressive tucked neatly in its sheath and strapped to his belt? He whistles softly and slides his bookmark in between the pages and lays the catalog on top of the kitchen table where his dad will surely see it.

It was dark long before she struggled through the door, one arm filled with a paper bag of groceries, purse, and the mail, the other hand fumbling for the keys. Once inside she collapses on the couch and lets out a huge sigh. Oh, what she would give for someone else to cook supper. As she slips off her shoes her eyes fall on the Christmas Catalog lying on the coffee table. She massages her foot and shakes her head wryly. What she wants wont be found in there. Peace on earth? Oh, give me a break! I just want what every working woman needs: my own housewife! She wearily rises from the couch and heads to the kitchen.

He'd almost missed the little chapel tucked in the cedar grove, but a light had caught his eye just in time to make the turn, the tires crunching gravel.  As he gets out of the car, he feels the silence. Breathing in deeply he looks around. It is just as he remembers. He stands, hands on hips, head tilted back, as snowflakes drift down and gently tickle his face. There will be a Christmas Eve candlelight service tonight and his heart quickens in his chest, knowing she will be here. He hadn't written to tell her he was coming, wanting it to be a surprise, and he pats the pocket of his overcoat to assure himself that the little square box is where it should be. This will be the best Christmas ever…as long as she says yes.

And in the heavens, gazing through the portal, the One who has given life to these individuals, yearns for his beloved children to recognize the greatest gift ever given; the gift that signifies why we celebrate Christmas at all.

Cards on the Table

Single parenting sucks. I don’t normally use the slang of my children, but I can’t think of any other word to describe how I feel these days. As justified as I believe I am for divorcing my children’s father, it still carries pain, shame and guilt. Compounding this is the fact that my 15 year old son Nolan, has chosen to live with his dad while 12 year old Cara remains with me. Single parents and children divided makes for some funny math.

At the table, I move a stack of mail, car keys and overdue library books. A box of unopened Christmas cards remains. The cards, bought at last year’s clearance sale, are generic and secular. I am not sure how to sign them so there they sit. 

After dinner Cara spreads her books out on the table and studies. I spread out my address book, list and the Christmas cards and reflect.

In years passed the cards would bare four names: Cara, Nolan, their dad’s and mine. I stare at what I have written on the card: Love Kate & Cara. It feels wrong somehow. I have two children. How can I not sign Nolan’s name? But adding it, when he's not living with us would feel like a sham somehow. I procrastinate by making tea for me, hot cider for Cara. We talk and then get ready for bed. The cards remain on the table.

A week goes by and the unsigned cards nag at me. I decide it will be easier to not send any and move them to storage.

Christmas has come again and I am looking for the box with the nativity figures when I re-discover the unsent, unsigned cards from the previous year. I bring them out to the kitchen and unceremoniously dump them on the table right next to the pile of this year’s Christmas cards. I bought them last week and they feature a stable, angels and a bright star. I have started addressing envelopes. This past summer Cara went to live with her dad so the only name that should go on the card would be mine. I stare at what I have written: Love & blessings, Kate. It looks sad and depressing. I ball the card up and toss it in the trash. I make hot chocolate with a generous splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream and watch TV until bedtime. The cards remain on the table.

Each night when I come home the cards mock me until finally I add them to the box of donations going to Goodwill.

Another year. Another Christmas. A lot has happened this year.... I am engaged to Mr. Wonderful! We are busy with wedding plans. Christmas cards are an unnecessary distraction. Instead, we spend evenings at the table addressing elegant wedding invitations and making eyes at each other. Will and Joey accompany their dad, Nolan visits often and Cara moves back. The table is a noisy, happy place. We sip champagne and sparkling cider and laugh.

I make numerous trips to the post office and hum Christmas tunes. It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

Christmas rolls around again. Our house is full. In addition to my husband and two stepsons, both my children are living with us. We pose for a family snapshot and have it made into glossy Christmas cards. We gather each evening at the table and sign ALL our names on the cards. A bold question mark is added representing the new little someone growing inside me. We indulge in eggnog and seal the envelopes shut.

The Advent Cradle

“One more box and I’ll be done.” She straightened, trying to ease the knots in her back.

Caroline had been toting boxes down from the attic most of the morning and had earned the right to put her feet up and sip a sweet cup of flavored coffee. The only thing left to bring down was the cradle and it was too heavy for her to lug by herself. She would have Spence tend to it when he came in.

Hand crafted from oak, the cradle had been passed down through several generations. Every one of their five children had slept in it.

She heard the door and felt the cold rush of wind that accompanied her husband through the entrance. He deposited a load of firewood in the wood box and turned, rubbing his hands, looking expectantly for his own cup of coffee. Caroline had already poured it and they sat at the wide kitchen table in companionable silence for a time.

Spence noticed the boxes stacked in the hallway. “Need me to bring down the cradle?”

“If you could before the kids get home from school, I would sure appreciate it.” She moved to the stove to stir a pot of beans that simmered there. “I know I say this every year, but I can’t believe it’s that time already!”

Spence nodded in agreement as he made his way over to the stairs. She went to the cupboard for a dust cloth. It would need a wipe down before it was put in place.

The tradition of the cradle’s place in Christmas was as old as the cradle itself, if not more. Caroline could recall many a lean winter where gift exchanges were few but she could not imagine a Christmas without the cradle.

Spence deposited the cherished rocker near the fireplace. “I’ll bring in a bundle of straw when I come up for lunch.” He kissed the top of her auburn head and headed back to the barn. Caroline hummed as she dusted the cradle, and memories of years past stirred with the swirls of dust.

She must have been about four or five when the tradition of the cradle in her families Christmas celebration was made clear to her. The cradle had been placed in a prominent place in the house, along with a bucket of straw.

“This is the season of Advent” explained her mother. “Advent means the arrival of something important. We need to prepare the cradle for the arrival of the baby Jesus.” 

They were kneeling by the cradle. “Each time you do an act of kindness without being told, you may slip a piece of straw into the cradle. Each time you show love to someone, you may slip a piece of straw into the cradle. If we all do our part in showing love and kindness, by the time Christmas Day arrives, the cradle will be full of straw; a nice warm soft bed for the baby Jesus.”

Sure enough, without exception, the cradle was always brimming with straw by Christmas Eve. Caroline’s children loved the Advent Cradle part of Christmas. Often, to Caroline, it was the best part. With a farm to run and each one having an important part in the daily chores, harmony was essential. The Advent Cradle was a little added incentive, especially during a time of year when outdoor chores became especially tedious.

By mid day Caroline had arranged the straw bucket and cradle, set up the crèche and baked the first batch of sugar cookies. Together with the children, the rest of the house would be decorated a little bit each evening. The bulk of it would take place when the tree was brought home the week before Christmas. Breaking it up into small sections helped keep anticipation high.

As she rolled out cookie dough she welcomed the season with an attitude of reflection. As she listened to carols she thought of those who were most important to her and how she could best show love to them during Advent. She thought of what is must have been like that night in the stable. A barn filled with animals, a manger of straw, astonished shepherds, two amazed parents and a blazing star in the sky!

She saw the school bus and listened to the excited voices of her children growing louder as they neared the old farmhouse. Caroline smiled, waiting for their entrance and acknowledgment of the cradle as the signal that Advent Season had begun.