More Like Trevor

At the sound of the garage door opening, Helen startled and looked up from her book. 5:30 already? The chicken she’d defrosted to cook for supper sat on the counter, still encased in its plastic and Styrofoam packaging. Jim would get all grumpy when he realized dinner was still an hour away. Sighing, she stuck the receipt she was using as a bookmark between pages 213 and 214, then set her book down on top of her Bible—a book she hadn’t gotten around to looking at today. Guilt niggled vaguely at the fringe of her psyche, but she gave it a mental shrug off. At least the novel she was reading was a Christian novel. She’d read the Bible tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.

By the time Jim came shuffling in through the door from the garage, looking as he always did after a day at the shop—greasy, sweaty, and perpetually navy blue in the way of wardrobe—Helen had managed to extract the chicken from its package and scatter enough ingredients and cooking implements on the kitchen island to make it look as if she’d started cooking more than fifteen seconds ago. One by one she dipped the breast pieces into buttermilk, then breadcrumbs.

Jim draped his coat over a chair rather than the coat rack. “Hi honey.”

“Hi.” She braced herself as he approached and remained facing the counter, not taking her eyes off the chicken. “How was your day?”

“Not bad. Pretty slow.” He placed his hands on her hips and jutted his stubbly chin over her shoulder. “Mm. Fried chicken?”

As he craned around her, aiming his lips at hers, she stiffened, then tolerated the kiss, offering a mouth as cold and uninviting as a statue’s and pulling away after the faintest contact. His breath betrayed what he’d had for lunch—something with onions and garlic. Helen’s thoughts turned to Trevor, whose breath carried with it a consistently pleasant hint of cinnamon tic tacs. Maybe if Jim were more like Trevor, she’d want to kiss him when he came home.

Jim moved to the sink and scrubbed his grease-stained hands. Helen watched him from the corner of her eye. Same old T-shirt. Same old workpants and boots. She couldn’t help comparing him again to Trevor, always so neat and stylish. Today Trevor had worn a red button-up shirt with trendy jeans and sandals. The top few buttons of his shirt has been left undone, revealing deliciously sculpted pecs. Instead of a belly like Jim’s—which reminded Helen of her own in the fifth month of pregnancy—Trevor’s jeans belted around a well-defined abs, kept firm by a daily exercise regimen.

Helen turned on the stove’s front burner and poured oil into the skillet. “Honey, have you thought any more about joining that gym?”

Jim wiped his hands on a towel and shook his head. “No. I wish you’d get off that. I don’t have time, I don’t have money, and I’m really not interested in going there.”

The oil sizzled as Helen dropped the first piece of chicken in. She pressed her lips together. No sense in talking anymore. He’d only get defensive. And he obviously didn’t care about being attractive for her. Trevor ran five miles every morning, lifted weights, played baseball with a league, and took karate classes. Jim couldn’t go to the gym a couple times a week?

She waited until she heard the sound of his recliner opening and the evening news clicking on, then relaxed, letting her imagination wander. What would Trevor do if he were here? Not sit slumped in the living room while she did all the work. Probably he’d make one of his fancy salads with cranberries, walnuts, and gorgonzola. Or set the table, lighting candles and pouring wine for the two of them. He’d act silly and make her laugh, telling jokes and entertaining her with stories about his mountain-climbing adventures or his time in the Marines. Or maybe he’d talk about his volunteer work with under-privileged youth. Just thinking about the way he helped that wheelchair-bound boy learn to play basketball made her heart patter.

Why couldn’t Jim help out once in a while? Do something exciting? Say something charming or interesting? Something besides, “Mm. Fried chicken?” or, “Where’s the remote?”

Dinner was quiet for the most part. Jim relayed some stories about the guys at work, but Helen found it hard to keep her attention from wandering. Who cared was Bob Weston’s wife was diagnosed with? Or what Sherman Potter’s son had gotten in trouble for? The monotony of this nightly ritual and the boring conversations depressed her. She longed to look across the table and see Trevor’s sparkling eyes and crooked smile instead of Jim with a chunk of mashed potatoes hanging from his lip. Trevor would talk to her about meaningful things—art, music, spiritual matters. Trevor understood about so many things. He knew when to talk, when to just listen, when to give advice and when to simply offer a tender embrace. She finished her meal quickly and began to clear the table while Jim was still eating.

Getting through the evening was no problem. Helen simply set up camp wherever Jim wasn’t, which wasn’t difficult; his routine rarely varied. He’d do some yard work, take a shower, then watch TV from the comfort of his trusty Lay-z-boy. So Helen busied herself with some of the housework she’d avoided during the day, until she heard Jim turn the TV off. He’d be going to bed.

Now comfortable in her pajamas—the new ones she bought with the money Jim gave her yesterday—she entered the living room. She lowered herself onto the couch just as Jim rose from his chair, as if they were on opposite ends of some invisible seesaw.

He walked over and leaned down to kiss her. “You comin’ up?”

You comin’ up? She knew what the real question was: Can we have sex? Indignance flared up. Why should she give herself to him? What had he done for her? If he were like Trevor, he might have brought home flowers, tried to look good, romanced her…

Jim stood waiting, nothing like Trevor in his boxers and old Rolling Stones t-shirt with the armpit stains.

Forcing a smile, Helen nodded. “Pretty soon. I just want to read for a bit.” Of course she’d drag it out, and by the time she came up, he’d be snoring. Again, a stab of guilt pricked at her. When was the last time they’d been together? Two weeks ago? Three?

Well, there was always tomorrow. Tomorrow night she’d go up with him.

He brushed his hand down the back of her hair. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late.”

The usual sense of relief washed over her when he exited the room. Now she could be alone. She picked up the novel she’d put down earlier, found her place, and began reading:

Trevor sank to his knees. He lifted Sandy’s chin and gazed into her eyes. It seemed as if he could see right into her soul. Her pulse quickened as he leaned toward her, and his cinnamon-scented breath caressed her face…

Rollin' With It

I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck while the computer boots up, a boxer waiting in the corner of the ring for the bell to sound. This is the life-- working at home with scruff on my face, sportin' wrinkled p.j.'s, and not having to share the coffee pot with anyone. I control the radio station, the thermostat and the lunch hour.

While the tiny hourglass hovers in the middle of the monitor’s screen, I plan my strategy for the next chapter. Finally, the hourglass morphs into an arrow, signaling that I can now open my document. I do, then scroll through three hundred forty-seven pages before I find the place where I left my characters hanging.

I’m just beginning to lose myself in my fiction world when a voice breaks my concentration. “Hey.”

My breath escapes in a huff before I can stop it. “What is it, Ashley?”

“Don’t call me that. I told you, I’m going by my middle name now.”

What is it with this crazy name thing of hers? I swivel my computer chair around to face her. “Okay, first of all, if I wanted to call you by your middle name, I would have made it your first name. Secondly, Delta is a family name, your great-grandmother’s maiden name. I am NOT going to call you Delta.”

“Whatever. Ashley sounds like a soap opera chick.”

My eyes catch a glimmer of something sparkling between her shirt and jeans, and my stomach churns. “Is that…a belly earring?”

She laughs. “Not belly earring. Belly ring. Isn't it cute?”

“Why would you do that? You’re not into that kind of thing. Why are you acting so…so…crazy?”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, I am into this kind of thing, or I wouldn’t have done it. You really don’t know me very well.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. I have no control over her anymore. “Did you need something?”

She shuffles from one foot to the other. “It’s about California.”

“What about it? You’re not going.”

Her reply is quiet, but firm. “Yes. I am.”

“Oh c’mon, Ashley." I give her my most winning look-- the one that always used to work. "You know you couldn’t stand being that far away from your family.”

She stares at me, immovable.

“Ash…”

“Delta”

“Fine. Delta. Your mother will fall apart. How is she supposed to deal with this?”

She smirks-- actually smirks. “That’s your problem. Not mine. I’m going, and you can’t stop me.” She darts from the room.

Slowly, I turn back to the computer, my mind pondering the probable outcome if Ashley… no, Delta, goes to California. Her mother will sink into depression. Things definitely won’t turn out the way I had planned. But sometimes, you’ve just got to roll with it.

I highlight my last few paragraphs, then hit, “delete.” And then I begin to type:

“Delta’s mother clung to her, refusing to let the embrace come to an end. Finally, Delta pushed away. She avoided looking directly into her mother’s eyes, which shot guilt-rays into her soul like only a mother’s eyes can. She headed for the airport’s security checkpoint. I’ll call you when I get there…”

Three hours later, I’ve added two thousand words to my story. I’m amazed at the new direction things have taken. Delta’s mother really needed to face life without her, and the trip west is leading Delta to make some interesting revelations about herself.

Keys jiggle in the door, and in walks my Chelsea. “Hey, dad. Get much written today?”

“Yeah, I didn’t do too bad. I renamed Ashley Delta.”

Chelsea grabs a glass and heads for the water dispenser. “Cool. Ashley sounds kinds like a chick in a soap opera.”

My jaw drops. “Honey, you still don’t like body piercing, right?”

“Ew, no. Gross.” She grins at me. “Why, dad, you thinkin’ of getting your nipples done or something?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so!” My heart rate slows to normal as she sits beside me at the table and flips through the pile of mail she brought in with her.

“Hmm.” She tears open an envelope. “Check it out. This is from that Bible school in California I told you about. I emailed and asked for information.”

I let the possibility sink in. Strangely, it is peace, not fear, which fills my heart. I am not in control of my baby’s life. Far from it. I’m not able to simply delete her dream of attending college three thousand miles away, because I am not the author of her life.

But I know the Author. And He is in control. I reach over to the computer and exit my document. Then I lean in close, next to Chelsea. “So tell me about this school.”

Going Through Customs on the Way to Healing

My suitcase was bulging, my arms exhausted.

An official greeted me when my turn came. “Where do you wish to travel today?”

I quickly replied, “Healing, Sir!”

“Reason for your visit?”

“Are you kidding? Look at me. I’m miserable. I need healing!”

Glancing first at my suitcase and then his clipboard, he asked, “You are aware of the layover in Repentance?”

“A layover? How long?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the official answered.

“What do you mean? Surely you can give me some idea. An hour? Two hours?”

“Could be five minutes, could be 5 days or even five months… that’s up to you.”

“Look I really need to get to Healing. Isn’t there a flight straight through?”

He shrugged. “Sorry, the only way to Healing is by way of Repentance. All I can tell you is that the sooner you get to Repentance, the sooner you’ll get to Healing. Look, why don’t you let me finish my questions so you can get moving.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Alright then,” he said, “Is this your suitcase?”

"Yes.”

"You haven’t let anyone borrow it?”

“No.”

He checked off something on his clipboard. “What about the contents?”

“What do you mean?”

“The stuff in the suitcase. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” I began, “well, no… I mean some of it …”

“Why don’t we just take a look,” he said, hauling the bag up onto a counter. In a moment my suitcase laid open, the contents exposed.

Embarrassed, I looked down.

The official reached in and held up the first thing he saw. “You have some bitterness here. Yours?”

“I’m only bitter because of what people have done to me. It isn’t my fault,” I explained.

He looked at me skeptically and pulled something else out of the bag. “What about this self pity?”

"If I feel badly for myself, it’s because I’ve been wronged!”

Sighing, the official glanced over the other items in my bag. “O.K., you have a lot of things in here lady. The deal is that you are not allowed to go through here with anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll level with you. I think these things DO belong to you, but if you don’t want to admit it, you won’t be heading to Repentance today.

“Wait!” I said, digging up some things from the bottom, “these are mine!”

The official grimaced. “A promise to teach Sunday school? Some good intentions? You didn’t need to pack these. What’s that in the pocket?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

Extracting something, he said, “You can’t bring this!”

Sheepishly, I mumbled, “It’s only a souvenir.”

“The trip you went on to get that souvenir is the reason you need healing! Maybe you should sit down and decide if you’re ready to come back.”

I trudged away, irritated. Nearby, I noticed a swiftly moving line. Lugging my suitcase, I went to check it out. Closer, I could see that everyone in this line looked sad and wore torn clothing. None of them carried bags. At the front, a man stood talking to the official. His head hung down, words aimed at the floor. I strained to hear. "I don’t deserve to go back,” he was saying. “I really screwed up. Maybe I could just volunteer here, pick up the garbage or something, and sleep on a bench…” “No,” the official interrupted, “He’s waiting for you. Through those doors is the private jet. Go on now. You’ll be heading straight to Healing.”

Suddenly angry, I yelled, “Hey! Why doesn’t he have to do the layover in Repentance? That’s not fair!”

The official came to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Janet, you could be in this line. These people came repentant. They brought nothing but a desire to leave their sins and be servants of the Lord. They know they have nothing to offer. They’ll be flying first class and the Lord Himself will be ministering to them immediately. Is there anything in that suitcase of yours that compares to that?”

My eyes looked to the door, behind it the jet and my Lord- so close. I longed to be with Him. Suddenly it became clear that it was the things in that suitcase that were causing the delay. My excuses, the blame, and the sins I wanted to hold onto- they were mine.“Lord, have mercy on me,” I said softly. At once, my bag was gone and my Lord came running through the door to greet me.

He took my hand in one of His. With His other He lifted my chin, and then He looked in my eyes. "Shall we go on to healing?"

Serving Where Nobody Knows Your Name

I inhaled deeply and stepped into the church foyer. I moved along with the strangers also making their way toward the sanctuary door, comfortable beneath my cloak of anonymity. Men and women I did not know threw me nods, smiles, and “good mornings.” They didn’t know my name, nor could they see the shame I bore, yet I clutched my Bible tight against my chest as if to hide a scarlet letter.

A short and perpetually smiling woman just outside the door handed me a bulletin and since this was my second month attending the church, I was no longer surprised when she tackled me with a bear hug. In fact the embrace was like balm to my wounded spirit. Non-judgmental arms wrapped around a repentant soul. Thank You, Lord, for leading me here.

It was strange being unknown. In my old place of worship I had the notoriety of Norm on Cheers; yes, everybody knew my name. One couldn’t read through the bulletin without seeing it many times: For more information, contact Janet Rubin, See Janet Rubin regarding library donations, Chairperson: Janet Rubin… That was me—religious super-woman, loved an admired by all.

Until I fell.

So here I was, stripped of my choir robe, my titles, and my pride. Only wanting healing, understanding I was no longer good enough to serve. Still bleeding from my self-inflicted wounds as well as the ones left by people I’d called friends. The music, already playing, swept over me as I entered. A young man sang into the microphone—words that seemed written for me: All who are thirsty, all who are weak, come to the fountain, dip your heart in the stream of life…

And I found myself in front of the only person whose name I knew. Steve. Bare feet, long hair, and dangling earring. He looked more like a club bouncer than an associate pastor, but he’d been the first person I met when searching out a new flock to hang with, and his friendly manner had quenched most of the fear that came with venturing into a new flock. It had been Steve who’d answered the phone when I called, Steve who’d sent me pamphlets and a sermon tape in the mail, Steve who greeted with the warmest of smiles and hugs each week.

And today he did more than that. He bent his hulking frame over so his voice could be heard over the music. “Janet, can you do me a favor and help pass out communion today?”

I froze in my tracks. Pass out communion? That was a job for men, not women. Men in suits with titles like deacon or elder. Who was I to pass out the elements? Especially me. I probably shouldn’t even be participating.

I rose up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I would like to. I really would...”

Apparently, thinking I was finished, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Cool. Thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean you guys don’t really know me, Steve. I’ve really screwed up. Sinned big time…”

He looked at me with what seemed amusement. “We all have, sister. That’s what Jesus died for.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay? You don’t know what I did.”
He nodded. “It’s all about grace.”

The sincerity in his expression convinced me he really had no qualms about delegating the sacred task to me. Something in my spirit stirred, excited at the idea that I was not truly useless in the kingdom.

Two hours later I made my way down the aisle, passing a plate of broken crackers to men, women and children—strangers yet family. Me serving the Lord. And it felt okay. It felt better than okay. There was no glory for me. I was still unknown. And all at once I understood that serving was a gift.

When I was done with passing out the little cups of grape juice, I took some for myself. And when the pastor gave the go ahead, I ate my cracker, drank my juice, understanding for the first time what the point of it was—He bled, He died because I needed saving. Chiefly because I wasn’t good enough or clean enough.


And by His stripes my healing began.

Lies from the enemy to a writer

Who do you think you are? You’re pathetic. You don’t have anything to say that’s worth hearing.

You aren’t actually going to let people read that, are you? You know they’ll laugh, right? You’ll look like an idiot. People will think you are arrogant and foolish for even thinking they’d want to read your drivel.

Well, you went and did it—put your amateur ramblings out for all to see. Can you imagine what they are thinking about you? You should be embarrassed.

She told you your writing blessed her? She didn’t mean it. She just felt bad for you.

Those people liked it too? Well, just look at them! They probably consider the Left Behind series classic literature. Wouldn’t know Shakespeare from Danielle Steele. Don’t feel too good about compliments from them.

Okay, you have a point. That fellow is pretty smart, and I don’t think he’d give an insincere compliment. In fact, I was wrong. You know…. You’re really something. Quite talented. Very, very special. Your readers are lucky to have you. The compliments are nice, aren’t they? Feels good to be noticed, admired. Why don’t you write something else so you can get more praise?

You are so wicked! Full of pride. I thought you were doing this for your precious savior. Seems to me you think it’s all about you. I bet God is disgusted with you. You’re a hypocrite—don’t even practice what you preach. You should turn in your pencil.

Excuse me, I hate to interrupt your writing, but I wanted to remind you of the laundry, the dust, your other responsibilities. You’re becoming quite a sloth. All this time spent being creative is pretty self-indulgent. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Hey, hello! Listen to me. Quit that infernal singing. I’m trying to talk to you. [Curses under his vile breath]. Oh forget it, they never hear me when they’re praying. But, I’ll come back later. I’m getting tired though. She just keeps writing and writing, and even when her heart isn’t right; HE uses it for His kingdom. Ah, what’s that? Not another one thinking about putting his soul’s ponderings on the blog? Better get busy discouraging him…

Prayer Request

Becka hung up the phone, her mouth still spread in an oval of shock. This was big. Really big. Leslie Barker’s son was gay. According to Stephanie, Leslie had tearfully shared the earth-shattering news with the ladies prayer group at her new church just yesterday morning. Stephanie knew about it because her cousin Val attended that particular prayer meeting. Steph said that Val said that Leslie just broke down sobbing, then poured out all the sordid details while her Christian sisters fed her tissues.

Leslie discovered the horrific truth when she became concerned about some odd behavior and read her son’s emails while he was at school. Turns out he’d been frequenting gay chat rooms, emailing a school counselor about his feelings, and corresponding with some other teenaged boy with whom he was having a relationship.

Becka thought about Donny Barker, his high-pitched, somewhat feminine voice, his delicate hands and girlish gait, not to mention his talent for drama and art. She might’ve guessed.

She topped off her mug, warming the coffee that had grown cold, forgotten during the phone call. She smirked, remembering how Leslie used to brag about her Donny when she still attended Laurel Bible Church. Donny was on honor roll. Donny was almost an Eagle Scout. Donny was thinking about going into missions. Becka’s Trevor and Carter were only average students, but at least they weren’t gay.

Once, when the boys were going through a rough time, Leslie had the nerve to suggest Becka read some book on parenting. Becka had smiled, then ignored the advice. Who was Leslie to judge Becka’s mothering skills? It occurred to Becka now that she could have taught Leslie a thing or two. Maybe if Leslie had been a little more laid back, like Becka, Donny wouldn’t be involved in such immoral behavior.

Becka set her coffee down. Leslie mustn’t feel so high and mighty now. She and her deacon husband with their perfect family that did nightly family devotions, took mission trips to Haiti, and home schooled rather than be sullied by public education. Ha, Leslie Barker! Looks like your son got sullied anyhow.

She pulled her address book from a shelf and took it, along with the cordless phone and a fresh pack of double-stuff Oreos to the kitchen island. She parked on one of the stools, then pointed the remote at the small countertop television, changing channels until she found what she was looking for—General Hospital. She thumbed through the address book.

Top layer of the cookie neatly munched off, Becka licked the white middle and watched TV. On screen, an actress wearing a red negligee rolled around in a king-sized bed with the muscular husband of another character. The scene aroused her and she licked the frosting harder, riveted.

“Hey mom,” The door slammed as Carter trooped in from school. He leaned his skateboard in the entry and dropped his book bag beside it. “We got any ice cream?”

Becka wiped black cookie crumbs from her lip. “Fudge swirl. Just a little left.”

On his way to the freezer, he paused to retrieve a clean spoon from the dishwasher. Becka watched his eyes linger on the TV screen. The actress’s skimpy attire had shifted during her wild mattress dance, so nearly her entire breast was exposed. Carter swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. No, she didn’t have to worry about him being gay.

Suddenly Ronald McDonald’s face filled the screen and Carter lost interest. Once he grabbed the gallon ice cream container, he headed for his bedroom.

Taking advantage of the commercial break, Becka started dialing. Leslie wasn’t her favorite person; that was for sure. But she was a sister in Christ. The least Becka could do was call all the ladies at church so they could pray for her during this difficult time.

Mary Herman picked up on the other end of the line, and Becka muted the TV before speaking. “Hello Mary, this is Becka. I haven’t caught you at a bad time? Good. I’ve got a prayer request. It’s just awful…”

Her Other Half

Sandy pulled her long, black hair into a sloppy ponytail, then rinsed her hands and began kneading. The mixture felt cold and nasty as it squished between her fingers, the scent of raw meat, egg, breadcrumbs, and spices repugnant to her nose and empty stomach. As soon as the boys left for the bus stop, she’d jumped headlong into the task of feeding the crock-pot before so much as pouring her morning cup of coffee. This afternoon—crammed full with little league practice for the boys, a dentist appointment for her, and a stop by the church to set up for the missionary conference—held no time for dinner prep. It had to be done now or they’d end up in the McDonald’s drive-thru, spending money they really didn’t have and eating junk food they certainly didn’t need.

On TV, the crowd of Times Square Morning Show viewers cheered from behind the velvet rope that separated them from the show’s host. Jimmy left for work before Sandy and the boys woke up, and had left the set on. When Sandy came down, the weatherman was there to greet her with a sunny forecast. She glanced at the TV screen. Two chubby blond women in the group jumped up and down like cheerleaders holding a cardboard sign with the words, “Happy Birthday Grandma Eleanor!” written in red marker.

Sandy’s birthday was this Saturday. Her thirty-sixth. What would Jimmy and the boys get her? Would they remember? Thank goodness for girlfriends or she’d never have a cake baked for her. That was all right. She’d long been accustomed to her male-majority household with its lack of frills or sentimentality and its abundance of muddy footprints and bathroom humor. God gave her sons and one goofy but lovable man.

She expertly scooped handfuls of the greasy slop and formed them into reddish golf balls, then plopped them on a growing pyramid on the countertop. She’d quickly brown them, then set them to cooking in sauce—jar sauce today, no time for home made—in the crock-pot. Once that was accomplished, she could relax a bit with her Bible and coffee, maybe read a page of the Daily Bread devotional magazine, before zipping through the shower and starting the laundry.

The Early Show’s host announced a special performance by Montgomery Gentry, eliciting screams of delight from the Times Square crowd. Sandy wasn’t a country fan, listening usually to strictly Christian music, but she smiled at the song’s lyrics, and since there was no one but Lazarus the goldfish there to see, swayed her hips a little to the slow, bluesy beat.

I ain't tradin' in my family's safety
Just to save a little gas
And I'll pray to God any place, any time
And you can bet I'll pick up the phone if Uncle Sam calls me up
You do your thing, I'll do mine
Hey, I'll worry about me
You just worry about you
And I'll believe what I believe
And you can believe what you believe too

Jimmy was a military transplant she never would have met had he not been stationed in her New England town around the time she graduated high school, and a proud member of the NRA. He’d certainly appreciate the song’s sentiments.

She’d cleared all but about two meatball’s worth of gook out of the green and brown pottery bowl she’d inherited from her mother when the phone rang. Why did it always wait until her hands were messy? For a moment she considered ignoring the ring, but then thought better of it. Could be something about the boys—a playground injury, forgotten homework. Could be Jimmy calling from work or the pastor relaying details about the conference.

Sighing, she elbowed the tap on and plunged her meaty hands under the flow. Resisting the grease, the water beaded and rolled off her fingertips. The country singer droned on.

I ain't gonna spare the rod
Cuz that ain't what my daddy did
And I sure know the difference between wrong and right
You know, to me it's all just common sense
A broken rule, a consequence
You do your thing, I'll do mine

The phone persisted.

“Coming!” she called apologetically into the empty house and squirted a blob of yellow dish soap into her palm. She scrubbed frantically, trying to beat the answering machine, and then dried her hands on the way, using her nightgown, which was headed to the wash soon anyway.

She was there in the foyer, reaching for the phone when it happened. With her fingertips brushing the handset, she hesitated, distracted by a note on the foyer table. And something else. She leaned over, inspecting the items, vaguely aware that the machine had answered the phone.

You have reaching the home of Jimmy and Sandy…

That’s when her world exploded. The deafening sound of it drowned out everything else—the screeching brakes of the garbage truck and the barking of the neighborhood dogs, the distant voice on the answering machine, and both Montgomery and Gentry. The shock of the blast sent her hurtling to the floor. She felt pressure on her back, forcing her down. For a moment there was nothing, then a wave of nausea. Panicking, she realized that half of her body, or very nearly half had been blown away. Pain such as she’d never known radiated from her core to every extremity, and she wished she were dead. She felt herself bleeding, it seemed from everywhere at once, her life spilling on the freshly shampooed carpet. God, help me.

She’d always wondered if it was true, what they said about one’s life flashing before one’s eyes, and now she knew it was. The images scrolled before her like a lifetime's worth of home video playing in fast forward. Only the flashes began not at childhood, but with meeting Jimmy. The two of them sitting on opposite sides of a folding chair circle, a bible study for singles at a local church. She remembered the heat in her cheeks every time she peered up from her Bible and caught him looking at her. Right away she’d wondered, “Is he the one, Lord?” And he was. The movie trailer of her life continued, Jimmy, handsome and smiling his lop-sided smile, his eyes glistening as she walked toward him, her face hidden behind a wedding veil she’d embroidered herself. Jimmy squeezing her hand and whispering encouragement as birth pains threatened to tear her in two. In her present agony, the pains of labor seemed a joke. She saw Jimmy and the boys dragging a far-too-large Christmas tree through the woods. The boys learning to walk—toddling from Sandy to Jimmy and back again. Picnics, Halloweens, yard sales, baptisms… everything. Mostly, she saw she and Jimmy entangled in the darkness, making love in the antique bed they found at the flea market in Madison-- the bed their children were conceived in. She hadn’t been his one and only- he'd had other girls before her-, but he’d been hers. For a moment little things flashed through her mind—his pet names for her, the jokes just between them, the mole on his lower back. Then the slide show stopped and confusion swelled. Why, why, why...

She moaned, a deep, choking guttural moan that grew in volume until it filled the room and her head. The pain was too much. Too much. She could hardly think clearly to begin the process of reasoning how or why this terrorist act had occurred in her quiet home on Wren Street.

She didn’t know how long she laid there, tides of pain and shock overwhelming her. Then the phone rang again. She lay listening to it ring—once, twice, four times and then the machine. A moment later it started up again. From the kitchen, the traffic woman informed the TV audience about a traffic jam on I-95. Sandy marveled that life continued while she lay here bleeding. People continued on to work, the garbage truck—now a block away—kept moving from house to house, and the Times Square multitudes still pulsed through the street. While she bled and bled and bled.

Again the phone rang, the caller obviously frantic to get through. Shaking, she dragged herself to the foyer table, struggled to reach up and retrieve the handset from its cradle. When she did, the note came fluttering with it. The gold ring—a simple wide band—came falling too, the morning sun glinting off it briefly in mid-air before it plopped silently on the rug.

Numbly, she hit the “talk” button and croaked a greeting into the phone. Her voice sounded hollow, robotic.

“Sandy?” It was Don Hester. One of Jimmy’s pals. He sounded surprised that she finally answered. “You are there. I was about to give up. Where’s your other half?”

She stared at the ring, lying abandoned like her on the rug.

“Hellooo? Sandy? I said where’s your other half?”

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh. Words from their wedding ceremony seventeen years ago. Sorrow welled up and spilled from her eyes as the reality of it hit her. “Gone.”

Her other half was gone.

Lunch Lady

Matilda pulled a tube of ointment from her apron pocket and squeezed some into her palm. She eyed her raw, cracked knuckles. Drier than Egypt after the seven-year famine. Wincing at the sting, she rubbed the greasy substance in, then pulled on a fresh pair of plastic gloves. The lunch bell rang and the sound of teenagers—wild and hungry after a morning of classroom-captivity—thundered down the halls.

She jogged on orthopedic shoes, arriving at her post just as the first kids, a herd of ox-like football players, stampeded in. They rushed for the trays all at once, nearly sending the whole stack crashing. Bobby Wheeler won the race and slammed his tray down in front of her.

She paused a moment to watch him stare at the massive pan of macaroni and cheese. His expression reminded her so much of her Great Dane at dinner time, she almost expected him to drool. She dug her long-handled serving spoon in, scooping out a portion and plopping it onto his tray. “Salad?”

“Can’t I have more mac and cheese?” His thick brows arched, and his eyes pleaded with her, making him appear all the more dog-like.

“One scoop a person.”

Tom Pierson gave Bobby a shove. “C’mon, man! We’re starving back her. Move it!”

Already the line stretched the entire length of the cafeteria. The kids filed past Matilda, most taking mac and cheese (second only to pizza in favorites), half wanting salad as well, and a few—mostly the anorexic-looking girls—taking only salad. Further down, Gwen offered bread and butter, and lastly, Rachel offered cups of “chocolate surprise,” a layered mixture of cake, pudding, and cool whip.

The kids waiting in line wrestled, joked, and inevitably made fun of her. When the gymnastics girls approached, Matilda could hear their whispers. You think she like wears that hairnet to bed? Sexy shoes, lunch lady. Matilda inhaled deeply, silently asking for grace. She didn’t want to hate these foolish, young girls. They didn’t know how, years ago, she’d been an Olympic hopeful, probably better than any of them on the balance beam. They didn’t know that she had a man at home who did indeed consider her sexy, hair net and all. One day I’ll trade this hair net in for a crown, won’t I Lord?

She smiled inwardly as she dropped salad-only on the skinny girls’ trays. They waited, chins raised haughtily, glitter accenting their eyelids and cheeks. Time would catch up with them one day, marring their perfect complexions, dimpling their toned thighs. Hopefully wisdom would catch up with them too as they hurtled trials instead of pommel horses, balanced on the tightrope of family and work rather than a balance beam, and learned that not all falls result in soft landings on cushy mats.

Matilda’s heart warmed at the sight of her next customer. Delia Dunbar (an unfortunate name the children twisted to Delia Dumbell.) Gangly and quiet, cursed with the worst acne, and dubbed a nerd, Delia kept her eyes downcast continually, from the time she entered the cafeteria until the moment she slunk into her lonely seat in the corner.

The cafeteria wasn’t the only place Matilda saw her rejected friend. She also saw her at church—still quiet and mostly alone, but singing. And smiling. Matilda could tell Delia loved the Lord. She longed to give the girl a reassuring smile, let her know she had a friend in this brutal place. Unfortunately, Delia never lifted her eyes long enough to see Matilda’s face. Even if she did, Matilda wasn’t certain she’d recognize the hairnet-wearing lunch lady as the woman from the back row at church. Matilda certainly didn’t want to make a show of introducing herself and embarrass the girl. Delia had enough problems without being known as the lunch lady’s friend.

As she dug her spoon into the bread crumb topping, Matilda had an idea. She scooped deeper, extracting a scoop nearly double-serving size. When the mound plopped on Delia’s plate, she started with surprise. Matilda cleared her throat, achieving the desired affect: Delia looked up. Matilda winked. The confusion clouding Delia’s eyes dispersed as the sunrise of recognition brightened her face and the slightest smile dawned on her thin lips.

Sensing their silent communication would soon be noticed, Matilda gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Delia hurried on to Gwen and her bread, her head a little higher. Matilda heart swelled. Right on, little sister. You’re a princess.

Lifting Clarence

Hannah lay crumpled in the grass, a clothes pin clutched in her hand and tears wetting her cheeks. She straightened her already-swelling ankle and rubbed it through her knee-high stockings. Pulling her housedress down to cover her knees, she searched the neighbors’ yards and sighed. No one had seen.

The wet clothes- Clarence’s white t-shirts, boxers and socks—lay in the dirt, still attached to the clothes line that’d broken and sent her tumbling. They’d need to be washed again. Hannah winced, imagining a trip down the basement stairs on this ankle.

The stairs she’d raced up and down thoughtlessly for thirty years had become a source of anxiety since what happened last Thursday.

Clyde, the furnace man had come up from the basement that day, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden steps. Hannah pulled the metal spoon from the beef stew she stirred, replaced the lid and grabbed her checkbook.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You’re all set, Mrs. Glover. Furnice’ll run like a greyhound now.”

Hannah smiled. “Good. Need a healthy furnace in New England.”

After she’d paid him, he’d gotten into his red truck and slammed the door.

Her hand was back on the stew pot’s lid, when she heard the sound—a guttural cry she identified all at once as her husband’s. She raced to the basement door and descended, in slow motion it seemed. At the bottom, she stood on tip toes, reaching for the pull sting that would illuminate the dirt-floored basement.

“Hannah?”

Her eyes searched the dimness and caught sight of Clarence, huddled in the corner.

His face was white like the laundry soap, his teeth clenched. “My leg…”

“I’ll call the ambulance…”

“No! Help me… upstairs.”

It was the request of a proud man, an old Yankee carpenter who’d gone down to shoot the breeze with the furnace man, but stumbled on the stairs and fallen, hurting his leg. A man who’d dragged himself into a darkened corner rather than let that furnace man see him hurt. He’d waited a half hour to hear Clyde’s truck start up, before calling for help.

Looking into his eyes, Hannah knew he meant what he said. He wouldn’t forgive her if she called the ambulance. Lord, you’ve gotta help me. How long had the agonizing trip upstairs taken—a six-foot injured man, supported by a five-foot sliver of a woman? She’d prayed all the way and somehow, finally released her hulk of a man into the safety of his recliner, where he’d nodded his assent towards the telephone.

The x-rays revealed a degenerative disease. Clarence’s legs were weakening, the doctor said. Only a matter of time till he’d need a wheelchair.

“We’ll be all right,” she’d said, squeezing his wrinkled hand. “For better or worse, remember?”

Now, in the grass, she cried bitterly. Lord, I’m so afraid that I won’t be able to care for Clarence. I can’t. Unless You help me.

Already, her children whispered about nursing homes. Hannah overheard Neva’s hushed voice drifting from the living room last Sunday. She’d been basting the chicken, the oven’s hot breath on her face. Momma’s so frail. She can’t help Daddy get around…

How did they suddenly know so much, her girls who she’d taught to cook and sew and love God? Now they knew more than her?

The morning dew soaked through Hannah’s dress and she shivered, then struggled to her feet. She’d ice her foot and return for the clothes in a bit. As for tomorrow, she’d leave it to the Lord.

The Lord helped her through tomorrow, then the day after that, then through ten years. Together, Hannah and Clarence defied the odds, the combined effort of Clarence’s strong arms and Hannah’s strong love getting him in and out of bed, on and off the commode and into the old recliner where he spent his days. Hannah cooked and cleaned, sometimes mowing the lawn or taking the car in for work. Each night she helped him over the bedroom threshold, the one he’d carried her over on their wedding night.

On Sundays the children came always asking, “How are you two making out?”

Clarence would glance at Hannah and wink. “We’re doin’ fine.”

Still they whispered when she left the room to baste the bird—How on earth does she lift him?

She’d lean over the roasting chicken and smile to herself. She shouldn’t be able to do what she did for Clarence, any more than this chicken should be able to fly. But she did.

By God’s strength, she did.

*Author note: Hannah and Clarence were my grandparents, a New London girl and a Long Island boy who lived out their happy years in Waterford, CT. I wrote this story after reading a page from a diary of hers. She had fallen and twisted her ankle while hanging the clothes and wrote of her fears that she would not be strong enough to take care of Clarence, and her prayers that God would give her the needed strength. Which He did.

Jesus on the Street

Janet Rubin

Nick shifted his truck into low gear, every muscle tensed, as he attempted to ease down the icy hill. He squinted against the sharp morning sunlight that glinted off a zigzag crack in the windshield. His vision was already blurred after thirty-two hours battling Blizzard Max. Halfway down the slope, the truck lost traction and slid, first one way, then the other, as Nick swiveled the steering wheel in a fight to regain control. He drifted dangerously close to a telephone pole and spun halfway around, before coming to rest in the middle of an intersection. His heart pounded and his hands shook.

He scanned the desolate street, relieved that no other vehicles occupied it. The storm had been so severe that even the diehard grocery shoppers had given up the previous afternoon and gone home. With the exception of a few gas stations, all of the businesses had closed up. Only plow trucks, police cars, and the occasional taxicab, roamed about like ghosts in a deserted town.

Nick struggled to stay awake as the truck crawled along the slick roads. His head throbbed, while every joint in his body cried out for ibuprofen. Shoveling heavy, wet snow from steps, hoisting the snow blower in and out of the truck and driving for so long had taken their toll.

An icy chill seeped through the floorboards, numbing his toes through his worn work boots. The temperature must have dipped below zero. The only place colder than this was his bedroom at home. He grimaced at the thought. As cold and lonely as this night had been, it beat lying in bed beside a wife who no longer loved him—longing for her, but knowing his touch would revile her. No painkiller would help the ache in his heart.

Nick checked the clock on his dash. Quarter to seven. He’d better hustle if he wanted to get his two church jobs done before Sunday services began. He’d hit Oceanside Bible Chapel, and then circle around to clear out Saint Mary’s. Coffee would be nice, but with no donut shops open, it would have to wait.

He maneuvered onto Maple Avenue, entering a residential area, unmarred by the town trucks. The snow was deep, but at least there were no more hills between here and the church. Ribbons of white clung to the power lines and tree branches, looking like party decorations someone forgot to take down. Snowmen lined the street, leaning precariously and horribly disfigured after the night’s sleet storm. Monster-like, most were missing one or both of their stick arms, some decapitated by the storm. The ones that weren’t headless watched his passing through sagging faces.

It took fifteen minutes to make the mile long drive, but finally, the steeple came into view. He wondered for the millionth time why he had taken this job. It paid less than any of his others, barely enough to cover the cost of fuel. He’d done it for his sister, Tammy of course. “It’s for my church,” she had said. “The Lord will bless you.”

He wasn’t sure why the church couldn’t pay the going rate. He saw the kind of people who attended here—people with good jobs and nice homes. The men of Oceanside Bible Church drove sports cars, not dump trucks. And they wore suits and ties, not jeans and t-shirts. Not a place where he’d fit in, though his sister insisted that attending church was the answer to his marital problems.

A few cars already dotted the parking lot. Why on earth did these people have to show up so early in a blizzard? Now he’d have to go in and ask them to move. Great. Just great. Nick slammed the gearshift into “park,” and shoved against the ice-locked driver’s door, until it opened. He dragged his ice block feet up the walk that led to the offices and knocked. He stood shivering until a lady in a pink, wool suit opened the door.

He managed a weary smile. “Good morning.”

Her eyes fell immediately to his ice-encrusted boots. “Wait here. We just got new carpet.” She left him standing out in the frigid air, while she scurried around the corner. “Pastor! The plow guy is here.”

In a moment she returned, and without glancing Nick’s way, got back to straightening a display of pamphlets. He strained and read some bold red letters that asked, “Are you going to HELL?” He shifted from one foot to the other, searching the room’s interior until he found a wall clock. Seven-thirty. Come on buddy.

Finally, the pastor breezed in and extended a manicured hand. “Dan, how are you?”

Nick didn’t bother to correct him. “I need you to move the cars out front so I can plow.”

The pastor frowned. “How about if we give you our keys and you can park them out back?”

God forbid he gets his fancy shoes wet. “Fine.”

“Hey Dan, since you’re here, can you shovel the steps and put down some ice melt?”

He already plowed the lot for pennies and this guy wanted more for free?
“No, I really can’t. I’ve got to get over to St. Mary’s after this.”

The pastor picked up a Bible from an entry table and cradled it like a baby. “You know, we have a lot of elderly members. I don’t want them slipping.”

Heat crept up Nick’s neck but he reigned in his temper. His sister would never forgive him if he cussed out her pastor. He clenched his teeth, forcing a grin. “Pastor, I have extra shovels and ice melt if you’d like to use them.”

“No, we have our own,” came the curt reply. “I’ll get you those keys.” He tromped off.

Nick turned and gazed across the sparkling, white churchyard. Icicles hung from the eaves that topped the ancient white columns, looking like daggers ready to drop on anyone too sinful that dared try to enter the sanctuary. A roadside sign proclaimed, “Jesus Loves You and We Do Too.” Oh yeah, I can feel the love.

He climbed into his idling truck and slammed the door, sending a mini-avalanche of snow cascading down the windshield. Then, he shifted into drive, dropped the plow and started criss-crossing the parking lot like a tennis ball on a court. As he worked, more early church-goers arrived, most opting to park precisely where he was plowing and many giving him dirty looks as if he were in their way. He’d have to tell Tammy he couldn’t do this anymore. The aggravation simply wasn’t worth it for the money he was paid.

Two hours later, the lot and walkways were clear. Nick’s legs trembled and dizziness washed over him as he heaved the snow blower into the truck’s bed. He needed to rest before hitting St. Mary’s. He made his way to the police station, a popular stopping point where plow truck drivers caught naps between jobs, then parked beneath a streetlight, slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Karen Carpenter’s voice sang from the radio, soothing his nerves and lulling him to sleep.

Just as his breathing started to slow, a tap on his window startled him. “What the…”

On the other side of the glass, a man’s face grinned at him from beneath a blue, knitted hat. The stranger held up a steaming cup and motioned towards Nick, who rolled down the window. Couldn’t he get fifteen minutes of undisturbed sleep?

“Want some coffee?”

Who was this guy? Nick eyed the large Styrofoam cup, could smell the tempting aroma. His stomach growled. “How much?”

“No, no, it’s free.” The man pointed at a group of people gathered around a table by the station. “We’re giving out coffee to police and plow truck drivers. We want to show our appreciation. You guys must be beat. This is one heck of a storm.”

Nick narrowed his eyes to examine the stranger, whose open coat revealed a sweatshirt that read, “Jesus Freak.” He should have known.

“Are you looking for someone to plow your church?”

The stranger laughed. “No sir. Our church is just a Bible study that meets in my apartment. We just decided we’d come out and serve you guys this morning instead of having our usual meeting. Actually, I wouldn’t have thought of it, but Benny, one of our guys who used to plow, suggested it. We all thought it was a great idea. Jesus said to love your neighbor. I’m Tim, by the way.”

Nick relaxed. This guy was harmless. He reached out to take the cup. “I’m Nick and I’ve been craving coffee for hours. Thank you.”

The warmth from the cup thawed Nick’s stiff fingers and he sucked the hot liquid down fast, ignoring the burn in his throat. Soon, the ex-plow guy, Benny, showed up with a refill.

“Benny, this is Nick,” Tim gestured towards the window, “Nick, Benny.”

Benny held up a thermos and nodded in greeting.

Nick put out his Styrofoam cup. “So, I hear you used to do this job?”

“Yeah, I did, for years. Can’t handle it anymore. My son does it now.”

“You remember the blizzard of Eighty-three?”

“Oh boy, do I!”

The three men got so caught up in exchanging snow stories, that Nick lost track of time.
When he checked the clock again, it was nine forty-five. Refreshed, Nick tossed the empty cup, adding it to his collection of fast food bags and wrappers on the floor. “I’ve got to get going guys. Don’t want the Catholics upset with me.”

Both men shook Nick’s hand and Benny offered him a card. “This has my address. If you ever want to come check out the Bible study, we’d love to have you. It’s every Sunday morning. ” He paused. “Just call first in case we’re out doing the coffee thing again.”

Nick tucked the card into the pocket of his flannel shirt and said thanks. Driving towards St. Mary’s, he thought about the strange coffee guys. He’d liked them. They said they were following Jesus’ advice to love their neighbors. They were certainly more loving than the folks at Oceanside. He chuckled. Maybe Jesus had taken to hanging out on the streets. Perhaps He didn’t feel like He fit in at the churches either.