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A Short Story
“Sarah, look at this.” Linda slowed her vehicle to a crawl and nodded toward a massive house with several neat rows of miniature roses. The woman kneeling in the garden was so absorbed with pulling weeds that she neither raised her head in acknowledgment of Linda and Sarah nor gave much thought to the wispy winds promising to dislodge her hat. Sections of her wooden fence leaned outward. Grass had grown ankle deep. Pristine acreage owned by neighbors flanking both sides of her property made the woman’s land appear run-down. Linda imagined the roses were all that remained of the woman’s former life, one once filled with love and happiness, joy and contentment, all ruined by betrayal.
Sarah stopped rummaging through her purse and stared at the figure. “How does she do it?”
“That’s what I want to know. If my husband had left me for another woman, especially if she were my best friend, I’d spit fire.”
Sarah unscrewed a pill bottle and popped a capsule in her mouth. She closed her eyes, exhaled, then sat back. “Let’s go. It’s not fair to sit here and pick her life apart.”
“What you taking?”
“Tylenol PM. I have a terrible headache.”
Linda blew at her straggly bangs as she picked up speed and drove away. “I’m thankful I’ve never been through anything like that.”
“We’ve all gone through something, to one degree or another.” Sarah snapped her purse shut and struggled to see through a blob of moisture, overcome by the direction her life had taken. A tear escaped anyway.
“What have you been through? You have a fine home, a hunk of a husband, and three of the most beautiful children I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’ve got everything.” Linda eased on her brakes as she approached a stop sign then flipped her left turn signal. “You even have a driver.” Linda bobbed her head, wiggled her shoulders, and sung, “I’m driving Miss Daisy, ya’ll. I’m driving Miss Daisy.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“You know it’s true. You do have everything.”
“Not everything,” Sarah mumbled.
“I never hear you complain. Why would anyone who lives in a six bedroom house that’s perched on forty acres complain anyhow?”
“I have trials. Who doesn’t?”
“Oh, c’mon. How would you like to sit in my seat? I haven’t had much time to myself for a while. Jake is always out of town, leaving me to care for Charly all by myself. Sometimes her seizures last off and on for hours. By the end of the day, I’m worn out.” Linda stretched her eyes. “You want to switch places?”
“Humph. I don’t think you’d like to be in my seat, dear friend.”
“Please don’t go all whiny on me. It doesn’t become you. Besides, there’s no one in this entire town who has it as well as you do. By the way, where do you want to have lunch? I thought we might stop and eat a hamburger at Freddie’s Hamburger Joint before we go to your shop.”
“A hamburger sounds great.”
During the five mile stretch to Freddie’s, Sarah propped her elbow on the car’s window ledge and gnawed on a fingernail. She reflected on her disastrous week while Linda hummed one spiritual tune after another to escape to her own corner of the world.
Sarah rubbed the bump in the bend of her arm, angry it had taken phlebotomists more than twice to tap into a vein. All the advice offered to alleviate the painful sticks never worked. Someone once told her to drink plenty of water the day before giving blood. Sarah rolled her eyes as she recalled the episode. It took almost two hours to retrieve blood because of her many trips to the bathroom. After an acquaintance urged her to exercise and use a warm compress, she gave up because it sounded outright ridiculous.
“Have you lost your ability to hear?”
Sarah winced in pain. “Why are you so violent? That hurts.” Sarah massaged her arm. Linda had one powerful backhand.
“I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes.”
“Guess my mind was somewhere else.”
“I was asking if you want a root beer float with your burger. And I was hope-hope-hoping you’d have enough pity on me to invite Charly and I to dinner tonight. It would be payback for driving all the way out here to pick you up. Hint. Hint. Anyway, Jake is out of town and I’m trying to avoid the kitchen. Charly won’t care what we eat. And she’d love to see the kids. I can bring the drinks if that’ll help.”
“I’ll be tuckered out by the time we get the shop cleaned up and the yarn priced and put away. I’m expecting a large shipment and I don’t think I’ll have any energy once we’re done. Next week I have two satellite meetings scheduled—one at eight in the morning; another at two o’clock.” Sarah pushed against the headrest. “If I don’t get the new girl trained on the register, I’ll be right back where I started . . . my store in a mess and my shipping and billing backed up.”
“This is really sad. We both live smack dab in the heart of Jacksonville but seems we’re passing each other in the night.”
“Next time we’ll do something fun, okay?” To appease her friend, Sarah added, “You’ve always wanted to go to the Tea Room in Orlando. Let’s plan to go in early spring. Or we can take a family vacation to Miami Beach this summer like we did three years ago.”
“I’d settle for a simple cup of coffee and good conversation, Sarah. Is it really that hard? Does everything need to be so detailed and well-planned out? Coffee and conversation—how hard can it be?”
Linda pulled into the parking lot of Freddie’s Hamburger Joint and parked, but kept the engine running. “We used to sit and have coffee for an hour every day once we got the kids off to school. Now I’m lucky to see you once a month. What’s going on? And please don’t blame it on the store. It’s a cover and I know it.”
Geez! Sarah squeezed the door handle and started to exit the car, hoping for a quick escape, but Linda grabbed her arm.
“Oh, no. I need you to talk to me.” Linda folded her arms across her chest. “I know I talk too much, but I see what’s going on here. You’re not yourself. You seem—what’s the word?—evasive.” Linda gently squeezed Sarah’s forearm. “Have I done something to offend you? Have I put my foot in my mouth and you’re afraid to tell me?”
“I’m just tired. Maybe I’m too preoccupied with the store, the kids, Michael, and the upkeep of the house.”
Sarah turned away. “I guess I am.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Remember what happened two years ago?”
“And you said you’d forgiven me for that. Are you gonna beat me up all over again?”
“Look, smarty pants, I wouldn’t dare bring it up if I thought you were being straight with me.”
“Oh, c’mon, Linda.”
“You’ve been acting strange and you know it. You’re not leveling with me and—”
“I’m not keeping anything from you. Why would I?”
“You had no reason to keep secrets from me the last time. Why you couldn’t tell me your mother was dying is beyond me. I’ll never understand it. And if you’ll recall, Sarah, you never offered an explanation. I’m supposed to be your best friend, remember?”
“Didn’t I apologize?”
“You did, but only after I confronted you about it when a pharmaceutical tech mentioned your mother’s death to Jake. Jacksonville isn’t a big city. People talk. You have any idea how it felt to find out about your mother from someone else?”
“You’ve made it very clear to me.”
“It’s a sore spot with me and you know it. I’ve got this nagging feeling you’re doing it again.”
“Linda, can we drop this?”
“So, are you keeping something from me? Why do you always seem distracted? It’s like you’re in another world.” Linda dramatically waved her hands in the air to demonstrate her disgust.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Life will return to normal soon.”
“Let me help. I think I’m a good listener. If I’m not, teach me. I’m willing to change.” Linda stared at the roof of her car and made a face. “It’ll be hard, but I can change. And I’m not too proud to help clean your house, if that’s what you need me to do. I can even be your cashier. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
“What in the world would I do without you?” Sarah patted Linda’s knee. “You’ve got your hands full. You’re doing enough with Charly. Matter of fact, being here with me today is exactly what I need. Now let’s eat. I’m starved.”
Linda shut off the engine, slid out of her SUV then waited for it to shimmy, pop, and sizzle before she slammed the door and mumbled, “I really need a new car.” She proceeded to follow Sarah inside the restaurant, but stopped and tilted her head. “Are you losing weight?”
Sarah faced Linda before pulling at her sweat pants. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re not as full in the hips as you used to be.” Linda winked. “I bet Michael is loving this.”
Sarah rushed toward Linda and looped their arms together. “What goes on in my bedroom stays in my bedroom. Now, let’s eat so we can get to the shop and unload the yarn.”
“If you say so, skinny woman.”
* * * * *
For four hours, the women barely spoke, each working on opposite ends of the boutique, putting away yarn and accessories in Sarah’s knitting store. In the bottom half of those four hours, Sarah escaped to the bathroom where she turned on her noisy vent and ran water to drown out the retching created each time nausea threatened to overtake her.
Between rubbing watery eyes and blowing her nose from the effects of the dye, Linda was too preoccupied with new skeins of yarn and knitting patterns to notice Sarah’s pale skin or droopy eyes . . .
Until she dropped her home.
* * * * *
“Let me help you take those things inside,” Linda said as she exited the car. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“No, I can manage.”
Before Sarah protested a second time, Linda slid two boxes off the back seat, stumbled on a broken piece of concrete, and spilled the contents of one box on the ground. Tiny balls of scrap yarn rolled along the grass. Knitting needles clanged and flipped in the air before spiraling out of sight. Markers, wig heads, and several old scarves Sarah knitted last year lay strewn on the walkway.
But only one thing grabbed Linda’s attention.
In slow motion, Linda sat the second box on the concrete and in a zombie-like stare removed a blood-soaked towel off the ground. Tears welled in her eyes. When she met Sarah’s frightful gaze, pain and hurt, anger and sorrow swelled inside her. After closing in on her friend of sixteen years, she moved even closer, nose-to-nose, and held the towel inches from Sarah’s face. Her nostrils flared. Hot rapid breathing seemed to jeopardize every strand of hair on Sarah’s body.
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” Linda asked. “And this is how I find out?”
“Linda, let me explain. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I just didn’t know how to—”
“You meant to tell me? You meant to tell me! It’s a little too late, don’t you think? How ’bout this. How ’bout I leave you to deal with this all by your lying self? How ’bout that? Huh? Hello world! Let me introduce you to Mrs. Sarah Bannister, superwoman of the year. The town’s hero with the powers to handle any and everything all by her lonesome.” Linda smirked. “Hope Hollywood is paying you well for this gig.” Linda shoved the bloody towel in Sarah’s hand and left in a huff.
“Linda, stop it.”
In a quick about-face, Linda said, “No, you stop it. Best of luck BEST friend. Give me a call before you take your last breath, why don’t you!”
“Linda, wait! Please. Linda, don’t do this. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t think you could handle it. I couldn’t handle it!”
Linda left Sarah standing in the driveway breathing in fumes of burnt rubber as she violently backed out and went home.
For nearly two weeks, Sarah phoned Linda three times a day, but never received a response. She saw her friend once in the grocery store and tried to talk to her, but Linda responded only by saying, “You’re done? Good, cause I’ve got better things to do.”
In the course of three weeks, Sarah’s health worsened. Though the cancer was curable, it baffled doctors why Sarah wasn’t responding to treatment. When one of the nurses suggested Sarah might be depressed, the doctor spoke privately with Michael and together they concocted a plan.
* * * * *
“I know you don’t want to sit outside, honey,” Michael said to Sarah, “but you won’t be out here long. After I spray the kitchen for ants, it’ll only take an hour for the air to clear. I’ll bring you iced tea before I get started.”
“Only an hour?” Sarah asked.
“That’s it. Now, relax. Soon the kids will be home from soccer practice, so enjoy the peace while you can.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bannister.”
Startled by the interruption, Sarah looked past Michael and saw a young girl drop her scooter to the ground as she tried to balance a large bouquet in her hand. “Good morning, Helen. Who are those pretty roses for?”
“They’re for you.” Helen mounted the steps and placed the roses on a table next to Sarah.
“For me? Why would you buy me roses? They look expensive.”
“I didn’t buy them,” Helen said.
“Then where did you get them? Did your mother buy them?”
“Nope. Momma didn’t buy them either. A little birdie told me to deliver them.” Helen snickered. It wasn’t often a ten-year-old was privy to a grownup’s secret.
Sarah looked over her shoulder at her husband. “A little birdie, huh?”
Michael hunched his shoulders and raised his hands. “Not me. I had nothing to do with it. You might take a look at the card.”
“See you, Mrs. Bannister.”
“Bye, Helen.” Sarah removed the card and flipped it over several times. It was slightly larger than most and there was writing on every inch of it, in a handwriting Sarah didn’t recognize. There was no logo; no address or phone number.
Jesus’ greatest gift to us was the forgiveness of sin. For no man has ever gone a day in his life without sinning against God and mankind. Isn’t it nice to know he’s forgiven you?
On the opposite side, someone had scribbled:
“Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13)
Sarah looked behind her and discovered Michael had gone inside the house. If he hadn’t sent the flowers, then who had been so bold, so thoughtful?
Once every two weeks thereafter, Michael found an excuse to have Sarah sit on the porch, even on misty days. And each time he did so, little Helen brought a fresh bouquet of roses, reaffirming in her sweet innocent voice that she had no idea who was sending her this gift. She did tell Sarah the florist, with her mother’s permission, paid her ten dollars to deliver them. No doubt whoever was behind this kind gesture wanted to remain anonymous.
The flowers lifted her spirits and gave her something to look forward to. Over time Sarah’s health improved and she was finally able to drive again. She attended school activities for her children, cooked, cleaned, and caught up on her reading. Though she still had difficulty keeping her hands steady enough to begin a new knitting project, she reviewed store orders and paid the bills. When her days became unbearably lonely, playing the piano brought a small measure of comfort. And whenever she thought of Linda, she’d grow anxious for the arrival of a new bouquet of roses.
She’d placed the fresh flowers on a table in the hallway, neatly arranging the Bible verses next to them. God’s word had a way of softening her heart and unveiling her wrong without leaving her with feelings of worthlessness. Sarah didn’t fully understand how God did this, but she welcomed his intervention. With each passing day, an increased craving for that kind of love grew inside her.
Then something peculiar happened.
Though she was strong enough to go camping with her family on Labor Day, Michael insisted she stay and enjoy the solitude. A bit miffed by his over protection, she convinced herself perhaps her family just didn’t want her spoiling their weekend. Maybe they thought a trek along the beach would tire her. What they clearly didn’t understand was she hated to be alone. She enjoyed the noise they made throughout the house—the sibling rivalries, witch hunts for things right under their noses. All of it invigorated her.
Disappointed, she moped all day Friday—ignored the flowers; took no comfort in the Bible verses; wanted no part of the piano.
But early Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. The grandfather clock chimed seven times, leaving her to wonder who in their right mind would be out and about at this hour.
In her bathrobe and slippers, Sarah begrudgingly tromped to the door. She moved the curtains half an inch and discovered an unfamiliar gray SUV parked in the driveway. It was difficult to see through the peep hole. Whoever was on the other side had covered it with their finger.
“Who is it?” Sarah pressed her ear to the door and waited.
No one answered.
She tightened her robe, glancing at the top of the china cabinet where Michael kept the shotgun. Then she squared her shoulders, put on a brave face, and opened the door.
Stunned, Sarah gasped. “Linda?”
Linda had two cups from Starbucks in her hands.
“I brought coffee.”
Unable to move, too afraid to say a single word, Sarah was motionless in the doorway.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Linda asked.
“W-Why of course.”
On Linda’s way to the kitchen, she stopped and gazed at the flowers on the baroque table in the hallway. Slightly bending at the waist, she read one of the cards.
If you want a friend, show yourself friendly. (Proverbs 18.24 – KJV)
Linda picked up another Bible verse.
A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. (John 13:34-35)
Linda handed Sarah one of the coffee cups before carrying the flowers to the kitchen.
“I received flowers just like these,” Linda said as she centered them on the table. “You sent them, didn’t you?”
“No,” Sarah said as she flopped in a chair, “I didn’t send them.”
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea.”
“Did Michael buy them?”
“He swears he didn’t.”
“They come every Thursday?” Linda asked as she arched one eyebrow in curiosity.
“Yes, they do.” Sarah squinted. “You don’t suppose Jake had anything to do with this?”
Linda nodded as a smile emerged. “If you ask me, I think both our husbands had a hand in this.”
“Why are you here, Linda? This can’t be about flowers. I thought you were still mad at me and never wanted to see me again.”
“I am and I didn’t.”
“Ooookay. That’s clear as a bell.”
“It’s those blasted Bible verses. It’s God’s fault. He really got to me.”
“I’ve tried to shake them, too, but I can’t. Sometimes . . . Sometimes the truth hurts.”
“I thought it was your clever way of saying you were sorry.”
“Afraid I’m not that creative.”
“This is really immature of me, I know, but I don’t want to forgive you. I want to stay mad at you.”
“I’ve not been a good friend to you. Linda, I’ve acted like an idiot,” Sarah admitted. “You didn’t deserve the mean-spirited way I treated you.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t have done it. I don’t think I’ve ever put myself in your shoes. Never considered how you’d feel.”
“Well, the elephant in the room won’t go away until you put a pin in it. No matter where this leads, we’ve got to talk it out.”
Sarah bowed her head. “I can’t begin to tell you how ashamed I am.”
“Save it for later. Right now, I want to explain something to you. And you need to listen real good cause I’m only gonna say this once.”
Sarah nodded in humble obedience.
“It was a betrayal of trust . . . what you did. Here we are the best of friends, two people who have shared everything in the world together. We’ve been there for each other through thick and thin—at each other’s wedding; at the birth of our kids; consoling each other when our husbands often lost their minds. But when faced with the one thing that might take you from us, you up and decided to keep it hidden from me.”
“Hush! I’m not done yet. Other than God, I thought I knew more about you than anyone else in the world. So, I find all of this hard to believe. You stabbed me right here!” Linda pounded her chest with her fist. Her face turned beet red. Tears flowed effortlessly. “It didn’t cross your mind that I cared?”
“It was too hard.”
Linda held up her hand, motioning for Sarah to stop. “Don’t you dare lecture me about what’s hard. After all we’ve been through, did you truly expect me to walk away and pretend nothing was wrong? So, what was your game plan? Was I supposed to tell you to take a pill and see you in a year or two? Or maybe you thought so little of me and concluded I was too weak to handle your illness.
“You know, nothing you’ve done in the last few years has made any sense and it’s time you explain yourself,” Linda continued. “I’m sick and tired of filling in the blanks, making excuses for your behavior, exerting effort to stay positive about our relationship. So, here is your opportunity. Explain away.”
Linda waited. And waited.
Sarah’s face was as hard as stone, her eyes looking past Linda and deep into places far beyond the kitchen walls. Impatience got the best of Linda and before she knew it, she snatched up her purse and rushed to the front door, a steep waterfall drenching her face, her loss deeper than the breadth of an ocean.
With one hand on the doorknob, Linda glanced over her shoulder. “This is your last chance and I mean it.”
Sarah took Linda by the arm and led her back to the kitchen. While rubbing her hands together, Sarah paced the kitchen floor, later massaging her temples before taking a seat at the table. The coffee was cold. She took long sips of it anyway, circling her index finger along the rim of the cup, forming words without making a sound, doing everything possible to come face-to-face with her past.
“There are things about me that you don’t know. Deep things,” Sarah said while staring at the cup. “Please don’t expect me to share them all. Some things I’m entitled to keep to myself.”
Sarah rubbed her brow in a nervous gesture as she searched for the right words. “I ran away from home when I was thirteen and—”
“Noooo kidding. What happened?” Linda sat her purse on an empty chair, anchored her forearms on the table, and leaned forward.
“I went missing for two weeks. The men who forced me into their truck held me captive, promising me day after day to bring me home. Once the police found me and reunited me with my parents, everyone soon discovered I had trust issues. Therapists kept telling my parents to give it time.” Sarah shook her head then stared at the kitchen tile. “I didn’t get better,” she said, weeping and wiping snot with the back of her hand. “Over time I developed some pretty good coping skills and I usually do okay in non-life-threatening situations. But when the doctors told me my mother was dying, I shut down and went into survival mode. My struggle to get through my mother’s suffering ended up plunging me back in that shack with those men.”
“Is that why you shut me out?”
“I think so. But it’s not the only reason.” Sarah rolled the coffee cup in the palms of her hands as though the cold brew would soothe her, protect her in some way. “I’m afraid I’m just odd when it comes to this kind of pressure.”
Linda didn’t respond, but rather searched Sarah’s eyes with great intensity.
“Needless to say, when the doctors told me I had cancer, the news thrust me back into that shack. This time I couldn’t crawl out of that dingy place to save my life. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t making any progress. A part of me gave up and died. Everything ran together—days, nights, dreams, the stench of that shack haunted me.
“With so much time to think,” Sarah said as she proceeded, “I realized all my coping skills had dwindled down to nothing. I felt helpless; like a corpse waiting to breathe her last. There was no one to hold me up. I couldn’t stop falling.”
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” Linda reached for Sarah’s hand, but she pulled away, her eyes sad and filled with tears.
Sarah shook her head. “After the way I treated you, I didn’t deserve your help. Sometimes I feel as if the scars are so deep that I don’t have the energy it takes to explain any of this. Until today, I didn’t know how to explain it. I was scared. After putting on a front for the children, a positive attitude for Michael, I didn’t have anything left.” Sarah took in her surroundings—the immaculate light fixtures in the ceiling, the pristine marbled countertops, the expensive curtains. “Here I am in this big house with all my beautiful things, with four living and breathing family members and I’ve never felt so alone in my life.”
“Prayer didn’t comfort you?”
Sarah bowed. “I didn’t believe. Hope had become a distant memory for me. Odd, though. I didn’t feel like I was stuck on an island. It was much worse. I felt as if I was in the middle of traffic or on a bustling street corner with everyone bumping into me but no one taking the time to talk.” Sarah hunched her shoulders. “No one knew I existed. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.”
“You have plenty of people who care.” Linda propped one hand under her chin. “Tell me, what brought you out of it?”
Sarah lifted a rose and twirled it. “These little gems. Not knowing where they came from stirred my curiosity and distracted me from self-pity. They gave me hope.” As she returned the rose to the vase, she admitted, “I pretended they were from you. Good thing, too, because if my health hadn’t improved, I think the doctors would have given up on me. I don’t think anyone expected me to pull through. Michael was beyond worried.” Sarah hitched her chin toward the flowers. “These beauties reminded me of God’s handiwork. The Bible verses revived my soul.”
“How is your health now?”
“I’m in remission.”
“Wish you’d allowed me to experience your pain. Seems like there’s a gigantic wall between us and I can’t move it out of the way. I’ve been feeling that way for a long time. It didn’t begin with your mother dying. It began days before we stopped having our morning coffee. I’ve spent many nights fretting over this, never fully understanding, but always dying to know what went wrong. Always, always blaming myself.”
Sarah kept both eyes fixed on her cup as an awkward silence settled in the room. Anxious, she rubbed her thighs, intimidated to ask the most obvious. A large lump formed in her throat, as though a million dust mites had clogged her windpipe. Her shoulders bobbed as she wept. “What about us? Will we never have family barbeques anymore? Will I need to pretend not to see you on the street? Have I totally ruined our friendship?”
“Yes, you have.” There was mockery in Linda’s voice, an unapologetic snide which released small snippets of pent-up anger.
With both hands, Sarah covered her face and cried uncontrollably before saying, “So, this is it? There’s no hope for us.”
“There’s hope. There’s plenty of hope.”
“Then tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” Linda asked in between her own tears.
“I think we should start over. Pretend we’ve just met. Plan our wedding. Predict how many children we’ll have. I’ll tell you all about me and you’ll tell me all about you; about life, death, prosperity, loneliness, old boyfriends, bullies, every single thing. But I want to end up marrying Michael.”
Both women laughed. They reached across the kitchen table, clasped hands and squeezed tight.
“Not possible. He’s already taken,” Sarah said with the confidence of a woman who had it all. She felt renewed, reenergized, as if someone had thrown her a lifeline.
“Well, I tried.” Linda dug in her purse and tossed Sarah a tissue then used another one to clean her own face. After blowing her nose, she filled the room with laughter. “Did I ever tell you ’bout the time I got caught kissing Stanley Peterson at lunch when I was in the sixth grade?”
“No, you didn’t. Did you get expelled?”
“No, but momma grounded me for two weeks. Now, tell me when the doctors first diagnosed you with cancer. And don’t leave anything out. Cause if you do—”
“I won’t. I can’t afford to lose my friend for a third time. You mean too much to me.”
“Alright, don’t go all mushy on me. Can you make a pot of coffee and cook some eggs? You owe me a meal. And start talking.”
10For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one
who falls when there is not another to lift him up.” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)
Author’s Note: Loving your friends and neighbors, and your sisters and brothers in Christ is a risky business, but a risk we must take or we’ll find ourselves alone, with no one to lift us up.
by Donna Comeaux
for the Ruby for Women October and November Issues
September 22, 2017
Though the characters and events in this short story are fictional, they resemble my real life experience with a friend who was close to me. Linda’s feelings of betrayal are undeniably deep and painful. Although she didn’t completely let go of Sarah’s friendship, without a doubt she understood their relationship couldn’t move forward without putting a pin in the elephant in the room. Their differences needed a resolution. Love required they come to an understanding and reach a new level of respect for one another.
It is important to address issues which hinder your relationships. False pretenses are merely lies wedged between friends that end up rotting the marrow of your bones. If these lies go unattended, they will plunge you into a lifetime of misery and heartache and spoil your walk with Jesus Christ.
Free yourself by first preparing your heart to forgive. This comes through the reading of God’s word and your humble surrender to the Holy One. Once you surrender, it’s then and only then that you’ll be able to offer opportunities to those who have wronged you to repent. Either go to them, or clothe your heart and mind and countenance with godliness so they can approach you.
This is hard.
I’m still a work in progress.
There are two things I love outside of my family: writing and knitting. Oh, and the color blue. Give me anything blue and I’m the happiest woman in the world! Yet, if I had to choose, I’d write until I had no life left. Unfortunately, Ninja Turtles barge in with swords and masked faces to interrupt all that I hold dear, if for no other reason than to keep my attitude in check so I’m reminded of what’s really important.
Knitting is a lot like writing. It has a tendency to keep you isolated. I could visit my favorite shop and sit with other ladies and knit until my heart is content. But at some point, I always find myself in my favorite chair knitting alone. Writers are also loners. It doesn’t bother them to sit for hours at a time to create a story. I, for one, don’t need anyone to keep me company; and I don’t need to be inside a knitting store to get excited over a new project or new skeins of yarn.
Because I’m wearing a lot of the scarves I’ve made, my knitting projects have come to the attention of many at my congregation. Unexpectedly, knitting is doing something out of the ordinary. It’s drawing people into my inner circle. And this unexpected gift is what has inspired this article.
Weeks ago I had a new knitter come visit me and we sat and knitted while we talked. Since she’s been knitting for a little over a year now, I challenged her to spread her wings and tap into new knitting techniques; to try SSK (slip, slip, knit), simple basket weave patterns, and new ways to cast on. As I tried to demonstrate the Provisional Cast On method, I noticed she continuously asked if this was the only technique used to perform a Provisional Cast On. I said yes, then hesitated, realizing rather quickly there are several ways to perform a Provisional Cast On—with a crochet hook, or with a knitting needle and two different colored yarns.
I wondered: Why does she need a road map for each new technique?
Then something occurred to me. More often than not we all want to know what’s ahead of us. Where is the next turn? How far do we need to go? Will we make it by dark? Is there enough food? Will the pain be bearable or longsuffering? Just how long are patients on a waiting list for a transplant? Will mine occur soon enough? Is there a cure? Will it hurt to die?
I grew impatient with this probe into the unknown. I wanted to get on with knitting. I had a learn-as-you-go attitude. I have no fear of this adventure because I’m accustomed to it. My new knitting partner, however, had no idea where she was headed. She was afraid. Reluctant. And it didn’t take long for her anxieties to transform her lazy way of talking into a rapid, almost breathless screech of despair. Her hands shook. Her voice raised a decibel or two. Without warning, she declared rather loudly that all she wanted to do was knit and purl as before, not be thrown into an abyss.
Can you imagine laboring over half-filled fishing nets, dragging them to shore as you weigh your debts against your menial profit? Then from out of nowhere, a fisherman calls out to you, “Come, follow me!”
I’m certain my initial response would not be: Drop the net and follow the stranger. I don’t care how peaceful or loving he appears, I’m not following anyone I don’t know. My deep, furrowed brow would convey my reluctance and my thoughts would be: Has this guy lost his mind? I’ve got a family to feed.
Dread would surely consume me if an angel entered my dreams and said, “Behold, Donna, the Son of God is growing inside your womb.” No way I’d hear the announcement that I should name the child Emanuel, the Prince of Peace. Not me. This angel chose the wrong woman. Sorry, Gabriel, but you got the wrong house. I think you meant Mary across the street. I’m telling you, I’d leave my bed and take out in a dead run, stopping only when I felt safe and out of harm’s way.
For God to stop me on any road to confront me and redirect my path to Damascus would have scared me so bad that my heart would probably burst open. And not being able to see would have caused sheer panic and soiled garments.
And yet . . .
I can’t find a place in the New Testament where one of the disciples ever asked, Why? Where are we going? How long is the journey? I’ll be right back. Let me call my wife.
Who are these men? What’s driving their faith? Aren’t they worried about the unknown?
To answer these questions, I had to get real and dig deep into my journey as a knitter.
There was always something intriguing about using a single strand of thread (yarn) to create a garment. I desperately needed to know how to manipulate this strand . . . how to twist and stretch and whirl it around so it would lay neat and flat in all its splendor. My curiosity intensified to the point that I ignored fears of entering a store to inquire how to knit. That visit led to another, and before I knew it I was knitting a child’s sweater.
I think that’s the way it happened with the disciples. Jesus didn’t just hastily spring upon them. I tend to believe the coming Messiah was so much on their hearts and minds that they spent hours upon hours hashing and rehashing how he’d appear . . . when he’d appear . . . imagining how much raucous he’d cause once he showed up. John the Baptist’s preaching of the Messiah fed their anticipation, their desire for him reaching unimaginable proportions. By the time Jesus stood along the shore and beckoned them to, “Come, follow me,” they were eager to obey.
See, they didn’t need to ask, Why? They understood why. Of course, their reasons for his coming and what he’d do once he came were misconstrued. But their hearts never waivered at his appearing. Their soul and spirit knew.
We also know.
Amid all the noise, turbulent storms, strife and heartaches, sickness and despair, we know.
We just need reminders. Encouragement. Refreshed hope. (“I take great joy and encouragement in your love, because you, brother, have refreshed the hearts of the saints.” Philemon 1:7)
Every last one of us wants a bright and prosperous future. And we don’t want anything to impede our hopes for it. But that’s unrealistic. Broken hearts need mending. Those who promote social injustice need repentant hearts and forgiveness. Truth needs to replace lies. Diseases need to be cured. And the dead, spiritual and physical, need raising.
When prayers for such things go unanswered and the road map leads in another direction, we proclaim God isn’t listening. Surely, if he loved me . . .
“Indeed, all who desire to live godly lives in Christ Jesus will be persecuted . . .” (2 Timothy 3:12)
What if God gave you this warning:
“Do not fear what you are about to suffer. Look, the devil is about to throw some of you into prison to test you, and you will suffer tribulation for ten days. Be faithful even unto death, and I will give you the crown of life. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. The one who is victorious will not be harmed by the second death.” (Revelation 2:10-11)
Why is any of this significant?
Because God does not promise we won’t encounter hardship. One of you may be overtaken by a deadly disease. Another, by injustice. Yet another, by poverty. And then another, by famine.
If the ire of those who suffer go against God, who will be left to serve and praise him? Are there any righteous among you?
I declare to you: God is alive and hears every plea placed before his throne.
“When He had taken the scroll, the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb. Each one had a harp, and they held the golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints.” (Revelation 5:8)
God is a fine architect. The finest of all. He has designed a segue of pillars and floors and walls and roofs to protect and keep you safe.
He knows the number of hairs on your head; knows everything about you; and can read the heart of man and discern his intent. (1 Chronicles 28:9)
For us to declare that we know what and how God will do what he sets out to do is foolishness. No matter how we spin it, we will never know the fullness of God until we meet him face to face. My knees shake as I think of what it will be like to see him, to bow in his presence, to feel him, to encounter his endless love.
It is absolutely useless for us to fret over what’s around the corner. We are like children, holding daddy’s hand as he leads us through life’s supermarket of twists and turns. We can no more guess what’s ahead of us than we can predict the return of the risen Savior.
Our time is better spent reflecting and praising God for all that he’s brought us through. It’s time for us to go down Memory Lane and smile at all the times he rescued us from the perils of our own misdeeds. It’s time to sing songs of praise and thanksgiving for his endless mercy. To remind ourselves of the grace we’ve been given and don’t deserve.
Life is indeed a supermarket with gnarled speed bumps in the aisles. Some of those bumps slow us down and hamper our goals toward success. Often those speed bumps are so dangerous that we must choose another route. We often become disappointed and discouraged by these detours, only to find out much later that God had something better in mind for us.
We cannot second guess God. We need to stop trying to do so.
There is, however, one thing certain.
He loves me! He truly loves me!! And he wishes no harm come to me.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)
God will never lead you astray, leave you alone, or allow you to fall farther than he can reach. He doesn’t know how to fail. And he surely didn’t fail when he created you. He designed every fiber of your being with his masterful hand. No mistakes made. Everything is set in its proper place. And you, dear friend, are a masterpiece. Unique. One of a kind. Special. Kept completely whole and continuously cleaned by the blood of Jesus Christ.
You are a living and breathing child of God. Only he knows what’s best for you. He’s created a road map specifically for YOUR life. Your destination: heaven. At a long, splendid and elaborately set table is a seat for you and in the next room is a place to lay your head. You know your starting point. You know your end. Everything in between is a marvelous, adventurous journey with testy steep hills, high winds, rainy Sundays, and at last, brilliant Son-Rises. We must find joy while on our journey and not get distracted and sidetracked along the way.
Trust and be obedient to God and he will save you.
“Behold, God is my salvation, I will trust and not be afraid; For the LORD GOD is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” (Isaiah 12:2)
The next time you set out on your spiritual journey, pack the sword of truth. Set aside your anguish. Gird yourself with joy, peace, love, and hope. Because just over the hill, to the right, in that bend in the road is a shining light waiting for your arrival. Prepare yourself. Strap in tight. For God Almighty is about to reveal himself in all his glory. And with outstretched arms, he’s soothing all that aches inside you.
Take a deep breath and feel his presence.
Donna B. Comeaux
Our Sunday School leader used this video in his lesson and I couldn’t help but share it. Enjoy.
“For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing,
but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.”
I Corinthians 1:18-25
I talked with a former high school friend and, at first, our conversation seemed cohesive. Then I began to praise the Lord for all that he had done for us. I noticed after some time, she became quiet. Before I could find the words to question her silence, this spilled forth: “But don’t you think Jesus is just a myth?”
As I confessed my faith, I asked her to think on this: When has man ever put the whole world above himself? To the point of death? For free?
Those are deep questions that challenge us as we deal with evangelizing the world. Self-centered by nature, we must constantly guard against taking Jesus’ death for granted. We must stay in the Word of God so we can readily give account for what we believe.
God is holy! God is wise! He purposely used man’s foolishness to reveal his greatness.
So I ask you, if Jesus’ blood doesn’t clean us, what will?
Prayer: God, thank you for your precious gift, Jesus Christ.
Think: Has worldly wisdom ever challenged your belief in Jesus Christ?
Read: Romans 1:16-17; Romans 1:21-25; Romans 3:21-26; Titus 3:5-8
He is Alive!
Mary wrapped barley bread, dried olives, dates, and figs in a cloth and placed them in her husband’s pouch. Cleopas extended his arms, allowing his wife to tighten his girdle with a clasp then tuck coins in one side of it and on the other side a small serving of figs and nuts. When Cleopas lowered his arms, Mary beckoned him to raise his left again so she could slip a water-filled goatskin up his arm and over his shoulder. Mary tugged at the sword fastened to his girdle. Satisfied that it was tightly in place, she took a step back and looked him over. Her sad penetrating eyes grew with concern.
“I wish you would stay with us,” Mary whispered. “There is danger.”
Cleopas kissed his wife on the forehead then held her tight. “I will return before nightfall tomorrow. Do not worry.”
Mary gazed over her shoulder at the disciples. “Everyone is so worried what the Romans will do next. I am afraid for you.”
“Meydad is with me and we will protect one another if anything goes wrong. There is no need for concern. If Ha’Adon is willing, I will return.”
“Be safe,” Mary said.
“Meydad, come. We must go.”
Cleopas took one last look at the disciples, each one standing or sitting in various areas of the room, their faces perplexed from the stories they had been told by the women, and Peter. Earlier this morning they discovered Yeshua’s tomb was empty. Peter fled the house with John (whom Yeshua loved), Cleopas and several other disciples at Peter’s heels, all rushing to the tomb. It was as the women had said. The tomb was empty. Yeshua was gone. Distraught and weakened by what he had seen, Cleopas returned to the house, wondering what all of this meant.
The disciple hugged his wife again then he and Meydad set out for Emmaus on foot. They took time to labor through memories of the last three days, how they had gone from joy to that of sadness. Cleopas couldn’t believe that one day he had witnessed Yeshua riding into the city on a donkey, everyone rejoicing and praising the Messiah. Then the next day, Yeshua was carrying his cross on that long walk to Golgotha.
Cleopas couldn’t reconcile the live Messiah with the dead Messiah who had succumbed to a torturous beating and crucifixion. To complicate matters, the women and Peter claimed to have seen him. Cleopas didn’t know what to make of this.
I am the resurrection and the life . . .
Those words burned in his soul even now, but he no more understood them today than he did yesterday.
“What are you thinking, Cleopas? You have not said a word since we left Jerusalem,” Meydad said.
“I am searching for understanding.”
“I am too. Do you still believe Yeshua was the Messiah?”
“I do, but there is so much that does not make sense to me.”
“Now that he is dead, the answers may have been buried with him,” Meydad said.
“I do not get it, Meydad. One day he is preaching ‘I am the way,’ and the next day he is gone. And we do not even have a body to prove he died. I know he died. I saw him. Bloody linen in the tomb attests to the fact that he was there.”
“You think the Romans took him?”
“Perhaps. No! I do not know. But if the women and Peter saw him, then where is he?” A long silence wedged between Cleopas and Meydad as the two men pondered the question. “You should have seen him in the temple, Meydad. There has never been anything like it. He sat among our people teaching with authority. He spoke of love and unity . . . of G-d the Father. He spoke of a new heaven . . . a new earth. His words brought peace and hope.”
“That may be, but we are still under Roman rule,” Meydad said, stating the obvious. “There is no new heaven or earth here. He failed to rescue us from the hands of these butchers. All he may have done was make things worse for us. Our people are nervous . . . scared. They have no idea what will happen next. It seems to me that we are far worse than we were at the beginning.”
“I do not believe it,” Cleopas said, trying his best to hold on to hope.
“You mean you will not believe it.”
“Here is what I know, Meydad. Yeshua was crucified for a debt he did not owe. He died in place of Barabbas. It is Barabbas who should have died on that cross. Not Yeshua.”
“Why do you think Yeshua let it happen?”
“Meydad, what makes you think he allowed it?”
“For one thing, he never defended himself. Is that not odd?”
“That is so troubling to me.”
“For another thing, the miracles he performed are widely known. Are you forgetting about Lazarus, how he raised him from the dead?”
“How could anyone forget Lazarus’s resurrection?”
“Then why Yeshua did not prevent his own death? Did he not have the power?”
“Of course he did. He fed five thousand people with three fish and two loaves of bread, Meydad! He made the blind see and he healed the sick. Of course he had power.” Cleopas stopped for a moment and dragged his hand on his face. “That is the very part of all this that I cannot comprehend. He did not need to suffer.” Cleopas walked ahead, his feet pounding the dusty road in anger. “There he was standing in the midst of all Roman and Jewish authority at a perfect time to destroy them and declare his kingdom. He had the power to end all Roman rule with a mere word from his mouth, but he did not do it. He never said a mumbling word. Why? Why?” Cleopas was clearly frustrated.
“Maybe it was just his time to go,” Meydad concluded.
“But there is so much more work to be done,” Cleopas said. He wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince, Meydad or himself.
“Do you believe the women? Do you believe Peter? You think he is alive?”
“If so, where is he?”
“What is it that you are discussing?” a traveler asked as he joined in their walk.
Cleopas and Meydad stood still and looked at the traveler with dismay. The traveler had sandals on his feet, a scarf loosely covering his head and draped around his neck. But he had no provisions—no food and no water.
“Are you the only one in all of Jerusalem who has not heard what has happened there?” Cleopas asked, his emotions on the brink of collapse.
“What things?” the traveler asked.
“The things about Yeshua of Nazareth, a prophet mighty in deed and word in the sight of G-d and all his people . . . how our chief priests and rulers ridiculed him, falsely accused him, then delivered him to Pilate to be crucified. We were hoping he was the one who would redeem Israel. But now he is dead. He has been gone away from us for three days. Our hearts ache for him.” Cleopas choked up, tears welled in his eyes.
“Then something strange happened this morning,” Cleopas continued. “Our women went to his tomb with spices to prepare for his burial, but they came back to the house claiming he is alive . . . that his tomb is empty . . . that they had seen him. I followed Peter to the tomb and we found it indeed empty. How can all this be? How is it that he is now alive? What does it mean? And where is he?”
“Oh, foolish men who are slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken! Was it not necessary for Yeshua to suffer these things and enter into his glory?” Then beginning with Moshe (מׄשֶׁה) and all the prophets, the traveler explained to them all things found in the scriptures.
By the time they reached Emmaus, it was nightfall and they pleaded with the traveler to stay with them.
Women and children helped prepare the evening meal, lit candles, and set wine on the table before their guests. There was something different in the air—an unusual warmth, a welcomed peace that neither Cleopas or Meydad understood. They enjoyed
the traveler and admired his knowledge of the scriptures. In fact, Cleopas hadn’t heard such teachings since . . .
Cleopas furrowed his brow as memories of the Messiah flowed through him like warm honey. “. . . have you not read what God said to you, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not the God of the dead but of the living.” Cleopas also remembered, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come that they may have life, and have it in all its fullness.”
He almost fell to his knees when he recalled how Yeshua sat on the mountain, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth . . . .”
The disciple wiped away tears and forced himself to leave the memories behind him and join the others at the table. When everyone was poised and ready to eat, the traveler gave thanks and broke bread, passing a portion to each of them.
At once, fear and elation rushed through Cleopas, then Meydad, for they recognized the traveler as Yeshua!
“Yeshua . . . Ha’Adon!” Cleopas and Meydad shouted.
Then Yeshua disappeared.
Cleopas and Meydad stared at one another, in awe of what they had seen. Their hearts pumped with joy. They were so excited that they tried to talk at the same time, but it was Cleopas who was the most outspoken.
“Did our hearts not burn within us while he talked on the road and opened the scriptures to us?” Cleopas asked. “Hurry! Hurry!! We must go to Jerusalem and tell the others.”
When Cleopas and Meydad returned to Jerusalem, they pounded the locked doors of the house where the apostles were gathered. John (the one whom Yeshua loved) opened the door and Cleopas rushed pass him and declared, “It is true! The Lord has risen and he appeared to Simon just as he said. And now he has appeared to us!” Cleopas grabbed Nathaniel by the arms and shook him. “It is true, Nathaniel. Thomas, James, Philip, do you hear us. It is true! We have seen him! We have seen the Lord! We have seen Ha’Adon! He is alive. I tell you, he is alive!”
At the beginning of each year, we have the good intention to achieve new and important goals. But I can’t recall a time when I’ve intentionally given up anything to the point of death. I’m not referring to the giving of my time, or putting extra money in a collection plate, or filling someone’s gas tank. All of those things are within my power. The type of sacrifice I’m speaking of is one that hurts through the marrow of your bones; a sacrifice you’ve chosen to perform that causes great spiritual and emotional anguish.
The one real life example that comes to mind is a situation one of our brothers is in today. He’s been accused of stealing money from the church, but unbeknown to his accusers he and another brother are the ones who donated money to make needed repairs to the church building when the church didn’t have enough funds to pay for the repairs. The accuser is threatening to take one of the brothers to court, claiming he’s been threatened with bodily harm. Of course, there’s no basis for this accusation, but the accusation embellishes the accuser’s point so he can acquire sympathy and support from others.
The question is this: Who will back down? Who will deny themselves? And how did things escalate to this point?
Testosterone is high and each man’s pride is at stake. One saying: “You better pray because I’m not backing down for anybody.” The other saying: “I’ve been at this church forever and there’s no way an outsider is gonna come in here and take over my church.”
Is it possible to clamp down on your pride and fall to your knees before the Lord and give him your burden? What happens to us when we face encounters like this? Are we so bent on getting our way that we lose focus on the Word of God? Does it no longer matter what we’ve been taught by the scriptures? As I await your comments to these questions, and perhaps the sharing of your own stories in similar situations in the church, read about another sacrifice that was made, one that, despite all the noise, was given out of a unimpeded freewill to save others.
John Griffith, the Bridge Operator
(Originally posted on CRI at http://www.equip.org/hank_speaks_out/john-griffith-the-bridge-operator/ )
This is a story that takes place in the roaring 20’s in Oklahoma:
John Griffith was in his early twenties. He was newly married and full of optimism. Along with his lovely wife, he had been blessed with a beautiful baby. He was living the American dream. But then came 1929—the Great Stock Market Crash—the shattering of the American economy that devastated John’s dreams. The winds that howled through Oklahoma were strangely symbolic of the gale force that was sweeping away his hopes and his dreams. And so, brokenhearted, John packed up his few possessions, and with his wife and his little son, headed East in an old Ford Model A. They made their way to the edge of the mighty Mississippi River and found a job tending one of the great railroad bridges there.
Day after day, John would sit in the control room and direct the enormous gears of the immense bridge over the mighty river. He would look out wistfully as bulky barges and splendid ships glided gracefully under his elevated bridge. Each day, he looked on sadly as those ships carried with them his shattered dreams and his visions of far-off places and exotic destinations.
It wasn’t until 1937 that a new dream began to be birthed in John’s heart. His young son was now eight years old and John had begun to catch a vision for a new life, a life in which Greg, his little son, would work shoulder to shoulder with him. The first day of this new life dawned and brought with it new hope and fresh purpose. Excitedly, they packed their lunches and headed off towards the immense bridge.
Greg looked on in wide-eyed amazement as his Dad pressed down the huge lever that raised and lowered the vast bridge. As he watched, he thought that his father must surely be the greatest man alive. He marveled that his Dad could singlehandedly control the movements of such a stupendous structure.
Before they knew it, Noon time had arrived. John had just elevated the bridge and allowed some scheduled ships to pass through. And then taking his son by the hand, they headed off towards lunch.
As they ate, John told his son in vivid detail stories about the marvelous destinations of the ships that glided below them. Enveloped in a world of thought, he related story after story, his son hanging on his every word.
Then, suddenly, in the midst of telling a tale about the time that the river had overflowed its banks, he and his son were startled back to reality by the shrieking whistle of a distant train. Looking at his watch in disbelief, John saw that it was already 1:07. Immediately he remembered that the bridge was still raised and that the Memphis Express would be by in just minutes.
In the calmest tone he could muster he instructed his son “Stay put.” Quickly, he leaped to his feet, he jumped onto the catwalk. As the precious seconds flew by, he ran at full-tilt to the steer ladder leading into the control house.
Once in, he searched the river to make sure that no ships were in sight. And then, as he had been trained to do, he looked straight down beneath the bridge to make certain nothing was below. As his eyes moved downward, he saw something so horrifying that his heart froze in his chest. For there, below him in the massive gearbox that housed the colossal gears that moved the gigantic bridge, was his beloved son.
Apparently Greg had tried to follow his dad but had fallen off the catwalk. Even now he was wedged between the teeth of two main cogs in the gear box. Although he appeared to be conscious, John could see that his son’s leg had already begun to bleed. Then an even more horrifying thought flashed through his mind. Lowering the bridge would mean killing the apple of his eye.
Panicked, his mind probed in every direction, frantically searching for solutions. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself grabbing a coiled rope, climbing down the ladder, running down the catwalk, securing the rope, sliding down towards his son, pulling him back to safety. Then in an instant, he would move back down towards the control lever and thrust it down just in time for the oncoming train.
As soon as these thoughts appeared, he realized the futility of his plan. Instantly he knew there just wouldn’t be enough time. Frustration began to beat on John’s brow, terror written over every inch of his face. His mind darted here and there, vainly searching for yet another solution.
His agonized mind considered the four hundred people that were moving inextricably closer and closer to the bridge. Soon the train would come roaring out of the trees with tremendous speed, but this was his son…his only son…his pride…his joy.
He knew in a moment there was only one thing he could do. He knew he would have to do it. And so, burying his face under his left arm, he plunged down the lever. The cries of his son were quickly drowned out by the relentless sound of the bridge as it ground slowly into position. With only seconds to spare, the Memphis Express—with its 400 passengers—roared out of the trees and across the mighty bridge.
John Griffith lifted his tear-stained face and looked into the windows of the passing train. A businessman was reading the morning newspaper. A uniformed conductor was glancing nonchalantly as his large vest pocket watch. Ladies were already sipping their afternoon tea in the dining cars. A small boy, looking strangely like his own son, pushed a long thin spoon into a large dish of ice cream. Many of the passengers seemed to be engaged in idle conversation or careless laughter.
No one even looked his way. No one even cast a glance at the giant gear box that housed the mangled remains of his hopes and his dreams.
In anguish he pounded the glass in the control room. He cried out “What’s the matter with you people? Don’t you know? Don’t you care? Don’t you know I’ve sacrificed my son for you? What’s wrong with you?”
No one answered. No one heard. No one even looked. Not one of them seemed to care. And then, as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. The train disappeared moving rapidly across the bridge and out over the horizon.
Even now as I retell this story, I’m moved by emotion. For this is but a faint glimpse of what the Father did in sacrificing his Son to atone for the sins of the world. Unlike the Memphis Express, however, an express that caught John Griffith by surprise, God in His great love and according to His sovereign will and purpose, determined to sacrifice his Son so that we might live. Not only so, but the consummate love of Christ is demonstrated in that He was not accidentally caught as was John’s son. Rather, He willingly sacrificed his life for the sins of mankind.
Well, the story of course doesn’t end there. Three days later, Jesus arose from the grave. For this reason, we celebrate throughout the year and particularly during Easter, the broken body, the shed blood, the mangled remains of our Savior with joy, because Jesus overcame death and the grave through His resurrection. Moreover, like Jesus, we too shall rise. You, I, John Griffith, his son, and those who believe, we will live forever with our resurrected Lord in Paradise Restored.
This story was taken from The Christian Research Institute and can be found at: http://www.equip.org/hank_speaks_out/john-griffith-the-bridge-operator/
Keeping in mind God’s sacrifice for us, is it really so hard to give of yourself in order to serve or save others? Is it not godly for us to suffer for what is right rather than escalating a situation and making it worse? (I Peter 3:8-22) And isn’t it moments like these that reveal who we really are in Christ Jesus?
What’s your agenda? Are you willing to deny yourself for the cause of Christ Jesus?
by Donna B. Comeaux
Need another nudge toward forgiveness?
(a fictional short story based on Bible truths and ancient customs)
“Beulah, I do not understand why Avi does it—sit there day after day weaving away, hardly sleeping.”
“Shh, Ephah, she will hear you. Let her be. Whatever Avi is doing she has her mind fixed on it and there is nothing we can say to change her purpose. Now, come,” Beulah said as she tugged on Ephah’s arm.
Ephah pulled away and reached for the long cloth covering Avi’s open door. “I think we should go in and sit with her and find out what she is doing, Beulah.”
“No! Ephah, do not.”
“Are you not curious?”
“Yes, of course I am, but it is none of our business. We should go. We have work to do. The men will be home from the field soon and I must cook lentils and lamb stew for dinner, at the request of my husband.”
“Humph. Tomorrow then,” Ephah said, sorely disappointed that they did not have time to go inside and probe Avi about her sudden withdrawal from her people. “Tomorrow we will make her tell us.”
“No, Ephah. No. Tomorrow we must busy ourselves with preparations for the Pesach. We have one week left to get ready. Tomorrow, and all the days thereafter, we must leave Avi alone. We have too much to do. Come, go quickly. There is so little time.”
A slight breeze blew the thin covering nailed to Avi’s door and cooled the stillness in her one-room bavith. Plumes of dust entered the room as the two women outside scurried away. Avi stopped weaving and listened. “Adonai, thank you. It is peaceful again.”
Avi stood then stretched her back and wiggled her toes, shook the mat and repositioned the blanket that she had folded underneath it. The earthen floor of her bavith was smooth, hard packed; the walls made of clay. The bavith was old, built by her late husband and two sons—all dead now. Her roof, well-established, had a beam that ran from wall to wall and atop was a healthy crop of grass, barley, and the dying beginnings of a fig tree that wouldn’t survive the summer’s heat.
Simmering in a corner of the bavith was a pot of lentil soup. From the market, she had purchased a leg of lamb and placed half of it in the soup; the other half she shared with a neighbor. A small basket protected a portion of raw grain, enough to last three days. In a tiny bowl covered with a cloth were a handful of dates, olives, and a small serving of buttermilk cheese to nourish Avi if she needed to eat before dinner.
On the opposite side of the bavith where she was hard at work, was a bed mat rolled up neat, pressed against the wall. Next to the mat, all the clothes she owned lay wrapped and tied with a string.
For nearly a year, without fail, she rose early to fetch water from the well, filling two goatskins to capacity, doing so before the other women came to gather and participate in idle talk. Then she’d rush back to her bavith to cook today’s meal before returning to her sewing.
Avi shared Ephah’s need to understand, but even Avi didn’t know why weaving the garment until the wee hours of the morning had become an obsession. Sewing this garment, a man’s ef’-od, was a mystery to her, and she had no idea who would wear it. Without knowledge of his breadth, height, and age, everything about this undertaking seemed pointless. But the moment she made up her mind to stop fighting the message that kept running through her mind as she slept, her energy increased and she soon discovered that four hours of rest each night was sufficient.
With a week left before the Pesach, her people’s commemoration of G-d passing over them when he slew the first born of Egypt, Avi became more determined than ever to finish her work. Everyone in Jerusalem anticipated the holiday—buying and selling goods to ensure they had enough to host kinsmen and friends coming from afar.
Avi worked tirelessly and as she did so she pondered rumors of a man claiming to be the Messiah close to her heart. Ancient stories of the coming King had circulated throughout Israel long before her birth. As a child, she remembered the elders talking around campfires, saying, “He will rule the earth and bring us peace.” They celebrated this promise in full expectation—dancing to lively music, roasting the best lamb, feasting on honey, and drinking the finest wine. Recent rumors of this miracle worker who had come to save Avi’s people spread through Jerusalem like warm honey. She had yet to investigate these stories to determine if they were myths or truths. Perhaps he was another imposter who might leave her people downtrodden once again, casting doubts upon the ancient tales of the patriarchs.
She’d been too preoccupied with the task at hand to walk a mile or two or three to witness the teacher everyone raved about. The vast majority of her people reported he had healed the blind, made the lame walk, turned water into wine. The entire countryside went into an uproar when he supposedly raised Lazarus from the dead. The most absurd story of all, at least for Avi, was his ability to walk on water. Avi couldn’t put that story to rest. It agitated her, woke her in the middle of the night, caused her to call upon Adonai and cry herself to sleep.
Not long after the dreams ceased, for reasons she still couldn’t comprehend, Avi saved every denarius earned from repairing neighbors’ old garments to bought fine expensive yarn. Since Avi’s family died many years ago, it didn’t make sense to buy it. What would she do with this elaborate twisted fiber? Avi wondered if she had acted foolishly. So taunted with worry, she wrapped the yarn of fine linen inside her cloak then sat near a lamp and stared at it as if expecting it to move about her bavith and perhaps convey a message that she had somehow missed from the Holy One.
Then one day about ten months ago, she set her loom in the middle of her bavith. Upon a thin strip of leather, she placed seven needles. She commenced to inserting these sharp splinters of bone and bronze in and out of the yarn to begin the painstaking task of weaving a seamless garment from top to bottom.
Everyday since Avi sewed, stopping long enough to fetch water, cook, eat and drink, bathe and lie down. Her source of income came to a halt for she had given up mending her neighbors’ cloaks and scarves and belts, but was never in want.
Three days before Pesach, something strange occurred. She fastened the hem then clipped the thread and held the finished ef’-od up to examine it. “Perfect,” Avi said. Delight filled her eyes. She started to mount it to the wall to stretch and shape it in case the man who would wear it proved to be much larger, but an eruption outside interrupted her. Avi held the undergarment tight to her breast, refusing to allow it to touch the ground as she stepped outside.
Not far away, people shouted praises, fanning palm branches high and low. Something moved her forward, arms gently caressing the ef’-od in her hands, her feet unable to stop until . . .
Their eyes met.
No one ever described him, or told of the kindness in his eyes, the joy emitting from his face. If they had, their report was inaccurate. There was much more to him than the miracles they proclaimed. Avi searched for a word to describe him, but all her mind could come up with was love—something she felt the moment they locked eyes. The crowd all about him shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel.” As if someone had bellowed a thunderous command, the people stepped aside, making a clear path for Avi which led directly to him. Before she drew a breath to speak, he said, “Thank you.”
“My Lord, are you the one they speak of . . . Yeshua . . . the chosen one . . . the one who has come to save us?”
“I am he,” Yeshua said.
Avi loosened her grip on the garment, knowing without a doubt that the ef’-od belonged to him. After she gave him the robe, she fell to her knees and hid her face. In a low muffled voice she praised him. Overcome with unspeakable joy, Avi couldn’t articulate her thanksgiving above a whisper, but Yeshua heard every word. Yeshua touched her arm. Avi stood.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Avi said, “for I have received endless joy on this day and forever. All is now well with my soul.” Avi’s spirit confirmed what her heart had wrestled with for quite some time. As she had worked on the garment, a burning grew inside her, driving her, encouraging her, guiding her hands until she finished. Now, in this moment, gazing upon the Messiah, everything in her was complete and fully satisfied.
Point of Interest: Just as Ahijah tore his clothes into twelve pieces to represent the twelve tribes of Israel, depicting the division of the kingdom (I Kings 11:29-39); Christ’s seamless undergarment represents one robe in which we are all clothed and cannot be torn apart.
Definitions: ef’-od = Hebrew reference to an undergarment or tunic; bavith = a house, usually one room, can have an upper room/level; Yeshua = Hebrew name for the Messiah, Jesus Christ; Pesach = Passover.
Donna B. Comeaux has been writing for the Ruby for Women Magazine (http://rubyforwomen.com) since 2013. Donna has also written devotionals for Hopeful Living, a publication designed to encourage senior citizens, and for Believer Life. She also contributes to The Christian Post blog section at http://blogs.christianpost.com/search.html?term=comeaux. Not only will you find other inspirational stories on her website, you will also find tips for writers, devotionals, and a few of Donna’s political views as well.
Donna and her husband have two grown sons and eight grandchildren. They reside in Oklahoma.
This story is also in the March 2017 issue of the Ruby for Women Magazine. Click here to purchase a hardcopy: https://www.createspace.com/6972935.
This story can also be found on The Christian Post: http://blogs.christianpost.com/an-unlikely-choice/waiting-for-the-messiah-28715/