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An assassination attempt, the police were calling it. As if Momma were the president of the United States. Who assassinated a middle-aged novelist? I suppose if she wrote horror stories or trashy novels or something defaming a religion, someone might wish her dead. But my mother wrote historical fiction.
There’s a whole lot of evil in this world. And you got a heart that feels it more than others. But don’t you go tryin’ to carry it—you give it to the good Lord, you hear me? Can’t be carryin’ it on your mighty thin shoulders. The Lord, now He’s got big shoulders.
I used to sneak into her office when I was a little girl and lose myself among the smell of old books and Momma’s endless cups of tea—all kinds of exotic brands—and a candle burning with the scent of the season.
The cafeteria felt almost cozy. Facts about pumpkins were written in fancy lettering on a wooden-framed chalkboard with a reminder: Try our delicious pumpkin bread or mouth-watering pumpkin muffins. Gluten free! All different sizes and colors of pumpkins tumbled artistically around a display table. We each ordered a pumpkin muffin, and Hannah got a cup of coffee while I ordered my chai.
I’m talking about Drake. The way he looks at you. The way he cares.” I did not want to hear that. “Drake is like my big brother! You don’t fall in love with your big brother. There’s a name for that!”
Lord, I don’t know how to put down all these things I’m carrying. It seems like the wedge is growing bigger and bigger and that deep, dark hole is beckoning. But you say that your yoke is easy and your burden is light. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean at all.
I could talk to the author herself. Because there wasn’t any way she could write something that pretty and touching if she didn’t believe it herself. Leastways I didn’t think she could. If she believed it and if it was true, well, maybe she could forgive me and maybe Jesus could forgive me, too, and wash away all the layers of dirt that had been clinging to me just about from the day I was born.
I reckoned the people who liked Miz Bourdillon’s books were the religious sort, and shouldn’t they be the kind of people who’d show forgiveness and compassion instead of pure red-hot hate? Didn’t make sense to me. Then I got to thinking again about how Jesus wasn’t real kind to the Pharisees—I knew about them from Libby’s church. They were the religious experts. I wondered how many religious folks nowadays acted like those Pharisees. And then I wondered long and hard how Jesus would feel about them.
“Me, strong? No. I don’t really know how I keep going. I think it’s just the Lord carrying me. There are verses in the Bible that talk about God keeping us in perfect peace if we trust Him. I don’t always feel peaceful, but somehow God keeps letting me put one foot in front of the other.”
If Jesus came to earth today, I wondered if He’d be in the big fancy churches. Well, maybe He’d go in there and preach a sermon in His jeans, but then I just bet He’d ask some of the gang members to have lunch with Him. And He’d invite those poor trafficked gals and probably a bunch of those gay people who didn’t seem to be welcomed at churches, and maybe even, maybe He’d invite me to lunch too. Now wouldn’t that be something to see?
You are loved, you are worth it, this gift is for you. Take it, like a bouquet of flowers, like a view of the sun setting over the mountains, like your first glimpse of the Mediterranean after so many months. You are alive, and I love you.
