Fictional Stories

Kara Scott’s heart had never pounded like this, not even during a competition.  This would be her last year of high school gymnastics and was her first time in the gym in five months.  She had been in the sport since she was five years old, but never had that skinny bar in front of her looked so ominous.  She thrust her sweaty palms into the chalk basin one more time before stepping onto the mat.  “Lord Jesus, please help me to not be scared.”  She brought her left leg up and touched her foot to her right knee.  Yep—her balance seemed good.  She took a deep breath and looked at her dad, who was also her coach.  “You can do it, Kara, nice and easy.”

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Mary’s hands and feet were swollen from the long day of work in the factory.  Her plight of having a dead-end job for the last twenty years was only magnified by learning recently what her name meant.  Bitter.  Well, that was fitting.  Good thing she had never looked it up before; it might’ve made her, well, bitter for all these years.  She thought back to what her mom always told her growing up, “God has a plan for you, Mary.”  That was a hard one to believe right now.

She didn’t understand why God had left her in the place she found herself as a 40-something-year-old woman.  Didn’t she always tithe to Him and didn’t she always go to church?

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      I was a driver for the City Bus.  My line went up and down Cambridge Avenue, one of the main east-west thoroughfares of the city.  The job was a good way to meet some interesting characters.   It didn’t take long to recognize the regulars; many became “friends” of sorts.  One of my most favorite passengers was Louise.  

      When I took over the #3 bus route from Jim, he told me there was a homeless woman who traveled from one end to the other of the line but never really got off anywhere.  “She’s a kook but harmless.  Always make sure she sits right behind you so no one bothers her.”  He went on to explain that Louise was the only person, to his knowledge, who had ever received special permission to bring a non-service animal on the bus. 

       The first day on my new route, Louise climbed aboard at the Market Place stop.

      “Are you Louise?” I asked.

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7:15 a.m. The bus was late again, and Lily’s toes were tingling. She hadn’t counted on winter being this cold when she decided to move here after college. The honeymoon period of living independently of all of her family and friends was over. She felt as if the loneliness would suffocate her.

“Hey, Lily!” It was John, a near 50-year-old from the apartment complex. “Little brisk, huh?”

Lily eyed him through the slit between her wool hat and the scarf covering her mouth. He had on a hoody and shorts. “Ya think?” She was not in the mood. John was nice and everything, but…

“Southerner.” He laughed at her ineptness to handle the cold.

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“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she bore?”

~~Isaiah 49:15a, NIV

 Twenty-seven years is a long time to keep a secret.  My husband, James, was the only other person who knew the real story—my Christmas story of legacy and faith.  So, when my youngest was 18, I knew the day had come, at last, to tell my four children what I had kept to myself for all those years.  I had stood guard over my heart and its contents of long ago, partly out of guilt and partly out of fear of how they would react.

So, after dinner that December 25^th, I said that I needed to talk to them.  “Please, just listen until I’m completely finished,” I said.  We were all around the dining room table, pumpkin pie half eaten.

I took a deep breath and allowed my mind to drift back to a time of great pain.  “As you know, your sister Faith died 27 years ago today,” I started.  “But, what I’m about to share with you is the part of the story you don’t know.

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I was feeling stressed out with two kids on the hip and one in the oven, so to speak. My two little ones and I were at the laundromat, and I was desperate to get home and put the kids down for naps so I could get some rest, too. My 2½-year-old had to go to the restroom, and when I came back, an old lady was slowly putting her clothes in my dryer. My spirit sunk. No other machines were available.

“Mommy, your face is red. What’s wrong?” Timmy asked. I had to make a choice quickly: I could be angry at the old woman and demand what was rightfully mine or I could be patient and kind.

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