How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [87]
“Owl throw-up,” whispers Bubba, and then we are all laughing.
“You like owls, Miss Livington?” asks Joy as she paces her strides to mine.
I think of how the one in my backyard calls throughout the night, how it kept me awake early on. Then one night the noise that had been so disturbing became a welcomed lullaby.
“Because I hate them.” Spontaneously, Joy covers her hand to her mouth. “I mean,” she says with careful intonation, “I don’t care for them.”
“They sing me to sleep at night,” I tell her. “So I guess I do like them.”
Her response to my answer consists of sticking her tongue out and grimacing.
I’ve learned to like the owl, I could say. Just like I’ve had to learn to like each one of these kids. Instead I add, “An owl’s song can grow on you, and before you know it, you actually look forward to hearing it.”
Darren, walking a few steps in front of us, turns his head to give me a smile. Like he knows exactly what I mean.
————
So often it is the small moments that bring the assurance of contentment. These can come in tiny waves, standing out from the rest of the minutes and hours of a day, and as swiftly as they arrive, they leave, slipping into an ordinary moment. You have to be on your toes; you have to be ready to embrace them.
My talk with Charlotte and later with Darren last night are two of the most recent waves of reassurance. I must be doing something right. I recall my prayer for patience. Humans always want to get the glory, but without God to rely on, I’d have given a series of high-pitched sermons to these children. Instead, I asked for patience, and God presented it, working it deep into the fibers of my heart.
And forgiveness? The sparse leaves still clinging to tree limbs rustle as though they are begging me to remove the poison of bitterness and anger I harbor for Lucas. When you forgive, you are really doing yourself a favor—that is what I have heard pastors preach. Forgiveness is the gift you receive in order to freely give it to others.
Lucas never asked for my forgiveness, I want to remind the forest breezes.
Much of the day has passed; dusk settles over the campsite. The picnic table has been set; even the juice boxes have been placed at each setting. A bowl of soft rolls sits in the center.
With a large wooden spoon, one of Grandpa’s utensils, I stir the iron pot of Brunswick stew over the grate. Earlier, Robert started the fire and supplied a pile of sticks for me to add to it. Then he and Rhonda took the kids to a clearing to play kickball.
Zack unloads two bundles of firewood from the bed of his truck and places them near where I am standing. He didn’t join the others; I’m not sure why. He set the table as I opened the six cans of stew and poured them into the cast-iron pot.
He seems preoccupied as I stir the carrots, potatoes, and cubes of beef. He’s got something on his mind.
The silence between us is fine by me. Having lived alone the last few years, I’m not used to the constant conversation we’ve had with the children during this weekend. In fact, the quiet right now is a refreshing and sought-after change. I don’t mind listening to my own thoughts for a while.
Once, back when I went to Sunday school classes, the teacher said that Jesus holds whatever we need in life. “If it’s patience, he has enough to supply you. If it’s love you need, he has that, too. Ask.”
I close my eyes.
And am startled when I sense Zack standing beside me. “Rhonda…”
I am about to tell him that my name isn’t Rhonda, when I realize he is going to say something about her. I look up from the cooking pot into his eyes. They are solemn this evening.
“I just wanted to say that…” He fumbles for the right words. “I’m sorry for the tension.”
“Tension?” I’m confused by his word choice.
“Between Rhonda and me.” His voice is low, sincere.
“Well, it’s none of my business,” I am tempted to blurt out. But on the other hand, maybe it is. He wants to apologize. If it will help him feel better, then I should let him do just that. “She really likes you.” The moment I finish my sentence,