“Sure.” Jesus Christ always came into their conversations somewhere. Even when he tried to steer things down other paths, she always came back to God. “I’ve been taking a comparative religions class.”
Sam laughed again. “Oh, that’ll impress her.”
Sam Carter could be more irritating than a rash. “I don’t know much about religion. I thought it might be interesting to find out more.”
“Religion is one thing. Faith is another entirely.”
“So Annie said.”
“All you have to do is watch Annie to see the difference. She say anything else?”
Corban looked away from Sam’s amused expression. She’d summed up the entire course in a few sentences: “Every religion in the world is about man trying to reach up to God, like working your way up the ladder. They’re all about striving to achieve something for yourself. Christianity is the only religion about God reaching down to man and offering salvation as a free gift, with the added bonus of a personal relationship with the Creator God through Jesus Christ, who was there in the beginning.”
Corban sighed. “She talked about grace being a free gift.”
Sam lifted his can of soda in salute. “It’s free all right, but it didn’t come cheap. And there’s the rub, old man. Our sweet Annie’s passionately in love with the one who paid the price for salvation.” He cocked his head and smiled sardonically. “Think you’re up to competing with Jesus Christ?”
“Faith can bring people together.”
“True. But what’s the basis of your faith?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Before he met Annie, he’d never thought about having faith in anything but himself.
Sam grinned at him. “She’ll make a believer out of you yet, buddy. And then she’ll cut you loose.”
Corban glanced at him in annoyance. “Sounds like sour grapes.”
“No. I’m just hoping the next time I meet a girl like her, she’ll be the marrying kind.” Sam’s expression was tender as he watched Annie. “The thing with Annie is she just wants everyone to feel the same joy and sense of freedom she does.” He shook his head. “She is something to watch, isn’t she?”
Corban couldn’t agree more. She was radiant, and some of that joy seemed to overflow to everyone she came near . . . except for Nora Gaines, who looked thinner and paler than the last time he’d seen her. Annie’s mother had looked like a scared little girl when she came out the back door. Now she was sitting with Susan’s mother, talking and looking less stressed out. Still pensive, but reachable. Annie joined them for a moment, took her mother’s hand and squeezed it, leaned down and kissed her cheek, and then went to talk with her aunt Jeanne.
George Reinhardt was talking with Tom Carter and Fred Gaines. Corban wondered how old George was faring now that his mother had gone on to meet Saint Peter at the pearly gates, leaving him a nice, fat bankroll. At first glance, he didn’t look any happier than he had the first time Corban met him.
Annie looked his way and smiled. Much to his chagrin, she smiled at Sam Carter, too. She wasn’t partial.
“It’s a pity Annie doesn’t need us,” Sam said, straightening away from the car.
“Maybe one of these days.”
“Don’t hold your breath. She’s got everything she wants right here in Leota’s garden.”
Corban had only an inkling of what that meant.
Annie set out platters of food on the dining room table and left the Fiesta dishes stacked to one side so that guests could serve themselves when they felt like it. Uncle George, as usual, was sitting alone in the living room, watching a ball game. He had a beer beside him, one he had taken from the six-pack he had brought. Sadness filled Annie as she watched him. He had been sociable for an hour and then retreated.
At least Jeanne was having a good time, talking and laughing with Arba. And last she saw Marshall and Mitzi, they were in the game room having fun with the other children. Life was going on all around Uncle George, but he seemed blind and deaf to it.
She thought of Grandpa Bernard and the things Grandma Leota had said about him. Was Uncle George going to become like that? Locked inside himself with whatever demons plagued him?
Lord, what is he afraid of?
And what about her mother? She was trying so hard to be courteous and pleasant to everyone. Obeying the rules.
Oh, Grandma Leota, I wish you were here. She pressed her lips together and finished putting out the silverware and napkins.
Her mother had talked with Uncle George for a little while and then gone into the bathroom. Was she still in there? No, the bathroom door was open. Annie found her in the second bedroom, looking at the wall where several pictures were hung.
“I’ve never seen this picture.” Her mother was looking at the one of Helene and Gottlieb Reinhardt on their wedding day.
“I found it in the attic. The one of Grandma Leota and Grandpa Bernard was in Grandma’s bedroom. And Fred gave me a copy of your wedding picture. I had to wheel and deal to get Dad to send me a picture, and I’ve left a space for Michael. Maybe I could have a copy made of his graduation picture from college.”
“I’ll do that for you.” She looked at the shadow box, and Annie wondered what she was thinking. Annie had put the Silver Star, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart in it along with some tools from a box in the garage: a measuring tape, a hammer, plans for the apartment, and some nails. Her mother’s gaze moved to the plaque in the center of the wall. Annie waited, saying nothing, giving her mother time. She had spent painstaking hours doing the calligraphy, making sure every word was spelled correctly. After all, it was in German and she didn’t speak it.
Denn also hat Gott die Welt geliebt dass er seinen, elingeborenen Sohn gab, damit alle, die an ihn glauben, nicht verloren werden, sondern das ewige Leben haben.
JOHANNES 3:16
“It shouldn’t be so easy,” her mother said quietly, guilt her mantle.
“The only thing the Lord won’t forgive is the refusal to believe and accept the gift of His Holy Spirit.”
“I believe, but . . .”
Studying her mother, Annie ached over the grief she saw in her face. Eleanor Gaines would bear the consequences of her behavior over the years and live the rest of her life with regrets. But she didn’t have to live the rest of her life believing she had never been loved. God loved her. So had Grandma Leota. Her mother needed to know that. She needed to accept love so that she could move forward and do something constructive with her life. Grandma Leota had understood that and, with God’s guidance, she had provided for it. It was time her mother knew it.
Annie walked over to the old sewing machine sitting beneath the window that overlooked the driveway and rose-covered picket fence. “Grandma said you were a talented seamstress, Mom. She told me you used to go down to the fancy dress stores and look over the new styles, then come home and make improvements on them. She said you had the talent to become a wonderful designer.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, she did. She was very proud of you. Grandma said all the women in our family have been artists of one kind or another. Grandma Helene was a master with the embroidery needle and in the kitchen as a cook. Great-Aunt Joyce was a wonderful painter and graphic artist. Grandma Leota had a green thumb. You’re our clothing designer.” She saw the telltale moisture in her mother’s eyes.
Father, is she listening . . . really listening?
Annie knew her mother was trying hard to turn over a new leaf, to be better than she had been, to be brave. But that would never be enough. She needed to relinquish herself and let God show her what He had made her to be. Would she be willing to surrender her pride for that great purpose?
Today could be the beginning. Please, Lord, please. You’ve softened her. Will she take the seed?
“It’s yours, Mom.” Annie ran her hand over the polished wood of the antique Singer sewing machine. “You can take it anytime you want it.”
“It belongs to you, Anne-Lynn. Everything in the
house belongs to you.”
She heard the hurt in her mother’s voice and knew she felt rejected despite the fortune in stocks she had been given. “Grandma Leota left things to me because she knew I’d pass them on when you and Uncle George were ready. This belongs to you, Mom. Grandma wanted you to have it.”
Her mother drew in a shaky breath. “How can you be so sure?” She looked so vulnerable, so hopeful. Like a little girl desperately longing for something just beyond her reach.
“Open it. See for yourself.” Annie walked over, kissed her mom, and left the room.
Nora trembled as she stood alone. She remembered the hours she had spent at this old sewing machine. She had found such pleasure and satisfaction in the work. She had lost herself in it. When had she stopped? Why? Was it the year she ran off and married Bryan? She had bought another sewing machine then, a newer one. But as the years rolled by, she had enough money to buy things off the rack. And there had never seemed to be enough time to sew. She was too busy driving Annie to school or music lessons or whatever else she’d planned for her to do.
Nora ran her hand over the old machine, seeing it now with new eyes. Just as her mother had retreated to her garden, she had retreated to this room, losing herself in her work, dreaming her dreams, hoping there was more to life than loneliness and rejection. Oh, Mama, we weren’t so very different, were we? Why couldn’t I see that before? Lifting the cover, Nora reached in and pulled the old machine up, locking it into position.
A white envelope was taped to the front of the machine. Eleanor was written in her mother’s handwriting. Hands trembling, Nora opened it.
My dearest Eleanor,
I knew one day you would return to yourself and open this machine again. I’m so proud of you. I remember standing in the doorway and watching you as you sewed. You had such amazing concentration. You took such care. You were never satisfied unless you’d done the job right. And you made beautiful things, darling, the kind of things only an artist can create. Artistic talent runs in our family, you know. Your father was a master carpenter. Just look at the fireplace mantel, the apartment behind the garage, the arbor to the victory garden. Grandma Helene could make the best strudel this side of the Atlantic. And your grandfather taught me how to grow things. You have a wonderful heritage.
I like to imagine you sitting at this sewing machine again one day and making costumes for church pageants, maternity clothing for poor young mothers, playsuits for children, and nice dresses for little old widow ladies like me. And the Lord will bless you for it. I know He will.
You said to me the other night that I never loved you. Oh, you are so wrong, my dear. You are the daughter I prayed for, Eleanor. I loved you from the moment I knew I was expecting you. I loved you even more when I held you in my arms. I named you after a great lady, a woman of great character, the woman I know God intends you to be. Trust Him and He will mold you into His vessel. And remember . . . I never stopped loving you, Eleanor, even during all the years you believed otherwise. You are the daughter of my heart. Even when we are apart, I hold you close. And wherever I am at this moment as you’re reading this letter, be reassured, my beloved,
I love you still.
Mama
Nora wept. She read the letter again through her tears and then held it against her chest, finally reading it again.
“Annie told me I’d find you in here,” Fred said from behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded her muscles gently. “She said your mother wanted you to have the sewing machine. Do you want it?”
“I do.” More than anything. More than all the stocks, for they only represented cold cash. She had felt disinherited when the will was read. And now, she felt like the prodigal who was welcomed home by a rejoicing parent. She folded her mother’s letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope, then put it in her jacket pocket and kept her hand over it. She had what mattered. She had what really counted. Love.
“George brought the van,” Fred said. “Maybe I can talk him into moving the sewing machine for us this evening. They could spend the night.”
“They never have before.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“We’ve plenty of room.”
“The children could ride over in the car with us.”
“That would be nice.”
Fred turned her around and lifted her chin. He studied her. “Are you all right?”
“Not yet, but . . . I know now my mother loved me.” Thank You, Lord, oh, thank You.
He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you, too, Nora. I have from the moment I met you. And I always will.”
Oh, dear Jesus, I’m so undeserving, and so very, very thankful. She went into her husband’s arms and rested in his embrace a long moment. “Will you do me a favor, Fred?”
“Now what?” he said in a teasing tone.
She drew back slightly and looked up at him. “Don’t call me Nora anymore.” She smiled. “Call me Eleanor.”
Annie finished drying the last of Grandma’s Fiesta dishes and put them away in the kitchen cabinets. The washing machine was going with the tablecloths and napkins and several dish towels. The leftovers were put away. She had sent German potato salad home with Arba, wedges of apple strudel with Juanita, and German potato sausage with Lin Sansan.
Smiling, Annie closed the cabinets. Well, Lord, we had an international day, didn’t we? Like a meeting of the United Nations in our backyard!
It had been a wonderful day. Everyone she had invited had come to the party in Grandma Leota’s garden. Juanita had even managed to get her husband, Jorge, to participate. He was a quiet man and rather wary among the throng of people milling around the garden, but he had gradually warmed up when his wife had introduced him to Lin Sansan and her husband, Quyen Tan Ng. It was the first time the men had met and spoken. Amazing, since they had been neighbors for three years!
Halfway through the afternoon, Annie had decided to organize a block party. Summer wasn’t that far away, and it would be a perfect time. When she mentioned the idea to Arba, her friendly neighbor said she was all for it and willing to help. So was Juanita. They spread the news to the other neighbors.
Lord, I want to know everyone’s name by the end of summer. Men, women, and children! But it’s going to take dynamite to get some of them out of their houses. People are so afraid. Father, I want this neighborhood to be like neighborhoods used to be, when everyone knew one another and people talked over their back fences.
Grandma Leota had told her what the neighborhood had been like fifty years ago. She knew it could be that way again. It was already starting. Opening the garden to the children had brought the mothers over to visit. Arba, Juanita, and Lin Sansan often sat on her patio now, talking, even when Annie was working, which was often since Arba had introduced her to Miranda Wentworth, an interior decorator. Ever since Miranda had come to see her painted trims and borders, Annie had more offers than she could fulfill. And the gallery wanted another painting. The proprietor had come over and made an offer for Grandma Leota’s portrait, but Annie declined. She was thinking about painting Arba, Juanita, and Lin Sansan as they sipped tea together in the garden. They were wonderful to watch and would be even more wonderful to paint. They were all so different. Arba in her bright colors, Juanita in her old-fashioned fifties-style dresses, Lin Sansan in her black pants and white shirts with mandarin collars . . . different, but perfectly matched.
Everyone loved the garden. And everyone brought something to it. Annie was always receiving potted plants, seeds, or doodads to tuck into leafy corners. Sam had brought a ceramic angel today—a silly, chubby, bewinged child that didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to real angels written about in the Bible.
Grandma Leota had planned and laid out the garden. All those years she had toiled and planted, always hoping and praying this little piece of earth would become a sanctuary for those she loved. Grandma Leota had dreamed her dreams and prayed her prayers while kneeling on
the earth and planting bulbs. She had believed it would all happen someday. She never gave up hope.
How Grandma would have relished this Easter Day. Annie wished she had been sitting among her flowers, seeing how everyone responded to the beauty of her garden. Sam, Susan, Corban, Arba, and the neighbor children had all shared the workload of bringing it back. Annie wanted people to feel at home in here. A garden wasn’t meant to belong to one person. A garden was for sharing, for exercise, for joy, for prayer. A garden was an open-air cathedral to the glory of God, a living monument to the birth, life, death, and resurrection of the Lord. Every season was a trumpet sounding, every sunrise and sunset a daily reminder of God’s glory. Here, in this small corner of a small neighborhood, Annie hoped people would come to understand a little better the way things were meant to be.
Her mother was going to be all right after all. Uncle George and Fred had carried the old sewing machine out to the van. Though Uncle George had agreed to move it, he had resisted spending the night in Blackhawk. He said he had to be at work in the morning. Poor Uncle George, debt-free, forever debt-ridden. Would he ever lay his burdens down? Annie knew Grandma Leota had written a letter to him as well.
With everything put away in the kitchen, Annie went into the living room and picked up Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. She ran her hand over the worn cover. Grandma Leota had told her how much Uncle George had loved to read as a boy. This had been his favorite book. Annie had put it on the side table, hoping Uncle George would pick it up and leaf through it—and find the letter tucked inside. He hadn’t touched it. He had spent most of the afternoon sitting alone and watching television. She had not seen him even glance through the albums she had compiled and left open on the dining room table. Her mother had taken one of the old scrapbooks with her.
The time just hadn’t been right for Uncle George. Perhaps the next time he came, he would be ready to look around, to think back, to wonder. Perhaps he would be ready then to ask the painful questions and receive the redemptive answers. Lord, please soften him. Annie opened the drawer in the side table beside Grandma Leota’s recliner, placed the book in it, and closed it again. God would tell her the right time to take it out. In the meantime, she would keep praying. Grandma Leota had taught her that. Never give up. Never despair. No matter what we feel or think, keep praying. Choose hope!