Edified
Edified
Marissa Sail Fike
Honeybush Press
Copyright © 2021 by Marissa Sail Fike
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Also used: ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.”
Also used: New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Cover design by: Called and Chosen Co.
ISBN: 9781736890301
Dear Reader,
To borrow the viewpoint of one of my characters, I don’t believe it’s by mere chance or happenstance that this book somehow ended up in your hands. Whether you selected it from the library bookshelves, borrowed it, found it, or simply heard it calling your name from its place in the bookstore, I believe that your choosing to take it home was a very guided decision, and that God must have something great in store for you. Whether you are just discovering the joys of God’s ways or you are a seasoned believer, I hope you will see this book as God’s love letter to you. There’s something He wants you to know or be assured of, and when you discover it, I can’t wait to hear what it is! Connect with me on Instagram @m.sail.f!
Abundant blessings,
Marissa Sail Fike
1
Grace - Tuesday
“What do you think about this one?”
My best friend, Rae, angles her phone for me to see. A sparkly diamond necklace displays proudly on the screen, forming the shape of a heart at the bottom. It’s stunning and positively everything she’s been looking for, except for the price tag. My eyes flick down to the hefty collection of numbers beneath the picture and my smile fades.
“Better check those digits.”
Rae turns the screen back and her gaze settles on the price.
“Ooh,” She winces, “Adam would kill me.”
I scroll down my own screen, tapping a picture of another necklace. It looks like a cheap version of the one we were just looking at, but maybe it’s worth settling on for a grand total of $12.95.
I pass my phone to Rae and she considers the image.
“I mean, it definitely looks fake,” she says, “But I could sure use the several hundred dollar discount.”
The barista arrives with our drinks and a brown paper bag.
“One Vienna Latte and one chai tea,” She says setting them down on our table, “And this is my treat.”
The paper bag crinkles as she sets it down in front of me. I didn’t even order it, but I know what’s inside.
I clutch my heart and give her the biggest smile, “Ava, you’re truly the best.”
She shrugs and waves me off.
Ava is my long-standing, favorite barista employed at Aroma Mocha Café, and I purposefully come in Tuesdays when I know she’ll be working the evening shift.
I open the paper bag and allow the warm scent of cinnamon to swirl into the air, breathing it in with an unreasonable amount of pleasure.
Rae laughs at me from across the table as I pull the steaming cinnamon bun from the bag and set it down on a napkin.
“So what do you think about writing personal vows?” Rae asks, taking a sip of coffee.
I sit back in my seat, letting my treats cool down.
“I mean, personally, I think traditional vows cover all the bases, but it’s totally up to you. Your wedding.”
She nods, “I definitely thought about writing personal ones, but I think it might be more special if we shared our personal vows with just each other later, you know? Just pure one-on-one authenticity.”
“Right,” I smile, absentmindedly fiddling with the string on my tea bag.
Rae had recently gotten engaged to her boyfriend of two years, Adam Compton. Naturally, being best friends since Freshman year of high school, she asked me to be her maid of honor, which meant weekly brainstorming sessions at one of our places, or in this case, The Café. Rae's only ever had one other boyfriend — Samuel Ross — and it was just a casual relationship during our Sophomore year. I’ve never seen anyone light up her world the way Adam does, though. She's never really been the type to gush over someone she liked, but these days it’s not abnormal to catch her smiling into nothingness thinking about her fiancé. The man of her dreams.
“I’m really so happy for you and Adam,” I smile, taking the last bite of my sacred pastry, “How’d you get so lucky, Ms. Brooks?”
Her eyes glaze over with that dreamy expression as she rests her chin on her hands, “You know, I really don’t know. I’ve never met a guy so sweet, capable, and loyal at the same time.”
As soon as she says it, her smile fades. Her eyes lock with mine and suddenly the once comforting taste of cinnamon in my mouth tastes like nothing at all.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”
I swallow, “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I try to give her a smile, but she doesn’t look convinced.
“Just because Jayden wasn’t loyal doesn’t mean Adam isn’t allowed to be,” I sigh, “In fact, I would be pretty concerned if you thought he wasn’t.”
The abundance of bracelets gracing her wrists jingle as she reaches for my hand across the table. She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t need to. Everything that needed to be said had already been covered about a week ago when I called her crying about the break up.
She gives my hand a squeeze, “Are the pills I gave you helping?”
I nod, rubbing my temple, “I try not to take them … but those first couple of nights, it was a necessity, you know?”
She smiles sadly, “I do.”
I try to pull off a genuine smile while reaching for my phone, “Let’s get back to this necklace shopping, shall we?”
She nods, “We’ve gotta be getting close.”
***
Rae and I bonded for the simplest reason when we were younger, and that’s that neither of us liked our actual first names. I agreed to call her by her middle name instead, and she agreed to shorten mine to Grace instead of Gracelynn. Personally, I always thought she had the most whimsical name, like something a famous country singer might have.
Lacey Rae Brooks — Soon to be Lacey Rae Compton.
The change in her last name kind of ruins the celebrity effect in my opinion, but I would never tell her that. In the same respect, she wouldn’t tell me that Jayden’s last name never fit right with my first name. Regardless of how many different fonts I wrote it in my notepad, Gracelynn Brielle Grayson just didn’t sound right any way you slice it. It was far too much like that character in “The Wedding Singer” who’s first name was Julia, who was marrying a man with the last name of Gulia. Julia Gulia and Gracelynn Grayson. I’d have been better off just sticking to my maiden name if Jayden and I worked out the way I always thought we would.
My mind takes every opportunity to think about what could’ve been between us, especially when
I’m alone at home for the day. I thought for sure that September fifteenth, our fourth anniversary, would be the day he’d pull out the sparkly ring that’d seal our love forever. It’d be the ring I’ve had pinned to my Pinterest for years now, and always made sure to show him. I’d been anticipating it for months actually — to the point of getting my nails salon-ready the day before. That way, the hidden photographer he’d hire would capture the prettiest pictures of my hands covering my mouth in surprise, wrapping around him in an adoring squeeze, and finally, receiving the ring. The idea had been rehearsed in my head so many times, it almost felt real.
But the fact is, it wasn’t real. Sure, I’d gotten the surprise of a lifetime … but one that devastated my heart in a way I never thought possible. I recall the pictures of her vividly in my mind … her long silken hair … her exquisite curves.
I absentmindedly reach for Amity, my cat, and pull her onto my lap. She lets out a yowl of protest, but allows me to run my fingers through her fur as we watch the TV blankly. We’re supposed to be watching some nature documentary about butterfly migrations, but my mind just wants to think about Jayden.
He shouldn’t still mean as much to me as he does. I broke up with him after all. But it’s hard to undo four years of your life with someone.
We had made so many plans together and shared so many dreams. I had our wedding colors picked out, we had agreed on names for children, and we had decided where we were going to live. We even had a joint savings account for our goals (which, unfortunately, I had to withdraw my portion from that very day).
I have to say, the most common misconception about breakups is that the person initiating it no longer has feelings for the other person. I was a crying, sobbing mess when I broke it off with Jayden, and even then I was hoping he would somehow procure the magic words that would fix everything and undo what he’d done. Then we could go back to being the happy couple I thought we were.
I know I did the right thing, ending the relationship. You can’t have any sort of connection with someone who lies to you. But separating myself from him is still one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. Everything reminds me of him. The songs on the radio, certain places we had deemed ‘our spot’ — hell, even certain scents ignite my feelings for him.
My throat begins to swell, and I squeeze Amity a little too hard. She growls at me and jumps down from my lap.
I squint at her from across the room, “I could’ve gotten a dog, you know, but I settled for your sorry self instead.”
She slowly blinks her eyes at me.
“A dog wouldn’t leave me in my time of need.” I add.
At that, she stands and casually strolls out of the room.
As ridiculous as I know I’m being, the swell in my throat increases in size as I stare at the TV screen, tears brimming. A cloud of colorful butterflies fills the screen, on a mission to get somewhere. They flutter in unison across an ocean, across a field, and across a highway. I point my remote at the screen and click the off button.
I’m wallowing and I know it. I need to do something productive to get my mind off of self-pity.
I quickly wipe my eyes and force myself off the couch. I glance around the room at the various stacks of objects that need to be sorted through.
This house used to be my Grandma Jackie’s before it was mine. When she passed away a couple years ago, my mother, being her only child, inherited the house. She has allowed me to live in it for the past year rent-free, under the condition that I neaten it up and make it look new again.
Just as I’m about to get started on a stack of old dishware, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance down at the screen before accepting the call.
Aunt Kim.
“What’s up?” I say, suppressing the crack in my voice.
“Hey girl, what are you doing?”
“Sorting through Grandma’s stuff,” I smile, “I’m almost done, I swear.”
Kim is not really my aunt. She’s actually my mom’s cousin. But she and I have always been super close, and for some reason, I always used to insert the ‘aunt’ status before her name when I was a baby.
She snorts, “I can’t believe it’s taken you almost the entire year you’ve been there.”
I switch ears, propping the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I sort through the plates with my freed hands. “Year and a half, actually. And really? Are you actually surprised? This is Grandma’s stuff we’re talking about.”
She laughs, “You’re right. She always was kind of a hoarder.”
Or a Collector of Many Things, as I liked to call her.
“I can’t believe Corinne hasn’t been out there to claim some of her mom’s old stuff yet.” Kim says, referring to my mother.
“Eh,” I say, “Not exactly the sentimental type.”
“Excuses,” Kim snuffs, “The truth is simple. She doesn’t have time for much of anything anymore since she got that nursing degree. Even the super important things like coming to visit her dear cousin Kimmy. How is that going for her, by the way? Have you heard?”
“I don’t know honestly. I haven’t really heard from her.”
When was the last time my mom and I talked anyway? As far as I know, she’s loving her new job at Oakland Medical.
“I don’t really mind doing this, though,” I continue, “The sorting, I mean. Organizing things has always been kind of therapeutic for me.”
“Girl,” she laughs, “I don’t know anyone else who’d enjoy that.”
I smile, although I don’t see why they wouldn’t. There’s something blissfully rhythmic about sorting items into methodical piles and finding suitable places for them. Plus, much like my grandmother was, I’m enamored with vintage things. So while I have made the space my own by adding my personal furnishings and decorative touches, I have also opted to keep a few of her things that I found interesting.
Her old vinyl record player, for example, and her sleek vintage typewriter. I can only imagine the numerous stories and love letters that have been conjured on that thing. Finding objects like that made digging through the piles worth my while, and it certainly provided a structured distraction from my mind’s malicious thoughts of love lost and time wasted.
“Well,” Kim says, “I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay and all that.”
The lump in my throat surfaces again. Somehow knowing someone cares enough about my wellbeing to call and check up on me makes me emotional all over again. God knows it’s more than I could expect from my mother.
“Thanks, Aunt Kim.” I clear my throat, “I’m okay.”
“Alright, girlie.” She says, “I love ya. Organize away!”
“Love you,” I say back before tapping ‘end call’.
I sort the last dish into the ‘goodbye’ bin before moving on to one of the last remaining piles. It mostly consists of books upon books.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail, although a few brown tendrils escape the elastic and fall down the frame of my face. I settle on my rug in front of the first pile, crossing my legs, and breathe in the pleasant aroma of old book pages.
I expel my breath with an involuntary smile and begin working.
The process gives me a strong feel for my grandmother’s taste in literature, which turns out to be a far stretch from mine. She owned multiple editions of Pride and Prejudice, and every single classic there had to be written. My taste is definitely more modernized, but I’m still careful to flip open the covers of each book and check for any personal notes before discarding them into the reject box. I get into a good rhythm of sorting after realizing each of these books had to be either a classic or ancient — nothing I would want to salvage for myself. I fall into the pattern of grab - open - check - discard, and find peace in the consistency of it.
I carry on like this for at least half an hour until my hand reaches for the next book and finds a strange cover material and heavier weight settling into my palms.
I
draw my eyes to the book in question and find that instead of the typical paperback or cardboard cover, the book I’ve grabbed is wrapped in thin leather and sealed with string. Its pages are thinner than regular paper, bordered with gold, and almost spilling out of the book’s binding. On the cover, inscribed in gold lettering, are the words: Holy Bible.
I gently perch the book on my lap, staring at it for a moment. I know what the Bible is. I probably even have one somewhere around here … but for some reason, the idea of Grandma Jackie’s Bible has my interest piqued.
I bring my fingers to the delicate string that binds the book and carefully untie it, loosening its grip slowly so none of the pages fall out. With anticipation, I gently lift open the cover, releasing an invisible cloud of dust to unfurl in the air.
My eyes settle on the first page of the Bible and my heart thuds a little louder. On the page is a neat scrawling of cursive writing, saying,
This book is for you, my sweet Jacqueline Rose. It is a parallel study bible that has both the NIV and NKJV translations side by side. Live by it. Write in in the margins. Make it your own, and you will always be blessed. Love, Mom.
The first thing I noticed was the date in the top right corner of the page: August 2, 1983 — Grandma Jackie’s 35th birthday.
I scan the page several times over before bringing my hand to the right side of the book, bending it slightly and fanning through the pages. My eyes are greeted by a wave of color.
I open the book to a random page, right in the middle. I am greeted by a rainbow of highlighted scriptures and an overwhelming amount of handwriting in the margins. The top of the page says Psalm and Grandma Jackie’s writing points with multiple arrows at a specific text.
I bring the book closer to my face and squint to see the tiny words.
He counts the number of the stars; He calls them all by name. Great is our Lord and mighty in power; His understanding is infinite.
I flip to the next page, which is equally crowded with color and ink, and then quickly to the next and the next, without reading what any of it says.
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