by Darrell Case
When on assignment or in D.C Allison worked out for a full hour, each day rain or shine. Snow, but not ice. She jogged three miles did 100 setups and 50 pushups.
She ran this morning enjoying the slap of her feet on the concrete and the late spring sun on her back. A gentle south breeze blew around her drying the sweat cooling her heated body. The scent of flowers tickled her nose. It was good to be alive
She heard the singing a block away. Coming up to the small brick church she slowed then stopped. The songs of peace carried her back to her childhood.
"What can wash away my sin,
nothing but the blood of Jesus."
For the last few months of their lives, Alison's mother and father attended the small white clapboard church a mile from their home. When Alison was small, her parents sent her to church but didn’t attend themselves. One time she remembered Mrs. McMillan speaking to her Sunday school class about the Christ of Christmas. Every Sunday she led the class in a rendition of the old hymns. She wondered if the old woman was still alive.
From the open windows of the church came a new song.
"Jesus saves, Jesus saves,"
the congregation sang.
“Maybe for you, but not for me,” Allison said under her breath. Suddenly she felt very dirty. Not physically but spiritually. A stain upon her soul that couldn't be removed.
After her parents were, murdered Mrs. McMillan took her into her own home. She lived alone her husband having passed away years before. The elderly woman was glad for the companionship. The last time Allison saw her was from the window of the Greyhound bus carrying her to college.
In her freshman year they wrote faithfully back and forth. Then Allison slowed her letters to once every two weeks then once a month, she blamed her busy schedule. In truth, the elderly woman's faith seemed so antiquated, the farm country so unsophisticated.
Finally, she stopped writing altogether. She became tired of her old Sunday School teacher begging her to receive Christ. Mrs. McMillan stubbornly held on for the next three months. She wrote at least once a week telling of news in her small church and neighborhood. Receiving no reply the time between letters from the elderly woman became longer. Alison felt guilty for a disappointing Mrs. McMillan.
However, she soothed her conscious with the fact she should not be spending her fixed income on stamps. In the middle of her junior year, the letters stopped altogether. Sometimes she thought of the old woman spending her evening alone with no one to comfort her
Allison walked up the steps to the church. She listened intently. Yes, she remembered her mother humming that tune as she worked in the kitchen.
