Make Haste Slowly

by Amy K Rognlie

  I plunked the box down on the large counter where I had been happily creating the altar flower arrangement for the Dorsey wedding…until today, that is.

  Mona’s large, red, Texas-shaped earrings quivered with her excitement as we gathered around the box.

  “Okay, here goes!”

  I lifted the lid from the box, and we all stared at its contents.

  Houston broke the silence. “Looks like someone sent you the leftovers from his garage sale,” he said, his tone grave.

  I had to agree. The hodgepodge of used vases, old glassware, and a few well-used books meant nothing to me. And someone had died for this?

  Mona snatched the box. “There’s gotta be something else in here,” she mumbled, throwing aside the crumpled pieces of newspaper that had been used as packing material. “Nothing.” She dug around some more, then flipped through the books. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground. “Ah ha!” She snatched it up and waved it in the air as if she held a winning lottery ticket. “Some sort of secret message!”

  She thrust the paper into my hand. “It says ‘For C.W.’ at the top. I assume that means you.”

  I smoothed the paper open on the counter so my friends could see.

  Once again, we all stared blankly.

  “It’s a drawing of an anchor…with a dolphin wrapped around the anchor. And some letters and numbers written under it.” Mona’s brow furrowed. “What kind of clue is that?”

  Houston cleared his throat. “Callie’s garage-sale admirer is a sailor?” he drawled.

  Mona snickered. “Yeah, one who loves dolphins.”

  “I know what it means,” I said.

  I did know. But I didn’t know why. I mean, I didn’t know why or how it was connected with the contents of the box. Or crepe myrtle man. Or me.

  My friends both stared at me as the pugs had done earlier.

  I traced the drawing with my finger. “The anchor with a dolphin is a symbol for the maxim, Festina lente. It means—”

  “Oh, I know!” Mona said. “It’s Italian for ‘Fast for Lent.’ Get it? Like fast--ina for a la Lent-e?” She swooped her hand in the air, presumably in imitation of someone Italian.

  Houston choked on his iced tea. “Then it’s a message from God, not from a sailor.” He stared at me in mock horror. “Wow, Callie! What did you do?”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny, you guys.” I rolled my eyes. “Festina lente is Latin for ‘Make haste slowly.’ It’s an oxymoron.”

  “That must be better than a regular moron.” Mona stage-whispered behind her hand to Houston, clearly knowing she was pushing it with me.

  I should have known she wouldn’t have been able to let that one pass. “Well, if you’re not interested—”

  Mona patted my hand. “We are, Callie. But you looked so serious, and—”

  I exhaled loudly. “This is serious, Mona! A guy is dead and apparently I’m supposed to know what to do about it.”

  Houston clunked his iced tea cup down on the table. “Callie’s right. We need to take this seriously.”

  “Thank you, Reverend.” I rewarded him with a smile. “So the adage itself and this symbol of the anchor with a dolphin around it has been used for centuries. Since Roman times, at least.”

  Mona wrinkled her forehead. “But what does it mean?”

  “The general idea is that one should proceed with caution. Or at least preparation. Caesar Augustus used this idea of ‘making haste slowly’ with his soldiers. He said...um…, let me think.” I could almost remember it. “Oh, I know. He said something like ‘Better a safe commander than a bold commander.’”

  Silence.

  I looked from Mona to Houston and back again. “He sometimes also used an image of a crab and a butterfly to illustrate the idea,” I added helpfully, in case they didn’t get it.

  More silence.

  Mona tapped her fingernail on the top of her Diet Dr. Pepper can. “How did you know all of that, Callie?”

  I shrugged. “My bachelor’s degree was in classical literature.”

  “And so…?” Houston peered at me.

  I shrugged again. “I studied Latin. Shakespeare. Aristotle. Gobs of history. You know, the works.”

  “I watched Macbeth once on PBS,” Mona piped up. “I thought it was the weirdest thing I had ever seen.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed for a second. It would take more hours than I had in a week to explain Shakespeare to Mona. And anyway, weren’t we supposed to be figuring out what had happened this morning?

  I opened my eyes. “History class is over for the day, children.” I shooed them both out of the back door into the blazing mid-afternoon Texas heat. “I have work to do. Call me if you think of anything that would explain the box.”

  Chapter Two

  Neither of them called. But Mona texted once to let me know that she hadn’t thought of anything, with about eight exclamation marks at the end. Then she texted again to let me know that her grandkids were headed over to their house and Rob was out of town and she hoped she would survive the evening with all five of them at once by herself and would I please pray. Six exclamation marks and three smiley faces. Mona texted like she talked. On and on without a breath in between.

  I shook my head. I am definitely a praying woman, but I’m not so sure that Mona’s action-packed evening with the grans ranks very high on my prayer list. On the other hand, today’s events certainly demanded to be handled with way more wisdom and insight than I could ever possess.

  I had relied many times on the Scripture verse which says if anyone lacks wisdom, to ask of God and He would give it to him…her.

  “Well, I could sure use divine insight here, Lord,” I prayed as I drove home the few blocks from the store. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what had happened today. I prayed for crepe myrtle man’s family. I prayed for the sheriff. I prayed for myself, that God would watch over me and protect me. I hadn’t admitted it earlier, but I was feeling a little creeped out by all of this. What if there was a murderer on the loose still? Who would be his next target?

  I scooped the newspaper off of my driveway and laid it on the seat of the rocking chair on my tiny front porch so I would remember to take it in the house with me. I still couldn’t believe I could afford Aunt Dot’s lovely old Victorian cottage, with a little money left to spare at the end of the month. Just the memories this house held for me were worth far more than that.

  The tiny house still needed work, but the wood floors, odd little nooks and crannies, and two small bedrooms were perfect for me. The kitchen was not large, but it was bright and sunny enough that the African violets were thriving on the windowsill. My hand-crocheted lace valence was the crowning touch.

  It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, but it was still ninety degrees out and my plants were feeling it. Had I watered this morning? My brain still felt a little—

  “Callie! What was all that ruckus at y’all’s place this mornin’ with the sheriff and all?” My neighbor, Sherm, hobbled over to the small fence that divided our yards.

  I groaned. Sherm Nelson was nosier than a…a pug sniffing out treats. And almost deaf.

  “Nothing much, Sherm,” I yelled. “An unexpected birthday gift is all.”

  I turned on the hose. Maybe if I looked busy, he would stop asking questions. I watered the hot-pink bougainvillea that bloomed in the hanging pot by the door, then moved to the lantana. I had fallen in love with lantana when I moved down here, and the ones near the porch were exceeding my expectations. My current favorite was the Dallas Red variety, and if the number of butterflies that visited it on a regular basis was any indication, it was a popular variety with them too. I had even seen a hummingbird or two hover over its brilliant red, yellow and orange blossoms, then dart quickly away.

  “Seems like y’all wouldn’t need the sheriff over a happy hitch,” he yelled back, hooking his thumb in his overalls. “Musta been some weddin’.”

  What?

  I had no idea what he was ta
lking about, so I smiled and waved, hoping he’d take the hint.

  He waved back, but he wasn’t giving up. “Whose was it?” he bellowed.

  Whose what?

  I laid the hose in the flower bed. The purple heart was looking a little scraggly this time of year. When I had planted it in the spring, I had been enchanted by its dark, violet-purple leaves and delicate lavender flowers, but if it didn’t perk up soon, it would wind up in the compost bin.

  Sherm still hovered near the fence. I ignored him as I dead-headed the marigolds. Finally, it dawned on me that he thought I had said “summer hitch” when I said “birthday gift.” I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes. And he knew I was a florist, so…I guess it made sense in a weird kind of way.

  I ambled over to him. “Sherm, I said it was a birthday gift. Nothing to do with a wedding.”

  He squinted at me. “A Thursday wish?”

  “A present. A birthday gift,” I shouted. I raised my eyebrows at him and smiled encouragingly.

  “Is that right? The sheriff had him a birthday this mornin’?” His face lit up. “All that fuss for a party?”

  Something like that.

  “Not a party, Sherm. Only a gift.” At least I hope that’s what it was. Just a gift. But somehow, I had the feeling that it was much more than that. I turned off the hose and headed in, the pugs panting along after me.

  After checking to make sure I had locked the front door behind me, I fed the dogs, fixed myself a tuna salad sandwich, and sank into a chair with the newspaper. It would be good to get my mind off the situation for a few minutes. The paper still felt warm after lying out all day in the sun, and as I unfurled it from its plastic cocoon, its familiar papery-inky smell comforted me. My eyes moved first, as always, to the Bible verse of the day on the front page of the local Short Creek Star. I liked that a newspaper would still print Scripture, even in this day and age.

  I had moved to a smaller community on purpose, and that’s partly why I subscribed to the newspaper instead of grabbing the headlines online when I had a spare minute. I wanted to read about the little details of the community that would help me feel like I was starting to belong here.

  I loved the Star’s features on historic buildings in the area, particularly the old churches. I especially enjoyed the “This day in history ten, twenty and thirty years ago” section, and the “Pastor’s Corner” section. However, I was not so much a fan of the weekly advice column, written by a woman named Joyce, who specialized in dispensing inane “advice” in response to equally inane questions sent in by her fans. Yeesh. I usually skipped that section. But I did often skim the obits, the birth announcements, and even the help-wanted ads. And I always did the crossword puzzle and the cryptograms. Uncle Garth would have been proud

  I rose and put my dishes in the sink, surprised by the sudden fatigue that gripped me. It was exhausting to find a body under one’s tree, apparently. Bedtime couldn’t come soon enough.

  An hour later I sat in bed, one of Aunt Dot’s crocheted afghans across my lap, reading the Psalms until I finally felt comforted enough to turn out the light and try to sleep. I closed my eyes against the images of the man’s body lying on the ground, refusing to let my thoughts go there. That was something I was learning, at least, in the aftermath of these last few difficult years. How to purposely focus my brain on something good or beautiful, instead of obsessing over something I couldn’t control anyway.

  I awoke at dawn, much to my dismay. Sleep would not return, no matter how long I kept my eyes closed, hoping. Nope. Not going to happen.

  I grabbed my Bible off my nightstand, and headed to my favorite morning prayer spot. My sunny little office, where I kept my journal, several commentaries, about six versions of the Bible, and my Book of Common Prayer was my own private sanctuary. Over these last tumultuous years of my life, I had learned to cling to God and His Word for dear life. Spending time daily helped me to stay focused; to remember Who was in control.

  I finally shuffled out to the kitchen to put the tea kettle on and stood staring at the contents of the box, which I had brought home from the shop with me last night. I had lined the contents up on my kitchen counter: A vase that looked like it had come from the dollar store. Another, larger vase that still had the green, Styrofoam stuff inside of it from a long-ago flower arrangement. A used coffee mug that said, “Don’t Mess with Texas” on it. Another mug that clearly proclaimed it had come from a cheap souvenir shop in Colorado. An ordinary-looking kitchen spoon. A few old books…and the festina lente symbol, hand-drawn on a plain white piece of paper. Underneath it was written “PSIS58611.”

  What in the world? And why did it say “To C.W.” when everyone here in Short Creek knew me as Callie Erickson? Maybe the person was confusing my name with my store’s name.

  The tea kettle whistled, and I mindlessly poured the water over my tea bag. Plain black English Breakfast this morning. Earl Grey was for wintertime. I sloshed in more half and half than necessary.

  Make haste slowly.

  Okay. What was I supposed to be slowly hastening toward? Sometimes I felt like I had been hastening constantly for the last few years of my life—but not very slowly or intentionally. It was only in this last year or so, since I had moved down here, that I was learning to breathe again.

  Festina lente. I stared at the symbol again. It almost looked like someone had doodled it, then scribbled the letters and numbers underneath. If only there was more information to go on. A letter. Or an address or—the newspaper!

  “Why didn’t we think of that yesterday?” I moaned out loud.

  Had I thrown away all of that crumpled newspaper from the box here, or at the shop? I remembered Mona flinging it around when she was pawing through the box, but had I stuffed it back in the box? I couldn’t remember.

  I jerked open the cupboard under the sink, relieved to find the newspapers near the top of my trash can. I fished all of the wadded balls out and laid them on the kitchen table, then carefully smoothed them out one by one. One page had a large soggy spot from my used tea bag, but otherwise, they were completely fine.

  I turned to grab my mug of tea, and nearly tripped over the pugs who were huddled together in their little bed, snoring to beat the band. It was too early to be up and about on a Tuesday morning.

  Settling into my usual chair at the kitchen table, from where I could watch the hummingbirds flitting around the feeder, I scanned the wrinkled pages before me. Hmm. Looked like random pages from past issues of the Star. A write-up about the drought…a huge article detailing the remodeling project at the high school…the funnies page with the crossword puzzle…the weekly police report…the police report? That might be informative.

  I glanced at the date at the top of the page, and sucked in my breath. It couldn’t be…but it was. It was the same day, five years ago, that Kev had been killed in the car wreck. I hadn’t revisited that day in my mind for a long time, but suddenly there it was, full force.

  Since the very beginning, our six-year marriage hadn’t been fabulous, but it hadn’t been awful either. It just kind of…was. And so when Kev was diagnosed with an unusually aggressive form of ALS at the unheard-of age of twenty-seven, neither of us dealt with it—or each other—very well. But we were committed to our relationship, and we somehow made it work, sort of.

  Living in Ohio, Kev had had the best of care available at Cleveland Clinic. For over two years, I drove him back and forth…and back and forth…as the docs tried one thing after another. Our hopes would flare, then dim. Flare, and then dim. Weariness overtook me, along with a terrible hopelessness. I knew God could heal Kev, but apparently, He had a different plan to which I was not privy.

  By those last few months, I was beginning to separate from Kev emotionally and I felt constantly guilty about it. Oh, I put on a good show of caring for him. I dutifully doled out meds, adjusted the wheelchair, fed him his meals…but my heart wasn’t in it. I loved him as a person, but our marriage had held so little emo
tional support even in its best days, there was nothing to build on when faced with such a crisis. I felt trapped. Lonely. I had built up a wall around my heart to protect it from the inevitable. My husband was going to die, and I would be alone. When it would happen was the only variable.

  Kev’s brother had offered to take him to his weekly appointment with the specialist that day, and I gratefully accepted. Being a 24/7 caretaker was a little more than I could handle some days. Most days.

  I gave Kev a quick peck on the cheek as Gary loaded him into the van, and they were off.

  The call came half an hour later.

  The guys had been in a terrible accident.

  Kev was dead; his brother in critical condition. My world, as I knew it, had imploded. The “if onlys” became enough to drive me bananas. If only we had seen that other specialist. If only I had been more patient with him. If only I had driven him to his appointment that day, and not selfishly wanted a day off. If only I had given him a hug when he left. If only I had told him I loved him one more time. If only…

  Now, five years later and in my own cozy kitchen in small-town Central Texas, I shook my head and took a sip of lukewarm tea. I had come a long way since that day, thanks be to God. Both emotionally and physically. And spiritually. I had learned, as the grief books say, how to “look back without staring.”

  After Kev died, I’d had to regroup. To examine all I ever thought I had known about God, His word, and His promises. I slogged my way through that first year of intense pain, buoyed up by my friends in my women’s Bible study group, and my Aunt Dot, of course. After many months, I came to realize that I was not only grieving the loss of my husband, I was grieving the loss of what should have been. What could have been in our relationship, even before Kev’s illness.

  I read books…I prayed…I cried. I dug in my flower beds, and planted bushes and vegetables like a gardening maniac for months. Digging, planting, weeding. Digging, planting, weeding. And somehow, slowly, as I knelt on the ground, my hands in the dirt, the sun on my back, day after day, the Holy Spirit began to heal my heart. It didn’t come all at once. It came in little bits.