by Leah Atwood
Blessings Always,
JoAnn Durgin
Matthew 5:16
Theme Scripture Verses
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Deuteronomy 20:4
For the Lord your God is the one who goes with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
1There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven—
2A time to give birth and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.
3A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
4A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance.
5A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
6A time to search and a time to give up as lost;
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
7A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;
A time to be silent and a time to speak.
8A time to love and a time to hate;
A time for war and a time for peace.
Jeremiah 29:11
‘For I know the plans that I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope.’
Matthew 21: 21-22
21And Jesus answered and said to them, “Truly I say to you, if you have faith and do not doubt, you will not only do what was done to the fig tree, but even if you say to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and cast into the sea,’ it will happen. 22And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.”
Romans 8:28
And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.
Ephesians 2:8-9
8For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; 9not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.
1 Timothy 1:5
But the goal of our instruction is love from a pure heart and a good conscience and a sincere faith.
1 John 3:17
But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?
Perchance to Dream
JoAnn Durgin
Chapter 1
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After Ryan Joseph Sullivan dropped a frog down the back of my shirt, I figured I’d hate him for the rest of my life.
At the time, Ryan was six, and I—Eleanor “Ellie” Rose Franklin—was five. While I wriggled around and screamed bloody murder, Ryan had the nerve to laugh. Laugh! I should have suspected as much. He was, after all, a boy, that most dreaded of subspecies. Boys were gross. They smelled stinky, did dumb stuff, and the things they talked about were disgusting.
Still, there was something about that boy.
Turning my back to Ryan, I flapped my shirt up and down in an attempt to dislodge the pesky amphibian. When it finally hopped to the ground, I pivoted in a half-circle and glared at Ryan.
“We’re in the same Sunday school,” I hissed with all the righteous indignation I could muster. “God says we should love our neighbor. Why do you hate me so much?”
“You are such a girl.” Ryan crossed his arms and assumed a battle stance. “I don’t hate you, but I can’t go to the game this Saturday because of you.” He didn’t even need to tell me which game. Ryan loves the Cleveland Cavaliers more than just about anything in life.
“Huh?” I shook my head in disbelief at the big old pouter. “That’s not my fault!” Boys thought girls could be such sissies, but they were just as bad. Sometimes more.
“Our moms have to go to some stupid ladies tea at the church with your sisters, so that means your dad has to stay home and babysit you.”
“So? Your dad could still take you,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s not happening. He says we’re not going now.”
Mirroring Ryan, I planted my feet apart and crossed my arms. “Still soooo not my fault.” I lifted my chin to meet his gaze.
“Is too your fault.” His expression spelled d-i-s-g-u-s-t.
“Is not.” I stuck out my tongue. That standoff happened on a Wednesday, and we didn’t see each other again until Sunday morning at church. As it happens, we were studying the Ten Commandments. Ryan sat across the table from me, engrossed in a conversation about superheroes with Trevor King before our class started.
“Ryan, what does ‘love thy neighbor’ mean to you?” I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggles while Ryan ignored me (although he did the eye-dart thing in my direction).
Our teacher, Mrs. Sappenfield, couldn’t possibly have known anything about the frog incident. I don’t think even our mothers knew about it. If I’d told Mom that Ryan had dropped a frog down my shirt, she might not have allowed me to play with him anymore. As annoying as he could be, Ryan wasn’t all bad.
Ryan straightened in his chair and twiddled his thumbs on top of the table while Mrs. Sappenfield waited for his response. After a few seconds, he brightened. I recognized that look—he’d been seized by a burst of inspiration.
“It, uh, means you don’t blame them for things that aren’t their fault.” Although Ryan didn’t look at me for the rest of the lesson, I never forgot his words. I knew he couldn’t really hate me all that much, and I definitely appreciated God’s timing and sense of humor.
Ryan grew up four doors down from me on the opposite side of Juniper Street in Cade’s Corner, a small town just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. He was born on May 8th—Mother’s Day the year he was born—and I was born on May 15th of the following year. The Sullivan family’s house is slightly bigger than ours. Both are traditional red brick, middle-class homes with two-car garages and well-maintained lawns (in the months we’re not buried in snow from the effects of Lake Erie).
Our mothers are close friends. By virtue of their friendship alone, I suppose Ryan and I were destined to tolerate one another. Our fathers belonged to a few mutual business organizations and attended sporting events together so my dad could escape the “House of Women.”
Ryan and I spent a lot of time together during our “formative years” as my Grandma Franklin used to say. Sure, we played with the other kids on our street, but we were the closest in age. In the summer, we’d throw handfuls of sand at each other in our turtle sandbox, make mud pies, catch fireflies, go to birthday parties, play on the teeter-totter at the playground, and splash in the aboveground pool behind Ryan’s house. Almost without exception, we’d be the last two playing outside until our mothers called for us to come home.
The cold temperatures and snow forced us to stay inside a lot during the winter months, which both Ryan and I found torturous. For the short periods every day when our mothers allowed us outside to play, we took full advantage. We made snowmen and snow angels, pelted each other with snowballs, zoomed around Dead Man’s Curve on sleds, and then we’d gulp down warm cocoa with gooey, melting marshmallows in either his family’s kitchen or mine.
For whatever reason, Ryan took it upon himself to tease me. Ryan’s list of “crimes” (more like minor offenses) was already lengthy by the time he dropped that aforesaid frog down my shirt. Even after his admission in Sunday school, he continued to pester and annoy me. Ryan probably took pity on me since I don’t have a brother to do the honors, only two older sisters who ignored me most of the time. They hung around more with his only sibling, his brother, Nick, four years Ryan’s senior.
My oldest sister, Kara, was ten when I was born, so she qualified as the Planned Child. Then along came Staci, who is seven years older. She was the Wanted Child. Since Dad hoped for a boy (according to Kara), I wasn’t the Afterthought, not the Disappointment, but the Third Child. Period. That’s it.
We don’t look much alike, either, since my sisters are both
blonde and blue-eyed like Mom, and I’m dark-haired and hazel-eyed like Dad. The one physical trait I inherited from my mother is my petite stature while Kara and Staci got their height from Dad’s side of the family. Total injustice, but it’s the way God made me, so I’ve finally come to terms with being the runt of the family and can appreciate its finer points (there are a few). I have a long neck, and I’m fairly well-proportioned, so I’m not entirely lacking, genetically speaking.
As far as I can tell, I haven’t suffered any lasting psychological or emotional damage from knowing my father wanted a boy the third time around. If anything, I was closer to Dad than Kara or Staci. My sisters were always more interested in boys, makeup, boys, clothes, shoes, purses, boys—anything girly that involved frills or fashion. And, oh yes, boys. Kara and Staci’s influence was more in the form of “don’t do this” or “don’t touch that” instead of giving me useful, helpful advice. Every now and then I’d share a special moment with each of them, but for a long time, we moved in entirely different realms of being.
As it always does, the reminder of Dad makes me smile. Losing my father when I was 16 was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. Not a day passes that I don’t miss him, but a certain sweetness has now mollified my sadness.
Dad was my first love, my first hero.
And then along came Ryan.
My cell phone chimed with an incoming text, startling me from my musing. I seized the phone from my desktop. Ryan.
Hey, Sass. Back at home base now. Miss my beautiful girl.
I couldn’t move my fingers fast enough. Ryan! So great to hear from you. Miss you, too. Still on to Skype tonight?
You know it. 10 p.m. Cleveland time. Love you, Ellie.
Can’t wait. Love you back, Ryan. xoxoxo
My sparkling engagement ring with its modest round diamond caught my eye as I lowered my phone to the desk. I’ve proudly worn Ryan’s ring for a year-and-a-half, and it shines brighter than ever (I’d also just had it cleaned professionally). My gaze moved to the picture of the two of us taken during the summer before Ryan’s second and (hopefully) final deployment. Laughing, so in love, sharing the day at Cedar Point Amusement Park, the “Roller Coaster Capital of the World” in Sandusky.
I picked up the frame and sat back in my chair, studying the photo. I ran my finger over the image of my fiancé—Ryan Joseph Sullivan, E-3 Private First Class, U.S. Army.
Ryan stands at six foot two (nearly a foot taller than me), with thick, dark wavy hair (until he had to shave it off—a travesty if not for the most noble of reasons), a tiny dimple (not really a cleft) in his chin, strong features and smooth skin, a slightly sharp nose (I tell him it makes him look aristocratic) and ears bigger than he’d like (they’re adorable), and deep-set, gorgeous eyes the color of light sapphires with a hint of gray.
He works out and takes care of himself. Ryan has always been athletic, but I think it’s ingrained in him because of his Army training. The reward? Broad shoulders, a firm chest, and muscles in all the best places.
If I listen closely, I can hear his laughter. See how the right side of his mouth lifts higher than the left when he smiles. Remember the warmth of his hand in mine. Witness how the blue in his eyes darkens and intensifies right before he presses his lips to mine.
Oh, how I love Ryan’s smile.
How I’ve missed his touch.
I long for his kiss.
I ache for my best friend.
With a deep sigh, I replaced the photo on my desk. I can’t look at anything, do anything, or say anything, without thoughts of Ryan constantly popping into my mind. I haven’t seen him in almost 14 months. The closer the time draws near for his return stateside on December 20, 2006, the more excited and anxious I become. Anything to serve as a distraction and to pass the time, especially in these final days before his return, is a relief and a blessing.
Now I need to turn my attention back to Perchance to Dream.
The first thing I do every afternoon when I come to the Perchance to Dream headquarters—a small space in a quaint, historic storefront in downtown Cade’s Corner—is flip the calendar to the current date.
I turned the page and smiled. The verse for today is from 1 John 3:17: But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? What a perfect verse for the nonprofit, charitable organization Ryan and I co-founded three years ago.
“Ellie?”
Maura Hennessey, my closest girlfriend, maid of honor, and faithful assistant at Perchance to Dream, stood in the doorway of my office.
“Sorry to interrupt. You look deep in thought.”
“Just thinking about Ryan. Come on in.” When I motioned to her, Maura approached my desk. Tall, with Nordic good looks and impossibly slender, she was still dressed in her dark gray suit jacket, pencil skirt, and crisp white blouse from her day job as a paralegal in Nick Sullivan’s law office. In my old jeans and holiday sweater, my long hair pulled back in a ponytail, I feel casual and underdressed by comparison.
Maura’s sole concession to working after hours was the one button undone at her neckline. As usual, her long, straight blonde hair is pulled back into a rather severe bun—Maura calls it a chic “chignon”—that emphasizes her model-worthy cheekbones. Fancy French word or not, it’s still an old-fashioned spinster bun.
“People take me more seriously when I wear my hair this way,” Maura insisted when I suggested she wear her hair down every now and then. In some ways, she and Nick were two of a kind. Beneath all that professionalism were the kindest, most compassionate individuals I’m honored to know and count as my dear friends.
“I have the finalized letter to Senator Hardin for your signature and the updated list you wanted.” She handed them over and tucked an escaping strand of hair behind one ear.
“Thanks.” I scanned the sheet with at least ten new names and requests—a surprising number considering we typically wind down the Perchance to Dream project by the middle of December. “Looks like we have some more gifts to buy. I’ll start working on it right away.”
“Those are the last ones that trickled in after the deadline. This is it for the year.”
I shook my head. “I really hate enforcing a deadline for something like this.” The needs are ongoing throughout the year, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
Maura waited until I glanced up from the list and then fixed her compassionate, blue-eyed gaze on me. “Perchance to Dream is making a difference, Ellie. One child at a time. You’re giving kids hope. You’re showing them that someone cares, and no one can put a high enough value on something like that.”
I gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. That was our goal when Ryan and I started Perchance.”
Maura tapped her fist on the desk. “If you need extra help with anything, let me know.”
“Will do. I’d like to get everything wrapped up, so to speak, by the end of the week. Could you pick up some rolls of oversized wrapping paper?” I glanced at the list again. “Some of these toys come in large boxes.”
“Got it covered,” Maura assured me. “On another bright note, tonight’s your big reunion Skype session with Ryan, right?”
“Sure is.” I glanced at my watch. I’ve lost count of how many times I’d checked the time throughout the day. “At exactly ten p.m. tonight. Fourteen days, six hours, three minutes, and thirteen seconds—give or take—since we last Skyped.” I am immensely grateful to the brainiac responsible for creating the technology that makes it possible for me to talk with Ryan across the globe in Afghanistan.
“Enjoy your chat, and give Ryan my best. I was at Keeley’s Market the other day, and Isabelle Sanders called your wedding the social event of the decade. Two hometown kids who’ve known each other their whole lives. Your story has captured the imagination of everyone in town.”
“I just want Ryan home again so we can write the next chapter of our lives.” I laughed under my breath and cross
ed my eyes. “Corny is my middle name these days. I can’t seem to help myself.”
“You’re entitled. I’d feel the same way if I had a handsome soldier coming home to marry me on Christmas Day. I’ll be here for another couple of hours. If you need me, holler.” Maura departed with a wave over one shoulder.
I retrieved the letter for Senator Hardin and read through it one final time. The big-hearted politician was one of our best supporters. Satisfied my words to the state senator sounded appropriately formal yet also personal, I signed the letter and placed it in the basket on my desk.
Next I concentrated on the list of names and made a few shopping notes. During the Christmas season, I devour the weekly sale flyers every Sunday afternoon. A number of the wished-for toys had been prominently featured this week. Due to their popularity, I pray I can still find them. Because of the toy shopping I do for Perchance to Dream, I’ve become somewhat of an aficionado on the best places to buy certain items, cost comparisons, and price matching. The young mothers at church routinely come to me for advice and recommendations.
An hour later, I tucked the list and my notes inside my purse and grabbed my things. With the signed letter and my tote bag in hand, I walked into the outer office and stopped beside Maura’s desk.
“I’ve signed the letter. And now I’m armed with my list and ready to fight the crazed shoppers to fulfill these Christmas wishes.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that although I hear shopping for holiday toys can be a competitive sport.” Maura took the letter from me. “I’ll take care of mailing this first thing tomorrow morning on my way to the law office.”
