Life on the Porcelain Edge

by C. E. Hilbert

  “Knock, knock.”

  Her door creaked open.

  Her father held a mug in his right hand. For the first time in weeks he looked more like Pastor Tom, his hair neatly combed and a sweater vest already in place.

  “Daddy, what are you doing up so early?”

  “I saw school was cancelled and wanted to make sure you knew before you rushed around in a panic getting ready.”

  “Text.” She lifted her phone.

  “Oh. I guess things have changed since you were in school.”

  “Modern technology.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to get some sleep.”

  She patted the side of her bed, inviting him to sit.

  He sat on the edge, his back to her.

  “Daddy, how long have you been up this morning?”

  “I was restless. I thought I’d get up and pray.”

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning, Dad. You’re showered, dressed with at least your second cup of coffee in your hand. How long?”

  “I guess about three hours.”

  “You’ve been up since three? Why? You know the doctors said you needed rest.”

  He shifted to face her. “Tessa, I’ve been home and out of the hospital for nearly five weeks. I’m about rested out. I’ve decided I’m going back to work next week.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m feeling stronger every day, and there’s only so much strength I can regain here in this house. I need to pastor. My work is more than a job to me. I need to lean into my calling to get back to me.” Longing coated his words.

  “Daddy,” She reached for his hand. “I don’t think you’re ready. You need more time.”

  “Rest can be good. But too much rest can be the enemy. Too much time away from a calling can lead to complacency.”

  “Daddy. You could never be complacent in your walk or your work.”

  “I wasn’t talking about me.” He squeezed her fingers.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Tessa, why are you still in Gibson’s Run?”

  “I’m here to take care of you.”

  “Honey, I love having you here, but you know you could’ve gone home a few weeks ago. I’ve been strong enough to take care of myself for a while. Let’s not hide behind that excuse.”

  “It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason. A very good ‘I’m the only child’ reason.”

  “Fair enough…” He shifted to stand, but Tessa knew the challenge would be revisited. He only ever pushed as far as a wall, and then he searched to find a doorway to walk through. “What do you plan to do with your free day?”

  “I would sleep, but I’m no longer a teenager who can drift for hours.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll take a walk. Make some cookies. Order Lily Mae’s wedding present. Free days have limitless possibilities.”

  “What about writing?” He’d found a door.

  “I don’t have anything to write.”

  “Tessa, you always have something to write. You’re a writer.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Sweetie, one setback doesn’t change the course of an entire life’s work.”

  “Dad, I’m twenty-six. I hope my writing career isn’t the full compass of my life.”

  “Your calling to write is no different than mine to pastor. You’re only partially alive if you aren’t walking on the journey you were called to walk. Just because you’ve had a bump in the road doesn’t mean you cannot turn right. Roads are not straight. Your journey has been violated. You need to reclaim what you are called to do.”

  With a sigh, she rolled off the opposite side of her bed to stand. Padding to her closet she lifted a sweatshirt from college, barely held together by the faded image of a snarling tiger. “It’s not that easy. I lost all of my credibility with one act. An act I didn’t have any control over.” Dragging the sweatshirt over her head, she returned to the bed. “Dad, you have to understand. Dozens of people trusted me with their deepest darkest secrets. Most I’d never agree to write. They shared because they knew their secrets were safe with me. I didn’t judge them or correct them. I only wrote what they wanted to share. Without that level of trust, I can’t do my job. Without my job, I can’t write.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Writing has nothing to do with whether you have your job or not.”

  “Yes, it does. It has everything to do with whether or not I can be employed. I need to make a salary. I have student loans calling. Rent. Food. I have savings, but not enough to sustain me very long. I need a job. And if I can’t write, I don’t know what kind of job I’m qualified to do.” Tears began to pool. She hadn’t truly faced the void of nothingness the terrible, awful day had created in her life. Her father’s heart attack had followed so closely, another link in her chain of unfortunate events. Her career was lost and she didn’t know what she would do next.

  “Just because that company doesn’t want you on their staff anymore, it doesn’t mean you can’t write. Write something different. Write the same thing. Just write. The faster and further you run from what God created you to do, the more miserable and hopeless you’ll be.”

  “Daddy, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  He reached under his vest and pulled out her journal, tossing the three by five notebook in her lap. “There’s a story in there, Tessa.”

  “You shouldn’t have looked in my journal.” She pressed it to her chest.

  “You’re right. You’re an adult and your privacy is very important. But you’re also my little girl, and you’re suffering. I thought I might be able to find something in those pages that could help me ease some of your pain. Give you some direction. Sweetheart, that story of the snow angels is brilliant.”

  Tears trickled over her cheeks. “I can’t, Daddy,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you can. And from what I read and saw in those pages, if you don’t allow yourself to share your gift you’re sinning.”

  Swiping at her tears, she released a shaky sigh. “Not writing is not a sin. I might not be as up on my church as you are, but I don’t think not writing is one of the seven deadly sins.”

  “Not using the gifts God has given you is disobedience. Would you categorize disobeying God as a sin, Tessa?”

  His question was like icy water in her face. His words of conviction stirred her soul. But despite the stinging message, her dad’s tone was full of compassion.

  “Being complacent can lead to ambivalence. Jesus reprimanded the Church of Laodicea for being neither hot nor cold. Lukewarm is the worst temperature to be. If you aren’t walking in your calling, then you’re wasting your gift.”

  “But Dad, Paul said to be content in all things.”

  “That’s true, but spiritual contentment simply means you are so rooted in Christ that your spirit is not troubled by troubles. To be content no matter the situation and to be complacent are not the same. And, I know you know, Tessa, because you’re my daughter, that the greatest contentment—both spiritual and physical—is achieved by being settled in your calling, still on fire for what The Lord is doing. That level of contentment requires sacrifice. Complacency allows the outside world to determine what steps you will take. You’ve been complacent, Tessa. Even before the robbery, you were complacent in your calling. Leaning on a career path you fell into—not taking the harder road. You always wanted to write fiction. To tell stories that entertained, and yet glorified God. What happened to that young lady? Huh? She would have taken this challenge and run. You turned and hid.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. Her chest felt as if it was caving. But she had no argument. Everything her father said was true. She’d accepted the job with E&E because of safety and security. She knew she would do well. And she’d never be challenged. By telling the stories of others, she didn’t have to worry about the ridicule that would come with being transparent with her own words. Crafting someone else’s story seemed less threatening. Safer.

  She’d chosen a path that
kept her as a backdrop. Since she was six years old, her desire to blend into the background had driven nearly every decision she’d ever made, culminating with her choice of career. She wrote other people’s stories. Their memories. Nothing of her own.

  “Stop hiding.” With his pocket handkerchief, he dabbed her cheeks. “Be brave.”

  “Daddy, I don’t know how.”

  “Just start. You just have to start.” He handed her a pen. “I’ll be praying for you.” The click of his shoes as he left echoed in his wake.

  Rolling the pen between her fingers, she stared at her journal. Could she do it? Could she write something of her own? Splaying the journal wide, she flipped the pages of notes from yesterday morning. The images and words she’d sketched were disjointed and unrealistic. The scenes unimaginative and stilted.

  With a snap of her wrist she ripped the story pages from her notebook, slamming it against the door of her closet. The sheets crumpled into a tight ball under the pressure of her pounding hands. A sigh rolled through her body. The paper ball fell limp. Drawing her knees to her chest, every muscle in her back stiffened and relaxed.

  She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t creative enough to write an original story. Her dad was wrong. She only had talent. No gift. “Lord, help me. I don’t know what to do. If I can’t write—what will I do?” Her prayer broke through her tears, falling into puddles, dripping down her knees and legs.

  Sucking in breaths between sobs, she folded herself under her comforter and squeezed her pillow to her chest. She cried without purpose or reason, the tears soaking her sheets, blankets and pillow. A dam released a flood of worry, self-doubt, and recrimination held at bay for months.

  What would she do?

  Her dad was right. Her life was in New Orleans—but did she really have a life left in the Crescent City? Her career was gone. No number of idea wisps, sketches, or momentary lapses into inspiration would bring back her purpose. What was she now? A substitute English teacher who barely had the respect of her students? A misty image of her teenage self who was finally getting to live out dream date scenarios? A scared daughter who worried her father would abandon her like her mother? Who was she now? “Who am I, Lord? Who should I be?”

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at her phone.

  One new text. From Ryland.

  Without moving from under the covers, she snagged the phone and swiped the screen.

  Em and I are making snow angels today. She wanted you to come and play. Interested?

  Snow Angels. “Huh.”

  20

  “Watch out! Here I come!” Emma raced as fast as legs would take her.

  A giggle bubbled up through Tessa, who squatted behind a tree beside Ryland.

  He tapped a finger to his lips. “We’re supposed to be hiding.”

  Emma wobbled through the snow—nearly as deep as her waist—with all of the delight and joy Tessa remembered from her own wobbling days. The distraction of playing in the snow for hours with a four year-old and her father was the perfect tonic to oppressive self-doubt. Between the fresh air, wet mittens, and loss of feeling in her toes, she felt free. For the first time in months.

  Her tilt-a-whirl life was still swirling, but at the moment she was playing hide and go seek with a four year old who had snatched a giant piece of her heart—along with the hearts of most of the residents of Gibson’s Run.

  Ryland crawled around the tree and snagged Emma by the waist. “I got you.”

  Her squeal warmed Tessa better than the hot chocolate she’d been promised with this adventure.

  Emma wrapped her arms around Ryland’s neck as he swung her in swooping circles.

  “I thought we were making some snow angels.” Tessa stood with her hands on her hips.

  Swaying to a stop, Ryland rested Emma against his hip. “Well, nugget, are you ready to show Miss Tessa why you are the best snow angel maker in all of Ohio?”

  “All of Ohio, huh?”

  “Yep,” Emma wiggled to the ground. “No one’s better than me. I knows how to make the bestest snow angels cause I’m littles.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know being little was a prerequisite for making snow angels.” Tessa fell to the ground and began sweeping her arms and legs against the fluffy snow.

  “What’s pre-reckisits mean?” Emma dropped to her left, mimicking Tessa’s motions.

  They brushed against the snow in smooth rhythm. The swishing of their nylon encased bodies echoed in the silence of the early evening stillness.

  Tessa’s eyes flittered shut as snow wafted from the sky, pricking her cheeks with pops of chilling wet.

  “Prerequisite means something you need to have before you can accomplish a task.” Ryland offered.

  “What’s ‘complish mean?”

  Tessa sat cross-legged in the center of her angel. “To accomplish means to make something happen.”

  Emma matched her sitting style. “So we ‘complished snow angels?”

  “Something like that. Do you want to make a few more? We could make a whole host of angels on your front yard.”

  “Can we’s, Daddy?” Emma’s face contorted in earnest hope.

  “May we, Daddy?” Ryland corrected. “And yes, you may.”

  “Yes!” Emma pumped her fist and tumbled to an unblemished patch of snow. “Over here, Miss Tessa. We’s can make loads of snow angels here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tessa stood and clapped her gloved hands together to dust off the crystalizing snow.

  “Do you mind if I run inside for a second, Tessa?”

  She faced Ryland. “I think I can handle a few snow angels. Besides it’ll give Emma and me time for girl talk without some smelly boy around.”

  “Hey. I’m not just some boy, I’m ‘Daddy’.” His mock offense triggered a chuckle in Tessa.

  “All boys are smelly. Even Daddy-boys.” She lifted a packed ball of snow and hurled it toward him, missing by a foot.

  “Watch it, Tarrington. Don’t pick a fight with a professional athlete.” He looked over his shoulder where the snowball sank. “Also, please don’t teach my daughter to throw. That’s just pitiful.” He turned toward the house, and Tessa squatted, packing a softball size mound of snow in her hands, torqueing her arm to a throwing motion.

  Ryland peeked over his shoulder. “You miss me, you hit my house. Either is a declaration of snow war. And I don’t play fair.”

  Her breath caught in her chest at the sparkle of his smile. The snowball limply fell from her hand.

  “Come over here, Miss Tessa,” Emma shouted.

  “Looks like you are being summoned.” Ryland slipped through the door and into the house.

  Tessa was unable to stifle the flutters rippling through her middle.

  “Miss Tessa...you comin’?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t stop me.”

  Emma was lying near a wide, near-barren oak tree that likely gave shade for days in the summer. Her short legs chopped the thick snow leaving divots rather than sweeping snow angel skirts.

  “How’s he looks?” Emma huffed as her arms and legs struggled against the white weight.

  “How do you think he looks, Emma?”

  “I can’t tells. I’m in the middle.”

  “Well, stand up and take a look.” She reached out her gloved hand to the sopping wet, mitten covered fingers.

  Emma stood and tilted her head to the side as she surveyed her creation. “I think he’s a war-e-or snow angel.”

  Tessa scanned the frosty outline. “Why do you think he’s a warrior?”

  “Look,” Emma said pointing to a long ridge near the waist of her angel. “He has a sword and his pants are made of armors. He’s wearin’ a helmet and I think he has a shield behind his back.”

  “A shield?” Tessa asked as she squatted to Emma’s eye level. “Why do you think you made a warrior angel instead of a regular snow angel?”

  “Miss Tessa, there ain’t no regular snow angels.”


  “Well, what about the ones your daddy and I made over there? They look pretty standard to me.”

  “Nope. Ebry snow angel’s special. Just like peoples.” With a sodden mitten pressed to Tessa’s cheek, Emma forced her focus to the myriad snow angels made only moments earlier. “That’s a daddy snow angel ‘cause he’s so bigs and can protect little snow angels from bad stuff. And the angel you made, she’s a momma angel ‘cause she’s soft and smooths and pretty. The angels I made are all different, too. One’s a baby angel. Another’s a big sister angel. And the last one’s super impordant.”

  Tessa narrowed her focus to the angel that was widest across the middle. Emma’s tiny hand prints circled the angel in an overlapping pattern, but to her clearly stunted imagination, she couldn’t comprehend why Emma thought this angel was the most important.

  “Why is she so important?”

  “She’s my Guard-Ann angel. See her hands comes out all over so she can protect me from hurting myself or she can give a hug when I’m reals sad and missing my momma. Guard-Ann angels are the mostest impordant ‘cause they help little kids feels better.”

  Warm tears cut straight paths over Tessa’s cheeks. “I think you’re right. Guardian angels are very important for big kids, too.” Tessa pulled Emma into a soft embrace and kissed her forehead. “What else does your angel do for you?”

  “Well,” Emma said, biting her bottom lip and rubbing her chin, reflecting a mirror image of her father’s deep thought. “Sometimes when I gets real scared that Daddy’s not comin’ home like Momma, my Guard-Ann angel whispers in my heart that he’s OK and will be home reals soon, and then like magic he walks through the door.”

  “Is she only a snow angel?”

  “No, we just gets to see what the angels look like in the snow—like pit-chers. But we can’t sees them for too long—that’s why their pit-chers are out of snow. They goes away real quick. But you still have the memory of what the angels look like.”

  “Emma, how would you like to help me write a book?”

  “But I can’t read too much yet. How’s can I writes a book?”