by Jenni James
My heart hurt.
We drove to an apartment the government had given my grandma while she waited for her insurance to help her. Everyone said it would be a long time before we could move into a new house.
It was weird to come out of the hospital back to the real world, and especially to a place I’d never been before. Grandma took me down to a small room that Hannah and I would be sharing. There was a bunk bed there. Someone had gotten us matching princess bed stuff. It wasn’t my pillow, or my blankets, but they were very pretty and nice. I hadn’t even thought about where I’d sleep until I walked in the room and saw that it was all figured out for me.
I climbed up to the top bunk. My hand was in a large square Band-Aid now. It wasn’t wrapped up like before, so I could use it without it hurting too much. When I got to the top, I saw that someone had made a small blue-and-pink pillow for me. It said Miracle Girl: Chelsea Tennyson on it.
That’s what the newspapers were calling me. I know, because I saw an article about me tacked up on the bulletin board in the hospital hallway when I went walking yesterday. It was weird to see Chelsea Tennyson in a newspaper. It didn’t feel like I had done something extra special, but lots of people knew me now.
I put my stuffed bear with the purple bow from Tyler on the bed, and the two pictures of Dad, and climbed back down. Mom had left to get Hannah and Cameron from the church lady who was watching them, now that she’d be home with me. I peeked into the other rooms and found Mom and Cameron’s. I knew it was theirs because there was a small playpen for him to sleep in, because there wasn’t enough room for a toddler bed. Then I found Grandma’s room—everything was different and new, but I knew it was her room because she was sitting up in bed reading a book.
“Hi, Grandma.” She looked normal now, except for the large Band-Aid on the top of her forehead and a few bruises around her eye.
“Hey, you. How do you like your room?” she asked as she set the book down on a little table next to her.
“It’s good.” I looked around to see if there was somewhere to sit. Just the bed.
Grandma opened her arms wide. “Come here and you can snuggle with me. Would you like that?”
Would I? I jumped right up on my grandma’s new bed and I hurt my leg when I did it, but I didn’t care. Slowly I crawled up to her and lay down on my good side. Grandma Haney very carefully put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed me in close.
“So how are you feeling?” she asked.
“Okay. I’m a little sad, though.”
“Sad? Why?” Grandma seemed surprised that I said that.
“I’m going to miss your house. Aren’t you going to miss your house?” I couldn’t help asking.
She chuckled and snuggled me closer. “Not as much as I would’ve missed you.”
“Really?”
“Sure. A house is just a house. You’ll see. Soon, we’ll have a whole big house again with all new furniture and pictures and everything—you will hardly even remember the old house anymore. But you know what you will remember?”
“What?”
“Me.” She smiled. “And your mom and your brother and your sister.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I wrapped my good hand around my grandma’s waist. “I think I’m still going to miss it, though. Every kid loves their grandma’s house.”
“Aww. Yes, that’s true. I didn’t think of it that way.” She trailed her fingers down my arm like my mom did. It felt nice. “So are you ready for your big day?”
My big day? I was confused. “What day?”
Grandma gasped. “You mean you forgot all about your special day with your teacher? Your Prince Tennyson day?”
Oh. I groaned. I had forgotten. “That’s okay—maybe I won’t have to do it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s on a Wednesday, Grandma. I can’t do anything else on Wednesdays ever again. I want it to be a good day, not a bad one.”
She sat up in that bed and pulled me with her. “Chelsea Elaine Tennyson! I know the bravest girl in all of Arizona is not afraid of a little old day of the week.”
“But Grandma, it’s not just any old day. It’s Wednesday. The worst day ever.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, it isn’t.” I folded my arms, making sure my bad hand was on top. “Your house burned down on Wednesday,” I announced with a huff, as if she wasn’t well aware of that fact.
“That’s not what happened.”
I was shocked. “What? Yes, it did!”
“No, Chelsea,” Grandma interrupted quietly. “On Wednesday, a miracle happened in that house. My granddaughter saved her brother and sister, and then she saved me. Do you think I should hate Wednesdays because I was allowed to live on that day?”
“I—uh, no.”
“Do you know what else happened on Wednesday? That’s the day your mom had you.”
I was shocked. “On a Wednesday? Well, no wonder I have such bad luck—”
“No, Chelsea!”
Grandma sounded mad. My eyes flew to hers.
“You are the most special girl ever. You are.” Grandma took my face and held it in both of her hands. “I love you so much. And I will never curse the day the Lord put you in my life. Ever. Now, you may have lost your daddy on a Wednesday, and lots of other bad things may seem to happen on that day—but it is not a bad day.” She sniffed like she was going to cry, and even her voice sounded wobbly. “They just accidentally happen on that day. Do you hear me? You are special. And I would not be here without you.” She grabbed my hand and held it to her heart. “You wouldn’t be here either, in my heart. I know of no girl who has handled what has been given her like you have. Chelsea, you are strong, and brave, and loyal, and caring, and loving, and true, and mostly, mostly you’re . . . you’re . . . ”
“Determined. I’m determined, Grandma. That’s what my dad says.”
She smiled and traced my cheek with her thumb. “Yes, you are. You are very determined. It’s what I love most about you.” She squeezed my hand and pulled it down to her lap. “Now tell me, has today been awful? Have horrible things happened to you today?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Look around you, sweetie. What do you see?”
I looked around. There were loads and loads of bags and boxes stacked up against a wall. There was also a dresser and a mirror, but I didn’t understand what my grandma meant. “I don’t know. Do you mean the bags and boxes?”
“Yes, all of it—the furniture, too. Do you know why all this stuff is here? Where it came from?”
I looked around and shrugged.
“It’s because of you. People from all over Arizona now know how special you are, and they want to help you and your family. All this stuff—everything in this house—was given to you by someone. People have been coming every day to drop off more things. There’s even an account set up at Bank of America for the Miracle Girl and her family. Tell me that’s not special.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at her. I couldn’t believe people loved me that much.
“Don’t you see, honey? You’ve changed people just by thinking of others first. You’ve touched the hearts of people everywhere, and they want to say thank you. You are the most special girl. And I’m so grateful God let me be your grandma.”
All at once, I felt all warm and safe and protected, like when I was in my dad’s arms in that burning house. As quick as I could, I gave my grandma a big hug. I loved her too, so much. And I was so glad she was my grandma. Every girl needed a grandma like mine.
Chapter Twenty-six
A WEEK LATER, I cautiously knocked on the door of my fifth-grade class. We were late and didn’t get to the school until 10:00 because Grandma and Mom were busy getting the food and stuff ready for my dad’s special day.
When my teacher opened the door, she smiled. “Chelsea! You’re just in time. Come in. The kids have a wonderful surprise for you.”
“A surprise
for Chelsea?” My mom gasped, but I could tell she already knew what it was.
Even Hannah and Grandma giggled.
“What’s going on?” I shifted the pan of lasagna I was carrying and walked into the room. My whole class was looking right at me. It was the first day I had made it to school since the fire, so a lot of them were staring hard. Probably trying to see if I looked funny or not. “What? I don’t get it.” I walked over to the table that had a bright red tablecloth on it and set the lasagna down.
I froze.
Right there on the table was my mom’s favorite picture of my dad. The one that made him look like a prince, except this time it was framed and bigger and beautiful, with the words “Prince Tennyson” written on the matting. “Oh, my gosh!” My hands flew to my mouth, I was so surprised. I never thought I would see it again.
I tried really hard not to cry. I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of my class.
Except when I turned toward my mom to see what she thought of the picture, I saw a different picture of my dad, one I had never seen before. It was framed and matted too. I quickly walked over to the shelf of books where it sat and picked it up. Right above that was another picture of my dad throwing me in the air when I was a little kid. I picked up that one too.
“Oh, my gosh!”
I whirled around. The whole room was covered in pictures of my dad.
I didn’t understand.
“How did you—where did you—” I asked my teacher.
She smiled, but then her chin started to shake when she saw my eyes. They were filling up with crazy tears. “The class. This was their idea. We contacted people online. As a surprise, and with the help of your mom and your grandma, we found lots of different family, and friends, and people who knew your dad. They donated these pictures for you to have, since your others were ruined. Go ahead, honey.” She wiped her eyes and motioned me forward. “Take a look at them. I think you will be really excited to see some of them.”
I didn’t waste any more time. I ran all around the room looking at the different pictures of my dad. Hannah and Cameron came with me, and some of the kids from class showed us ones we were missing. But my favorite one, the one I took right off the shelf and held it close to me, was one that had been taken at my old school by one of my old teachers. My dad was giving me a piggyback ride and we were both laughing. It was the greatest picture ever.
I smiled. And then I cried while I smiled.
I was so glad I chose to do Dad’s special day on a Wednesday.
“See this?” I said as I carried the picture to the front of the classroom. Everyone stopped and looked at me. I didn’t care—I just kept crying and talking and pointing at that picture. “This is my dad, Prince Tennyson. He is the most amazing dad and the most fun dad and the most handsome dad.”
My teacher and my mom chuckled.
“And he gives the best piggyback rides ever,” I continued. “Look around the room and you can see how awesome my dad is.” I pointed to a bunch of pictures. “He is so much fun, and he is so happy, and he can tickle you like crazy, and twirl you around until you’re dizzy, or he can dance with you until you can’t stop laughing. That’s why my dad is a prince. And that’s why today is Prince Tennyson’s day.” I pointed to the chalkboard where the teacher had written it.
One boy in the back of the room asked, “Don’t you mean, your dad was a prince, not is a prince?”
“Nope.” I smiled. “I meant is.”
My prince may have died, but he didn’t go far.
He’s waiting for me in heaven.
THE END
ABOUT JENNI
Jenni James is a busy mom of seven children who is married to a totally hot Air Force recruiter. When she isn’t busy chasing her kids around the house, she’s dreaming of new books to write. Jenni has several books for teens and middle grade readers including The Jane Austen Diaries Series, Jenni James Faerie Tale Collection, and the Eternal Realm Series.
To find out more about Jenni’s projects, please visit her website, www.authorjennijames.com, or her blog, authorjennijames.blogspot.com.
Jenni loves to hear from her readers and may be contacted at [email protected].
PREVIEW OF
THREE DAYS
A Mother’s Story
by Melody Carlson
Dedicated to my “Joseph”
And there were many other things that Jesus did, but even if they were written out, one story at a time, I do not think the entire world could possibly contain all those books. Amen.
- John 21:25
Preface
First of all, you must understand that this book is a work of fiction. And, although I have attempted to do my research, I am neither theologian nor historian. I am simply a storyteller who asked the question, What is the rest of Mary’s story?
Just as I was beginning this project, a friend said, “What makes you think you can write about the mother of Jesus?” And I had to agree with her that it did seem quite an undertaking, but I felt driven to try. Now that I am finished, I can say it is probably the most spiritually fulfilling book I have ever written. Yet I still feel a need to explain what qualified me to write Mary’s story (not that I feel qualified).
For starters, consider the numbers. While writing this book, I was almost exactly the same age as Mary when she stood at the foot of the cross (I won’t give you that number, but historians estimate she was around fifteen when she gave birth to Jesus). And, like Mary at that same time, I have known the Lord for thirty-three years. I will admit I am not really a numbers person, but these figures got my attention.
I am also the mother of grown sons, and I too have experienced the pain of, not completely but very nearly, losing an adult son (that is another story). And I have suffered a mother’s midnight heartache when she does not know where her son is or if he is all right. I have also felt the pain of parenting an unbelieving child. You did not know that Mary had unbelieving children? See, there is much to learn.
So please forgive me if I have not gotten it completely right or if my imagination does not match what you believe may have happened. Most of all, I hope that you can enjoy the spirit of this tale as you take a creative journey with me, and I hope even more that you’ll feel closer to our Lord and Savior when you are finished.
—Melody Carlson
Chapter 1
IN THE SAME WAY that I grind barley into flour, Jehovah’s fist has ground my heart into dust today, and I fear the slightest breath of doubt could blow it all away. And so I must contain my emotions and focus on something beyond the ugliness I have witnessed during these past twelve hours. I must find something to distract my mind from the brutal images of my son’s torture and execution—images, I am sure, that will accompany me throughout the rest of my earthly days.
I have heard that the events of a lifetime can flash past the mind’s eye in the moments that precede death. I do not personally know this to be true (since I am still alive, albeit barely), but as I sit here in the darkness, knowing I will never find sleep, I find there is comfort in remembering. And so I will go back to a time and place that is happier.
My earliest memories are rooted in a garden. As a small child I trailed behind my mother whenever she went to the family garden, and there I was content to simply sit and dig in the dirt, using a broken shard of pottery for my spade. The damp, musky smell of the earth has always been a pure tonic to me. And the cool sensation of moist soil beneath my feet never fails to invigorate my soul. I believe a garden is God’s promise that life will continue.
As I grew older I learned to distinguish weeds from seedlings, and how to transplant and even graft. I knew the best time to harvest, and, perhaps even more importantly, I knew how to gather and save seeds for the next planting. For this is how the circle of life continues.
Working in the garden was never a chore for me. Nothing felt better than being out there, barefooted and with sleeves pushed up, tending my herbs, beans, cucumbers . . .
celebrating the freshness of a new day. I am sure I believed that all the secrets of the world could be contained in a single garden, because that is where I came to understand so much about life and love and truth. And that is where I felt closest to the Lord God Jehovah. To me, the garden was a true place of worship.
And for that reason I suppose it is not so very surprising that the angel of God would go looking for me there. Not that I ever expected the angel of God to seek out my humble presence. Far from it! In fact, I was only a young girl at the time—and not an outstanding one, at that. My family was among the least impressive of Nazareth, quiet, hardworking people who were usually overlooked by anyone of influence.
To this day I have no doubt there were plenty of other girls in my village who seemed more suitable for the promise that was laid before me. There were prettier ones, smarter ones, and most assuredly there were many from families more prominent than mine. I am sure old men in my hometown still scratch their beards and wonder why their quiet and insignificant little Mary should be chosen for such an awesome responsibility—that is, unless they are part of the group who still doubt that God chose me at all. But I know in my heart what is true. And I know that God’s ways are mysterious and many difficult questions languish and then perish for lack of answers.
Not that I did not question these things for myself back then. Who would not? I had recently been promised in marriage to a friend of the family—a good man by the name of Joseph. That alone had been surprising enough. I could not even imagine how a respected man like Joseph the carpenter should be interested in someone like me, but I must admit to being flattered by his attention. Still, I am sure that the actual thought of marriage and all that it stood for seemed far away and removed at the time.
So you can imagine my complete surprise when an angel appeared to me in the garden, announcing that I was to be blessed among women and that I had found favor with the Lord. Stunned at what I knew to be an unearthly presence, I dropped my basket of freshly picked figs and fell to my knees. I still remember looking down at my trembling hands, noticing the dark lines of garden dirt beneath my fingernails as I waited for the angel to continue.
