by Janette Oke
She was talking too fast. Rambling. She was sure he wouldn’t understand what she was trying to say. He would think her daft. He might even change his mind. She moved back toward him and reached a hand to his cheek.
“I mean, well—I am—I was—I—we are all—formed and forged—by circumstances and life. But—but like you said, we aren’t just—just victims—tossed here and there with—with no will of our own. I mean—we do have some say in what we become. I’ve learned that. I’ve come to the place where I’ve taken responsibility for who I am. I can’t say it was Mama or it was Glenna—or my father’s early death or the fact that I am—plain. Those things have affected me—to be sure—but the fact of who I am—who I have always been—has determined how those things shaped me. The way that I let them make me—bloom—or shrivel as a bud. I’m myself. I made choices.
“I might not like who I am—all that I see—within—but I’m me. That’s important. Now that I have accepted that, I’ve been freed to—with God’s help—work on who I am—deep down inside of me.”
She reached a trembling hand to straighten the collar of her shirtwaist. Her eyes held his. He still said nothing, but his hands reached out to her again, one beneath each shirtwaist-covered elbow. She saw such understanding in his eyes that for a moment her breath caught in her throat again. Her hands picked nervously at the pinstripes of his shirt sleeve.
“I—I don’t suppose I’m making much sense,” she managed to stammer.
“Perfect sense,” he responded quietly.
Then his eyes began to twinkle. She remembered a teasing young boy she had known, oh, so long ago. She wondered suddenly why she hadn’t realized how much she had loved him, even then.
“I’ve always known who you were—are,” he informed her. “Ever since you dumped out my tadpoles.”
She would have drawn back at his words, but his hands held her in check. She felt her cheeks warming.
“I—” she began, but he was quick to interrupt.
“I didn’t mean to make light—”
“No, it’s all right. Really. I don’t mind your—teasing—but I—wanted you to know—to understand—that my—pilgrimage has—ended. I mean I still have a long way to go but I—I now feel that I’m on the right—path.”
He looked at her for a long moment, studying her face with eyes that said he had loved her for such a long, long time. “That’s important to you, isn’t it?” he said huskily.
She nodded her head slowly. For reasons she couldn’t understand, more tears began to form in her eyes.
“Then—then it’s important to me, too,” he said so softly that she scarcely caught the words.
She knew it was so. He understood her so thoroughly. Had always understood her—even when she hadn’t understood herself. She lifted a hand and brushed his cheek.
“Do you know why it is so important?’ she asked him, and a tear slipped from beneath her lash and made a damp trail down her cheek.
He did not answer, and she knew that he was waiting for her to go on.
“Because—because—until I discovered—who I am—what I am—until I was able to take responsibility for the person I have become—the person that I know God wants me to be—and—and—accepted myself, I—I couldn’t accept you—either.”
For one long moment he gazed steadily into her eyes, and then he drew her gently into the circle of his arms.
———
Berta hummed as she went about placing items on the tea tray. From the porch came the sound of the swing as Rosie and Anna swayed with the gentle motion.
They were all taking a break from sewing dresses for her wedding. Her mama too had left the small kitchen where the sewing was being done and went to the yard to stretch her muscles and catch a few deep breaths of the fresh air.
Berta smiled. The sewing was going well. She still could hardly believe that in just two weeks’ time she would be Mrs. Thomas Hawkins.
“What are you doin’, Gramma?” she heard Rosie ask.
“Feeding the little birds.”
“The bluebirds?” asked small Anna.
Berta tipped her head and listened for her mother’s answer. The bluebirds had used the nesting box in the corner of the yard for three years running. She loved their bright color—their cheerful morning song.
“Maybe the bluebirds,” replied Mrs. Berdette.
“What if the sparrows eat it?” asked Anna, concern edging her voice.
“That will be all right,” replied their grandmother.
“Sparrows?” piped up Rosie. “Sparrows aren’t very pretty.”
There was silence for a few minutes. Then Mrs. Berdette spoke again—softly.
“God made the sparrows—just as He did the bluebirds. He thinks they are important—and if He cares about them like the Bible says, then I think we should care about them too,” she said. Then she added with warmth in her voice, “I like the little things. They are plucky little birds. So pert—and independent. Besides, they are pretty—in their own way. We wouldn’t want a world just filled with bluebirds—would we? The world needs all the variety of God’s creation.”
“What’s variety?” asked Rosie, slowly managing the word.
“Difference,” explained the grandmother. “Uniqueness. It means—being—just who you are. What you were created to be. Whether bird or beast or flower or—or person—each one has an important place.”
Berta did not hear the little girl’s response. Her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Her mother had known that truth—all along. Berta was so thankful for that.
And she was especially thankful that God had finally reached her heart with the truth also. She began to hum again.
