“It sounds to me like he had it coming, Claire. I think you handled the situation just about right.”
“I’d be more likely to agree with you if I saw any results whatsoever, but if anything, I’m afraid he’s getting worse. I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do next. I really don’t want to have to call in Marjean. Maybe it’s pride, but I think I should be able to handle this myself without getting the principal involved—at least not yet.”
“Well, taking it from someone who was somewhat of a ‘storm’ myself at that age, sometimes a higher authority is what it takes.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you remember what went through your mind when you were acting out back then?”
His brow furrowed, and she saw a shadow of the sadness that had so distinctively marked his eyes when she first met him. But the look passed and he turned to her, appearing more puzzled than disturbed.
“I honestly don’t remember, Claire. I have vague memories of sitting in a principal’s office—more than one principal, probably—but what I hoped to accomplish by my behavior back then I truly don’t know. As I got older I can remember thinking that everyone was against me. I suppose I had what you’d call a victim mentality. ‘Why me? Poor me.’ “ He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess if I were more analytical, I’d want to figure it out, but I’m content just knowing that boy isn’t me anymore. I wish I could help you get inside this kid’s head.” He shrugged an apology
She waved it off. She'd nearly forgotten about Storm and the challenge he presented. Instead, she was hearing Michael’s words with a clarity she couldn’t ignore. “I’m content just knowing that boy isn’t me anymore,” he’d said. And somehow she knew his statement contained a truth more profound than any advice he could have provided concerning Storm Waymire.
It was true. Michael truly was a new creation in Christ, not at all resembling the troubled, disturbed child he'd been. His past no longer had a hold on him. And she knew then that he truly had forgiven the wrong her parents had done him. It no longer had any hold on him. He had tried to tell her this. Why had she not been able to see until this moment how certainly Michael Meredith’s life reflected this truth? If he could forgive so wholly, be changed so utterly, what did she have to fear? And how could she do any less?
They picked Millie up and the three of them spent a pleasant evening together, visiting and enjoying a delicious meal, but Claire found herself struggling to remain attentive to the conversation. She was preoccupied, mulling this new thought over in her mind with a growing sense of joyous expectancy for what it meant for her.
On the trip home Claire sat in the backseat of her car while Michael drove, and Millie chatted in the front beside him. Tonight Claire was grateful for the older woman’s presence and especially for her talkative nature. It gave her time to think again about the things Michael had said earlier. Claire realized that whether he knew it or not, his simple words had been spoken for her benefit. She'd held on to the bitterness, had even hated them—her mother and her father—for the way her life had turned out. But now she was ready to let go. She wanted a taste of the simple peace Michael had found in forgiving.
Forgiving and forgetting. It had eluded her for so long and yet, it flowed so simply from Michael’s mouth, as though he had no idea what a profound secret he'd disclosed. With tears flowing silently, Claire sat in the dark warmth of the backseat. Oblivious, Michael’s laughter mingled with Millie’s in the front of the car while Claire prayed the very simple words heaven had been waiting to hear. “Father, I forgive them. They didn’t know what they did. But you knew, and you took care of it all at the Cross. I am a new creation in you. Thank you, God. Oh, thank you.”
After they dropped off Millie at her apartment, Michael invited Claire to his place for coffee.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he observed as he measured coffee grounds into the filter. “Anything wrong?”
“No, I’m just thinking about the things you said tonight.” Not quite ready to share how deeply she'd been touched on this night, she gave him a hint of the direction her thoughts had been taking.
Together they sat at the tiny table in his kitchen, talking, drinking too much coffee, not willing for the evening to end. Finally Claire looked at her watch. “You’d better get me home, Mr. Meredith, before I turn into a pumpkin.”
He was looking at her with a strange expression on his face. “Before you go, Claire, I want to tell you something. This isn’t a question. I don’t want an answer—not tonight.”
He reached across the table for her hand. “Claire, there’s something that I’m having trouble keeping from you, and I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. That’s gotten us in trouble before.”
She looked at him, curious, not able to imagine what he was about to reveal.
“I promised you I wouldn’t rush you, and I meant that. But I know tonight, Claire, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I want you to be my wife.”
She started to open her mouth—to say what, she hadn’t the faintest idea. But he put a gentle hand to her lips and shushed her, childlike tenderness in his deep voice. “Shhh . . . I’m not asking you, Claire. This isn’t a question to be answered right now. I just want you to know where I stand on the subject of us. I have loved you almost since the moment I first laid eyes on you. We’ve weathered some incredible storms together and still I love you. I know now that won’t ever change. So when you’re ready—when you feel as sure as I do of our love—I want you to know that I will be waiting, very patiently waiting, for your answer.”
Tears of joy filled her eyes and again she opened her mouth to speak, but he leaned across the table and silenced her with a slow, playful kiss. “Shhh… I said I don’t want an answer tonight.”
Chapter 37
Early in December Claire tackled a task she'd deliberately put off for weeks. Nana’s belongings from the Elmbrook apartment had sat in boxes in Claire’s closet since the day she'd moved into Riverview. Claire tried to ignore the bulky cartons whenever she came across them while hunting for a seldom-worn pair of shoes or jacket. She knew she couldn’t put off the matter of sorting through her grandmother’s things forever, but she also knew that it would be very difficult to face the memories and relive the sorrow of Nana’s death all over again.
Now, on a cold, cloudy Saturday afternoon, she came across the boxes while rummaging for her Christmas decorations. Before she could talk herself out of it, she lugged the two larger cartons out onto the floor of her bedroom and went for the scissors to cut through the sturdy packing tape.
The first box contained the knickknacks and various decorative items that had adorned her grandmother’s dresser and end tables at Elmbrook. Claire smiled as she unwrapped newspaper from a pair of ceramic candlesticks shaped like playful kittens. Nana had loved cats and there had always been two or three in residence when she lived in the Lee’s Summit house. Katherine Anderson had always said her greatest regret at moving into Elmbrook had been that she couldn’t bring her beloved cats with her.
Claire dug farther in the box and unearthed a familiar table lamp and Nana’s much-used magnifying glass. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered her grandmother’s veined hands holding the glass over the worn pages of her Bible. Tears moistened Claire’s cheeks, and yet she was surprised to realize that the emotion she was feeling was far from sorrow. Instead, the objects Claire had feared would bring her such pain brought her joyful memories instead. It would be a comfort to have and use these things that had been Nana’s. They would be dear reminders of a precious part of her life.
Swept away in nostalgia, Claire opened a smaller box, one of several that had been given to her at Riverview after Nana’s death. This one was filled with Nana’s books. Claire lifted each one reverently from the box and thumbed through them, trying to decide which ones she would like to keep.
Tucked away to the side of the carton—as though it had been the last thing packed before the box was taped shut—was Nana’
s Bible. Its leather cover was worn almost bare in spots, and its frayed edges testified to decades of use.
She opened the cover and read the neatly penned inscription: To Katherine Anderson, presented on the occasion of her sixtieth birthday with love from Raymond, Myra, and Claire Marie Katherine. Claire recognized her mother’s handwriting and was shocked to realize that the date was more than a quarter of a century ago.
She leafed through the thin, almost translucent pages. Many paragraphs were heavily underlined, and there were copious notes scrawled in the margins. Old church bulletins tucked into the pages contained more scribbled notes and sermon outlines. Claire leafed unhurriedly through the Psalms, thrilled to have this unexpected access to her grandmother’s thoughts and spiritual insights.
She read with fascination for half an hour. She was about to tuck the book away when one of the pages yielded a new-looking envelope bearing her name.
Eagerly, Claire unsealed the envelope and brought out a thin sheaf of paper dated several weeks before Nana’s death. She unfolded it and brought it close, trying, through tears, to decipher her grandmother’s feeble, shaky handwriting.
My Dearest Kitty (I’m sorry, my dear, but I cannot think of you as “Claire” any more than you could think of me as “Katherine”),
If you are reading this letter, it means that I have gone home to be with the Lord. It grieves me to think of you all alone in this world, Kitty. And yet in these past few weeks I have seen that you are a strong young woman—strong in your sense of what is pure and right, and strong in your faith in our Lord. That comforts me greatly as I live out my last days upon this old earth.
Kitty, I want you to know what a dear, dear treasure you have been to me every day of your life. As we have already discussed, your childhood was certainly not one I would have chosen for you, but I have all faith that the Lord will use (and perhaps already has used) even that part of your life to His glory.
I know that you have suffered in this life, Kitty—perhaps more than your share. I have come to believe that suffering is an integral part of the life we are called to live on this earth. I believe that as you grow in your faith you will come to see, as I have, that our response to suffering can give meaning and purpose to our lives. Through suffering I have experienced the depths of sorrow, but had I not plumbed those depths, I would not have known the great heights of joy God had to offer through His gift of hope. I pray you might find such a hope in this truth.
On another matter, Kitty, I hope you can forgive an old woman for meddling, even from the grave as this will seem to be; but I feel compelled to share with you a passage that the Lord showed me in my prayer time this evening. It is frightening to dare to speak for the Lord (so I won’t), but I have a strong impression that these verses will speak to you concerning Joseph—Michael Meredith. They are beautiful verses, Kitty. They offer such hope and restoration. Please let God speak to you through them however He wills. I trust that He will show both of you—you and Michael—what is right.
“And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten . . . and ye shall eat in plenty, and be satisfied, and praise the name of the Lord your God, that hath dealt wondrously with you; and my people shall never be ashamed.”
I love you, my dearest granddaughter. I pray you find God’s blessing in all you do and all you are.
With love, Nana
Claire put her head in her hands and collapsed in sobs. She knew within her spirit that this was the confirmation for which she'd longed. It had been here, concealed in a box in her closet for all these weeks. Yet Claire knew that she had not been ready to receive it even two weeks ago. She'd needed this time to think things through, to come to know Michael more intimately, to search her heart and God’s Word for direction and assurance.
Slowly, she'd begun to feel all the markers pointing her toward this minute, this sure knowledge. But the confirmation—from a source so sweetly improbable—had come in a timing so perfect that it could have only one Source.
Claire read the letter again and again, with a dawning of truth. Yes, the “locust” had eaten away many years of her life and of Michael’s. And yet, she and Michael had faced the deepest secret of each of their lives and had been offered a healing so creative it was unfathomable. How wonderfully God had chosen to restore those years! Now when Claire looked into the very face that represented the ghosts of her past, she saw instead the face she loved most dearly in all the world. And she knew it would be the same for Michael.
Tomorrow she would go to him in joy, knowing that God had granted the blessing she coveted to be upon their love.
The snow had fallen silently in the night, making fools of Missouri’s meteorologists, most of whom had predicted “possible light flurries overnight.” Now every lawn, every sidewalk, every tree and any vehicle unfortunate enough to have been left outside was buried under six inches of “light flurries.”
Claire dusted the white powder off her jeans and leaned the heavy broom she’d been using to clear the walk against the gnarled trunk of a tree. Sighing with happy exhaustion, she peeled off her gloves and examined the blisters on her palms.
From across the lawn came the voice she loved. “Hey! Don’t quit on me now. We’re almost done.” Michael Meredith leaned on his shovel and looked at her accusingly. “You’re not wimping out on me, are you?”
“Michael, look at this,” she whined, only half joking. “My hands are one big blister.” She held out her palms for inspection.
They'd been working for half an hour, two narrow paths on the driveway and the sidewalk in front of Claire’s house testifying to their joint efforts.
Now he let the shovel fall to the ground and covered the distance between them in long strides. “Let me see,” he said with mock impatience, taking her hands in his.
He brought one reddened palm to his lips and in none-too-sympathetic baby talk kissed each blister. “Oh, my poor wittle Claire. Did her get a bwister?”
“Cut it out!” she laughed. “They hurt!” She rubbed her palms together gingerly before pulling her gloves back on.
“Come over here.” His voice held zero sympathy. “I’ve got just the thing for those blisters.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and escorted her to the edge of the yard where snow had drifted deeply against the fence. Positioning her strategically in front of the white mound, he gave her a gentle shove.
She fell backward into the soft cushion of white. Sputtering and squealing, she came up clutching a handful of snow. She packed it into an ill-formed snowball and tossed it in his direction, barely grazing his shoulder.
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he announced through clenched teeth, barely concealing the laughter in his voice. A brisk gust of wind scattered the snow in a mini-blizzard. “You will be eternally sorry you did that, Miss Anderson.”
“You started it,” she dished back playfully, cowering by the fence as he started toward her.
He dived into the drift beside her and held her arm to prevent her from gathering any more ammunition.
“Ouch! Uncle! Uncle!” she cried, slipping out of his grasp and scrambling out of reach.
He lunged and tried to tackle her again but dissolved in laughter before he could get a firm hold on her. They chased each other across the yard, wrestling playfully, leaving a lawn full of disheveled, half-formed snow angels in their wake.
Finally, breathless and cheeks red from the cold, Michael pulled Claire to her feet and held her wrists, forcing her to look into his face. The rippling sound of her laughter was muffled by his kiss.
Suddenly serious, he took her face in his hands and, looking into her eyes, whispered her name. “Claire.” His breath hovered in steamy plumes between them.
She swallowed her laughter, her heart beating faster at the lovely sound of her name on his lips. Tenderly, he brushed away a bit of snow that had stuck in her hair and pushed a wayward curl off her forehead.
She’d wanted to wait until tonight, but sudde
nly, she knew this was the time, the perfect moment. She'd never been more sure of anything in her life, yet she began to tremble, nervous and excited with the joy of what she had to tell him.
“Are you cold?” he asked, misinterpreting her shivering, apparently unaware of the emotions she was holding in.
“Michael… do you remember the question you asked me a few months ago?”
“Question?” Even as the word came from his mouth, Claire saw understanding come to those piercing gray eyes.
“The one you wouldn’t let me answer.” For one frightening moment she let herself think about the horrible possibility that he might have changed his mind.
But he touched his finger to her nose, utter tenderness in his eyes. “I’m still asking, Claire.”
She fell into his arms, her heart overflowing. “The answer is yes! Oh yes, Michael. Yes!”
Acknowledgments
With deep appreciation to the dedicated employees and volunteers of the many nursing homes that over the years provided each of my grandparents, and more recently my own sweet mother, with a safe and caring place to spend their latter years.
About the Author
DEBORAH RANEY dreamed of writing a book since the summer she read Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books and discovered that a Kansas farm girl could, indeed, grow up to be a writer. After a happy twenty-year detour as a stay-at-home mom, Deb penned her first novel, A Vow to Cherish, which won a Silver Angel Award and inspired the acclaimed World Wide Pictures film of the same title. Since then, her books have won the RITA Award, HOLT Medallion, ACFW Carol Award, National Readers' Choice Award, as well as twice being finalists for the Christy Award. Deb teaches at writers' conferences across the country. She and her husband, Ken Raney, recently traded small-town life in Kansas ––the setting of many of Deb's novels––for life in the (relatively) big city of Wichita. They have four children and a growing brood of precious grandchildren who all live much too far away. Visit Deb on the Web at:
Nearly Page 30
