Every Good Cowboy Deserves A Second Chance

by Maggie Miller

  “Meet me out front after church,” Matthew calls out to her retreating back.

  “Okay, Daddy,” she replies before running around the side of the building, hand in hand with another giggling little girl about the same age.

  I follow Dad and Matthew inside the church and down the red-carpeted aisle to our regular pew. Third row on the left side. The same place we’ve always sat every single church service my entire life. It’s not as if there’s assigned seating. It’s a habit my Dad got into and never broke. Every family has their own favorite row to sit in.

  Dad goes into the row first and takes a seat at the end. I plop down harder than I mean to beside him on the wooden pew, wincing when my back hits the uncomfortable seat. No fancy cushions on the pews for this church. No sir. It’s going to be a long, painful hour sitting on the rock-hard benches. Maybe that’s the point…to keep people from nodding off during the service.

  Several of the church deacons make their way over to speak to Dad. It’s heartbreaking to watch. He was a respected deacon too at one time. He still is, since it’s a lifetime role. The church wouldn’t take the hard-earned title away just because someone has dementia. Except now, he’s not capable of fulfilling the role of greeting visitors and helping people to an empty seat. He doesn’t seem to notice that things have changed. Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.

  When it gets closer to ten o’clock, the church goers start piling in, crowding tight into the tiny room. The temperature inside is already going up. In another hour, it’s going to be miserably hot. Like so many other things, I’d forgotten the church isn’t air-conditioned. Baptist preachers want to make sure the congregation knows that the heat of hell is real.

  Glancing around, I notice that every pew is full. Several of the deacons are lined up against the walls with their hands clasped in front of them to free up space for others.

  “Do you come to church every Sunday?” I whisper to Matthew, who’s sitting on one side of me.

  “Yeah, it’s good for Lily,” he says with a nod. “When her mama ran off, the church ladies took extra care to give Lily attention and love. She feels at home here with her little friends. The summer Vacation Bible School starts in a couple of weeks. She’ll enjoy that and will help to keep her occupied during the mornings at least.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I say. “I’m glad she enjoys Sunday School. We always did too until they kicked us out of children’s church and made us sit out here with the adults. Then it wasn’t fun anymore.”

  “No cookies and Kool-Aid out here in the big church,” Matthew says with a grin. “Being an adult sucks sometimes.”

  “I hope Lily hangs onto childhood as long as she can. Those days are the best.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with Lily this summer,” he says, low enough where Dad can’t hear him. “I can’t leave her and Dad alone at the house together while I take care of the ranch. A senior caregiver isn’t going to want to chase after a four-year-old, and a teenage babysitter certainly can’t handle Dad.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I say. “Listen, I’ll gladly pay for whatever you need. As soon as you figure it out, just say the word. Money isn’t an issue anymore, so please let me do this.” He nods, and I’m optimistic he might accept my help for once.

  Two minutes later, the doors to the church close and the choir director walks up to the front of the room. He takes a moment to give a warm welcome to everyone while the choir members silently file in to stand on the metal stairs behind him.

  My heart stops when I spot Ginny take her place on the first row. I didn’t know she would be here this morning. She scans the crowd and her eyes land on me. She smiles, lighting up the room in a way that only she can. She’s lovely in her blue dress that matches her eyes. Her blonde hair is pulled back and held with a pin at the back of her head. A single strand of simple pearls is her only jewelry. If she’s wearing any makeup, it’s not visible. She never needed it to show her beauty. I always preferred her without it.

  “You didn’t tell me Ginny would be here,” I mutter accusingly to Matthew.

  “You didn’t ask,” he replies. “She’s in the choir now.”

  “I didn’t know she could sing either,” I say. “I’ve never heard her sing in public. Nothing except singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs when we were teenagers.”

  “What you don’t know could fill a book,” he teases. “You’ve been gone a while. Things change, Luke. You’re missing out and don’t even know it.”

  The choir director instructs everyone to grab a hymnal book tucked into the back of the pews, then leads us all in a few old-time songs. Most people know the words by heart, including Dad, who to my surprise is singing along with everyone else. At the end of the last song, the preacher steps up to the wooden podium and places his open Bible in front of him.

  “That’s some mighty good singing,” he says. “But I think we can do one better. Today we have a very special guest in the audience if you haven’t already noticed. Come on up here, Luke Collins, and sing a song for us. It’s not every day the church has a music star in our midst.” He waves a beckoning hand toward me and the crowd breaks into applause. Oh no. I shake my head and hold up my hands. Today isn’t supposed to be about me.

  “Go on, boy,” Dad says, elbowing me in the ribs. “Sing a song. I’d like to hear you. It’s been a long time, son.”

  I’m a little shocked he knows what’s going on. That’s all it takes to convince me. I might not be able to help my Dad with much, but I can sure do this one thing for him. If he wants me to sing a song in church, then I’ll try my best. It might be one of the last things I ever get to do for him. “Okay, Dad,” I say, giving his leg a gentle pat. “I’ll sing if you want me to.”

  I take a deep breath and stand. Squeezing between Matthew’s long legs and the pew in front of us, I make my way into the aisle and up to the front of the church.

  “I didn’t come prepared,” I tell Reverend Smith when I reach the wooden podium. “I don’t know what to sing.”

  “As long as it’s not one of those country songs about whiskey and wild women, you’ll be fine,” he jokes. The crowd laughs along with him and nods encouragingly at me. “You probably remember Ethel over there on the piano. She can play almost anything. Just tell her what you want to sing. Take a minute to think about it. We’ve got time.”

  I gaze out over the crowd of church goers. I know almost everyone sitting out there. Half of my life’s history is in this room. On the front row is Mrs. Johnson, my homeroom teacher who patiently put up with my pranks every morning all through high school. She’s grey-haired now and wears bi-focal glasses attached to a gold chain hanging around her neck. Catching my eye, she smiles and nods back at me.

  And Mr. James, the owner of the local grocery store and gas station. In the lean months, he’d let the local ranchers open credit accounts with him without charging interest or putting down collateral. A rancher’s word was good enough and was all he needed. His generosity saved countless families from going under during the recession.

  Near the back of the church is Ginny’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, both retired schoolteachers. When I was growing up, I spent as much time at their house as I did at my own. They never seemed to mind and were always nothing but kind to me. Even after Ginny and I broke up.

  If they ever thought I wasn’t good enough for their daughter, they never showed it. Now they’re both smiling proudly ear to ear, almost as if I were their own son. In a way, I almost was.

  “Have you decided on a song yet?” Reverend Smith asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re shy, because we all know you’ve played in front of a much bigger crowd. These are your home folks, so don’t worry. We’ll love you no matter what.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say quickly. “I’ve chosen a song.”

  I quickly walk over to the pianist who I swear has been sitting on that same worn piano bench since I was five years old. I wh
isper my song selection in her ear. She nods in approval and begins to softly play.

  Walking back to the podium, I clear my throat. This is a little different situation than I’m accustomed to. There’s not a microphone to hold or a backup singer to help me out. Not even my trusty guitar to lean on. Only me and a piano with yellowed keys that hasn’t been tuned in thirty years.

  I glance across the pews and make eye contact with my father. “Dad, this song is for you,” I say. “And Mama up in heaven.”

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and start singing from my heart.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost.

  But now I’m found…

  I make the mistake of glancing over at Dad. He stands up and lifts one hand palm up toward heaven. He’s smiling and is mouthing the words along with me. For the first time since I’ve been back home, we’re connecting on a deep personal level. Through my music of all things. After all this time. Raw emotion crashes over me like a wave, gripping me tight and closing my throat. The truth I’ve been denying hits me hard.

  I’m losing my dad and he’s never coming back.

  Not the way he was before.

  The man who has always been a legend in my life is disintegrating right in front of my eyes every day, becoming less and less of the person I knew.

  A hard knot the size of a softball is lodged in the back of my throat. I’ve faced crowds of people countless times, and I’ve never choked on a song before. Now I can’t squeeze the words out past the ball in my throat. I try to sing the next line and my voice breaks.

  I was blind…

  I stop singing mid-line. Unexpected hot tears roll down my face, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I can’t do this. I’m not going to be able to finish the song. My heart is being ripped out of my chest. Every emotion I’ve pushed down since returning to Sweet Rose Canyon rolls over me. All of my regrets and missed time with the people I love most…Dad, Ginny, Matthew, and little Lily. A quiet hush goes over the crowd while they wait for me to continue.

  “It’s alright, son,” Reverend Smith says, stepping closer and placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Take your time. We’ll wait.”

  I take another deep breath and try to start again. I need to finish this song for Dad. I’m wishing now I’d chosen another song. One that was easier to sing with less emotion. A song that wasn’t Mama’s favorite. I close my eyes and try one more time, repeating the previous line before I give up.

  I once was lost, but now I’m found.

  My voice cracks and I stumble on the notes again. I’m destroying the song and making a huge mess of it. I should quit before things get worse. The church would understand.

  Suddenly close behind me I hear a lone, sweet voice singing along with me, backing me up and carrying the song when my voice can’t form the words. A voice I would recognize anywhere because I hear it in my dreams. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

  Ginny has moved up closer. She’s right behind me with her hand on my back, giving me strength and courage through her gentle touch to keep going. I take a deep breath, and the two of us sing the next line together.

  I was blind, but now I see.

  The choir director jumps to his feet and motions to the choir to back me up also. The preacher lifts his hands for the congregation to stand and sing along too. The sound of their voices lifts and swells inside the tiny stone church.

  T'was grace that taught my heart to fear

  And grace, my fears relieved

  How precious did that grace appear

  The hour I first believed

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares

  I have already come

  'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far

  And grace will lead me home

  When their voices lift up in song, I feel their overwhelming warmth and love coming straight toward me, wrapping me tight and holding me like one of Mama’s worn, handmade quilts. My dad and Matthew are both standing with their arms around each other and beaming back at me. After all this time, I’ve finally done something right.

  I’ve made Dad happy.

  The crowd sings every verse, with their voices getting stronger and more confident with each line. I turn slightly, reaching down behind me to grasp Ginny’s hand in mine and intertwining our fingers tightly together. I don’t need to see her with my eyes to know she’s there. The same way she’s always been. She’s my strength and always was.

  Why has it taken me this long to realize what has always been there right in front of me?

  I can’t lose Ginny again. Not if there’s any way to get her back. I can see clearly now for the first time in years. Everything I would ever need is right in this church…Ginny, my family and God.

  Together the church sings the final verse and chorus:

  When we've been there ten thousand years

  Bright, shining as the sun

  We've no less days to sing God's praise

  Than when we first begun

  Amazing Grace! how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me

  I once was lost, but now am found

  Was blind but now I see

  Was blind but now I see…

  15

  Ginny

  The moment Luke steps up to sing, I know it’s going to be harder for him than he realizes. Playing to a crowd of faceless fans is one thing, singing to people who have known you your whole life is another. When his voice cracks the first time, I force myself to stay still when all I want to do is go to him, wrap him in my arms, and never turn him loose. I understand everything he’s battling inside, the guilt about his dad and his feelings of helplessness over the situation.

  When his dad stands up and lifts his hand toward heaven, I know Luke won’t be able to keep it together. Not with all the emotions he’s desperately trying to keep bottled up inside. My heart aches for him while I watch every raw emotion flickering across his face. At one time we were so close, it was if we were two parts of a seamless whole. Now all these years later, I still feel his pain as intensely as if it were my own.

  The connection we always had was never broken.

  Not by time.

  Not by miles between us.

  He chokes on the words of the song again and wipes tears away with the back of his hand. Tears spring to my eyes as well. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I’ve seen Luke cry. Only over the death of a beloved dog or the day we buried his Grandpa. My heart is breaking for him.

  I can’t stay put a moment longer. Not when Luke needs me. Moving quickly, I step up behind him and place my hand firmly against his back to let him know I’m here. I open my mouth and start singing.

  The good Lord knows I’m not a professional singer by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not even a good choir singer, decent at best. I can barely carry a tune. At our church, none of that matters. It’s all about singing in praise, nothing else. I’m not worried about trying to impress anyone.

  I join Luke in the song, to help carry him through until he can get a handle on his emotions. The second he hears my voice, I feel his body relax underneath my fingertips. Together we finish the verse, with the congregation and choir joining in with us. Luke reaches down and grasps my hand in his. He doesn’t have to glance over at me or say one word. He doesn’t need to.

  His touch communicates everything he wants to say to me. From the instant he returned to Sweet Rose Canyon again, this moment in time was inevitable. There’s no point fighting it any longer.

  We’re back together again the way we were always meant to be.

  When the church service is over, everyone heads outside to the picnic tables set up under the tall, shady trees. The tables are covered in an assortment of multi-colored tablecloths brought by the church ladies. The tables are sorted by food items. The meat table is loaded full of slow-cooked barbeque pork, stew, and platter
s of fried chicken.

  Many of the church members are ranchers or have small gardens of their own, so the vegetable table is piled high with bowls of fried okra, sliced homegrown tomatoes, freshly picked corn on the cob, and green beans cooked slowly with bacon.

  Everyone brings something from their garden to share and show off, even if it’s a small plate of jalapeno peppers or a jar of pickled chow-chow from their fruit cellar. Homemade buttermilk biscuits and pones of cornbread are at one end, along with a variety of jams, jellies, and honey.

  There are so many desserts they can’t all fit on one table. After much discussion, the church ladies ask for volunteers to go get an extra picnic table from the fellowship hall and set it up for the cake and pie overflow.

  I watch with pride as Luke and Matthew volunteer for the job. They come back minutes later, carrying a big metal picnic table, which they quickly unfold and set up exactly where the ladies tell them to.

  I walk over and touch Luke’s arm when they’re finished. “I bet you didn’t expect to be put to hard labor today, did you?” I tease.

  Turning around, he smiles and slips an easy arm around my waist, pulling me close to his side. His touch is as comfortable and familiar as if we’ve never been apart.

  “I learned a long time ago never to talk back to the church ladies,” he says with a grin, tilting his head toward the group of women who are carefully monitoring the buffet lunch. “When they say jump, I ask how high. What did you bring to eat?”

  “How do you know if I brought anything?” I ask curiously, pulling back to stare up at him.

  “Because I know any woman over twenty years old who doesn’t bring a dish to church decoration is talked about like a dog for years,” he says. “Luckily, us men folk get a free pass. Matthew made a pone of cornbread. It’s one of the few things he can cook well. I give him credit. He’s learning. He said he’s determined that Lily know how to cook one day, and the only way is for him to learn first.”