The Tuesday Morning Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  “It's just …” Sami lowered the photo so she could see it again. “I want to be with him on his birthday. And when I get married one day, I want him to walk down the aisle with me. I want it so bad.”

  “But you can't blame God that you won't have it, okay, Sami? God loves you very much. He loves your dad too.” Jamie took the girl's hands again. “Let's pray, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They bowed their heads and Jamie prayed. “Suffering is a part of life, God. You showed us that on September 11. We almost never understand why.” She hesitated, trying to keep her composure. “But we know this: You love us. You loved us so much You gave us Jesus. And no matter how much Sami's suffering right now, You're here holding her, speaking peace into her heart and soul.” A Scripture came to mind. “Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that You know the plans You have for us. Help Sami remember that, God. Give her Your hope as she leaves this place, Your certainty that You haven't forgotten her, and that one day she'll see her father again.”

  There was a silence while Jamie waited. She was about to finish up when Sami cleared her throat. “I'm sorry, God. I hate trying to get through this without You. Plus …” She sniffed once more. “Plus You've got my dad with You. So please, Lord, tell him happy birthday for me. Please.”

  When they finished praying, Jamie hugged the girl and promised to keep praying for her. Before she left, Sami gave Jamie a lopsided grin. “I came here because it was something I could do for my father. But instead … my heavenly Father did something for me.” She stood and touched Jamie's shoulder. “I wasn't expecting that.”

  After Sami left, Jamie looked across the chapel at Jake's picture. She could make it out from any spot in the building—maybe not the details of his handsome face, the strength in his jaw, or the sparkle in his eyes, but she could find it all the same.

  Sami was right. St. Paul's was a place where the unexpected happened. It had been that way for three years, ever since the towers collapsed, leaving the old church completely unharmed. It was an unexpected rescue mission back then and, because of conversations like the one she'd just had, it was an unexpected rescue mission now.

  She noticed Aaron talking with another volunteer near the television at the back of the chapel. But before she had a chance to tell him hello, two women approached her. They were FDNY widows, women who had been in before.

  “Hi, Jamie.” The first one smiled.

  She couldn't remember their names, but she didn't want to say so. Instead she exhaled and rose to greet them. “Back again?”

  The women looked tentatively at each other. Then the first one crossed her arms. “We want to see about becoming volunteers.”

  “Like you,” the other woman said.

  “Like me?”

  Jamie could hear Martha's words of warning. “Most FDNY widows won't ever be ready to take on a job like volunteering at St. Paul's. Discourage women who want to be like you as much as possible, for their sakes.”

  Jamie had bristled at the coordinator's comment. “It's good for me; why wouldn't it be good for them?”

  “You're the exception, Jamie. Trust me. For most people volunteering at St. Paul's wouldn't work them through the stages of grief, it would stall them.”

  “What if someone asks about it and I'm not sure?”

  Martha had given her a wry sort of smile. “You'll know. Ask them a few questions. If they break down, they're not ready.”

  Jamie blinked at the women, hating what she was about to do. The questions she had to ask were like poking a pin at an open wound to see if it was healing. But if Martha was right, it was the only way to make sure the women were able to move past their own grief long enough to help strangers with theirs.

  “Why don't you come this way and we'll talk about it.” Jamie led the women back to the pews, to the same place where she'd been sitting with Sami a few moments earlier. She started with the more outspoken of the two. “I'm on your side, ladies, but sometimes people only think they're ready for volunteer work here.” Her voice was low, discreet. “Can you each tell me what you've done to work through your losses?”

  The first woman nodded. “I've been in counseling at my church for a year. Sometimes I take my children with me—so they can talk about their feelings.”

  “Do they remember their father?”

  “Yes.” The woman's eyes flooded. She folded her hand and stared at her lap for a moment. “The youngest doesn't, but the other three remember him.”

  “If someone sat across from you and told you they'd stopped believing in God because of what happened September 11, would you feel comfortable helping them find their faith again?”

  This time the woman looked up, and a strength filled her eyes. “Absolutely. That's why I'm here. I believe God wants me to share His truth with people who come here hurting.” She looked at her friend, and then back at Jamie. “The way you shared it with us the first time we came in.”

  Jamie patted the woman's shoulders. She was passing with flying colors. Usually by now widows who weren't ready would be breaking down, asking questions of their own. Questions they had a right to ask, but that proved they weren't ready to work at St. Paul's. Not this woman.

  “I understand there's an application we have to fill out?” The strength in the woman's eyes was softened by a compassion that only came from knowing pain personally.

  “Yes.” Jamie hesitated. “I'm sorry. I remember you, of course, but I've forgotten your names. A lot of people come through here.”

  “I'm Janice.” She nodded to her friend. “This is Beth.”

  “And Beth, what about you? Tell me about your husband.”

  She lifted a dainty shoulder. “I don't know; he was my hero, I guess.”

  “You were married a long time?” Just because Jamie was ready for work at the chapel didn't mean Beth was.

  “We'd only been married three years. I was—” Her voice broke. She looked up at the cross and bit her lip. “I was expecting our first baby, our son, when he died.”

  “I'm sorry.” Jamie leaned forward. “Would you feel comfortable talking about that with strangers?”

  For a moment Beth said nothing, only kept her eyes glued to the cross. Then, as tears streamed down her cheeks, she gave a slow shake of her head. “No, his memory is too precious for that.”

  Jamie waited.

  Beth looked at Janice and then at Jamie. “I guess I'm not ready for this. I'm sorry. I thought I was. I wanted to be ready.”

  “There are lots of things you can do, Beth, even if this isn't one of them.” Jamie's heart ached for the woman. Next to her, Janice gave her friend a hug.

  After a moment, Jamie handed Beth a tissue. When she was more composed she looked at Jamie. “What can I do? Everywhere I go, people have forgotten about September 11. It's as if it bothers them to remember that it ever happened at all. But I want to do something.”

  “You can go home and love that little boy. He's three years old, Beth. He needs you. And you can keep alive every single memory you ever shared with your husband. You can write them in a journal so that when your son is old enough he'll feel as if he knew his daddy personally.”

  Beth's eyes filled with another layer of tears, but there was something else there. A light, a ray of hope the woman hadn't had before. “I never thought of that.”

  Jamie kept her tone compassionate. “If you don't do that for your son, who will?”

  When the women left late that morning, Janice had an application, and Beth had a plan, a purpose. Proof again that Jamie's work at St. Paul's was important, that it did indeed carry on Jake's legacy—offering people hope in the name of Jesus Christ.

  And that morning, the results were so strong, so eternally important, Jamie could almost feel Jake working beside her.

  FOUR

  Some volunteers stayed on at St. Paul's indefinitely—people like Jamie and Aaron Hisel. But most worked for a season and then moved on. Which meant the little chapel always needed new volunteers.


  As Jamie headed for the stairs that morning, she thought about Janice. From what she could tell, the woman would be a wonderful addition to the staff. Close enough to share the pain of visitors who needed comforting; strong enough to offer them the spiritual hope they needed.

  But as wonderful as the morning's outcome had been, Jamie was exhausted, emotionally drained. More so than usual. She headed for the break room and grabbed a blueberry muffin from the table. People were always bringing in cases of water or trays of baked goods for the volunteers. A way of encouraging them to continue the work they did at St. Paul's.

  Jamie peeled back the wrapper and took a bite. The issue with Sierra was weighing on her. How was she supposed to tell her daughter the truth? Should it happen in stages? Maybe start by telling her that her father was killed in the Twin Towers with hundreds of other firefighters, and then see if she remembered having someone who looked and acted like her daddy living with them after that?

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Jamie looked up to see Aaron step into the break area. “How'd it go?” He took a bottle of water and dropped to the nearest seat. “That first one looked tough.”

  “It was.”

  “A couple of volunteers from the weekend showed up.” He crossed his arms and gave a slight tilt of his head. “Let's leave early. We can grab a bite to eat and take it to the park.”

  “Battery Park?”

  “Right.” He grinned, something she couldn't remember seeing him do until well after the second anniversary of the attacks. “Central Park might make you late for Sierra.”

  “True.” She pulled herself to her feet, finished her water, and waited for him. There was something different in his eyes, something she couldn't quite make out. She didn't say anything. She'd ask him later, on the way to the park.

  He finished his drink, stood, and led the way down the stairs. They bid the other volunteers good-bye and left. The sun was overhead now, warming the early October afternoon. Jamie pulled a pair of sunglasses from her small bag and slipped them on. She and Aaron were comfortable together. Every moment between them didn't need to be filled with conversation, and they stayed silent as they passed the crater where the towers had stood.

  Jamie waited a few more blocks, then she shaded her eyes and looked at him. “What's on your mind?”

  “Hmmm?” Aaron raised his eyebrows. “Nothing, why?”

  “Yes, something.” She looked straight ahead again. “I saw it in your eyes back at the chapel.”

  The captain shoved his hands into his FDNY windbreaker and kept his tone even. “What'd you see?”

  “I don't know.” Their conversation had a casual pace. “Something I haven't seen before. I'm not sure.”

  “Hmmm.” The corners of Aaron's lips raised just a notch. He turned into a café and looked at her over his shoulder. “Let's get lunch.”

  They ordered turkey sandwiches, chips, and two cans of pop, which the deli man packed in one bag. Aaron carried it, and ten minutes later they reached Battery Park and found a bench with a view of the harbor.

  Aaron pulled out her lunch first, and then his. He was about to take a bite, when she bowed her head and started praying. “Thank You, God, for our food. Thank You that we can find meaning and purpose helping the people at St. Paul's. You're a good God, Lord, and You know the plans You have for us. Amen.”

  A chuckle came from Aaron. “You insist on doing that, don't you? Praying for me?”

  Jamie smiled. “If I don't do it, who will?”

  She and the captain didn't exactly see eye to eye on matters of faith, but she would never preach at him or force him to see things her way. It hadn't worked for her when she was the one on Aaron's side of the fence. It wouldn't work for him, either.

  “No one, and I'm fine with that.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

  “I know, Aaron.” Her tone was mixed humor and mock boredom. “God doesn't exist. Same drivel I used to drive Jake crazy with.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. Instead he took another bite. “Good sandwich.”

  “Okay, fine.” She held up her turkey roll. “Good sandwich.”

  “Brat.” He gave her a light nudge in the ribs with his elbow. “I'm not that stubborn. You could try a little harder.”

  She felt her eyes dance in light of the easy banter. “Would it work?”

  “No.” He set his sandwich down and laughed again. “But you could at least try.”

  They finished their sandwiches, their arms occasionally brushing against each other. Two people had stepped up and become her support system since Jake died. Sue, who'd been married to Jake's friend, Larry—another FDNY man lost on September 11—and Aaron.

  She appreciated Aaron most at times like this, when she couldn't rattle off another statistic about the terrorist attacks, couldn't give another hug without running to the picture of Jake and falling in a heap on the floor. Times when the chance to smile or laugh gave her one more piece of tangible proof that yes, she would survive. Somehow she would keep waking up, keep breathing, keep raising Sierra the best she knew how, and the world wouldn't come to an end.

  Aaron finished his sandwich, tossed the wrapper in the bag, and set it on the ground. He turned to her and the look was back, the one she'd seen earlier in St. Paul's break room.

  “There it is again.” She had her sandwich in her hands, but she let them fall to her lap. “That look, the one I was telling you about earlier.”

  “You don't let up, do you?”

  “No. You can't hide anything from me.” Jamie stuffed what was left of her sandwich into the bag and pushed the wrapper in after it. “You shouldn't even try.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her ankles and stared out at the harbor. Aaron would tell her what was on his mind. He always did. He was a man of few words, the type who communicated more through glances and nuances. And because of that, he was nothing like Jake. Certainly he lacked Jake's way of lighting up a room, the charisma that came so naturally for Jake. No, Aaron's appeal was subtler, but after sharing her grief with him over the past years, they were close enough that she was right.

  Jamie could read him perfectly.

  They were quiet again, watching a triple-decker boat of tourists sail past on their way to the Statue of Liberty.

  Finally he cleared his throat and looked at her. “Can I throw something out there?”

  “Of course.”

  His eyes grew deeper than before. “How long, Jamie?”

  “How long?” For the first time in a long while, Aaron had her stumped. “How long what?”

  Aaron squinted at the sun's reflection on the water. “How long before you're ready to move on with life?”

  “Move on?” Fear kicked Jamie in the gut and left her breathless. “I am moving on. Working at St. Paul's is moving on.”

  “Not that way.” He leaned over and dug his elbows into his knees. His eyes found hers. “Jamie, I have feelings for you.” His tone was heavy and certain. A long sigh sifted between his lips, and he looked out at the water again. “I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”

  Jamie felt her eyes grow wide, frightened. She wasn't sure what to do next. Had she read Aaron wrong from the beginning? He'd wanted friendship, right? So where had this … this change of heart come from? Or had it been there all along and she just hadn't wanted to see it? Part of her wanted to back up slowly, turn around, and run for her life. But still another part needed to hear him out. Not because she was ready for what he was saying, or because she could even manage the thought of Aaron being anything more than her friend. But because deep in her soul she'd known he was going to say this.

  She'd known it and been so afraid she hadn't been able to admit it even to herself.

  Her fingers shook. She laced them together to keep them from catching Aaron's attention.

  He looked at her again. “Don't leave me hanging here, Jamie.” He forced a laugh. “I cough up the hardest words I'
ve ever said and you're speechless.”

  “I don't …” She raked her fingers through her hair and leaned hard against the back of the bench. “You're one of my best friends, Aaron. I haven't … I can't …”

  Aaron shifted his position so he faced her squarely. Then, while his eyes never left hers, he took her hands. His voice fell and mixed with the breeze coming off the water. “You can, Jamie. We're together all the time, anyway. We've been through more than most people ever go through before having a first date.”

  First date?

  The words hit her like fingernails on a chalkboard. She could feel the blood draining from her face. What if Jake could somehow see her from heaven? What if he could see her sitting on a bench beside Aaron Hisel talking about a first date? The idea made her shudder.

  “Look, Jamie.” Aaron straightened and his expression eased. “I know it's going to take time, but I've been thinking about it.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “We belong together. I'll take it as slow as you want to go. Just give it some thought, okay?”

  Everything in her wanted to scream at him. No, it wasn't okay. No, she wouldn't think, even for a split second, about dating or loving or mar—

  She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought. She wanted to turn around and see Jake standing there laughing, wanted to hear him telling her it was all a bad joke, that Captain Hisel certainly wasn't suggesting they find their way into a relationship when Jake Bryan was the only man she'd ever love.

  But she couldn't do any of those things, because Jake was gone. He'd been gone three years and he wasn't coming back. And the truth was, if she didn't want to be alone for the rest of her life, it was only logical that she might wind up with someone like Aaron, someone who shared September 11 with her, who could relate to the losses she'd suffered because in some ways they were his losses too.