+The Mourning After+

I will be naked soon for the rending of my garments, hairless too. The women assure me grief softens with time. Not mine. The pain in my mother’s heart is as Job’s pottery shards. Never will the knife-edged fragments cease to cut me, from the inside out.

            The women grip my wrists, to keep my nails from my face.

            “You will be ugly.”

            What do I care? I have no need, no desire for beauty, for a husband. I have John now. My Jesus presented him to me and me to him, a parting gift. Dear John, the only one who did not flee—trembling, bleating, denying.

~~~~~~~

I sensed the greatness of my son from the very beginning, from the moment when I heard his first moist breath and mewling cry. A seemingly ordinary infant until you drew closer and felt the urge to be with, to listen to, to learn from. What? What is it a babe can know? Any other? Nothing. This one? Everything and more.

            Joseph had stood behind me in that place, in that moment.

            “It is . . . He is . . . as the angels said.”  

            I felt my thoughts and Joseph’s merge, run together like a river. My words came out into the night air with the silver mist of my breath.

            “This babe will change everything, everyone.”

            My consciousness withdrew from my husband’s as I felt a contraction, a wringing, in my womb. I had a vision of a grape press—ancient and of stone—pressing, crushing, seeming to destroy my son. I attempted to stand, failed. Bent at the waist, I forced my fists against my gut. A growl of a moan worked its way up and out of me. I shook my head, felt the over and over whip of wet hair in my eyes. My tears drenched the dung at my feet.

~~~

Every day as he grew into his destiny this was my prayer:

            “Not today, LORD, nor tomorrow. Let there be one more day, Master. He’s my precious boy child. Allow him another day to teach, to heal, to love. He has all of eternity to be with you. Please, afford me a few more . . .”

~~~~~~~

The women hover, their hands and fingers like insects close to my face. I swat and moan.

            “Leave. Me. Be.”

            I gaze toward the Temple Mount. “Take me, Abba, sooner than later. Today, please? I want to see him, touch him, kneel before him, one more time.”

            I consider the rope on the bucket in the well.

~~~~~~~

Elizabeth is on her way. She sent word. It will be a comfort to spend hours, no, days, mourning our sons. For a season they were the bright stars of this world. A season so brief before they were snatched by evil men for the sake of pride, power, pleasure even.

            We can starve together, Elizabeth and me, call it fasting. We have no appetites; they perished with our sons. Moses himself could bring manna and we would bow our heads, purse our lips, turn away.

            I will let Elizabeth hold me. Rather, I will cradle her fragile, diminished frame. Free her hair, comb its grayness with my fingers, murmur into the mass of it.

            “You pretend I am John. I will make believe you are my Jesus.”

            We have no need of husbands. It is no longer necessary to pretend we love them more than the fruit of our loins.

~~~~~~~

My Jesus never resembled me, did not have my eyes, the cleft in my chin. Even so, he belonged to me. I carried him in my inmost parts. His purity came through mine. No woman has ever, will ever again, do what I have done. My life will be the death of me.

            “He will save his people from their sins.” The angel told Joseph that.

            The most glorious purpose the world has ever known and yet, I hate it. My LORD knows and loves me still. My confession is the world’s victory. How can there still be fools? Have you not seen? Have you not heard?

            No, he was not beautiful other than to me. Most did not appreciate his not-of-this-world-ness. Only if you sat at his feet or knelt before him could you glimpse heaven’s light and then, only if your heart was at the perfect angle of understanding. The shalom of Yahweh—a greeting, a covenant, an overwhelming peace—would engulf you for all time when you were surrounded by the light that was Jesus. That, I will hold fast to that—light, shalom, Yeshua HaMashiach.

Out of the Box

I lay in bed that night with Mac’s gun box heavy on my chest, the frayed strips of old percale sheets still intact, a cloth cross over my heart. I picked a spot on the ceiling and addressed it.
            “Help. Please.”

            Remarkably, I got a few hours sleep. The green numbers on my clock radio glowed 2:36 when I heard a door open slowly, carefully, somewhere in the house. Inside me, my heart bulged, made my skin feel tight. My eyes stung. Dang it! I need more time! 

            I heaved myself up, the gun case solid against me. I peeked out the window beside my bed. My eyes bridged the seven feet between my house and the Macs.’ I squinted at their Venetian blinds. They formed a solid white wall. I whimpered.

            Nothing stirred outside except the rain that was starting to fall. It had been so long since we’d had rain. A stair creaked and I clenched every part of me. I let go of the box and winced as it thudded against my thighs. I picked it up and shook it close to my ear. Felt and heard the weapon’s weight slide left, then right, inside the box. 
            In the moonlight I focused on the cloth bow and whispered. 
            “Maybe just seeing the gun’ll make him stop. I mean really, I don’t have to kill him. I can just point it at him. Shoot him in the leg if I have to.” The thought of his maroon blood creeping across my beloved pink and green tulip-basket quilt, staining it forever, gave me pause. “Or, I can do what I always do. Roll on my side. Squeeze my eyes shut. Pretend to sleep.”

            I gulped nothing and rapid-blinked tears. Wished tonight was tomorrow. Then it occurred to me: if I don’t stop it this time, the bad thing’ll go on forever and I—

            I gritted my teeth. Balanced the box on my knees, pinched the end of one of the strips. Waited. I focused on my doorknob. The shine of the moon was so bright, surely I’d be able to see the knob twist. Then I'd yank the cloth strip. Flip the latch, fling the box open. Ready, aim—

            I held my hand in front of my face. Even in the half light, I could see my fingers were a blur. Oh, no! What if my gun hand shakes so bad I miss his leg and kill him? Think! What else? What else can I do? I tore at my thumb nail with my teeth. Then I knew. 

          I shoved the gun box off my lap. Tossed back the covers and tiptoe-ran the eight or nine feet to my parents’ bedroom. I barreled through the door and bent over their bed. Pounded the mattress between them.

            “Wake up! Make him stop! Now!”

            As I watched my parents climb out of their separate slumbers, somewhere in the house I heard a door shut slowly, carefully.

~~~

Gracie's eyes never left my face as I told my story. Tears leapt from her chin to her lap where her hands worried a hankie.

            “You did wonderfully, Pet," she said when I finished. She gathered me into her arms and spoke against my shoulder. "I’m so proud of you, so glad for you.”

            I melted against her and wept for what seemed like forever. All the while, she poked through my hair with her age-dry fingers, releasing every tangle.

            “Go home and fetch the box,” she said finally. “We’ll have pie when you get back.”

            After we ate, licked our plates, and put our dishes in the sink, Gracie led the way to the living room. She patted the spot beside her on the sofa.

            “Have a seat,” she said. “Bring the box.”

            After I settled beside her she told me to open it. I tugged at the rag ribbon and drew it away. Undid the little brass latch. When I lifted the lid, I gasped. There was no gun. Instead, there was a glass pie plate and an index card that turned out to be Gracie’s secret recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie. Underneath that was my dresser cloth, the one she said I’d need some day.

            I shut my mouth and faced Gracie, eyes wide. “It’s not a . . . ”

            Gracie nodded, smiled slightly. “I know. Mac came up with the plan. I hoped it might work, prayed it would. Oh, how I prayed. Thank God it did.”

            I held my ribs tight and grinned. “Mac saved me,” I said. “I thought it would be you, but him saving me from beyond the grave? That’s really cool, don’t you think?”   

Crushed--Part V

Prayer helps.  More than once I’ve said, “Lord, please do something.  To make me not like _____ (insert man’s name).”  Bad breath.  That’s a good one.  Sloth. That worked once.  With the cute guy I served with at church years ago.  He had longish black hair going gray and an awesome radio voice.  I think that might’ve been the first time I ever said, “Lord, do something.” 

            We both showed up for a work day at church.  Him with his family.  Me and mine.  I overheard him talking to the pastor out in the parking lot.

“I don’t want to break a sweat.  Know what I mean?  Why don’t you buy and I’ll fly?  To Lowe’s.” 

Voila!  Spell broken.  Sloth makes my top lip twitch.  Thanks, God.

Jake straightened and dusted the Millie hairs off his hands. Searched for and found his coffee.  He stayed there, with his elbows on his thighs, sipping from time to time. I clanked my cup in its saucer.  In case he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure where I was.

He turned his shoulders a bit. “I know what I want you to read today,” he said.

            I pressed my palm to my forehead.  “Dang it!  I forgot my notebook.”

            Silas came back out.  Tapped Jake’s arm with a balled up, grey t-shirt. 

            “Here.”

            “Thanks,” Jake said.  He pulled it on. Much better.

            “You really forgot your notebook?” Silas said.  “Bummer.  Hey, wait a minute. I know what we can do instead.” He turned to Jake. “Do you ever feel people’s faces like the blind people do on t.v. ?”

            Jake’s forehead furrowed. “You know, I’ve never done that, but we can if you want.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and massaged my temples.  This isn’t happening. 

Silas stood and pushed chairs around.  “This’ll be cool.  Okay, so the person who’s getting their face felt sits here.  The other two people sit across from him.  Or her.”

Jake stood. “You guys go first,” he said.  “Where’s my chair?”

Silas positioned him in the solo seat.

“You touch one side of his face. I’ll take the other,” I told Silas.  ‘Cause I’m afraid to do both, all by myself. 

Jake sat up taller.  Pushed his chin out a bit.  “Close your eyes,” he said.  "Pretend you’re blind, like me.”

I cheated.  I didn’t touch Jake.  Didn’t shut my eyes either. Instead, I watched Silas.  He ran his fingernails from Jake’s jaw to just under his eye.  I listened to the dry, papery sound.  Scruffy.

“Did you shave today?” Silas said. “It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“Naw.  I usually let it go until the weekend.  Jenny’s around more then.”

Silas rubbed his pointer finger back and forth under Jake’s nose.  “I can’t wait to have whiskers.  It’s gonna be so cool.”

Jake chuckled. “Don’t say that.  It's a pain in the butt, having to shave every day.”

“I don’t care,” Silas said.  “I want a moustache.”

Jake turned away from Silas.  “What do you think, Dana?” he said.  “About my face? Aren’t you supposed to be touching it too?”

            I swallowed.  Reached out. Cupped his jaw in my palm.  Felt a muscle tense. Held it a second more.  Let go.

            “It’s a nice face, Jake. Your coloring’s great. Very golden.”

            “What about my eyes?” he said. “In high school, I was voted—“

            I smiled.  “Prettiest eyes,” I said.  “I remember you telling me.  What did I get?  Do you remember?”

            He nodded.  “Class clown.”

            I smiled.  “Good memory.”

            Jake rubbed his hands on his shorts. “What about my eyes now?”

            “What do you mean?” But I knew.

            “Do they look like poached egg whites?  I remember the blind people I used to see.  That’s what their eyes seemed like.” He made his eyes big.

            What is that color? What does it remind me of? “Ever been to Asheville?  Or Gatlinburg?”

            He nodded.

            “So you know what the Smoky Mountains look like?”

            He squinted.  Seemed to be remembering.  “Kind of.  Dark blue, with a little green?  Is that what you mean?”

            I focused on his wide open gaze.  “Yeah, like that.  Now picture them in the morning with the mist rising.  Or fog. That’s what they're like—misted mountains.  Not poached eggs.”

            He covered his eyes for a minute then slid his hands down until they met—fingers lined up, palm to palm.  For a minute, he looked like he was praying. 

            “Cool.”

            No one said anything for a bit.  Silas pecked me on the leg.  Mouthed now-what?  I pointed to Jake’s head.  To the silver-gold stubble.  Silas rubbed it with his hand—back, forth, back.

            “You’ve got great hair, Jake,” he said. “Like a recruiter for the military.” He made his voice deep. “‘The few. The proud. The Marines.’”

            Jake and I laughed.  “Good one, Si,” I said.

            “Is my mouth still pretty?” Jake said.  “Jenny used to say it was her favorite part of me.”  Did she?

            I traced it with my purple-black pinky nail.  “She’s right, Jake.  You could totally model Chapstick.”

            I glanced down at his arm. Noticed the rash of goosebumps.  My chair made a squawnky noise as I scooted back

“All done.”

            I watched a shadow of disappointment flit across his face.  You don’t remember how to mask your emotions, do you?

            “Feel Silas’s face,” I said, injecting brightness into my tone. “Tell him how handsome he is.”

            Jake swept his hand from side to side, searching. His wrist caught Silas’s ear.  He floated his hand higher.  Found the top of Silas’s head.  Patted.

            “Man, Silas.  That’s a ton of hair. You should give me some.”

            Looks like dandelion fluff, but curly.

            Silas shook his head.  “No way.  Yours is better.”

            “Aren’t his cheeks soft?” I said.

            “And he wants whiskers,” Jake said.  “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Silas.  Don’t ever do that.”

            Jake ran a finger down Silas’s nose.

            “He’s got my nose and Joel’s mouth,” I said.  “All three of you could be Chapstick models.”

            Silas fidgeted.  “Your turn, Mom.  Trade me seats.”

            Oh, no.  I wondered if they noticed my sharp intake of breath.  Silas stood.  Then me.  I lowered onto the chair.  I felt Jake's hand above my head somewhere.  When it dropped,  my hairclip bit into my scalp.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “My hair’s up.”

            Jake’s nose wrinkled.  “You have long hair now? But it was always short.”

            “I know,” I said. “A few years back Joel told me, ‘You’ve had every short hair style there is.  Why don’t you grow it long?’ So I did.”

            “How long is it now?” Jake said.  “Let it down.”

            You’ve got to be kidding.  I pinched the clip and my hair tumbled free.

            “It’s halfway down her back,” Silas said.  “And it’s the color of coffee.”

            I chuckled.  “Nice description, Si.”

            Jake’s hand came at me.  My lungs felt empty but I didn’t do anything about it.  He found a hank of hair and followed it until his wrist collided with my shoulder.

            “Wow,” he said softly. “That is long.”

            I almost ducked when both his hands approached, on either side of my face.  I locked eyes with Silas.  Did you feel that?  The air just thickened.  Jake’s fingers combed through my hair.  Went out the back.

            “Nice,” he said.  My cheeks felt suddenly sunburned.

            “Face time,” Silas said. I glared at him. 

            What will my face feel like? I tried to remember what I looked like that morning.  No little red bumps today.  Good.  And crow’s feet? I don’t think you can feel those.

            Jake ran his fingers from my forehead to my chin.  Kept going.  Under my jaw. Stopped at my necklace.

            “What’s this?” he said, rolling the chain back and forth.

            “My cross necklace.”

            “There’s other stuff on there too,” Silas said.

            Jake’s finger explored each item.

            “There’s a rock that says ‘faith,’” I said. “And a cross, of course. That’s a little pearl, like in the pearl of great price parable, if you know it.  And the silver rectangle says, ‘GRACE.’”

            Jake dropped his hands to the sides of his chair. Sat back.  “So you believe?”

            I saw Silas’s head tilt, but I knew what Jake was asking.

            “Yes,” I said. 

            Jake scratched his arm a couple times before he spoke. 

“And you think your God’s a good god?”

“Uh huh.”  I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t.

“So exactly how do you explain what happened to me?”

I winced and put up my pointer finger. “Can you give me some time, Jake?” I said. “To gather my thoughts on that?"

Jake shifted. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.  Then my mom’s coming for a few days.  How ‘bout Friday?”

I counted on my fingers.  One, two, three, four days. Whoo!

 “Friday’s good,” I said.

I stood.  Took Silas’s hand.  Pulled him to standing.  Scooped up Millie’s leash. Tugged. Gives me plenty of time to ponder the mysteries of pain and suffering and all that.

“And don’t forget your notebook,” Jake said. “'Cause I know what I want to hear next.”

His tone made me turn. “And what would that be?”

“Love stories.  You do have love stories, don’t you?

The Mourning After

I will be naked soon, for the rending of my garments.  Hairless too.  The women tell me grief softens with time.  Not mine.  The pain in my mother’s heart is like Job’s pottery shards.  Never will the knife-edged fragments cease to cut me.  From the inside out.

The women grip my wrists.  To keep my nails from my face.

“You’ll be ugly.”

What do I care?  I have no need, no desire, for beauty.  For a husband.  I have John now.  My Jesus presented him to me, and I to him, a parting gift.  Dear John, the only one who didn’t flee—trembling, bleating, denying. 

~~~~~~~

I knew.  I sensed it from the very beginning.  In that moment when I heard his first wet breath and mewling cry.  A seemingly ordinary infant until you drew closer and felt the urge to be with, to listen to, to learn from.  What?  What is it that a babe can know?  Any other?  Nothing.  This one?  Everything, and more.

Joseph had stood behind me in that place, in the moment.  “It is . . . he is . . . as the angels said.”

I felt my thoughts and Joseph’s melt together. My words came out into the night air, with the silver mist of my breath.

 “This babe will change everything.  Everyone.”

My consciousness withdrew from my husband’s.  I felt a contraction, a wringing, in my womb.  I had a vision of a grape press--ancient and of stone--pressing, crushing, seeming to destroy my son.  I tried to stand there in the stable.  Bent at the waist, I pushed my fists against my gut.  A growl of a moan worked its way up and out of me.  I shook my head, felt the whip of wet hair in my eyes.  Over and over.  My tears wet the dung at my feet.

Then every day, as he grew into his destiny, this was my prayer.

‘Not today, LORD.  Nor tomorrow.  One more day, Master.  He’s my precious boy child.  Let him live to teach, to heal, to love, another day.  He has all of eternity to be with you.  Please. Just a few more . . .”

~~~~~~~

The women hover, their hands and fingers like insects, close to my face.  I swat and moan.

“Leave.  Me.  Be.”

I look toward the Temple Mount.  “Take me, Abba.  Sooner than later.  Today, please?  I want to see him, touch him, kneel before him.  One more time.”

I consider the rope on the bucket in the well.

~~~~~~~

Elizabeth is on her way.  She sent word.  It will be a comfort to spend hours, no, days, mourning our sons.  They were the bright stars of this world.  For a season.  So brief.  Then they were snatched by evil men, for the sake of pride, power, pleasure even.

We can starve together, Elizabeth and me.  Call it fasting.  We have no appetites.  They died with our sons.  Moses himself could bring manna and we’d turn away.  Purse our lips, bow our heads.

I’ll let Elizabeth hold me.  Rather, I’ll cradle her fragile, diminished frame.  I’ll let down her hair.  Comb its grayness with my fingers.  Whisper into it.

“You pretend I’m John.  I’ll make believe you’re Jesus.”

We have no need of husbands.  It is no longer necessary to pretend we love them more than the fruit of our loins. 

~~~~~~~

Jesus never resembled me.  Didn’t have my eyes, the cleft in my chin.  But he belonged to me.  I carried him in my inmost parts.  His purity came through mine.  No woman has ever, will ever again, do what I have done.  My life will be the death of me.

“He will save his people from their sins.”  The angel told Joseph that.

The most glorious purpose the world has ever known and yet, I hate it.  My LORD knows and loves me still.  My confession is the world’s victory.  How can there still be fools?  Have you not seen?  Have you not heard? 

No, he was not beautiful, other than to me.  Most did not appreciate his not-of-this-world-ness.  Only if you sat at his feet or knelt before him could you glimpse heaven’s light.  And then, only if your heart was at the perfect angle of understanding.  The shalom of Yahweh—a greeting, a farewell, a covenant, an overwhelming peace—would engulf you for all time when you were surrounded by the light that was Jesus. 

That.  I will hold fast to that.  Light.  Shalom.  Yeshua HaMashiach.

           

A Heart, a Cross, and a Key

Jesus kissed my daughter and me at least three times last weekend.  We were on a mother daughter roadtrip.  In search of the college.

I gassed up the Honda in Summersville.  The cashier let me mix bold roast coffee with flavored cappucino for no extra charge, but he wouldn't look me in the eye.  I squinted at him.  Look at me.  Nothing.

I put my dollar five on the counter.  "Can I ask you a weird question?"

He cowered.  "Weird?''

"Have you heard of people who are afraid of big, long bridges?  And sometimes state troopers'll drive 'em across?"

He used his finger in the corner of his t-shirt to clean the ledge over the cash drawer. 

"I've heard of it, but I don't think they do it 'round here," he said.  "You afraid of the New River Gorge bridge?"

When he said the name, my heart revved.  I nodded.

"You can't see over the sides, you know."

I took a breath.  It sounded like a death rattle.  "But it's really high and really long.  And it's raining to beat all."

"Just drive slow.  Stay in the middle."

And pray like nuts.

He looked out into the soaking wet night.

"The wind," he said.  "Be careful about the wind.  It'll blow your car all over the place."

My fingernails bit my palms.  I walked over to the door and got my umbrella ready to go.

"Thanks," I said inside the store.

"For nothing," I said outside.

I knocked on my daughter's window.  "Your turn to drive."

We drove five miles.  I waited.  For the mist to form on my palms.  For my heartbeat to make my shirt move.  For my daughter to look over at me and say, "You okay?"

And then we turned left onto State Route 39, miles before the gorge.  We drove past the low level of Summersville Lake.  Wound through a mile or two of rhodedendron and mobile homes.

"Pull over," I told my daughter. 

"Why?"

"We missed it," I said.  "You don't need to drive after all."

I looked at the stars as I walked around the back of the Honda.  I clasped my hands and made my index fingers point up.  Like a steeple. 

"Thank you so much."


The next morning, after our complimentary continental breakfast, we took our bags out to the car.  It wouldn't start.  My palms felt slick.

"Your dad's going to be so mad at me," I said.

The front desk clerk didn't have jumper cables.  The maintenance man fussed me out for not having AAA roadside assistance.  I went back out to the car.

"I guess we take a taxi to the college tour."

My daughter stuck her lower lip out. 

"If you could find out who has the car on either side of us, maybe--"

I walked through the lobby, towards the dining room.  I paused outside.  Lord. . . . help . . . please.

The room smelled like waffles.  I took off my eggplant-colored rain hat.

"Does anyone have a red Sebring or a light green Chevy Malibu?"

A man in a Nascar hat raised his hand.  "Red Sebring."

I squeaked.  Raised my eyes to the ceiling.  Thank you so much.

Nascar man and his elderly father followed me to the Honda.  They produced extra long jumper cables.

I reached out to touch their bright orangeness.  "They're beautiful."

The older man squinted at my battery.  "Looks original.  If I were  you, I'd high tail it up to Wal-Mart and spend $30 or $40 on a new one."

The car started.

'Just let it run 15, 20 minutes," Nascar man said when his dad wasn't looking.

I dug in my pockets.  "Can I give you twenty bucks?"

The man swatted air.  "Pa-lease."

I bit my lip.  "A hug then?"

He opened his arms. 

"Thank you so much, you guys," I said.  "You saved the day."

My daughter knocked on the windshield.

"I best be going," I said as I opened the car door.  "Have a nice life."


I glanced over at my daughter as we climbed a monstrous mountain between here and there.

"You know Jesus has kissed us twice on this trip."

She didn't look up from her AP biology book.

"I know," she said.  "I just hope he kisses me one more time."

I was pretty sure I knew what she was talking about--the ring.

Two days ago, I had walked into my favorite jewelry store.  I showed a picture of the ring to the store owner.

"A heart, a cross and a key," he said.  "It's clearly Christian, but what does it mean?"

"It's a promise ring," I said.

The jeweler shook his head.  "No, it's not.  A promise ring is a ring with a tiny diamond that tells a young lady a guy intends to marry her someday."

I took my jean jacket off and laid it on the glass case. 

"Actually," I said.  "It's a purity ring."

The jeweler squinted.  "A purity ring?  What's that mean?"

I pushed my shirt sleeves up and puffed my bangs off my forehead.

"It means she's saving herself for . . . you know . . . marriage."

The jeweler huffed.  "In this day and age?  Whoever heard of such a thing?"

I didn't smile.  "A mother can hope."

The jeweler snorted.  "I grew up in the age where women did that.  Saved themselves for marriage."

He kept talking as he bent to examine a stack of catalogs.  "Every woman I've ever talked to said she wished she hadn't waited."

I put my hands on the glass case.  "I wish I'd waited."

The jeweler paused his searching and looked up.  "You do?"

I nodded.  "That's something you can only give away once.  I wish I'd given it to my husband, instead of . . . "

The jeweler massaged his jaw.  "Wow," he said.  "That's really nice."

I looked at my hands on the case.  I touched my wedding ring, then the  ring my husband gave me for Mother's Day the year our middle child was born.

The jeweler stood.  "You still married to him?"

I nodded and pointed to the blue opal ring on my left hand.

"He bought this here, remember?"  I said.  "For our twentieth anniversary."

The jeweler lifted my hand to his face.  "Him?  Ah, he's a good guy."

We looked through the books for religious rings.  We saw faith, hope, and charity charms.  Star of David rings.  Crucifixes, with and without Jesus on them.

The jeweler closed the last catalog.  "No purity rings,"  he said.  "I can make one.  Engrave a signet ring with the heart, cross, and key."

I headed for the door.  "I'll get back to you."


The college tour guide was not earning his keep. 

I leaned over and whispered in my daughter's ear.  "Wanna cut out?" I said.  "I'd rather go back over that mountain today than tonight."

She yawned.  "Yeah.  Let's."

We found the Honda in the vast commuter parking lot.  I held my breath as I turned the key in the ignition.  Success.

Before I backed out, I handed the Mapquest directions to my daughter.

"Basically, we're going to follow 'em in reverse," I said.  

She turned to the last page.  "We need Route 29 West," she said.  "Turn right at the second stop light."

After the second stop light, that's when I saw it.  The Lifeway store.  I flipped my turn signal on just seconds before I whipped the car into the parking lot.

My daughter clutched the grab handle over her window.  "What are you doing?"

"This is your third kiss," I said.

"How do you know?"

I smiled as I put the car in park.  "Just a feeling."

There they were.  Up by the cash registers.  Not one but two.  Two different styles of heart, cross, key rings.  The sign said, "Ask cashier to order your size."

My daughter flipped the display case back and forth.  "Which one do you like better?"

I shook my head.  "It's your ring."

"I like this one.  It's--"

"More delicate.  More feminine."

She smiled.

The salesperson took it out of the case.  "We can mail it to you in your size, but it'll take a few weeks."

I leaned against the counter.  "If this one fits, can she have it?"

The salesperson took the ring out of the box.  "Sure.  If it fits."

I put my hand on my chest.  My daughter slid the ring on, gave it a nudge to get it over her knuckle. 

She extended her arm and smiled at the ring.  "It's perfect."

I grinned.  "Awesome, but you can't wear it home.  You have to wait 'til Easter."

Her lower lip came out.  I shut my eyes and shook my head.

"Oh, okay," she said. 

Out in the car, she opened her phone.

"Who you texting?" I said.

"Daddy."

"What are  you saying?"

She smiled at the keyboard.  "I'm telling him Jesus is the best kisser ever."