+Always When+

The man jabbed at his oatmeal before he took a bite, certain he’d recognize poison if he saw it.  From time to time he used his binoculars to note his wife’s progress out in the yard. While he ate, he scratched on the notepad next to his bowl: church, filling station, library, home. He ripped the paper from the spiral and tucked it into his breast pocket, rose from the table and deposited his bowl in the sink, ran water to fill it. He returned to the picture window for one last property inspection. When he saw her gaze lift, he ducked behind the curtain.

            He tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Before he sat, he took the list from his pocket, smoothed it and propped it on the vanity where he’d be able to review it, recite its lines over and over, so he wouldn’t forget. He hated the forgetting and its frequency of late.

            “First I’ll drop her at her Bible study then I’ll fill up the car. Her and the hens’ll yack for at least an hour, maybe two, so I’ll have plenty of time to go to the library, look up ways she and her doctor might be trying to kill me.” He ran his hand over the nape of his neck. “Might have time for a trim too.”

+++

She didn’t speak on the way to town other than to point out the bluets that were lighting up the forest floor on her side of the car.

            He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Can’t look, gotta watch the road.”

            He clenched his teeth when he spotted it, the turn where he’d gotten the Buick hung up back before Christmas. Near as he could tell everything had pretty much gone all to hell that night.

            There hadn’t been a storm like that in forever, started out with hail as big as chestnuts, moved on to ice. He should’ve known better than to go down the mountain when The Weather Channel said not to, but they’d both had a hankering for cheeseburgers and pie from Larry’s Diner, plus he figured he could beat it—the mountain, the weather. Besides, how often were those young TWC bucks right?

            The Buick had fish-tailed on an ice patch. He steered in the opposite direction and the car’s rear end swung wildly, first one way then the other. He death-gripped the steering wheel and pumped the brakes again and again. When the car finally came to a stop, they were half-on, half-off the road. He glanced over at his wife. Her eyes were shut tight and she was whispering to herself a mile a minute. He reached over and patted her leg.

            When she opened her eyes, he smiled. “See? I got it under control.”

            He put the car in park, set the emergency brake, and popped the trunk. As he rooted around for the bag of kitty litter, he heard something. He inch-stepped toward the sound, clutched the trunk’s edge, leaned hard right. A man was there.

            “Who the hell are you?” he roared as he slip-slid his way toward his wife’s door.

            The stranger straightened, extended one hand but kept the other near his wife’s window. Is he touching her, the man thought, is he? He could barely hear the stranger’s voice over the howl of the wind and the siss of the sleet.

            “Michael Taylor, sir. I thought I might be of assistance. I have four wheel drive and a cell phone. May I drive you two off the mountain? Call a tow truck?”

            The man fought to keep his composure in front of the handsome young stranger, in front of his wife, in front of the good-looking stranger who no doubt wanted his wife, might've already— He squinted at the name tag on the man’s suit jacket. Remember the name, he thought. Do not forget it. 

             The stranger glanced down. “I just left the hospital. I’m a physician there, internal medicine.”

            “Of course you are,” the older man said. “Well, you can move along now. I don’t need your help. I’ve got kitty litter in the trunk. We’ll be just fine.”

            He saw the doctor take one more look at his wife before he walked back to his fancy vehicle. The older man waited for him to leave but he didn’t. He stayed until the Buick got back on the road.

            On the way down the mountain, the older man kept checking the rear view mirror.          

            “Damn fool’s following us,” he said.

            His wife’s hand hovered near his shoulder. He slapped at it. 
            “Don’t you coddle me. I know what you and your—” He heard the whisper of her coat on the seat as she tipped over to look out the side view mirror.

            “Don’t be . . . He is not. See, he's turning.”

            The man hunched closer to the steering wheel. “Yeah, but now he knows we live around here somewhere.”

+Like Salt to French Fries+

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?"  In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge.  Left knee touches the ground.   Right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower.  "Yesssss!"
            I run up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor.  I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, soup, and fruit cocktail.  I can't stop grinning because this makes me happy.

It was almost four years ago.  I was headed to BB&T.  I watched my feet on the sidewalk.  "Step on a crack, break your mother's back."  After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said loving in big letters and furniture in little letters.
            I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7.  It'd been on my mind for almost two years.  "Share your food with the hungry.  Clothe the naked." The words were a shish kebab skewer that poked me under the ribs every time I heard or read them.
            I'd been praying.  Waiting.  Looking for a burning bush.  All of a sudden, there it was.    But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush.  It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.

Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town.  To Christian Help.  I look through the blue part of my windshield.  "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God."  Usually it's there.  Especially if my trunk is full.
            I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk.  Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and went to assisted living.  I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" 
            She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me.  "Good to see you, girlie."

I love 'em.  All the ladies.  I'm going on year four of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more.  I work two to three hours a week.  Some of them are there every day.  They're all in their seventies, at least.  And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter?  She's ninety something.  Looks like a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards. 
            There's also Rose and Annie.  Sis and Carol too.  Ethel and Erlene come on Tuesdays, like me.  Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her pound cakes.  Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Erlene brings her sauerkraut with little, tasty shreds of pork. 
            I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies.  The way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room.  Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them. 

I've seen staff come and go in four years.  That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers.  But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me.  God bless her because running Christian Help requires managing chaos.  Reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.
            Cheryl's radiant.  Maybe she goes to a tanning booth.  Or she could be part Native American.  Just between you and me, I think it's because she loves the Lord.  Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.
            I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help.  Usually it's because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  In this town that means community service--bummer to them, blessing to us.  Now whenever I see them, I just smile real big and say, "Welcome!  We're so glad you're here."
            One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help.  I'd been waiting for this.  For the chance to give the reason for the hope I have.  I had paragraphs prepared, but they evaporated. "'Cause I love Jesus."  My voice sounded tiny.  He looked at me, head tilted.  "Cool."

To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you want to call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie.  It completes me.  For years, I went to Bible study every Friday morning.  Learned all kinds of neat stuff.  But one day, someone's opinion changed my life.  "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, you have to start doing what Jesus told you to." 
            I think serving is to life, what salt is to French fries.  I understood that the first time I filled an emergency food order.  It was a religious experience.  Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it.  I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."

I sure hope I'll still be driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades.   After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant."  But not yet.  Not until I'm at least as old as Spud.