A Time for Faith

by Busboom, Leah

  Inserting the meat thermometer (another utensil I had to purchase to prepare this meal) into the meaty breast, I pop the pan in the oven with a few minutes to spare on my carefully timed food preparation schedule. Mentally patting myself on my back, I call Sofie in to eat our cereal together.

  ~*~

  Ellie arrives just in time to help with last-minute food prep. This meal is starting to stress me out because of everything you need to do at the same time. Make the gravy . . . Heat the rolls . . . Mash the potatoes. How did Mom make this look easy?

  “What can I do to help?”

  I glance at my list. “The turkey will need to rest for about five minutes once I pull it out. Can you mash the potatoes and I’ll make the gravy when it’s time?”

  She nods.

  We both peer through the oven glass window at the roasting bird. “The red thingy hasn’t popped yet,” I observe. Ellie smirks at my word choice. “What?” I say as she giggles. “Well, what do you call it?” I grumble. She continues to laugh at my expense but offers no other terminology I can add to my extensive turkey prep notes.

  A sizzling noise draws our attention to the stovetop where the potatoes are boiling over for the second time. I run over, quickly turning the burner down, and cringe at the stove clean-up I’m going to have to do afterwards.

  “It smells yummy, Noah. Did you stuff the bird?” My sister squints closer at the turkey in the oven because her favorite thing at Thanksgiving is the stuffing.

  I point to the box sitting on the counter. “Is that okay?”

  She laughs. “Sure. Maybe next year we can try Mom’s stuffing recipe,” she says wistfully. Mom did make the best stuffing.

  The doorbell rings and Ellie rushes off to answer it. A few minutes later, Margaret wanders in carrying two pies. My daughter is chattering to her about the turkey. Hopefully she isn’t describing the “icky thing” I pulled out earlier.

  Over cereal, Sofie questioned me again about what that was. My unconvincing response about spices didn’t sit well with her. The second time she asked, I told her it was something for making gravy and she seemed to accept that. Oh, the joys of a five-year-old’s curiosity.

  “Where should I put these, Noah?” Margaret asks. In the short time I’ve handled her business finances, she’s become like a second mom to me. Margaret is quite the treasure.

  I nod towards the island as I drain the water off the potatoes in the sink. The red thingy finally popped, and the thermometer read over the suggested temperature, so the bird’s cooling on the counter, ready to carve. “Wherever you can find space.”

  She chuckles. “I’ll mash the potatoes. And we need to get that gravy started,” she says in an experienced-sounding voice. I’m grateful for the help.

  It’s all-hands-on-deck as we finish making the meal. I enjoy working beside Ellie and Margaret, who talk and laugh, helping me feel more confident that the meal is going to turn out okay. Sofie carefully folds the festive paper napkins I gave her to keep her busy.

  When we sit at the table, I recheck my list to make sure we didn’t forget anything.

  “Butter for the rolls!” I exclaim as I run back to the kitchen for it. Mom always put the butter in a fancy dish, but I just plop the plastic margarine container on the table. Oh well.

  “Let’s say grace,” I say once we’re settled at the table. We join hands and I pray the simple prayer I researched on the internet—I didn’t want to botch the prayer by trying to wing it.

  “Amen,” Ellie and Margaret both echo after me.

  I look around the table and feel truly blessed. “Dig in!” I say as I pass the mashed potatoes.

  ~*~

  My day isn’t complete without my nightly FaceTime with Rae. We’ve been doing this for a couple of weeks now, and I’m hooked. Hearing her sweet voice and seeing her pretty face every evening is one of the highlights of my day. This will have to replace dating, for now.

  “How did Thanksgiving with your parents go?” I ask after connecting the call. Rae’s spending the holiday weekend at her childhood home in Denver.

  She laughs. “Typical family meal. Mom made far too much food and my stepfather fell asleep in front of the TV afterwards.”

  I chuckle.

  “I want to hear how your meal went,” Rae says with excitement in her voice. I’ve been talking about the meal for days, so she knows how stressed out I was about it. “Did your extensive research pay off?” she teases.

  I groan. She knows me too well, plus I may have mentioned my research a couple times too many. “Everything came out perfect. Although I almost traumatized my daughter when I pulled the neck out of the bird, but I made a quick recovery.”

  A loud belly laugh floats across the line. “Was it icky?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “How did you know?”

  “Ninety percent of things are icky to a five-year-old. My kids say it all the time. Seriously though, didn’t you have any miscues? I would have if it were my first time fixing the big meal.”

  “Okay, honest confession time.” I snicker at the memories of my “miscues,” as Rae called them. “The yams were hard as rocks, so I had to microwave them, but they eventually got done. I forgot the fried onions in the green bean casserole, so we added them later with each person sprinkling them on top. And I forgot to buy whipped cream for the pumpkin pie. I swear it was on my list . . .” I mentally shrug, wondering how I missed that important item. “Margaret had some of that whipped cream in a can, so she rushed home and got it. Then Sofie sprayed it all over the table.”

  By this point, Rae’s howling with laughter. I hear her snort a few times as well.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say in a grumpy voice after she composes herself again.

  “It’s just the way you told it, Noah. Have you considered writing comedy?” Her soothing words have me smiling again in no time.

  We talk about her shopping trip planned with her mom to hit up the Black Friday sales tomorrow. “You’re still planning on the big move on Saturday, right?” she asks.

  “Yep. I have my fingers crossed that people show up to help load and unload. Otherwise, it’s up to me, Pastor Tim, and Sofie,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

  “Oh, with Pastor Tim involved, the volunteers will show. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Noah

  MOVING DAY. LIKE I TOLD RAE, I won’t be able to relax until the moving crew arrives and I know we have enough help to get all this stuff in the moving van I rented for the day. Considering I’ve lived in Paradise Springs for almost eight years, until recently my circle of friends could be counted on only a few fingers. Although I’m trying to mend my ways, I still don’t have confidence that people will volunteer to give up their Saturday to help me.

  I stare at the boxes littering every room in the house. Even after a garage sale and selling several things on Craigslist, our pile of stuff is still overwhelming. I bet it doesn’t fit into the small bungalow I rented from the Petersons. Another round of downsizing is soon to come.

  The doorbell rings at ten, and Pastor Tim smiles at me through the front door’s beveled glass. When I open the door, I peer around him, looking for the moving crew. One skinny teenager and a hunched over elderly man hover behind him. My heart sinks, but I manage to hide the frown that wants to take over my face.

  “Are you ready for us?” Pastor Tim asks in his jovial voice.

  Nothing seems to get Tim down, so I mentally try to figure out how this ragtag crew is going to get the job done. Right as I’m starting to panic, two pickup trucks squeal into the driveway. Teenagers of all shapes and sizes tumble from the back, along with a couple burly looking men.

  Pastor Tim slaps my back as he leans over and says in a low voice, “I bet we have everything moved and unloaded in an hour.”

  Speechless, I nod a couple times then come out of my shocked daze. “Come in and I’ll show you what we have. Do you want to load the furniture first?”

&
nbsp; The older gentleman is Buddy Green, and according to Tim he’s an expert at tearing down and setting up electronics. I point him to the two TVs and an outdated, bulky desktop computer. He nods and starts fiddling with the wires.

  The other two men introduce themselves but I instantly forget their names. They quickly start shouting out instructions to the energetic teens. Sofie huddles at my legs as we watch our possessions being efficiently brought out to the moving van. Pastor Tim declares himself an expert packer, and he directs where to put stuff in the van. The structured chaos around us is comforting in an odd way.

  Less than an hour later I gaze across the empty house. The only reminder that we lived here are some indentations in the carpet where the heavy furniture previously sat. Sofie shrieks as we walk through the house, her voice echoing in the empty rooms.

  “My voice sounds big,” she says with a giggle.

  I grasp her tiny hand as we make our way from room to room, making sure nothing was left behind. This house is too big for our needs. What was I thinking when I bought it? The granite countertops and high-end stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen mock me as we walk by. I purchased the six-burner Wolf range the first year in the house and used it about five times, including the recent Thanksgiving feast. My emphasis on having the best things eventually caught up with me. What a wake-up call. I do regret leaving Sofie’s room behind. She loved the bright pink walls that Ellie helped me paint. Maybe Mr. Peterson will let me paint Sofie’s room in the bungalow.

  Once we’ve walked through the entire house, I pull a key off my keyring to hide under the front mat for the cleaning company. They’re coming over tomorrow to make sure everything is spick and span for the new owner. They’re familiar with the house because they’ve been cleaning the huge place weekly since I purchased it—except for recently, because I couldn’t afford them anymore.

  We join Pastor Tim at the front door. “Did we get everything?” he asks.

  “Yeah, looks good.”

  “Do you want to follow in your vehicle? I’ll drive the moving van,” he says. His grin tells me that he can’t wait to drive the oversized van with the stick shift.

  I hand over the keys to the van to the happy pastor. “Follow me. The new place is just off Fifth street.”

  The pastor struggles using the clutch—the moving van lurches and leaps forward a couple times, the tires screeching against the pavement, until the engine dies. From my car’s rearview window, I watch tech guru Buddy try to suppress a grin from the passenger seat. After two attempts, Pastor Tim gets the hang of the manual transmission and the van moves smoothly. Suppressing my own laughter, I wait for the truck to pull up behind me and we head out.

  ~*~

  Many hands make light work. Thank you, Lord, for all these kind people. That prayer of gratitude pops into my head as I stare across the sea of boxes and furniture stuffed into my tiny new home. I’m still surprised everything fit. The crew had everything moved and unloaded in just under two hours. And I thought it would take all day.

  I order pizza and bring out the six packs of sodas and bottled water that I purchased. Although there isn’t much seating, everyone finds a place to perch to eat—either on the floor or the furniture scattered around the room. Sofie sits on my lap and watches everything with wide eyes. She hasn’t seen this many people in our house before.

  Ten large pizzas are consumed in a few minutes by the hungry crew. The boisterous teens laugh and talk in between bites. Ellie stops by with a pan of brownies, and in seconds there’s only crumbs remaining.

  “Noah, what do you do?” the man named John asks, as he nibbles on a brownie.

  “I help small businesses run the financial side of their business. Do their accounting, taxes, payroll, stuff like that.” Funny how quickly my confidence in my new business has grown and I can talk about it as if I’ve been doing this for years. Robertson Industries and the allure of working for a large corporation is firmly behind me. It just occurs to me that I don’t even miss my old life anymore.

  The other man, Darryl, pipes up, “My brother is a mechanic and runs a small auto repair place. He could really use your help.”

  Pulling my wallet out of my pocket, I hand him a business card. “Have him set up an appointment. I’d be happy to see if I can help.” Surprisingly, I haven’t had to spend a dime for marketing or advertising yet. Word of mouth is proving to be powerful—and best of all, it’s free.

  Pastor Tim starts collecting trash, and everyone pitches in to help with clean up. In a matter of minutes, the room is clean and the moving crew departs as quickly as they arrived.

  Once everyone clears out, Ellie exhales a loud breath. “Noah, you’ve still got too much stuff. Where are we going to put everything?”

  I laugh. “Hold another garage sale? Donate some more stuff?”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “I have first dibs on Mom’s old mixer.”

  “It’s yours, sister. You’ve just got to find it.”

  We both laugh.

  “You don’t need to stick around,” I add.

  She squeezes my arm. “Let’s worry about getting the two bedrooms set up first. Then I’ll leave you to it,” Ellie says as we head to the bedrooms.

  Hours later, after talking to Rae and updating her on the move, I lay in bed, staring at my new ceiling. I haven’t lived in a house with a popcorn ceiling for a long time. Would the owner let me remove it for him?

  My heart swells with emotion that all those kind-hearted people helped me today. They don’t even know me. Plus, I’m not even technically a member of Pastor Tim’s church. Guess he feels some obligation to help me based on my assistance with the stained-glass window.

  For the first time in a long time, I remember to say my evening prayers, just like Mom taught me. God, thank you for sending help my way today. Amen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Raelynn

  EVEN THOUGH THE WEATHER HAS turned cooler, Frank wants to try to remove and repair one of the stained-glass sections today. It’s a bright and sunny Saturday—Colorado has the most stunning blue skies when the sun shines. With the backdrop of the snow-covered mountains, you’d swear you were living in an idyllic oil painting. I itch to get out my paint brush and try to capture the scene, but there isn’t time before I meet everyone at the church.

  When I arrive, Noah pulls in right beside me. We grin at each other as we get out of our vehicles. The other two cars in the lot must be Frank and June. I pop my trunk and get out my supplies.

  “Let me help you carry those,” Noah says as he takes the box from me. When our fingers touch, a tingle runs up my arm. “By the way, I like the new look,” he says as he nods towards my new haircut.

  A blush heats my face. “I got tired of hair falling out of a bun or ponytail, so this is much easier.” The shoulder length cut is perfect; I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner.

  We enter the sanctuary where Frank and June are sitting in the front pew. Both are oblivious to our presence because they’re in an animated discussion. As we get closer, my eyes widen. Frank’s usual attire has been replaced with a pressed button-down shirt and khaki pants. His hair has been combed, and he even shaved his face. June is in her same flowery dress, but her sturdy, chunky heels have been upgraded to a pair of flattering, although terribly impractical, stiletto-style heels.

  Noah elbows me and whispers, “Looks like those two are flirting.”

  Right as he says those words, Frank sees us and waves. “’Bout time you two got here,” he says in his gruff voice.

  June hops to her feet and gives first Noah and then me a hug. “My, you two sure do make a cute couple,” she says with a wink.

  “We aren’t a couple,” Noah and I both say, the words rushing out our mouths at the same time. Our denial sounds a little too vehement to be believable.

  Frank snorts.

  June walks over and turns my head from side to side. “Rae, dear, your new haircut is so becoming on you,” she says after her
inspection.

  “Thank you, June,” I reply while the two men look bored with the hair discussion. Clearing my throat and changing the topic, I say, “I’m ready to work on the window.” I point towards the box still grasped in Noah’s hand.

  That comment spurs Frank into action. “I thought I’d remove only the first section right now and see how that goes. Once I have it out, we can start working on it over there.” He motions towards two sawhorses and a large piece of plywood set up in the corner, creating a makeshift worktable. Noah sets my box near the table.

  Frank climbs the tall ladder and uses a wedge-looking device to pry the first section’s frame out while making sure not to disturb the next section. It’s a slow process, so Noah takes over after about half an hour. The men trade positions back and forth as they slowly work their way down the frame, prying it out. June fills the time with conversation mostly bordering on gossip, although I don’t remember much of what she said.

  The hope is that the wooden frame is still sturdy, so that the glass doesn’t fall out while we work on it and that it won’t sustain any additional damage during the removal. I didn’t realize the process would be so delicate and slow. I hold my breath when the frame pops out away from the rest of the window. Noah grabs the top from his position on the ladder and Frank catches the bottom. Then they slowly carry the window over to the worktable.

  Next Frank and Noah hang the tarp that I purchased several weeks ago to cover the opening. They tack it up with small nails, the bright blue tarp looking out of place beside the rest of the beautiful window. Part of the sanctuary is now dark without the sunlight streaming in.

  “This should hold until we get the first section repaired,” Noah says as he climbs off the ladder. Frank nods.

  The four of us carefully examine the glass. I pull out the grid I created several weeks ago with Noah and rattle off the damage to this section that we previously identified. Noah, Frank, and June note any other areas needing repair.