by Sharon Hinck
“Message five.” Tom glanced as his watch. “I just have a minute to get to a meeting, so it’ll be short.
“I want to tell you one more time. I love you.
“I loved you when we met in college, and you debated our PolySci prof. You have more determination than anyone I know. And no matter how many papers you had due, you always had a plan to keep them under control.
“I loved you the day of our wedding. When you walked toward me, it hit me that you’d chosen me, over every other guy. I knew God had given me the best gift He’d ever given a human on this planet.
“And I loved you when Bryan was born. Watching you in pain was one of the hardest days of my life, and I wondered if anyone could survive what you were going through. And between every contraction, you smiled and squeezed my hand and told me you were fine. I wish I had your strength.”
His sentences tumbled together. Slow down, Tom. Let me savor this.
He barely paused for a breath. “Tomorrow’s the day. My first deployment. Don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the things that come up. And, hey”—he leaned forward and stage whispered —“that’s for your ears only. As far as the chain of command knows, I am brimming with confidence.”
I giggled and rocked back. “I promise not to tell.”
“We’re both facing challenges. This time apart is going to change us both.”
He was right. Would I even know him when he came home? Would we feel like strangers?
He squared his jaw. “My love isn’t going to change. And when I come home we’ll catch up on the experiences we’ve had. We’re going to come out of this closer than before. So hang on a little longer. I’ll see you soon.”
He stood and stepped around his desk.
He couldn’t stop now. I needed more messages.
I caught one last flash of his sleeve as he stepped past the camera. Then the recording ended.
The couch cushions welcomed me as I sank back and closed my eyes. Instead of replaying the DVD, I reviewed the conversation in my mind. Emotions swam through me—tenderness, pride, yearning. Slowly, one thought flutter kicked to the surface.
I was the most blessed woman on the planet.
“Thank you, Lord.” I reached for my notebook again. This prayer needed to be written down so I could share it with Tom when he got home.
Thank you for Tom and his beautiful messages. Thank you for sending support every time I needed it. Thank you for staying beside me in the darkest places, and walking with me to places where the sun rises again. Amen.
I paged back. Tom was right. This experience had changed me. I could read the change unfold on paper and ink. I held the notebook open at my goal of being in the Thanksgiving play. I’d blown that chance. I’d let Bryan down. But maybe there was still a way to serve the school and bring my son a little joy. A new idea sprouted to life, and I began to scribble, a grin growing across my face.
Tom came home in the afternoon. A brilliant, cool, amazing early-November afternoon.
We’d agreed I wouldn’t stand on the dock with the crowds, because he still had responsibilities, and my presence would distract him as he provided reintegration care to the men and women from his ship.
Mary Jo called and let me know when the ship docked. From that moment I began to pace the house. Bryan was still in school, and the quiet made each minute stretch.
Using a curling iron on my hair one strand at a time filled an hour. By the time I finished, the spirals on the first side were straightening already. A futile effort, but it gave me something to do. My reflection blinked back from the bathroom mirror. Did I look the same? My eyes definitely had more life in them than back in September when Tom left.
I checked the roast I’d prepared and added a few more potatoes and carrots. The pan was ready to pop in the oven an hour before supper. I put candles on the table and stared at my watch. Each car that rolled by found me pressing my nose against the window, heart racing so much, I feared triggering another panic attack.
A distraction was in order. I flopped on the couch and picked up my little notebook. Somewhere in these past months, God had not only healed the effects of the crime, He had kindled love in my heart again. I lost myself in memories of friends and strangers, of smiles and moments of comfort. My days had filled with small efforts, sometimes wrenched from the deepest places of my soul, but always guided and supported by God’s hands.
A car door slammed in front of the house. The notebook fell from my hands, and I sprang to my feet.
Suddenly I couldn’t move.
Had he changed? Would there be an awkward gulf between us after so much time? Would we be strangers?
The door opened.
Tom shouldered his way forward and then tossed his heavy bag to the side.
His cheeks were windburned, ruddier than I remembered. His shoulders seemed broader, filling the entryway. He gave the room a quick scan. Bryan’s bright handmade sign hung on the living room wall. Clusters of balloons dangled in each corner.
His smile acknowledged the decorations, but then his eyes locked on mine. “I’m home.” The words were so low I almost didn’t hear them, more a sigh of relief than a greeting. He took a step forward and paused. I realized he felt the same first-date shyness that gripped me.
“Penny?” He stared straight into my heart. All the swirling deep of oceans pulled me into his eyes.
I leapt across the few feet still between us.
Finally, finally, my husband’s arms wrapped around me again. I clung to him and burrowed my nose into his shoulder as if I could be completely absorbed by him—his strength, his love.
“I missed you so much.” My words were muffled against his shirt. I wouldn’t dissolve into a puddle of tears.
He gave another squeeze, then eased me back and coaxed my chin up.
I met his gaze, unafraid to let him see my smile. Confident, strong, and utterly in love. “Welcome home, Chaplain Tom.”
He kissed me, and I tasted coffee and smelled briny ocean breezes on his skin. His tenderness deepened to something more urgent, and his hands moved over me, leaving me breathless.
“What time does Bryan’s bus get here?”
I glanced at the clock. “We’ve still got an hour.”
Tom’s smile grew, and he buried his hands in my hair and captured my lips again.
Several weeks later, I wrestled the squirming python in my belly into submission and stepped onto the Jackson Elementary School stage. “Good evening.” The microphone hummed softly, and then my voice lurched up in volume as someone adjusted it. “Thank you to everyone who joined in our food drive. I’m happy to report that we were able to fill twenty baskets that the New Life Mission will distribute to families in our community who need extra support.” The effort of squeezing the words out left me breathless. I forced my arm to lift toward the stage-left wings, trying to beckon Lydia forward with a graceful gesture. It probably looked more like the flail of a drowning swimmer.
Lydia marched out to join me and grabbed the microphone from the stand. “Y’all are welcome to come to our prayer service any Wednesday night. Don’t know anyone that doesn’t benefit from a little prayin’, right? Thanks to all of you for givin’ from your hearts. And thanks to Penny for organizing this project. Now let’s get on with the play.” She stuffed the microphone back into the holder and gave me a warm hug. Applause rose through the gym while she whispered in my ear. “They don’t know what this took out of you. But Jesus does. And I’m thinkin’ He’s good and proud of you.”
“I’m glad I thought of it. All it took was a few flyers and phone calls.”
I caught sight of Bryan in the wings. His grin caught the light, and he gave me a thumbs-up sign.
Lydia released me. “A few phone calls and a bucketload of courage.” She pointed her chin toward the handsome man in the third row, applauding more fiercely than the rest. “I’m thinkin’ he’s proud of you, too.”
Six-foot-one of handsome Navy chaplain with fai
r hair and sea-flecked hazel eyes, Tom pushed out of the metal folding chair to lead a standing ovation. Warmth swelled under my sweater, stretching the cable-knit stitches. It was still hard to take in. Tom is home. He’s home!
I had hoped that he’d return to find me playing a Pilgrim mom in the play, busy with loads of activities and completely free from any effects of the crime. My life hadn’t followed that script. I still had nightmares sometimes, and I was easing back into life with tentative progress . . . two steps forward, one step back. But I had found a way to participate in the Thanksgiving play that worked for me. Satisfaction sighed through me like a deep breath as Lydia and I walked down the steps at the side of the stage. She went to stand beside Barney at the side of the gym. He put an arm around her and whispered something. She laughed and shook her head.
Another of my projects that was progressing well.
I took my seat next to Tom and he held my hand as the children jostled their way onto the stage for the production.
An hour later, pellets of frozen ice jitterbugged across the pavement outside the front windows of Jackson Elementary School. Not quite rain, not quite hail. Another example of Virginia’s moderation.
Bryan tugged at the stiff white collar of his black Pilgrim costume. “Maybe it’ll snow.”
“Probably not, sport.” Tom smiled at me over Bryan’s head. “It’s supposed to warm up, so maybe tomorrow we can toss a football around in the backyard.”
“Football!” Bryan charged him in a fake tackling move.
Tom grabbed Bryan around the waist and hefted him up over his shoulder. Muscles bulged against the pure white of his uniform—a uniform that should have made him imposing and formal. Instead, Tom’s laughter was boyish and full of mischief. He’d rarely stopped smiling since he’d arrived back home.
I joined their wild laughter. Other parents stared as they flowed past and out into the cold night.
Mrs. Pimblott maneuvered through the crush and headed our direction.
I ducked behind Tom, but she still marched straight toward us. Schoolmarm prim in a gray wool skirt and cat’s-eye glasses, she gave us a wide smile. “Bryan did a terrific job with his song. You must be very proud of him.”
I murmured agreement while Tom and Bryan continued to tussle.
“The food basket idea was inspired. And I love what you did with Bryan’s costume.”
I shrugged. “Just a little sewing.” Since the boys were continuing to roughhouse, I stepped closer to her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more responsive when Bryan was acting up last month . . .”
She pulled off her glasses and let them dangle from the cord around her neck as she leaned in. “You don’t need to apologize. Bryan explained that you were having trouble with the police.”
“What? No. I mean—” I stopped stammering to elbow Tom, who was chuckling. Since I didn’t want Bryan’s teacher watching for my face on America’s Most Wanted, I gave her a quick explanation. “But I’m doing better. In fact, if you still need a room mom to help the reading groups on Tuesdays, I’d love to help.”
“This little Pilgrim of ours wants to get going,” Tom said after Mrs. Pimblott scurried off to greet another family.
“Mm-hmm. I’m guessing the big Pilgrim wants to go, too.”
Tom settled Bryan back on his feet to his right, and pulled me close with his left arm. “Good call. Your menfolk are hungry.”
I giggled. “You could shoot a turkey or snare a rabbit or two.”
Tom kissed my forehead. “Or we drive home and have some ice cream to celebrate our son’s singing debut.”
“Or that.”
We laughed our way through the sleet and to the car. Driving home, we relived all the highlights of the play, assuring Bryan that his song was even better than the part where the Indian girl spilled a basket of corn and all the dancing deer slipped and fell.
“Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“I just remembered something. Can you pull into the grocery store?”
“Okay, but only one stop. Right, Bryan?”
“Yeah. We wanna go home.”
“No place like it,” Tom agreed. He pulled into the near-vacant lot and parked close to the door. “Want us to come in with you?”
“Nope. It’ll only take a second.” I slipped from the car and into the store. Up the aisle, I hurried toward the bakery counter. A stock boy dropped a can of soup with a loud crash. I startled but took a deep breath and marched forward.
Soon pastries and muffins stretched before me behind glass.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The white-haired woman behind the counter smiled at me.
I looked her in the eye and returned her smile. “I need a cake. A chocolate cake.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE supported and encouraged me throughout my work on this book. I share my deep appreciation with all the wonderful folk at Bethany House, but particularly the stellar editors Charlene Patterson, Ann Parrish, and Karen Schurrer. Thanks as well to agent Steve Laube, and writer friends from ACFW, Mount Hermon, MCWG, Word Servants, my Book Buddies, and various critique partners, particularly Sherri Sand, Jill Nelson, Joyce Haase, and Chawna Schroeder, who dug into the complete manuscript.
Profound thanks to experts such as Rev. Randy Mortenson and Chaplain Richard Day—CAPT, CHC, USN (RET)—for their info about Navy chaplains; to the very experienced psych nurse and the gifted psychologist (who wish to remain anonymous) who offered terrific insights into group therapy and psychiatric disorders, as well as the many friends and readers who shared the details of their struggles with depression or anxiety and helped inform the story; and to Mark Mynheir for police procedural tips. Any errors in the story are not their fault. Blame my characters who sometimes sneak off to do their own thing when I’m not looking.
While my head is floating in story world, I treasure the friends in the real world who keep me rooted. St. Michael’s, Life Group, Church Ladies, and even those brief acquaintances who have practiced random acts of kindness on me. Your example makes me long to pay it forward.
My family continues to go above and beyond in their sacrifices, love, and support. Joel and Jennelle, Kaeti, Josh, Jenni, Mom, and Carl, I’m so blessed you are in my life. Ted, I stand by what I said. Every novelist would benefit from being married to you. Love to you all.
Thank you, Father God, that you can work through weak and broken people, and that your grace often leaks out through our broken places to comfort others. Thank you for the many gifts you send when we are locked in places of pain—for laughter, for compassion, for wisdom, and for hope—often sent to us in strange packages.