Stars in the Grass

by Ann Marie Stewart

  “This is my Father’s world,” the congregation sang out, at first hesitantly and then growing in fervor. “All nature sings and ‘round me rings the music of the spheres.” I fumbled with my hymnal, unable to find the page number, too stunned and excited to join in. Beside me Matt sang really loud; I couldn’t look at him or I’d cry, but not because I was sad. And then I remembered the words on Joel’s tombstone, HE SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL THEIR TEARS.

  I could have danced in the aisles, but then again we were Presbyterian—that would never work. I wanted to run down the steps and fly into Dad’s arms. He was home. We were all home.

  When the postlude began, Matt stood and turned to go. Standing tall, he put his hand on the small of my back and urged me forward, as if escorting a date.

  “It’s good to have your dad back,” said Mr. Henry.

  “Shortest sermon he’s ever preached!” Mr. Siemens laughed, and then added gently, “I heard every word.” He tapped his hearing aid as if I might have forgotten.

  “I don’t know when I’ve been so moved. It made a lot of sense,” added Mrs. Corning.

  Dad made a lot of sense by not making any sense. He hadn’t answered any questions, except to say that it was all right to question. Waves of people headed toward him to shake his hand.

  “I forgot my bulletin,” I said, excusing myself. As the balcony emptied, I returned to the front pew and sat down.

  I know God is everywhere, but for me, He was especially in the balcony that Sunday. I was home. The sun streaming in the side windows blinded me, so I closed my eyes in its warmth, rested my arms on the railing, and folded my hands.

  Maybe it was a prayer, maybe it was a resolve, but I knew from then on, wherever I went to church, I’d find the balcony and rehearse the questions I’d ask God when I got to heaven. Maybe after Joel died, Dad had had time to do that, too. Maybe the balcony was a good place for a man who was only used to the pulpit.

  As the church emptied, I headed down the back stairs with the bulletin I wanted to keep forever.

  Dad looked different. Softer, gentler, and strangely at peace. He knelt down and talked to the children who came to him. He gave Miss Mary Frances a hug. He listened carefully when Mr. Rohatsch told him yet again about his bum leg. And then the line of people came to an end, and Dad looked from the stained-glass window back to the balcony, surveying the church, as if God’s house was a thing of beauty. He opened the pocket door to his study and we followed.

  “Let’s go home,” Mom said, as if we hadn’t been there for months. “I know you told me not to worry”—Mom slid the door closed—“but I wondered what you were going to say,” she said with a catch in her voice. Dad pulled her close and she sighed, her worry squeezed out in his embrace. They held each other for a long time. Usually Matt would have squirmed, but he stood in silent respect.

  “I don’t have any answers.” Dad stepped away to take off his robe. He hung it on the familiar hook behind his door.

  “Questions are okay, too,” Mom answered.

  “Let’s go home!” I said, anxious to celebrate. “Mom made your favorite!” I could already smell the rosemary and thyme Mom had pasted across the roast, potatoes baking beside it. The green beans fresh from our garden would be steamed, and the molded Jell-O salad in the refrigerator was a special treat. And mulberry pie for dessert.

  We left the room that would once again be Dad’s office. A warm midwestern wind blew, and Mom planted her hand on her hat. Matt stretched his arms as if in a yawn. “Good day for a drive,” he offered tentatively.

  “A Sunday drive …,” Mom began dreamily, and then awakened. “Well, it was a good day.”

  “Easy on him, Renee—it is a good day for a drive. Matt’s getting to be quite a good driver.”

  Dad stopped at the roses, fully in bloom, and we all paused when he cleared his throat and announced, “I asked for one more Sunday off.”

  “More time?” Mom asked, looking concerned.

  “They said yes, Renee.”

  “I guess they liked the sermon?”

  “I was thinking we need a family vacation. This year has been no vacation.”

  “I’ll second that,” Mom said. Matt and I silently acknowledged a third and fourth.

  A year ago, we had left everything familiar for our first family vacation. I hadn’t known then how it would change us. Now I was more than a little scared.

  “Where would we go?” Mom asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Dad shrugged his shoulders. Dad didn’t know where we were headed, and he didn’t have a plan. That was strange. “I’m open to ideas,” he continued. “We have the next eleven days.”

  “Can we go east?” Mom asked softly, and Matt nodded in agreement.

  “Or maybe even north,” Dad answered. “Remember Lakeside, Ohio? On Lake Erie? We could take the ferry to Putin Bay and spend a day at Cedar Point.”

  The wind blew my hair about my face and Dad brushed it aside.

  “You’re quiet, Abby. You don’t want to go?”

  Yes and no. This would be our second family vacation. I wanted everything to be safe, but I also wanted something different. I wanted new experiences and to make more memories, but I also wanted to hold on to this moment and many more—if they were all good.

  Dad turned my shoulders to face him. “Abby, I can’t promise you that nothing bad will happen. But we survived this, didn’t we?”

  I nodded and looked up at Mom, who smiled. She looked so happy. Matt’s eyes met mine and he nodded back.

  It was now almost a year since Joel had died. Time had gone on, even when we could not. But somehow we had made it and we were together, and we were willing to try again. Did Mom have a word for that? Was there a word bigger than hope?

  EPILOGUE

  I remember an idyllic evening I wish I could have saved in a jar. Instead, we collected the next best thing—the fireflies lighting our front yard.

  At dusk, Dad hauled out the sprinkler and pretended to give the lawn a shower. But we knew the water fireworks were for us, and so Joel and I ran to put on our swimsuits. Matt didn’t run through the spray, but Joel and I skipped back and forth through its rainbowing arc. When I picked up the sprinkler and turned it on my dad, he laughed and lay back on the wet lawn. Dad let Joel stay up later than usual. Time hung heavy in the humid air as we stretched dusk into dark.

  Mom had mixed frozen lemonade, and it tasted as good as homemade. Dad disappeared and returned with a bowl of his popcorn. He sometimes put Parmesan cheese on top.

  “A meal in itself.” He tossed a few kernels in the air and caught them in his mouth. Matt and I sat on the front porch, its paint peeling in layers of white, green, and then black, its wood warped beneath our feet. Mom, Dad, and Joel sat on a cheery orange-and-blue pinwheel quilt that Mom left on the porch swing for cooler evenings and brisk mornings.

  Now, as the sun slipped behind the neighboring houses, leaving a ribbon of pink, the grass began to shimmer with fireflies. Especially in the vacant lot next door—thick with unmowed grass.

  “What can you see, Abby?” Dad pointed to the night sky.

  “The Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.” They were the most obvious. Some of the other formations were a stretch for even my vivid imagination.

  “Too bad so many people have their lights on; otherwise we’d see more,” Dad said with a sigh. “Maybe one night we should take my telescope to the Ludemas’ pasture.”

  “Or your folks’ farm. It’s dark there,” Mom murmured, leaning into Dad.

  “I don’t want to take it on vacation with us.” Dad pulled Mom close, capturing her in his arms as the porch swing rocked.

  Dad looked up at the night sky as if for the first time. “‘When I look at thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast established; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him?’” Dad quoted so naturally, it sounded like he had made up the question himself. The psalmist and my dad pr
obably would have gotten along very well.

  Joel stirred and then leaned away from us.

  “Twinkle, twinkle!” he yelled as he tried to keep up with the on and off bursts lighting the air. God’s version of fireworks for preschoolers without all the noise. Fireflies.

  “Get a jar,” Mom said to Matt as she took Joel’s hand and swiped at the air. Joel squealed.

  “Shhh! Joel, you’ll scare them away,” I warned. Joel jumped up and down in his wet bathing suit, silently trying to grab at the mysterious hovering lights.

  Matt returned with an empty mayonnaise jar and the little net we formerly used for his fish tank. That is, before the fish died.

  “Catch fish?” Joel whispered.

  “No. Catch lightning,” Matt answered. And sweeping his wand through the air, he captured a lightning bug, pushed the netting through the opening, and quickly refastened the lid. “There you go, Joel. He’s yours.” Matt handed the glass jar to Joel.

  “Honey, don’t have him hold the jar. He might drop it and cut his foot,” Mom warned.

  “Put it on the step, Joel,” Dad said.

  “More! More!” Joel yelled, forgetting about scaring them away. I scooped the air and captured a lightning bug in the hollow of my cupped hands. Occasionally I saw the light flicker through my fingers. I transferred it to Joel’s hand. He stared at the twinkling light.

  “Fwashwight,” he said and giggled. “More, more!” Joel pointed to the lot next door.

  Indeed, it seemed the fireflies had escaped to the nearby vacant lot, and so we all followed Joel’s lead, Matt carrying the glass jar at the end of our processional. Even Mom swept the night sky with her hands, capturing lightning bugs and adding them to the jar. Sometimes the jar sparkled enough to be our own personal lantern, a flashlight with an inconsistent battery.

  The air felt warm and thick, like a blanket wrapping up all of High Street. Every step released the pungent smell of forgotten flowers. And among the weeds, Matt even found a few misguided Wiffle balls from long-ago games.

  “Did you do this when you were a kid?” I asked Dad.

  “We didn’t have fireflies in Washington. I guess that’s why I think they’re so neat.” Dad reached out with both hands to capture a flicker.

  “Then can we take some to Grandpa and GramAnna’s, so they can see them?” I asked.

  “They wouldn’t live, honey,” Dad said, pulling me close to him. I was still in my wet bathing suit, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Time for pajamas,” he said at last to Joel, letting go of me and taking Joel’s hand. “This little monkey is going to bed.”

  “No bedtime!” Joel shook his head.

  “Yes, bedtime,” Mom countered. “It’s way past your bedtime, Curious George. Come back and say good night after you brush your teeth.”

  “Even entomologists need sleep,” Dad said, resorting to carrying Joel. “I’ll take him upstairs, Renee.”

  “I’ll bring the lantern after you put your jammies on,” I promised. Joel waved good-bye and nestled his head on Dad’s shoulder. I watched the two disappear into the darkness and into our home. A trail of light traced their journey. The front porch lit up, followed by the front hallway and the stairs going up to our room. I saw the light in the front bedroom window click on, and shadows behind the curtains, and then the center light from the bathroom sink where Dad would brush Joel’s teeth.

  I am like Joel. I never want good things to end. When I unwrap Christmas presents, I dread opening the last one. At night, when Mom scratches my back, I don’t want her to leave until her tender caress soothes me to sleep and into my dreams. And how can I enjoy the Fourth of July fireworks when each explosion of color might mark the grand finale? It’s almost as though I need to know exactly how long the light show will last so that I can anticipate the dark.

  Dad called out from the front window, “Joel wants his twinkles.” And so I brought the flickering lantern to meet Dad and Joel on the front porch. For Joel, the fireworks could continue; he had obviously talked Dad into another round of good nights and good-byes and hugs.

  How could I have known that even now I’d wish for one more?

  Dad tickled him until Joel couldn’t stand it anymore, and then Dad tipped him upside down to swing like a pendulum.

  “Oh, John, I don’t like it when you do that,” Mom warned, but failed at shielding a smile when Joel’s giggles began.

  “It’s TIME!” Dad said, mimicking the clock. “Hickory, dickory, dock!”

  I rocked my head back and forth in rhythm with Joel’s world, until he pointed insistently.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Look!” Dad stopped with Joel hanging upside down, his outstretched hand urging our eyes to follow his vision.

  “Stars in the grass!”

  Dad flipped him aright and back in his arms, and we studied the grass covered with shimmering dots of light. It was a silly thing to do, but we all lay down on the porch with our heads on the step below, for a moment looking at the world upside down to see what Joel saw. Joel’s world, and now ours, was lit with twinkling lights flickering through the grass, a miracle simple enough to grasp in our hands and our hearts.

  And sometimes, even now, I hold on to that evening. I remember how later that night, from our bedroom at the top of the stairs, I could see the stars out the window almost as clearly as the lightning bug lantern on Joel’s dresser. It was magic. Almost as magic as holding fireflies, their glow illuminating yellow lines between our fingers. And I think about the five of us lying on our backs on the worn porch under the night sky. And I remember that when the world seems most upside down, sometimes, if you look, you can see stars in the grass.

  Dear Reader,

  Stars in the Grass began as a short story for a creative writing class at the University of Michigan over twenty-five years ago. It was told by a preacher’s daughter in her church pew looking to her father in the pulpit below. Though I wrote Seeing from the Balcony before I met my husband and we had two daughters, losing a child was my greatest fear. I think I subconsciously hoped if I worried about the subject on paper, I could somehow keep it from happening.

  Because I loved Abby’s voice and wanted her to share more about her family and friends, I knew it could be a book. As my life experiences, friendships and family expanded, so did the story. There is a lot of me in Abby, maybe you, too. Who hasn’t experienced loss, guilt, or estrangement, and in grief and anger asked difficult questions? In reading, may you, like Abby find hope in your own story.

  Ann Marie Stewart

  STARS IN THE GRASS DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Do you, like Abby, remember a time when you thought life was idyllic? What changed that perception?

  2. What made Renee such a strong character and more able to move forward than the rest of the family? Who was the slowest about moving forward and why?

  3. In what ways do Matt, John, Abby and Renee change over the course of the novel?

  4. What was the impetus for Matt’s behavior?

  5. Why do you think Uncle Troy’s tragic story was so poorly received by John? Why was Miss Patty’s story received differently?

  6. What was the significance of hide and seek?

  7. Each family member dealt with loss and guilt differently. Whose story do you relate to? Whose do you not?

  8. Why do think John retreated into fixing clocks?

  9. Why did Miss Patty not want her clock fixed?

  10. Why was the crisis of faith so crucial to this family? Have you ever had such a crisis?

  11. What symbolism do you see in the book and how does it affect the story?

  12. Abby’s teacher tells her “You can’t change anybody else. But you can write your own story differently.” How does Abby do this?

  13. “They want to help you forget,” Miss Mary Frances answered at last. “But you can’t,” she said with a sigh. “You never will forget. And the memory of him—even with all the pain—will always be sweeter than if you could.” How are Miss Mary Frances’ wor
ds true?

  14. “God didn’t kill Joel,” I said.

  “But He didn’t stop him from being killed.”

  Why does this question always surface after an accident?

  15. As in Abby’s Christmas Eve service, how are hopes and fears so often intertwined?

  16. Why did Dad provoke Matt on his driving lesson in the corn fields?

  17. Why did following Dad to the cemetery cause Abby to react with such hatred?

  18. How does looking back at the movies help them all look forward?

  19. How does Joel getting in the last word with the Dictophone provide healing?

  20. On the Fourth of July, Matt and Abby come to a conclusion about their guilt and grief. “I guess talking about it does feel better than holding it in my head.” In what ways do we offer a support system to those needing to deal with a variety of emotions?

  21. If the final sermon had gone another direction, what would have happened to the family?

  22. How is the setting of 1970 Bethel Springs, Ohio, integral to the plot and theme of the novel?

  23. In the movie version, who would you cast in each role?

  24. What question would you ask the author?

  25. “What I couldn’t know then, but try to remember now, is how fragile and delicate are the moments we most treasure, and if they break into pieces, repairing means seeing anew.” Have you experienced a difficult season and come out of it seeing anew?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ann Stewart and her husband, Will, raise two daughters and a flock of sheep on their Virginia farm where fireflies light up the sky on warm summer nights. Music, theater, teaching, and an MA in Film and Television, propel Ann’s creative storytelling.