Wade entered the shack, which was only inches taller than him. The floor bowed, sloping toward the other end of the house, and then rising back up before matching with the wall. They entered the kitchen. A thin white wall separated it from the combination living room and bedroom, which had two twin beds and an old recliner. Odd boards patched holes. Three different sizes and colors of paneling held the two rooms together.
The place was so familiar, so much a part of him. All those years of retreating into his garage back in the present were only shadows, attempts to get here. This was both his childhood hiding place and the arena of his greatest fears.
Home.
Soup. She offered him soup. Wade took off his hat like a gentleman from an old Civil War novel. No, not a gentleman, a bum.
He heard rumors about this woman his whole life. She gave free meals to the down-and-out. A good thing, being so hungry, but not why he had come.
“Soup sounds wonderful,” Wade muttered. “Don’t mean to put you out.”
She motioned for him to sit at an old, off-balance table. “As long as the Lord provides, He provides for us all. Take a seat and I’ll get you a bowl in a couple of minutes.”
She pulled a ladle full of water from an old bucket and poured it into a tin measuring cup. Wade took it and drank. “Thank you.”
The young woman walked back and forth across the kitchen, tidying as she went. Her feet were bare and dark, worn from lack of shoes and rough floorboards. A threadbare dress hung from her slender shoulders, clean and well-cared for. A beauty in a world falling apart, a small bit of joy pushing forward as pressure made her crooked before her time.
Wade did the math. She was twenty years old, fresh into adulthood, but surrounded by misery. This shanty village housed people with no better options. Though she cleaned houses and took in sewing, they fell behind on the bills. So she lived here, two hours removed from society.
She and Wade were alone.
Someone was missing.
Her husband, his father, didn't work at anything but getting drunk. His presence echoed from the walls, though Father was not home. The stinking breath, the heavy fall of each footstep. As a young boy, Wade slept in the living room a few feet from his dad, hearing the groans of his tortured nightmares. They didn't talk except to fight. They didn't touch unless to punch. They passed like strangers, both afraid of the other; one concerned for his life, the other running from his.
Thank God he's not home.
“Tell me about you,” said the woman. “Seems to me a man like yourself must have seen the world.”
Wade shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in his own skin. “I'm not much to look at, ma’am.” His voice came out garbled, having not been employed to any extent in the recent past.
She dried her dishes with an old towel cut from a t-shirt. “Where you from?”
“Indianapolis, mostly.”
Mother did not acknowledge his roughness. Patient, a servant to others, she continued as if engaged in a polite, high-society conversation.
“You come in here like the world jumped on your back.” She flipped the towel over her shoulder. “Road is long, ain’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She ladled soup from the old steel pot, taking time to include the best chunks of potato and onion, and handed it to him. He couldn't bear a glance in her direction. His heart broke as he stared at the meager meal. The soup amounted to little more than water with a few pale lumps of boiled vegetables, but it was the kindest gift ever placed before him.
“Not much to look at, but I hope it’s a blessing to you,” she said. “A little salt and pepper will do it wonders, you’ll see.”
He stirred the soup and added salt and pepper for her benefit, though this thin broth tasted almost too sweet for him to eat. There are few things in life more precious than a gift of food given by a hungry person.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Wade's brain fired like a shotgun, spraying thoughts in every direction. In the corner of the room he saw the boy, the one hiding behind the Foosball table at MissionFocus. Wade pictured him, thin, malnourished, a shadow of the young man who, decades earlier, wandered around his neighborhood looking for food. Carter.
Traci’s son was so small when Wade took him under his wing that people though he was two years younger than he was. But the kid by the Foosball table was more than Carter-like, he was the ghost of Wade himself. The bowl that sat before Wade, the one he used as a boy, witnessed his own needs in his youth. Father didn't provide for him often. When he did, it was meager, less than this potato broth.
He hated Carter because he hated himself. He blamed Carter for not being able to wrestle out of his misery. Wade made it, went to college, got a career. But Carter couldn't pull out, so Wade justified his hate. In the end, they were the same.
Mother picked up her sewing and stood in the far corner of the room, engaged in her work. She stitched a pair of pants with a long gash across the knee. In a few minutes she set it right with her nimble fingers.
Wade gestured to her rounded stomach. “How far along are you?”
“Only a few months. I’m showing more than you’d think. It’s a big baby for sure. He's so heavy, it'll take two doctors to catch him.”
She held her back and turned for him to see. Mother appeared seven months pregnant, though she was only four.
“I don’t mean to pry, ma’am, but won’t it be hard for you to bring a child into this world?”
Setting the sewing aside, she turned to her soup. “I imagine some sacrifices are in order. But oh, what I wouldn’t give to have me a precious baby to teach his schoolin’ to. Momma always said I was meant for it, that I had a gift. When I was a little girl, every dolly what came my way was my very own special child, and I loved them all. Think of it—all that life and love staring at you, trusting you for everything, bringing joy and sweetness into your heart. It’s worth the sacrifice.”
Sacrifices would need to be made? What in the world did this poor woman have to give? Though her house was small, there was not enough furniture in its confines to offer proper seating for even the most basic arrangements. The only source of warmth was the ancient wood stove on which Mother cooked her meager rations. But her eyes glowed with joy.
Wade put down the spoon, eyes on the soup. “Perhaps you should think about other options.”
“Beg your pardon?” she asked, pulling the pot from the heat.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am, especially after you’ve helped me on my way, but what if you're not ready for a child?”
She stared at him, compassion on her face. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, friend, but ready or not, the child is on its way.” She poured herself a small cup of broth, cooling it with her breath.
“What I’m saying is that there are other options.”
“Such as?”
Easy, boy, don’t hit her with it at once. “Well…, you could put this off. Make a life for yourself, get established.”
Death must come, his body put to rest. No more crying, time for the pain to end. No more to take, no more to give.
Mother set down her soup. “Friend, the Lord granted me this gift and I intend to see it through.”
“But think how much easier a few more years would made your life. Get yourself an education, a job, some proper medical care.”
The twinkle disappeared from her eye. “What are you suggesting?”
Wade buried his head in his chest. “Have an operation. They are simple, don’t take too long. We may even find a way to pay for it. We could go into town, get you enrolled in a correspondence class—make a life for you.”
She motioned to the house with her sewing needles. “I got a life right here.”
“But it could be so much more. A few hours, a trip into town.…”
“Are you saying I should get rid of the baby?”
Wade hung his head more, the soup growing cold in front of him. “The world will be better
without him. Perhaps the child will grow up abusive, gone all the time, get himself in trouble and cause everyone he loves to turn against him. He’ll destroy the faith of the pure and forget to have mercy on those who need it most. Revenge will.… will bring him to his knees.”
A harsh gust hit the building, detonating a million little creaks in the structure. A summer storm approached. Wade’s feet planted flat on the floor, arms stretched across the gray table. Mother rocked back and forth on her heels as the stranger’s words ricocheted off the walls.
She shuffled across the room and sat down on the mismatched chair across from Wade. Her hand rested on his. The coarseness of her fingers, made rough by years of manual labor, brushed against his skin. Staring into his eyes, she spoke tenderly.
“Your road has gone long, my friend. But there ain’t no man on the face of the earth that the Son of God can’t change. That’s the only hope we got in this world. There ain’t nothing the Lord can’t set right in time. No memory, no problem, no action. I don’t care what you done, but the Lord can do better.”
A warm tear rolled down his stubbled cheek. How could she believe in hope? She couldn’t know all he’d done. Redemption is not owed to evil men.
Stuttering, Wade forced the words out, “what if a man is too wretched?”
She rubbed her thumb against the top of his clasped hands, soothing his pain. “Friend, thems the people that God reserves the greatest miracles for.”
She was so calm, so sure of her words that Wade paused. How could he express himself? How could she know the devil that sat across the table from her?
Wade stared into his mother’s eyes. “The child you're carrying is going to take your life. He’ll murder from his first day ‘til his last.”
She squeezed his hand and stood, walking to her secondhand sink. Dipping an old rag in warm water, she washed her hands and rang out the piece of cloth. She shuffled back across the room and wiped the dust from his face. Like a mother bathing her child, she rubbed the grit from his skin. It would be the only time in her life she washed her son. When she finished, she placed his hands on the warm bowl of soup and wrapped her fingers around his.
“Every child deserves an opportunity. God can make any man clean, cleaner than this old rag can. We all get a second chance. If the Lord sees fit to take my life, then I’ll gladly give it to Him. Wasn’t mine in the first place. He’s built a home for me. I repented of my sins and the Lord promised me a nice little spot in heaven. It ain't healthy people what need a doctor, but the sick. Jesus says that's who He came for. For wretches. For people who can't do good two times in a row. The Lord ain’t done with no child until He’s done. I appreciate your concern, but Jesus don’t make mistakes. This baby ain’t no mistake, he’s a child of the Almighty. So is you.”
Wade’s heart broke within him. This stranger, this woman across the table, offered him grace when he deserved condemnation. Her ration was dirty water and yet she shared it with him. She possessed so little yet she was prepared to lay down her life for a child she would never know. She only had five more months to live. Mother’d die on the floor of that very cottage, crying, encased in the pain of childbirth. This beautiful woman, with the voice of a songbird and a grace all her own, was the very first victim in his life. She never traveled beyond her own county, never graduated the sixth grade, didn’t know the feeling of money in her pocket. Another three weeks and she would not be able to leave the couch for all of her sickness. A few more and her tiny frame would twist in bouts of anguish lasting for hours and only quitting when she passed into eternity.
“But look at you,” he said, his voice rising. “Look at your dirty feet, your run down house, the meager life you manage for yourself. This is your chance to earn a real living.”
“Son, if a woman can't look herself in the mirror, there ain't no jewel in the world gonna make it better.” Her words were sure, matching his volume. “Show me my reflection and I'll show you a woman who knows she done what she could. Not enough to save myself, that's why I need Jesus. But I am not going to compromise being able to look in the mirror every day so I can put some nice shoes on my feet.”
She quieted for a moment, watching as the tears rolled down his face. Her hands held his cold fingers while he cried. He cried for the lives he took, the people he hurt, the death of this beautiful woman sitting across the table from him.
Deep from her throat, she started humming. Mother’s eyes closed, she prayed, and she hummed a hymn he knew years before but had long since forgotten. Tremors passed through his body. Every time he shook her moans resonated for him. She stood before the throne of the Almighty in intercession for the man who would take the breath from her body.
“Please...take my life.” He gasped, choking on the words. “I don't deserve to live. I've done horrible things. I've alienated everyone I've ever loved. I've harbored envy and rage. I've killed men. I've coveted. I sought to create justice and have only perverted it. There is no hope for me now. Please....”
With every whimper, every stutter, she hummed and stroked his hands.
“You lived a hard life, my friend,” she said. “And there ain’t nobody in the world can promise it'll get better. This here is an ugly time we live in, full of pain and anger, sin and debauchery. But now you know you a sinner. Now you see yo’self as Great God Almighty sees you––as a man tryin’ to fight his way through life, set on his evil ways.
“You sinned against a pure and holy God. You dwelt in the basement of life, sure that nobody cared, that nobody understood you. You watched as life came so easy to others, like they was born to it. They told you lies that all you got to do is believe in yourself and all your dreams will come true.
“Let me warn you, my friend––you may be destined for hell, you may even wish for it now. All that anger and beating yourself up ain’t going to get you nowhere. Taking your life don’t fix nothing. You just follow after Christ who already died for you. That’s the only thing we got, and it’s enough.”
She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, crying for the stranger at her dining room table. As she continued to talk, she rocked back and forth, humming between sentences, her head aimed toward heaven.
“No guarantee you feel better. Maybe you never have another smiling day in your life. But you know, you know that you stand right before a holy God. And when Satan comes to taunt you, try and kill you, you trust in Jesus and what He done for you. You seek a closer walk with Him.”
Mouth full of bitterness, he fought against her kindness. “You don't know who I am.”
“I don't need to. Story the same for us all.”
“You don't understand.”
She hummed an old spiritual, eyes closed. Wade was desperate. “I can't tell you what I've done. It's too much. I can't control the world. I can't make it change. I want to do away with evil, but all I do is foster it in my heart.”
“Just a closer walk with Thee, ‘grant it Jesus’ is my plea.…” Her wailing grew louder and more passionate until there were no more tears to cry. The stranger, blind, drained of energy, stared at the old table which would, only a few years later, become the site of so many arguments, endless nights watching his father sit in a drunken stupor, unsure of the man’s next move. So much hopelessness. A history of disappointment, ridicule, irritation––it all began here.
“Daily walking, close to Thee. Let it be, dear Lord. Let it be.”
He'd tried to appease his father's misdirected rage. Each time the old man lashed out, Wade overcompensated, trying to fix it. Sometimes all it took was cleaning up right or fixing a good meal, other times nothing assuaged the old man’s fury. Wade grew up believing, trusting that if he tried harder, walked further than his weak frame could take him, then all of his problems would disappear.
Wade spent years telling people about God. He put on a mask that allowed others to think he surrendered to Christ. He relied on himself, always pushed and pushed until change came. If anything went wrong it was his f
ault. If his father came home drunk it was because he hadn’t taken care of him. Wade blamed himself if one of the MissionFocus teens sat in suspension. When parts for the transporter didn’t arrive on time, he stewed for days.
He learned self-reliance, to make things happen. But it led him here, pleading with this woman to end his life. And he could not even do that. He couldn’t undo his past, no matter how he tried. His present struggle only got harder the more he attempted to fix it.
A beautiful quiet settled across the kitchen. The sun disappeared behind a dark cloud and the soup cooled on the kitchen stove.
Mother rose from the table, the rustle of her clothes breaking the silence that had long hung over the two as they sat at the dinner table. “I think you know what you have to do now.”
Wade found himself standing near the door, reaching for the handle. Before leaving he pivoted on his heels and embraced the young woman. She was so much smaller, so much frailer than he imaged. Death waited around the corner for her, but her hope stayed alive. Wade walked into the cool air. Mother stood and watched him as he went, humming loud, trusting in her God.
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