The Tuesday Morning Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  Josh looked at Laura and raised his eyebrows. Laura didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The poor child had no idea what to make of the change that had come over his father.

  He shrugged and met Eric's eyes again. “Thanks.”

  Eric was undaunted by Josh's ambiguity. He grinned and gave Josh another quick hug. “How 'bout a bike ride tonight? Me and you and Mom …” Eric shot a smile at Clay. “And Uncle Clay if he wants.”

  Clay cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Actually, I was just leaving.” He smiled at Eric and patted his shoulder. “You and Laura need time alone together.”

  “Okay … but come back tomorrow. I want to have a barbecue for all of us.” He looked at Laura and held her gaze. “And let's call my dad. I want him to know things are different now. Time's too short to waste.”

  He looked back at Josh. “And guess what? I learned how to jet ski, buddy. I can't wait to teach you. But first we have our bike ride tonight …”

  Through it all, Josh only stared at him, his mouth open. Laura could see in his eyes something that hadn't been there before, not as far back as she could remember.

  Something that looked an awful lot like hope.

  Eric made good on his promises that evening, and for enough days in a row that finally Laura actually believed it. A miracle had taken place, a miracle only God Almighty could've brought about. And all because the words of one very special man had taught her husband everything he needed to know about love and faithfulness.

  Laura wondered about Jake Bryan.

  Because the story of her life wouldn't be complete until some far-off day when she would find him on the streets of heaven and thank him for the footprints he'd left behind.

  Footprints she was starting to believe Eric would follow until the day he died.

  THIRTY-SIX

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2002

  A year had passed since the terrorist attacks, and summer had blended quickly into fall. Somehow Jamie had survived it, survived telling the truth to the guys at the station and breaking the news to Jake's father when he returned from his cross-country trip. She had kept her promise to Eric and refused to tell his identity to anyone who asked, even the few reporters who had managed to call her after news of Jake's death was reported in the paper.

  They'd found his body—his and Larry's, side by side—on a spring day when the remains of more than a dozen firefighters were found. The department had given both of them a proper funeral—the type Jamie no longer had any reason to dread. Jake's helmet sat on Sierra's dresser now, a constant reminder that her daddy was up in heaven, waiting for the far-off day when they'd be together again.

  In some ways Jake's presence lived on in their home, brought to life again and again each time Jamie read the words in his journal. She was still learning the depth of how he'd loved them, how he'd cherished his time with God and his family.

  Every now and then Jamie could hear her father's warning, the one he'd spoken to her as he peered over his newspaper so long ago, back when she first fell in love with Jake. It's a tough job, fighting fires in New York City. The danger's always there, Jamie, as close as the next call.

  In the end her father had been right about that. But he'd been wrong about the rest, the part where he'd told her that a man didn't need anyone but himself, that religion was a sign of weakness. Jake Bryan would always be the strongest man she knew … so strong that even now his words, his faith, his love were sometimes all that held her up—even from as far away as heaven.

  And God had given her other help too. Over the months Jamie and Sue had become closer than sisters, helping each other through the missed birthdays and lonely holidays. As the anniversary of the terrorist attacks neared, Sue had agreed with Jamie. They didn't want to spend the day gathering with a group of mourners or honored in some sort of ceremony.

  They wanted to spend it alone. Lost in the memory of all September 11 had cost them.

  Now that the one-year date was finally there, Jamie and Sierra packed a picnic and bought a single white helium balloon. They headed to the place that Jake would've wanted to go, a place that was bound to be virtually empty that morning.

  Sierra was quiet as they held hands and made their way across the sandy beach to the spot where they had come as a family so often before. It was windy as they set their things down and carried the balloon close to the shore. A seagull sounded in the distance, and Sierra looked up. She was taller now, a kindergartner whose eyes were a little less quick to sparkle and dance the way they once had. She gazed into the sky. “Mommy … do you think Daddy can see us?”

  Jamie hadn't cried as much lately. God was sustaining her, just as He'd promised. For the most part, she did her grieving in private. Jamie looked at the sky overhead and smiled. Yes, that was something else Jake was still teaching her. That it was okay to cry, okay to love deeply enough to hurt. And here, now, she felt the sting of tears as she considered her daughter's question.

  “Yes, honey. I think Daddy can see us.” Jamie pulled a pink marker from her jacket, pulled off the cap, and handed it to Sierra. “Go ahead, honey.”

  They'd planned this weeks ago, and now her daughter didn't hesitate. Jamie held the balloon for her, and Sierra hovered over it, carefully printing out each letter until she'd written a simple message across the white. “I love you, Daddy. From, Sierra.”

  She finished the final “a” in her name and then handed the marker back to Jamie. “Mommy, I just thought of something.”

  “What?” The beach was empty, just as Jamie had pictured it. They were the only two people near the water as she looked at Sierra.

  “Do you think if I give the balloon a butterfly kiss, it'll make it all the way up to Daddy in heaven?”

  Jamie bit her lip and swallowed back the lump in her throat. “Yes, baby. I think Daddy would get it that way.”

  Sierra nodded and held the balloon near her face. She was about to kiss it when she stopped and looked at Jamie. Her eyes glistened with tears. “I miss him, Mommy.”

  “I miss him too.”

  Then—the same way she'd always done with Jake—Sierra rubbed her nose against the white surface of the balloon and held her cheek against it the way she might if her daddy was brushing his eyelashes against her. Then she turned it slightly and finally blinked her own silky eyelashes against the smooth rubber.

  “Okay.” Sierra looked at Jamie. “I'm ready.”

  Jamie nodded, and Sierra held the balloon string high over her head. “Jesus … please let my daddy get this. Okay?” She waited for a single moment, then she opened her fingers and watched the balloon shoot into the sky. At first it seemed to drift in the air currents, but in only a few seconds it began moving quickly toward the heavens, and in no time at all it disappeared.

  They walked back to the shore, and Jamie could almost picture the scene in Paradise. Jake standing there with Jesus, capturing the balloon as it went by and sending back butterfly kisses and enough love to last them a lifetime. Not just for Sierra, but for her.

  Always for her.

  Only then, with the balloon safely on its way to heaven, did Jamie pull out the piece of paper from her pocket. A copy of the last letter Jake had ever written to her.

  Dear Sweet Jamie …

  A teardrop fell onto it, and Jamie brushed it off. Beside her, Sierra dropped to the sand and stared at the spot in the sky where the balloon had disappeared. Jamie blinked so she could see the words once more.

  I have this feeling, deep in my heart, that something's about to change for me and you. Maybe it's your questions about church or the way you seem to hang on to Sierra's Bible stories a little bit longer these days. Whatever it is, I've prayed for God to touch your heart, baby. He means everything to me, and I know that one day He'll mean everything to you too. On that day, you'll no longer have to be afraid, because you'll have God Almighty to lean on. I want you to know, honey, that when you find that precious faith, I'll be smiling bigger than you've ever seen me smile.

&n
bsp; Jamie stifled a sob as she looked up toward heaven again. She sniffed and ran her fingers through Sierra's golden hair. The truth was unbelievable, really. That in her search to teach a stranger how to be Jake, she'd discovered the one thing that had been her husband's single source of strength, the faith that mattered so dearly to him.

  She swallowed and finished reading the letter.

  Because the thing I want even more than your love is the knowledge that we'll have eternity together. I simply can't bear the idea of being in heaven without you. I love you too much to lose you, and sometimes, Jamie, honestly it seems like you're running. Like you're too afraid to live and love and laugh the way you could. I want you to know it's okay, sweetheart. It's okay to love and it's okay to lose. Once you figure that out you can stop running … and start truly living. The way God wants you to live. Wherever you are when you read this, honey, know that I love you. And I'm praying for you. Always and forever … Jake.

  She folded the piece of paper and tucked it back in her pocket. Beside her Sierra stirred, and Jamie knew it was almost time to eat their picnic lunch. They'd had their moment of remembering, of marking September 11, and all they'd lost on one single Tuesday morning.

  But there was one more thing she wanted to do.

  Leaving Sierra there by the picnic basket, Jamie walked a little closer to the shore, closer to the water where she and Jake had played together. When she was a few feet from the surf, she slipped off her shoes and took a few more steps until her toes were wet. Wet with the same water that had splashed against her and Jake as they tore across the bay all those summer days a lifetime ago.

  Then she lifted her face toward heaven and narrowed her eyes, willing herself to see him as he was now, watching her, praying for her. The words she wanted to say to him, she would say in her heart … where the echo of them was bound to reach him even as far away as heaven. Hello, Jake … it's me. She paused, searching the sky. I believe now … and I've stopped running. Isn't it amazing? How God answered your prayer? A wind gust brushed over Jamie, and she closed her eyes. I miss you, baby. Every day, every minute. Her tears felt cool on her cheek, but she smiled despite them. Save me a place, will you, Jake? Because one of these days we'll be together again.

  She opened her eyes, and in that moment, she didn't have to wonder what Jake was doing, how he would look if she could see him now on the streets of heaven. She could see him as surely as she could see the clear blue sky. As easily as if he were standing in front of her.

  The moment passed and Jamie returned to Sierra. They shared their picnic, and after an hour they packed up and left. Before they piled into the van, Sierra stopped and stared up at the sky. “Mommy …”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “You know when you went and stuck your feet in the water before lunch?” She shifted her gaze to Jamie.

  “Yes, baby.” Jamie set the picnic basket on the backseat and came up alongside her daughter. “I remember.”

  “Well, for a minute I thought I could see Daddy in the sky.”

  Jamie sucked in a quick breath. “Really?”

  “Mmhmm.” Sierra looked back at the expanse of blue overhead. Her eyes were serious, but less sad than before.

  “What was he doing?” Jamie hugged Sierra's shoulders as the child turned and met her eyes.

  “The most wonderful thing, Mommy.” Sierra's eyes sparkled. “He was smiling.”

  BEYOND TUESDAY MORNING

  BEYOND TUESDAY MORNING

  (A song)

  By Karen Kingsbury

  (Chorus)

  Let's not move too far beyond Tuesday morning

  Let's not forget all the lives that were lost

  Let's not move too far beyond Tuesday morning

  Remember the heroes remember the cost.

  Time has moved on as time always will do

  Healing has come both to me and to you.

  The towers that stood now stand only at times

  A memory that's fading from all of our minds.

  The flag on your bumper is yellowed and frayed

  It's only on Sundays we take time to pray

  For families of folks who did nothing but go

  To work Tuesday morning and never came home.

  (Bridge)

  Still they are crying and still they are trying

  To understand all that America lost

  Take time to remember, there is no denying

  That one Tuesday morning and all that it cost.

  Smile at a stranger or do a good deed

  Help out a neighbor, love someone in need

  Do it to honor the women and men

  Who died Tuesday morning and ever since then.

  Let's not move too far beyond Tuesday morning

  Let's not forget all the lives that were lost

  Let's not move too far beyond Tuesday morning

  Remember the heroes, remember the cost.

  DEDICATED TO

  Donald, my prince charming, who is forever praying for me, encouraging me, and giving me reasons to laugh. The wings are from God, but you are the wind. Every letter I receive, every life changed by the words God gives me to write, all of it is as much your ministry as mine. That's how much I rely on your love and prayers. You told me when we married that you'd always love God more than me. Ever since then I've been thanking the Lord for that truth, because the love and light you bring to me and our children could only come from heaven above. I love you, Donald. With you, life is always a dance.

  Kelsey, my precious daughter, so grown-up. Sometimes I look at you and do a double take. When did that kindergartner with the poofy bangs become the beautiful fifteen-year-old with model good looks? Back then I would say, “Who made you so pretty, Kelsey?” You'd giggle and answer, “Jesus!” It's still so true today, only now, as you grow closer to Him, I see an even greater beauty. The beauty of Christ within you. I'm in awe of your choices, your high standards, your determination to keep God first in your life. High school already, Kelsey? Can you believe it? Your life is everything you dreamed about and the ride gets faster all the time. But in the quiet places of my heart you will always be my little Norm. I love you.

  Tyler, my Broadway boy. Once upon a yesterday you would find whoever was home, stop what we were doing, and gather us together. Audience in place, you would sing. Song after song after song. Not regular kid songs, but songs from Annie, Oklahoma, Les Misérables, and Phantom of the Opera. We always knew you had a gift, but now we gather together in one room hoping you'll sing. More people are listening, Tyler, and many more will in years to come. You are only twelve, but the gift God has given you in song and drama and writing leaves me speechless. The mother heart in me is trying to find balance between my excitement for your future and my trepidation, because one day I won't have you and Kelsey singing and dancing in the background of our lives. You are the music of our home, dear Son, and even after you grow up, I will hear your song in my memory forever. I love you, Tyler.

  Sean, my sunbeam. You are ten already and I can't believe it's been almost four years since you came from Haiti to live with us. You were the first one to open up about your past, to tell us of the hard times, days when you had to fend for yourself, eating dirt to survive. But today you are the first one with a hug and a smile, looking out for other people as easily as you breathe. You are a talented reader, a devoted son, and a respectful young man. I couldn't be more proud of you. You are gifted in sports, yes, but that's not why you're the first boy picked when they form teams at recess. It's because of who you are on the inside—the kind, loving person God made you to be. I'm forever glad God led you to our family; you belonged here from the beginning. I love you, Sean.

  Josh, my rough-and-tumble sweetheart. Since I met you, I've known you had an amazing gift of persuasion. There I was at the Haitian orphanage, meeting Sean and EJ for the first time, but the first one to talk was you. “I love you, Mommy,” you told me, using beautiful English. Do you know that the room went silent, Josh? F
orty-two children clamoring and laughing and yelling in that tiny orphanage courtyard, and all I could hear was you, a child I'd never met until that day. No question, God wanted you in our home, because you arrived on September 8, 2001. Three days later political tensions might have meant you would never come home. Isn't God amazing? At ten years old, your talents are too numerous to mention, but above all God will use that wonderful charisma to bring people to Him. Save me a seat in the front row, okay, honey? I love you, Josh.

  EJ, my wide-eyed overcomer. Like a precious, beautiful flower, you continue to unfold a little more each day, proving to everyone in your world that you are capable of great things, even at eight years old. I'm so proud of the way you hold your head high, the picture of kindness and character you present to the world. In the garden of life, you are becoming a leader, one forged by hanging onto Christ and letting Him pull you to the top. I know God has plans for all of His children, but yours gets a little clearer every day. I cherish our quiet times, when you sit beside me during devotions. Your smile makes our home so much brighter. I love you, EJ.

  Austin, my six-year-old Green Beret. When God brought you safely back from infant heart surgery, I knew He had a special reason for letting you live. Now I can only dream of what He has in store. “I don't need to learn piano, Mommy. I told you … I'm going to be a Green Beret!” That and a Green Bay Packer. Oh, and the next (blond) Michael Jordan. Or maybe a champion bull rider. All that rough, tough men's town stuff, and you still cry when you think of Jesus on a cross. Talk about a heartbreaking cutie! But for now, the only broken heart is mine, because already our special babyhood days together are over. You are out of kindergarten, into full-day school like the others. But don't be surprised, little first-grader, if one morning you look up and I'm there to take you out for a special date. One more time to share lunch and give-and-go and cuddle time. Whoever said it was harder letting go of your youngest was right. Keep holding onto Jesus, Austin. I love you.