They couldn't wait
to get there. It was less than an hour's drive further to Mary's folks' house.
The snow was just beginning to fall, speckling the windshield with a wispy
enchantment--like music drifting in from a distant room. Temporary but
magical.
Parker drove on in
silence, enjoying the merriness of his thoughts and the presence of his young
wife by his side. This would be the couple's first Christmas with Mary's
parents, as their first had been spent with his side of the family. He was
excited to get to know them better in the relaxing rhythm of holiday
celebrations and leisure.
Mary broke the
silence of his thoughts. "Do you think they'll like what we got
'em?"
"Your parents? Of course they will. Who wouldn't
like it?"
They laughed at their inside joke. This had been Mary's
diplomatic response when her mother had called about the gift she and Mary's
father had bestowed upon the couple the previous Christmas. She had very much
hoped they'd like it, and Mary was careful to give the impression that it was
the greatest gift ever. In truth, the painting of the fireplace did not fit in
the least with the decor of their home, but she had been brought up to believe
that it was "the thought that counts," so she hung it up in the
corner of their little office, above the desk. If her parents ever came to
visit, perhaps she would hang it in a more prominent place.
§
When they pulled
into the Johnstons' driveway, it was with an audible, shared sigh. Both of them
were extremely tired from hours of travel. They had been hungry for a couple of
those but hadn't eaten due to the expectation of what promised to be an
exceptionally large meal upon their arrival.
Always
delightfully impatient, Mary's mother came running out to greet them before
they even had a chance to get out of the car. "You're here!"
she crooned, rushing down the walkway with such speed Mary cringed, certain she
was about to slip and fall. As they embraced, Mary took in the familiar scents
of honey ham pot pie, dinner rolls, yams, and bread pudding--all homemade of
course--and thought she could spy a hint of flour in her mother's already white
hair. Margaret Johnston was an outstanding cook with a reputation for
overfeeding people; after all, it was such good food.
Parker said Merry
Christmas and smiled at his mother-in-law, who seemed satisfied for now
with the initial greeting. "So good to see you. Come inside," she
welcomed. Parker gathered gifts and the couple's shared duffel bag as Mary was
whisked inside, Margaret chattering all the way about how excited she was to
see them and all the fun things she had planned for their visit.
Ted Johnston was
wearing a tan-colored sweater and black jeans. He looked rather stylish for a
gentleman in his late sixties. The rather disheveled hair on his mostly bald
head told the tale that he'd probably just awoke from a nap--no doubt the
result of Margaret's ecstatic announcement of 'They're here! They're here!' "Well
now," he cheered, rising from his sage green recliner, "look who's
here." He greeted the couple with warm hugs, a gentle one for Mary and a
back-slapping one for Parker.
Upon hearing all
the ruckus, Mary's younger sister, Daisy, appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Her fairer complexion and blonde hair were a stark contrast to Mary's olive
skin tone and sable brown hair. Mary took after her father, while Daisy favored
Margaret. Still, both girls had blue eyes and a roundish face--a family
resemblance could be detected after a little time spent around them both, even
if it wasn't readily apparent.
"Sis!"
Daisy rushed to embrace her shorter yet older sibling. Looking up from the hug,
she caught the smile on her brother-in-law's face. "So glad you guys could
come. It just wasn't the same last year." She turned to hug Parker as well.
"Well, we're
pretty happy to be here too," he returned. Parker was tall and just lanky
enough that he still looked a bit nerdy, but in the most thoughtful way. His
green eyes were filled with kindness, and the frames of his hipster-style
glasses echoed the sandy color of his thin, unassuming hair.
"Where's
Jon?" Mary was quick to ask.
"He and Paula
should be here any moment," Margaret assured her.
Jon
was the oldest of the three Johnston siblings and had been the first to marry.
He and his wife Paula had celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary in
October. Paula loved autumn and had insisted on incorporating oranges and
browns into their wedding palette. Somehow she'd made it work. She was clever,
calculated, and confident, while Jon was given to simplicity and agreement.
They were a good match.
They all sipped on
cider while Parker filled the Johnstons in on their drive from Ann Arbor,
Michigan to their destination in Madison, Wisconsin, a six-hour journey--a
little more with incidental stops.
The doorbell rang,
and Paula burst through the door with a jolly "Hello, and Merry
Christmas."
Mary was delighted
to see her big brother, whose looks were much like her own. Only he had brown
eyes and was slightly taller. "Hey, Big Jon," she smiled, reaching
out to hug him. She and Daisy had nicknamed him that when they were quite
young, even though he hadn't turned out to be a particularly "big"
guy after all, reaching a mere five-foot-eight in height.
"Hi,
sis. Long time, no see." Daisy ran up to get her hugs in as well.
Jon
greeted Parker with a firm handshake, while Paula ran around dramatically
hugging everyone and ooh-ing and aah-ing over how wonderful they all looked.
Now
that the Christmas greetings had been given, there was only one thing left to do.
"Come to the table, everyone," Margaret announced with a proud smile.
"It's time for dinner."
Dinner
commenced with the joining of hands and Ted offering a prayer of thanksgiving
to God for his family’s safe arrival. Heads nodded all around in agreement as
he closed with a loud “Amen.”
Margaret scanned
around to make sure everyone was getting what he or she needed. She jumped up
several times to get drink refills and replenish the basket of dinner rolls.
She was the consummate hostess. And relished every minute of it.
“So, Jon,” Parker began, making
conversation, “how’s business?”
“Beautifully,”
Paula answered for him, then realized it just as quickly. “Oh, sorry, dear. You
tell them all about it.”
Smiling, Jon took
his wife’s cue and began to fill the family in on his most recent enterprise,
photographing vintage barns. Jonathan’s photography business, Ray of Hope, had
taken off. Jon, who presented more like an accountant upon first meeting, truly
had an artistic streak—but he used his outside
the home, whereas Paula employed hers in creating a welcoming and celebratory
atmosphere within their two-story colonial style residence.
The younger
Johnstons lived on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan in the small town of Fish
Creek, Wisconsin, just over three and a half hours from Ted and Margaret’s.
Winter-time tended to be a bit slower for Jon’s business, so the couple tended
to visit more frequently between December and February.
“Wow, I love
vintage barns!” exclaimed Daisy, who had started her own cottage-style décor
business.
Since Mary had
moved out, her old upstairs room had become, in part, Daisy’s studio. A
partition separated her wares from the rest of the room, which was still
guest-ready. It was a priority to Margaret to have places for family to stay.
“No motels for my kin,” she would always say. A second guestroom, where Mary
and Parker would be sleeping, graced the downstairs floor.
“Well, if you’d
like, I can certainly provide you with some artistically framed copies of my
favorite barn photos—for your shop,” offered Jon.
“Oh, that would be
lovely!” Daisy virtually clapped at the thought of a new addition to her stock.
“How are the
yams?” Margaret wanted to know. Everyone had been conversing so eagerly, they’d
forgotten the customary yam compliments. Quickly, they began to chime in,
making up for lost time. “Oh, they’re absolutely delicious…best I’ve ever
had…just perfect…so moist and savory.” Margaret smiled, pleased to have
succeeded in her culinary ventures once again.
“What do you say,
Mary?” Ted inquired, winking at his daughter mischievously. “Should we clear
away these dishes and beat some people at pinochle?”
“Sounds like a
great idea to me,” she smiled. It was a tradition for Mary and her father to
play partners at a few games of pinochle during the holidays.
“I’ll help Mom
with the dishes,” volunteered Paula, who wasn’t much for games but liked to
keep busy all the same.
“Parker, you wanna
partner up for this battle?” Jon proposed.
“Why not? What’s
the worst that could happen?” At that, Mary and her father shared a knowing
glance and a chuckle. They had a reputation of being impressively hard to beat.
“What about me?”
Daisy fake pouted. Everyone knew she didn’t play pinochle but still liked to be
in on the action.
“You can be in
charge of recording bets,” suggested Parker. They all laughed.
A half-hour later,
Mary and Ted had been victorious, and Parker and Jon were playing the part of
the sore losers. “It’s because I didn’t get to cut the cards that one hand,” emphasized
Jon.
“Yeah, we probably
would’ve won if it weren’t for that,” agreed his partner.
“Ha!” scoffed
Mary. “You guys were over eighty points behind us. Nice try.”
As the guys were
taking their lumps and Ted shuffling for a second game, Margaret and Paula were
distributing hot cocoas. Daisy had turned on some background Christmas music
and was knitting a pair of slipper socks for her shop—they’d been selling like
hotcakes. She had a good eye for the mixing of colors that gave them just the
right blend of charm and pizzazz.
Laughter echoed as
the next pinochle contest ensued, with Ted lamenting the “rotten deal” he’d
gotten.
“Perhaps our luck
is changing,” quipped Parker hopefully.
“Well, the weather
certainly is,” announced the always observant Paula. Margaret looked up from
her cooking magazine along with the rest of the group. There was a real
blizzard forming outside.
“Margaret, turn on
the news, will you?” Ted prompted. “Maybe we can get some idea how bad this
thing’s gonna get.” When he said “bad,” it was with enthusiasm. Ted Johnston
was an inclement weather fan, and this was just the kind of event he’d been
hoping for.
“This could be the
biggest blizzard in ten years,” the weatherman declared with regard. “So far it
is stranding thousands of travelers at airports and on roadways. Madison could
have up to ten inches by tomorrow afternoon if this intensity keeps up.”
Daisy visibly
shuddered as a chill, whether actual or suggested, came over her. Ted arose
from the table purposefully, setting down his hand for the time being. “I think
it may be time to strike up a blaze in the ol’ fireplace.”
Mary felt a
tingle of happiness go up her spine. Here she was, off and married—not a little
kid anymore—but she could remember the first time she saw her father build a
fire in that very fireplace like it was yesterday.
§
“Pick up
that little piece and hand it to Daddy,” Ted Johnston lovingly instructed his
little girl.
The
pudgy-cheeked three-year-old complied, slowly picking up the
purposely-small-cut piece of firewood and carefully placing it in her father’s
larger-than-life hands. Once it had reached its destination and Ted had struck
the match, little Mary squealed with delight, clapping her hands and
proclaiming, “Yay, Daddy! Good job!”
Moments
later, a fire had roared to life, and Mary stood mesmerized for the longest
time, gazing into its center as if under the spell of a flaming enchantment and
feeling its warmth as her daddy sat on the floor, held her on his lap, and
whispered to her the wonders of fire—its dangers and its beauty.
§
Mary could feel the warmth of it even
now, eighteen years later. She smiled and instinctively moved closer to the
fireplace as her father worked his magic.
The
crackling of the newly-lit blaze was like a homing beacon, beckoning everyone
to draw close to it. Each family member would comment in turn about how good it
felt, how they just loved a good fire, how they couldn’t remember the last time
they sat by a fireplace—but Mary just sat and took it all in, joyfully savoring
the closeness of her family and the cozy trance brought on by the glowing
fireside heat.
Jon and Paula sat on the edge of the
hearth, while Parker came to sit on the floor next to Mary. Daisy planted
herself next to Mary, pausing from her knitting to take in the ineludible charm
of the fire. Ted stood back and admired his handiwork. Margaret came and took
her husband’s hand. “Beautiful job, honey.”
“Why thank you, dear. I’ve had just a
bit of experience.”
“Dad, do you remember the first time
I helped you build a fire?” Mary inquired, knowing that he most certainly did remember, for it was a memory that
had been brought up many times over the years. She did so now because she loved
hearing the way her father told it. It brought back such fond memories and
always seemed to open the door to the sharing of similar sentiments—a way of
bringing the family together.
If there was
one thing that was important to Mary, it was family. Especially after all she’d
been through. Now she had Parker to count on and be blessed by as well, she
thought, gazing at him. And he loved her indescribably. So much to be thankful
for.
Ted began the treasured story. “You
were just a little tyke, no taller than the doorknob. You were always
fascinated and watched me closely every time I built a fire. So I got it in my
head that I should teach you how to help me—so that you could have an even
greater appreciation of it. The night before, I’d gone out to my shop and cut
some of the wood into smaller pieces, just the right size for Mary,” he went
on, now addressing the whole audience. “I’ll never forget the look on her face
when she handed it to me—so proud to be helping her daddy—and the giggle she
let out when I put that piece into the fireplace and lit the whole pile was
just priceless. From that moment on, I knew Mary would be a helper.”
“And
an encourager,” Margaret was quick to add. “Remember how she praised you?”
“Oh, yeah,” laughed Ted, recalling
the moment. “She said ‘Yay, Daddy, good job!” and clapped her hands.
“It’s true, she really is an
encourager,” Parker chimed in, always one to take an opportunity to praise his
wife.
Paula looked to Jon for a bit of
kindred praise. “I’m an encourager,
aren’t I, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, you
encourage me to do what you want.” Parker and Daisy both chuckled, but Mary
silently wondered if Paula’s feelings might be hurt by Jon’s somewhat truthful
joke.
“Don’t you
know it?” Paula replied, pinching her husband’s cheek and then kissing him.
Even if Paula was a little high
maintenance, they made each other happy and could take personal jokes better
than most couples.
“I remember when you used to cut
small pieces of wood for me,” Jon offered, trying to get back into the spirit
of things. “Except I was never as excited about it as Mary was. My big
excitement was getting the Christmas tree.” An interested hmm came from Parker’s direction.
“You certainly were,” Margaret (who
had pulled up an ottoman to sit on) affirmed. “I remember you putting on your
boots—with three pairs of socks, in case it took a while to find the perfect
tree—and getting all bundled up, hat and all. You’d announce, ‘I’m ready,’ and
off we’d go to the Christmas tree farm.”
“How cute,” Paula cooed. She loved
that her husband was such an early fan of her favorite holiday.
“What about me?” asked Daisy, knowing
the answer but wanting to hear it recollected. “What did I get excited about?”
“Yarn!” everyone answered in unison,
having heard the tale numerous times. Daisy laughed. Margaret took her cue from
there. “Daisy was so creative. Well, she still is, of course. She picked up crocheting at an early age, and she
was always making paper bag puppets with yarn hair. When she was seven, she
made her first potholder—multi-colored, of course. Every time we went into a
store that had yarn, she had to go and look at the colors. I usually let her
pick one color that was on sale. I still have some Christmas ornaments she made
from some of those purchases.”
Daisy smiled proudly. Knowing that
her mom had paid so much attention and invested regularly in her interests made
her feel loved and appreciated.
“I sure wish I’d had a special
interest,” Parker divulged. “I did enjoy picking a Christmas tree, but I’m not
sure I made quite the art of it that Jon here did,” he added, nodding toward
his brother-in-law. I think it took me until I was an adult to realize that I really enjoyed something and could get
excited about it. I guess it was numbers that really thrilled me, but no one
ever said ‘Man, you’re really good with numbers,’ so I had to discover it on my
own.”
“That’s too bad,” Paula sympathized,
“but I’m glad you finally found what you love. I find that I love interior design—I mean, I’m
changing things in our house all the time!” she laughed, and Jon nodded in
eye-rolling agreement. “But I’ve been considering actually pursuing it as a
career. I mean, it’s not too late—I just don’t want to let the opportunity pass
me by.”
“Do I still
get grandchildren in the design package?” was Margaret’s quick response, which
was met by more laughter. Paula blushed but joined in the laughter.
It was nearing 9:30, and Ted began to
yawn. “Past my bedtime. Gonna have to turn in,” he announced apologetically.
“See you all in the morning.” Hugging his daughters and giving his wife a quick
peck, Ted turned to head upstairs.
“I’ll be up in a bit, dear,” Margaret
assured him. The night owl in her took some time to wind down.
“I’m feeling
pretty tired myself,” Paula yawned, startling her husband.
“Really? I’m surprised you’re so
tired this early.”
Usually Paula would stay up late
visiting with her mother-in-law, but tonight she simply didn’t have the energy.
Unusual, to be sure, but she was one to listen to her body—as a result, she was
rarely ever sick or run-down. Jon followed her up the stairs, both of them
bidding their goodnights.
Daisy, who
was just finishing bootie number one, concurred. “Yeah, I mean, we’ve got a
whole three days. I think I’ll get some sleep too.”
Mary gave Parker a look that said she
wanted to stay by the fire just a bit longer.
After a bit of extra tidying in the
kitchen and setting out plates for breakfast, Margaret made her exit, quietly
saying goodnight and leaving the
couple by the fire to cuddle and dream. She smiled as she remembered the
days—how she and Ted had sat in front of that very fireplace and dreamed of a
family and picture-perfect Christmases. Now it was their turn.
§
Parker and Mary
Malloy awoke to the cozying smell of a crackling fire, making them all the more
inclined to just stay in bed and enjoy the lazy holiday repose. But Mary knew
her mother would have other ideas. “Wake up sleepy-head,” she yawned.
“Who’s the sleepy-head?” Parker queried with a
crooked grin. Mary tittered and rolled toward her husband, who embraced her
heartily.
“It’s going to be
a great day, babe,” she said.
“I don’t doubt
it,” Parker agreed, kissing her.
“Now you’re starting to sound like Jon.”
“Hey, don’t knock
Jon. That man knows when to speak his mind and when to keep his mouth shut.”
“Hmm,” Mary
meditated, trying to recall a specific time in which Jon had spoken his mind in
any way that was contrary to his wife’s thoughts. “And when might that be?”
“Remember at our
wedding rehearsal?”
Mary
tried to read the memory in her husband’s tranquil eyes but drew a blank. “No,
I don’t think I recall that. But I was
a little preoccupied.”
“Paula suggested
adding some branches to the candelabra, and you were too kind to say that you
wanted the full focus to be on the ribbon you had chosen and the colors of the
individual candles. Paula was pretty animated, painting a picture for everyone
of how wonderful it would look…”
“Oh, now I remember,” but I don’t remember it
being a big deal.
“Well, it would have been, but Jon spoke up and
said ‘Paula, let the bride decide what she wants—you had your day.’ I mean, he
said it in the nicest possible way but with obvious resolve. I was quite
impressed really.”
“Well, he always
did try and look out for me.”
“Speaking of
“looking out,” let’s check the view from the window.”
The two jumped up
and rushed to the bedroom window, recalling the building snowstorm of the night
before. A light dusting persisted, adding to the mounding heaps that had become
visibly taller since they were last assessed.
The unmistakable
smell of bacon drifted in from the kitchen, signaling the Malloys that
breakfast was nearly ready. Margaret believed that every meal was important but
especially breakfast and dinner. Breakfast was, after all, the most important meal of the day, and dinner was the final food
impression of the day—it had to be superb. Breakfast, in addition to the
sizzling strips she was now stacking neatly on a plate, included fresh fruit,
French toast, and hash browns. Quite a spread.
Parker and Mary
donned casual clothes and ventured out to the dining room. “Good morning,
Mama,” Mary greeted her cherry blossom aproned mother, whose back was turned at
the moment, making a lime and mint sprig garnish for the French toast. Margaret
wasn’t just about taste but presentation as well.
Turning brightly,
Margaret greeted the early birds. “Good morning, sweetie. Good morning,
Parker.” Reaching up, she pushed a button next to the telephone. “Breakfast
awaits!” she cheerfully announced into the intercom. All guests knew that meant
“hustle.” When you stayed at the Johnstons’, you did not leave fresh food waiting. It was an unspoken, well-respected
rule.
Once everyone had
gathered, there was a breakfast blessing (Ted asked Parker to do the honors)
and lots of syrup pouring and powder sugar sprinkling commenced. Paula only had
half a piece of French toast, which Margaret noticed but opted not to draw
attention to. Jon also noticed and whispered an inquiry to his wife as to
whether she was not feeling well. “Not really,” she whispered.
It was December 22nd,
day one of the three “visit days,” not counting Christmas, as guests would head
home after the morning festivities. Responding to a few head nods and eyebrow
raises, Daisy acted as spokesperson for the group. “Well, Mom, what do you have
planned for today?”
“Oh, you’re going
to love it!” Maragaret was just bursting to share what she had cooked up for
the day and had only been waiting for someone to ask. Since the weather had
them rather stationary, activities would take place indoors. There was to be
cookie making, a Scrabble tournament, a slideshow featuring pictures of the
previous Christmas, and a game involving socks.
Socks were first.
After breakfast was cleared away and dishes loaded into the dishwasher,
Margaret fetched a large basket. In it were six socks, none matching any of the
others. These were the infamous “lone mates” Margaret had hung onto for such a
time as this. She began to pass them out, explaining that the game was called
Stuffed Stockings.
“Hey, how come
most of these are my socks?” Ted
wanted to know.
“Well, yours are
the ones that keep getting either separated or too holey,” Margaret reasoned.
Ted shrugged.
Once each person
had received a sock, the girls receiving some of Daisy’s old singles, Margaret
paused for effect. “Now,” she began. “Around the house, clues have been hidden.
The first clue is inside your sock. It will lead you to the next clue. Some of
them you will really have to give thought to. As you find each clue, there will
be a wad of cotton stuffing along with it, to fill your sock with. The first person
to present to me a stuffed sock and all eight of their clues will receive the
top prize. “But” (as was to be expected from Margaret), “everyone will get a
prize for participation.”
“Well, I’m really
gonna sock it to ya all,” Jon punned.
“I’ll be darned if that’s the case,” Ted
retorted.
“You can bet I’ll
be the one stocking up on clues,”
added Paula, always game for a good banter.
“Now don’t be such
a heel about it,” Parker quipped,
scolding his sister-in-law.
“Okay, now that’s
enough sock jokes,” Margaret constrained. “Let’s get started.”
“But, Mom…” moaned
Daisy, who hadn’t been able to get a pun out yet.
“Maybe next time,”
Margaret insincerely soothed. “When I say “go,” let the games begin…ready,
set…go!”
Family members
spread out in all directions, each reading their first clues. Paula, who had
been blessed with an eagerly competitive spirit, was soon in the lead.
It was on Mary’s
second to last clue that she stumbled upon it. She opened a small linen
closet—a wardrobe really—thinking that her clue may be directing her there. As
it turned out, the clue she sought was
on top of the wardrobe, easily visible if Mary had read the clue more closely,
but once she realized that, she’d already seen it. They say a picture is worth
a thousand words. But this one evoked only tears.
§
The shoebox seemed
a likely space to hide a clue, so Mary had opened it. It was full of pictures,
a particular photo sitting near the top and too evocative to be overlooked. It
was one Margaret had taken of Mary and her father, at Mary’s request. Her thin
form compared with her dad’s stout frame revealed that something was wrong.
Bags under the eyes, yellowish tint to the skin, and a red rash around her neck
just perceptible at the top of the turtleneck she was wearing.
Mary
froze for a moment, recalling the reason she had asked her mother to take the
snapshot, which she had never revealed to anyone—not even Margaret. She very
much believed it could be the last image ever recorded of her and her
father—something for her mom and dad to remember her by once she was gone. Mary
had always been a daddy’s girl, so naturally she wanted to pose with her daddy.
But she had never breathed a word of what she actually believed. That this
would be the last picture of her ever taken.
§
It was Mary’s
senior year in high school, and for a couple weeks she had not been feeling
well. Her appetite had dwindled to practically nothing. Margaret suspected
anorexia but didn’t want to jump to conclusions. One morning, when Mary didn’t
have the energy to get up for church—which she loved—her parents decided to
take her to the emergency room; and she had no energy to argue. Ted carried his
daughter to the car, worry etched on his face. He gave his wife a replete
glance that communicated his thoughts. Something
is terribly wrong.
After a series of
tests, the doctors determined Mary was suffering from glandular fever,
otherwise known as infectious mononucleosis. The condition was not typically
fatal, but Mary’s case was acute. She was experiencing a rare outcome—liver
failure.
Mary could hear
the doctor’s fateful word through the fog —irreversible.
She was going to die, and she couldn’t even respond to the news. She didn’t
have the strength to be afraid, only accept it. She wouldn’t finish her senior
year. Never go to college. Never marry. Or have children.
Mary’s parents
refused to give up. They began an around-the-clock prayer vigil, contacting
every prayer chain they could from their extensive list of friends and family.
Outside of a new liver to transplant, Mary’s only hope was the healing power of
Almighty God.
Though she met the
candidacy requirements for the transplant list, the usual wait in the U.S. was
at about a year at the time of Mary’s diagnosis. She didn’t have that long.
§
Wiping her eyes,
Mary emerged from her parents’ room, having forgotten all about finding the
clue. In the hallway she bumped into Daisy, who immediately noticed something
was troubling her sister. “What’s wrong?
You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Very nearly.”
Any explanation was
postponed by Margaret’s voice calling from downstairs, “We have a winner!
Return to your starting positions!” They all gathered downstairs to learn that
Jon had found all his clues. The bulging sock he carried attested to the
victory. A huge smile graced his face. He was congratulated all around, some
more begrudgingly than others.
“Okay, so now for
second place. Ready, set, go!” Margaret announced. The players began to
disperse. All but Mary.
“What’s up, sis?”
Jon, who had no reason to rush off with the others spoke with genuine care and
concern. But he surmised that Mary simply was stumped on a clue.
Recognizing this
assumption, Mary was quick to deflect. “I know where my next clue is.” She
headed slowly toward the stairs. But did she really want to go back in that
room? The picture had conjured up another memory, something that took place in
that very room—something Mary wasn’t sure she could bear to think about.
§
Jon followed a
subtle distance behind, waiting until Mary had turned the corner at the top of
the stairs before making his inconspicuous ascent. Blessed with an ever-curious
nature—as well as a caring heart, he had to know what was bothering his sister.
But he wasn’t sure she wanted him to
know.
The picture had
also reminded Mary of that night, and once she stepped into the room, she knew
she’d relive it. Stepping across the threshold, she paused, seeing it all as if
it was happening on a screen before her eyes.
§
Mary was nearly
eighteen and had wanted to go to a party. She’d never been to the hostess’s
house before, and her parents had never met the girl’s family. They just knew
that there was something that didn’t feel right about it. They told her no.
Mary was livid,
ranting that they didn’t trust her—didn’t recognize that she was almost an
adult.
She had followed
her mom to her bedroom. Margaret was the easy target because she was the one
who had actually broken the news to Mary, before Ted got home. “I’m not a child
anymore! I can make my own decisions!” she yelled through irrational tears.
“Honey, if your
dad and I felt this would be a good party for you to attend, we would have no
objection,” her mother explained, folding clothes as she spoke. “But I’ve
talked to several parents who feel the same way. Charlotte has a reputation for
throwing wild parties…when her parents are out of town.”
“That’s not true!
Her parents will be there!”
“Well, I haven’t
been able to get hold of them, so I have no way of knowing if that’s true or
not. I don’t know this girl—only her reputation—and I just don’t know whether
she can be trusted or not. I mean, if she’s had other parties behind her
parents’ backs, what’s to say she won’t do it again?”
And that’s when
Mary said something she thought she’d never say. “I can’t stand you, Mom. You
just want this perfect life, with perfect people, who never do anything wrong.
And you think I’m going to do something wrong too just because others do. It’s
just not fair, and I don’t need you in my life—I can figure it out on my own!”
As soon as she’d
spoken the words, Mary knew she’d crossed a line. In her heart she had
regretted it always. Shortly after uttering the words, Mary had collapsed,
fainting from the weakness that had begun to plague her body. The illness was
still unknown at this point, and though she was taken to the hospital, Mary was
only diagnosed with dehydration and fatigue. Well, she was a very busy senior
who pushed herself hard for good grades, so fatigue was kind of non-negotiable.
What Mary
regretted now, looking back on the event, was that she’d never actually
apologized for the things she said to her mother. She had collapsed and been
taken to the ER—after that, she had sort of put the event out of her mind. Her
mother seemed to handle her with kid gloves for a while and give her more
space. Mary had been grateful for the space but never for the division that
caused it. And for years now she’d been too ashamed to tell her mother just how
sorry she was.
§
Jon stood a
distance from their parents’ room, trying to pick up on any clues in Mary’s
mannerisms. Though he couldn’t hear her, she was quietly reading aloud her
clue: This is where the masters sleep.
And in this spot, true treasures keep. Treasures…what would her mother
consider treasures?
And then it dawned
on her—as a little girl, whenever Mary wanted to crumple up a picture she’d
drawn or a poem she’d written because it wasn’t quite good enough, Margaret
would always take it gently and ask if she could keep it, stating, “I treasure
all the things you do—because I treasure YOU.” Secretly, it was one of Mary’s
favorite things to hear, so at times she’d “pretend” to not like her own
creations, knowing that Margaret would bolster her confidence and sense of
complete acceptance with these predictable yet powerful words.
Mary went directly
to the left side of the bed, kneeling where her mother had knelt for years to
pray—underneath the bed, directly in front of the small carpet Margaret used to
cushion her knees a bit was a brown leather box with buckled clasps on the
front. Mary slid it carefully out from under the bed and began to undo the
buckles.
Jon moved a bit
closer down the hall, noting that Mary seemed completely focused on what she
was doing. As she opened the box, a folded piece of paper caught her eye. She
opened it gingerly, as it looked like it had been opened and closed hundreds of
times. On it was a picture Mary had drawn as a young girl—of herself standing
on top of a stage—she was dressed in a princess dress but there were small
bumps representing muscles showing just under the sleeves. The caption, in
Mary’s youthful handwriting, read “Mary is a strong girl.” Above her image was
a plaque, also drawn by Mary, with a tiny inscription: “Incredibly Strong Girl
Award.”
Jon now stood in
the doorway, though Mary hadn’t noticed his presence. At the very bottom of the
picture a Scripture passage had been written, in her mother’s unmistakable
softly-looped cursive: Psalm 18 – “
For who is God besides
the LORD? And who is the Rock except our God? It
is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he
enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for
battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You give me your
shield of victory, and your right hand sustains me; you stoop
down to make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that
my ankles do not turn. I pursued my enemies and
overtook them; I did not turn back till they were destroyed. I crushed them so that they could not rise; they fell beneath my
feet. You armed me with strength for battle; you
made my adversaries bow at my feet.”
Only, in most places where the pronoun “my” was used in the
original, Margaret had substituted “Mary’s” and where it said “me” she had
changed it to “Mary” or “her.” “I” had also been changed to refer to Mary.
Tears streamed down her face as she became aware of the many nights her mother
had spent no doubt declaring these verses in relentless faith—pleading actively
for her daughter’s life—that this
would be the case for Mary. A broadened path, complete strength, victory! And
it had ultimately happened.
She began to weep, in part from the guilt over how she’d spoken
to her mother without ever making it right; in part from recalled despair of
her illness (when she believed she truly was
dying); and in part out of thanksgiving that God had spared her life.
Jon rushed to her side, no longer able to keep his presence
hidden. “Oh, sis,” he said, kneeling and embracing her in one swift compulsion
of sympathetic brotherly love. She leaned on him for a time, glad for his
understanding presence.
After her crying had subsided, Mary lifted her head. She felt
her brother needed some explanation as to what had just occurred. “I found
this.” She slowly lifted the worn paper and handed it to Jon ever so carefully,
as if it could fall apart at the slightest jostle.
He laughed quietly at the picture, but once he read the verses,
his eyes met Mary’s in unspoken comprehension of the significance of this item.
Handing it back to her, he sweetly brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed
her forehead. “I’m so glad you are here.”
Mary knew that he didn’t mean here for Christmas but here as in, alive. Jon helped her to her
feet and she looked around awkwardly. “What is it?”
“Well, I never did find my next clue.”
“Um, I kinda think you did.
Did you notice that the part that was highlighted?” Quickly Mary looked again
in the box. “That means there’s cotton stuffing in here somewhere.” Sure
enough. There was a wad of the sock-filler underneath the next few pieces of
paper. Mary victoriously stuffed it into her sock.
Opening the aged paper once again, Mary noted that there was
indeed a highlighted section—You broaden
the path beneath Mary so that her ankles do not turn.
They stared at each other, wheels turning—then in unison got
the message—“The path!” Rushing down the stairs, they began to laugh like
school kids, practically falling over each other in their enthusiasm to get to
the back door. Jon reached it first but in a spontaneous gentlemanly gesture
opened it for Mary. She rushed out onto the short cobblestone path that led to
her mother’s treasured garden area. There sticking out of a flowerpot was the
final “ticket.” Grabbing the pink piece of paper, Mary read aloud so Jon could
share in the moment: “You made it! What a blessing!”
“I made it,” she smiled, and as her eyes met Jon’s they both
knew she wasn’t referring to finding the final clue.
