Acts of Grace

by Charles C. Cole

Swain Clatchee was singularly philanthropic in a small community of decent-minded — but far from perfect — country folk. He was a volunteer lay minister who, with patience and compassion, would drop everything to help a neighbor in need, especially with troubles of conscience or emotions. He’d been performing small acts of higher healing since his late teens.

Swain’s young parents had gone their separate wandering ways soon after he was born, never looking back. He’d been raised by his great-grandmother, a kind-hearted woman who believed devoutly in daily Bible readings and the importance of “saying grace” at every meal, not as mundane domestic chores but as moments of genuine reflection. A slow walk with “Gram” in the woods or along the local river came with a thermosful of wisdom and countless moments of understated appreciation.

At the time of these events, Gram had long ago departed for the reputed land of eternal reward, gone from this familiar country of toils and wonder. Residing just over a mile from his childhood home, Swain was older, but far from old, experienced with pain and loss but still hopeful. In fact, he was newly married and an expectant father.

Swain’s glowing wife, Althea, was visiting her parents, showing off her growing “bump,” when the future baby kicked for the first time, at least in company. When Althea jolted, her father, Ken, looked like he was about to faint, as if he thought she was about to deliver a wet, squirming, squealing newborn onto their kitchen linoleum. She offered to reassure him, to let him touch her bare belly, but Ken backed away to the side of the family hound, Rufus.

Ken reached down and patted his wagging companion, saying, “Poor Rufus ain’t used to someone else getting all the attention. Better not push things. Dogs got feelings, too, you know.”

Then it was time to go. Ever cautious, Althea looked over her shoulder before backing into approaching traffic: all clear for her journey home. But then there was an impulse, one more thing she needed to tell them.

She turned away from the road and stared at her parents smiling and waving from the front porch, arms around each other, happily married over thirty years, an inspiration — and Althea plum forgot what she was going to say. The doctor, old enough to be long retired, even had a term for it: pregnancy brain. Her mother called it “momnesia.” The mild symptom was real, but so far the only quirky side-effect of her temporary condition, besides expanding like a prize pumpkin.

The second time she backed up, Althea forgot to look over her shoulder. The long log truck that hit her, with no time for braking until after the impact, was heavy with timber. The one small mitigating circumstance: our passengers probably didn’t feel any pain, just a momentary surprise tinged with disappointment.

When you’ve been beaten by life’s abusive circumstances over and over, you almost get numb to the repetition: you discover your creaky car’s got a new flat tire. Makes sense because you just got laid off from the mill. And the milk’s gone bad a week before its expiration date and the dog’s run off again.

But the prospective bride whose father dies of a heart attack the night before her dream wedding goes into petrifying shock, caught completely off-guard, from the sweetest highs to the bitterest lows in the time it takes to gasp. Maybe, just maybe, pain hurts deeper when it’s completely unexpected, when you’re feeling protected by a glittering bubble of pinch-me blessings.

After the accident, the service and the weeks that followed, Swain was overwhelmed with grief, as well as condolences, casseroles, and dinner invitations. He declined all of the dinner invitations, except one, to the home of Reverend Tyrone Bell, an old friend who stubbornly refused to take “no” for an answer. They sat opposite each other, just the two of them, in the small dining room, Swain barely touching his food.

With a nod, Bell indicated the plate of room-temperature spaghetti before Swain. “Too much curry?” he joked.

Swain smiled. He’d missed smiling. “You don’t have to counsel me. I’ve just gotten tired of my own company. How long can a man mope?”

“A long time,” answered Bell. “You’re probably too young to know about New Coke. After about a hundred years, Coca-Cola decided to try a new formula. Broke my heart. My grades suffered. I started losing my hair. It was hard. I guess it was 79 days later when they finally responded to the crying and panic in the heartland.”

“She was my life,” said Swain. “And don’t tell me she’s with Gram because that doesn’t make things better.”

“You’ve supported a lot of people, Swain. Almost too many to count. Maybe it’s time for them to give back, to balance the books. You never would have asked for help unless it was something important.”

“And I’m overdue,” Swain reluctantly agreed. “For a long while, it seemed like everyone had more than their share of pain, while I was being excluded from the pity party. I prayed and prayed. I knew God wouldn’t let me down.”

Briefly, Bell raised an eyebrow, then reached across the table and placed a hand gently but firmly over Swain’s hand. “What if we pray together? Nothing out loud.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all dinner?” teased Swain.

“Am I that bad a cook?” Bell smiled. “What if we just share in the moment. Strength in numbers, that sort of thing. I won’t keep you long; I still have to prepare tomorrow’s sermon.”

“Football in the afternoon.”

“I’ll keep it brief. God likes our full attention.”

When he climbed back into his truck to head home, Swain glanced at the inconceivably empty passenger side. “Althea, honey, if you’re listening, I always wished you and Gram could have hung out. You heard me say it. You were certainly birds of a feather. I guess I got my wish.”

Proceed to Challenge 1145...