Yes, my sixty-year-old aunt has more style and grace than I’ll ever possess, especially when my daily choice of attire lately is sweat pants, fuzzy boots, and my ratty old junior college sweatshirt.
“Well, are you going to leave me in suspense or tell me how the interview went today?”
I pick up a carrot and sneak it into my mouth before she turns. “It went well, I guess. They hired me.”
She spins around so fast that bits of sautéed onion fly from the spoon. “They did?”
I get her surprise. I’m still questioning if I imagined the whole thing. “Yeah. Not one inquiry about my job performance or my personal beliefs. I guess they assumed since you’re so holy and dedicated, I must be, too.” I slip that last part in as a warning. My aunt put her name and reputation on the line for me, and I’m not exactly the most trustworthy of choices. I dropped out of college after only two semesters, quit my first three “real” jobs, and until he-who-will-not-be-named came along, I went through boyfriends nearly as quickly as my mom did.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot more of her in me than I like to admit.
Doreen nods as if she gets an answer from some unseen being. “Well, it is what it is. I hope you see this as an opportunity and take full advantage of the kindness you’ve been shown.”
“I do, and I will.” Not just for me, but also for her. Then I think of all the people I met today and realize I want to do it for them, as well. There’s something special in that office, a feeling I can’t quite define but know I need more of.
She stretches her arm out and pulls the cutting board away before I can eat any more of her chopped goodies. “Can you grab me the chicken stock?”
“Yep.” I rummage through her walk-in pantry and take out two large cartons. I can tell by the ingredients that we’re having her homemade chicken soup tonight, and my stomach delights as the smell of seared vegetables fills the kitchen.
Yet another difference between my mom and aunt. Mom’s idea of cooking is opening a box of Hamburger Helper.
As I set the cartons on the counter, my eyes flicker to the invoice on the fridge. The letterhead matches the side of the trucks perfectly, Kyle’s Construction and Landscaping, and the amount due is enough to make my insides turn.
I’ve always known my aunt and uncle are wealthy, but I’m quickly learning that my idea of wealth and their reality are not even in the same stratosphere. Probably an added bonus as to why my mom resents her older sister so much.
“Why are you suddenly so quiet?” Doreen asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at the invoice for longer than is natural.
“Sorry. I was just thinking about—” I nearly speak the truth when that familiar twist stops me; mentioning the fallout with my mother always makes Doreen’s mood plummet, and I don’t want to do that tonight—“what you said regarding Dillon and his being angry. What happened?”
Doreen sets the spoon against the pot and affectionately tucks a piece of hair back from my face. “That’s not my story to tell.”
“Well, his dad doesn’t seem to share your same integrity.” I stubbornly fold my arms. “Dillon knows my sordid past. I think it’s more than fair that I know his.”
“Maybe so, but I’m still not going to be the one to tell you.” I pout and she gives me her signature scolding eyebrow. The one I’ve seen both my cousins imitate. “Let me put it this way. I would think that you, after all the hurt you’ve experienced over the past few months, would offer a little grace back to someone who is hurting, too.”
“You are far too noble.” Dillon Kyle looked nothing like a man in pain, but then again, Doreen’s love for the weak and wounded is why I’m here in her kitchen.
She grabs a towel, and I know I need to move or she’s going to snap it right at my bottom.
I scurry away. “I’ll set the table.”
“Add a couple more place settings.”
“What? For who?”
Doreen’s grin is downright smug. “I invited the Kyles over after they finish for the day.”
My mouth slacks, and she nearly squawks with laughter.
“Just kidding. See, an old woman can have a sense of humor, too.” Her wink warms my insides as the last bit of tension from the day rolls completely off my shoulders.
Okay fine, maybe Dillon wasn’t too far off base in his assessment.
I do feel a little less broken.
five
I show up at Grace Community at exactly 8:25 a.m. dressed in my best church-appropriate clothes and ready to kill it on my first day. The sun’s shining and is supposed to stay that way until this evening when a dreaded cold front is forecast to blow in. Until then, though, I’m going to soak up every ounce of this sixty-five-degree day and count it as confirmation that I’m exactly where I belong . . . well, minus the whole believing in a higher power thing.
Head high, lungs full of excited breath, I knock carefully on Eric’s open office door and get a cheery “Come in!”
He looks just like he did yesterday, except his jeans are lighter and his shirt is blue. He’s also moving before I make it past the threshold.
“Perfect timing. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I want to get you settled first.”
We walk—well, he walks while I speed-step to keep up. I’m starting to understand why everyone in the office wears casual shoes. They all seem to move like racquetballs in a men’s over-forty tournament.
Ralph O’Neal, the discipleship and education pastor, is located on the second floor of the admin building, along with several of the other ministers. Or at least that’s what my cheat sheet says. I had Doreen give me a rundown of the staff members and all the special committees in the church. Not only is the page full, front and back, but she said tomorrow she’d get me a list of all the Bible study and life group leaders. It’s the first time since high school that I truly value my ability to quickly memorize names and facts. I never realized the enormous amount of people it took to keep a church running.
We take the stairs because Eric says the elevator is slow. Personally, I think they must have a Fitbit contest going on. A sheen of sweat is already forming across my forehead and I still have five steps until I reach the top.
“I met with the personnel team last night,” Eric says when I finally catch up with him. “Their goal is to start advertising this week for a permanent hire, so we’re thinking four months for sure, maybe five, if that works for you.”
I quickly do the math. That would be nine months from when I made the fateful decision to leave my hometown and follow a guy to San Antonio. And a year from when we began our tumultuous romance.
“I think your plan sounds perfect.” And it does. When I return to Georgia in May, I’ll be a different person. Not just less broken but healed. “Plus, it’s a great opportunity to widen my résumé.”
Eric stills for a brief moment, and I’m learning that when he has something important to say, he always stops moving and looks directly at me. While it’s unnerving, I also kind of respect the gesture.
“Your flexibility and positive attitude are such a gulp of fresh air right now. Our church is exploding, and yet I feel as if Satan is attacking our staff on every side. He wants to take us down because of the work we’re doing for the Lord, and it’s not going to happen. Not on my watch.”