A HOPE WORTH WAITING FOR – A Short Story of Life

I wrote this back in 2011 and then re-posted it again in 2013; but it reminds me of my mom so I decided to post it again for anyone that has not read it yet. Hope you enjoy it.

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The gnarled hand, bent by years of hard labor and arthritis, lay against the thin pages as she read the words printed there.

“For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.”

Pale blue eyes lifted from the Book to the horizon where the first rays of the rising sun were just peeking above the hills.

Hope.

After all these years of living, what was there to hope for? she asked herself.

She had lost a baby girl at birth. The pain of that loss still crept into her heart if she allowed it.

One son had died in an auto accident shortly after graduating from high school, leaving a grief almost too sharp to bear.

Then, just last year, her husband finally lost his years-long battle with cancer leaving an emptiness that had been filled with love and laughter for 50 years.

So many losses, so much pain.

Hope?

Where was that in all of this heartache?

She lowered her eyes to the pages before her and continued to read.

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

What good had come from her life, from the pain of missing loved ones that have gone on before?

What did she have now?

An aging body that gave her continuous pain and a bone-deep tiredness that was never-ending. An empty house that echoed with silence.

She thought for a minute, waiting for her heart to find the answers.

She looked back over her life, comparing her faith before and after each loss, each trial; and saw the good in the growing of that faith. Each time she drew closer to the Lord, strengthening her trust and her walk with Him.

She looked back down and her eyes fell on other verses.

“… in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

She sighed deeply.

There was the hope.

She loved God. Jesus was her Lord. Nothing could ever separate her from Him. She had the promise…the hope…of an eternity spent with Him.

That was all the hope that a body needed, one that was worth the pain of this life. A hope that would be patiently waited for.

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© Drusilla Mott and https://drusillamott.wordpress.com, 2011, 2013, 2018

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TEA BAGS AND FAITH LESSONS – A Short Story

Back in 2012, I joined Pam Ford Davis’ group Tea Pot Testimony on Facebook.  In one of her posts, Pam asked what one does with a cup of tea that is full of bits of tea due to a broken tea bag.  As I thought about my answer, the idea for this story was born.  The memory of that first cup of tea is my own, shared with my mom and my Gramma Olcott when I was small.

Gramma went home to be with the Lord many years ago, and this past Saturday marked two years since my mom’s death.   I miss them both so much, and while trying to decide what to post for today’s fiction, I chose to re-post this story in their memory.

MOM & GRAMMA O OCT, 1988 b - Copy2

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I stared out the window as the tea kettle began to steam, lost in thoughts of past tea times.  It was on afternoons such as this that made the emptiness of my heart pulse with an ache born of loss and grief.

Many had been the days when the three of us would settle at the scarred farmhouse table with a steaming pot of tea and whatever baked goods Gramma had whipped up for our time together.  Three generations of Olcott women, sharing hopes and dreams over spicy ginger snaps, dark molasses cookies or scones.

Many were the lessons learned as I sat with my mother and grandmother.  Learning the proper way to brew a pot of tea, learning the lessons of being a Godly wife and mother.

I remembered the day I had first been invited to join the gathering, growing the number to the three of us.  I had been just a child, secretly thrilled with the tiny cup and saucer that had been set in front of me.  I had watched in awe as the cup was filled half full of steaming tea, then watched as a spoon of sugar and a liberal amount of milk had been added.

I smiled slightly as I relived the moment of that first sip, the unimaginable pleasure of being allowed to share in such an adult ritual.  All these years later, no other cup of tea ever equaled the taste perfection of that first cup.

The tiny hiss of sound steadily grew until it reached an ear-piercing whistle.  I reached out and turned the knob to shut off the burner.   As I lifted the kettle to pour the water into the pot, tears stung the backs of my eyes, even as I smiled mistily.

When I had filled the pot and set the kettle back on the stove, I lifted the tiny ceramic lid and settled it back on the pot, closing in the scent and heat.  Lifting the tray, I carried it across the large kitchen and set it on the same old table that had taken up the center of the room for generations.

Even as I settled into my customary chair across from my mother, the emptiness of Gramma’s chair pulled the tears from my eyes to run down my cheeks.  Swiping my hand across my face, I swallowed and lifted the pot to fill the three cups that rested in their matching saucers.

An indrawn gasp filled the kitchen as I looked at the tiny bits of tea which swirled in the cups.

“Oh, no!”

I lifted the bags out of the pot, shaking my head at the large hole in one of them.  I closed my eyes in exasperation, then looked across at my mother.

“Don’t worry about it,”  she told me.  “Just get the strainer.”

I did as I was bid, and poured the tea from the cups back into the pot before using the strainer to catch the tiny bits of tea leaves as I refilled the cups.  As I did so, I was reminded of one of the most prominent lessons that I had learned during our afternoon tea times.

I glanced at the newcomer to the gatherings and studied the young face.  Love swelled in me as I met my daughter’s eyes.

“Did I ever tell you about the time great-gramma had this happen?”  I asked.  When my teenage daughter shook her head in the negative, I recounted the story.

On that afternoon so long ago, the tea bag had also been ripped.  When my grandmother had gone through the same process, she held up the tea strainer and pointed to the tea leaves that lay therein.

“Do you see these tea leaves?”  When I  had nodded, Gramma had continued.  “These tea leaves are like our lives before we accept Jesus as Savior.  They are the sin that fills us and contaminates our souls.  But when we are saved, that sin gets strained from our lives, leaving us with a clean soul and heart, just like the tea in your cup.”

My daughter smiled as she studied the tea in her cup, then grinned.  “Who would have thought that you could learn something about faith just sitting and having tea?”

 

© Drusilla Mott and https://drusillamott.wordpress.com, 2012, 2017