Not much about this world feels gentle, but here we are with the fruit bowl right in front of us telling us gentleness is true—and available to us. Help yourself to some today.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.
Here’s GENTLENESS, the conclusion of FAITHFULNESS, last week’s piece of fiction I wrote for you.
*****
She stared at her feet. The sun danced through the open door, and his shadow passed through it too, stopping in front of her.
How could he come here?
She felt a finger under her chin, raising it. He was too good for her house, her gaze, but she looked at him anyway.
His eyes—worn at the edges—smiled. “I’m here.”
The reality of her surroundings stabbed her: floor boards warped by storm waters, tiles shattered by abuse, and wallpaper beaten up by life—all a far cry from the glorious architectural model he had created. She tensed, bracing herself for accusations.
He pointed to the kitchen. “May I?”
She nodded, and he bustled into the other room with his tool bag. A tool bag? She hiked an eyebrow and followed him.
He worked throughout the afternoon and evening, replacing the kitchen cabinetry and countertops, installing a marble sink and new faucet, tearing up the old tile and laying new. Stunned by his precision and artistry, she observed his quick work. Who could accomplish this much in a day? Exhausted, she dragged herself into the living room, sank into the dusty sofa, and curled into a ball.
She awoke to one small lamp glowing in the room. The darkness outside snuffed out the rest of the world. What time was it? Had she slept hours—or days? He appeared in front of her, holding a tray, the same smile from earlier playing in his eyes. “Eat. And then we’ll talk.”
He prepared food for her too? She devoured the delicate pastry crust, filled with savory vegetables and meat, and drank the juice that tasted like exotic fruits with honey. Had she ever been so hungry or thirsty? Finally satisfied, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
He settled into an armchair near her. And then we’ll talk. Her heart sank. Would the shredding words come now? After the kitchen renovation and delicious meal, would he slice her to pieces for all of her sins?
He spoke, his voice rich and musical, and explained his plans for her house. Only the best for his beloved, he said. Warmth filled her chest.
He stood and extended his hand. “Come. Let’s go for a walk.”
Old fears slithered in again; things out there in the dark had snatched her away before. “I’d rather stay inside.”
“I’m here.” The soft eyes, the steady gaze. Love in flesh.
She put out both her hands, and he drew her to himself. Tears spilled from her eyes; he thumbed them away.
A beat of silence—peace too.
“Okay,” she said, “we can go now.”
One night in the new place, she turned over in bed, restless. Memories of the old life tiptoed in—the ones that left marks in her soul. Regret climbed onto the mattress next to her, and it might as well; she had made her bed, hadn’t she?
The next morning, ragged from the sleepless hours, she held her cup of coffee in the sunroom and stared at a wall. When he sat next to her, though, Regret skittered away.
She set down her cup and grasped his hand. “Thank you.”
“I have something to show you.” He stood and led the way up the spiral staircase and into the ballroom on the second floor. She hadn’t visited that room in a while; her knees and hips hurt too much for the climb, and she was satisfied living on the house’s first level.
He escorted her to the east side of the room, which was covered with windows. The early sun flooded the space, drenching the parquet floor.
She looked through the glass and frowned. “But this is a different view.”
“Yes.” He ran his hand along the wood trim and eyed her. “I washed the windows.”
A cluster of ladies walked at a brisk clip on the road beyond her driveway. A young man and woman ambled by too, pushing a stroller.
She tucked a piece of hair behind an ear. “Have people always passed by here?”
He nodded. “Always.”
“But I haven’t seen anyone out there before.” She stepped closer to the world outside, squinting.
“You weren’t looking.”
Her eyes were open now.
Over the years, he mended the house, room by room. He breathed new life into the old and restored the broken pieces to wholeness. Neighbors noticed the change.
“Good work.” They smiled and congratulated her. “You’ve really pulled it together.”
She held up a hand. “No. It was all him.”
The years creased her face, but his beauty in her life was louder. Her joints ached now, but his strength was enough for the two of them. They shared coffee in the mornings; they strolled together on the gravel road or in the garden in the evenings. She tried to recall life before him, but her old self was too blurry to make out anymore.
One day, her doctor gave her the kind of news a person dreads throughout life.
She twisted a tissue in her hands. “How much time do I have?”
“It’s hard to say, really, since everyone’s different.” The doctor bunched her lips to one side. “Six months?”
“Oh.” Her chin wobbled. As usual, though, there he was, sitting beside her. She gazed at him. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”
His eyes smiled again. “I’m here.”
The doctor cocked her head. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” She stood, looping her purse on her arm. “Thank you.”
In the following months, illness gnawed away at her life, but her house grew more beautiful. In his gentleness, he worked at it because as long as she breathed, he had a plan.
On their walk one day, she plodded along. Everything hurt now, but if she stopped moving, she might never move again.
“This is hard,” she said, “and I’m scared.”
“I know.” He curved his arm around her, pulling her snug to his side.
She heard his heart beat. “Don’t leave me.”
His eyes still smiled. “I’m here.”
She squeezed him back as much as she could. “I love you too.”
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.