Years ago, I wrote this piece of fiction. It’s about the seventh fruit in the bowl.
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.
In this fickle culture, faithfulness is irresistible. Enjoy it. It’s for you.
*****
“I love you,” he said.
She frowned, shaking her head. He had said it so many times his message trickled off, and she couldn’t hear it anymore—like a waterfall so beautiful the eye grows tired of it. To accept a love like that required action, and she refused to be forced to pay it back.
She ignored what she heard around town about his affections for her, but the buzz became too much. Gritting her teeth, she abandoned her old house in the country, her town, and him—not that she had ever been with him. From a young age, she had just thought she should be.
While she struggled for a different life in a far-off place, word came back to her about him. He worked in construction and renovations, and she heard his hands dripped blood for her. But it must have been meant for someone else, whatever it was he was building when he hurt himself. Why would he create something special for her? She was already gone.
She sought love elsewhere on her own terms—the kind of love that matched hers—and found it came in many packages: frightening, complicated, exacting. But those loves took her farther than she wanted to go and kept her longer than she intended to stay. At last, she left them—all of them. But the years were eaten up, and she was dry and used, her looks faded.
Now who would want her?
Through the grapevine, she again heard talk of his faithfulness. Maybe the story of his love had always been told, but since she was at the end of herself, her hearing had sharpened. People said he wanted her, he had built something for her, and it was finished. And now he waited for her to come home.
She was curious.
One day, she hopped into her car. She would drive back to look at the old property. Maybe the thing he had made for her—the thing that had caused his wounds—was waiting there.
After many hours, she steered the car onto the well-known, winding road. And there it was: her old, broken-down house. She pulled into the driveway, put the car into park, and stared. A wave of failure sloshed over her. She had never been able to maintain the property alone, and it was worse than ever, this home she had never invited him to enter. He had knocked many times, but his love for her was too pure, too undeserved—and her place was always such a mess. She sighed.
But what was that ahead? She squinted. Off to the side, in a pool of sunlight, stood a small structure.
She turned off the engine and climbed from the car, her gaze trained on whatever it was. As she approached, she saw the form was made of wood. An architectural model. A replica of the dilapidated house looming only yards away. But it was different. Beautiful windows replaced the dingy, slanted ones of the original. She peered at the craftsmanship of the miniature: the trim work, the crown molding, the costly tile, the exotic wood floors—everything she wanted. He had thought of it all. Even the smallest details were healed.
As she drank in the hope, something rustled behind her. His warm gaze rested on her back. And for the first time, she wanted it. She couldn’t turn around now, though; she hadn’t showered or put on makeup. She dashed through the old house’s unlocked front door, slammed it behind her, and dropped onto the tattered sofa, causing a plume of dust to rise. Her heart hammered.
A knock at the door. That familiar knock.
What now? She had nothing left and no energy to move. But maybe it was time.
She stood, strode across the room, and unclasped the door.
“Come in,” she said.
(To be continued next week…)
*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.