Season of Blessing Page 23

  Tory plopped down on a chair near the couch. “Thinking about what?”

  “About what you’re doing at the school, the children you work with. I’d love to meet little Bo.”

  “Well, come on up there,” she said. “That’ll be fine. We invite visitors.”

  “Well, what about volunteers?” Sylvia asked. “I was thinking about coming up there and reading to the children.”

  “Well, sure, we’d love to have you. And I know we’re always looking for help. The only problem is they have very short attention spans and they’re not very good listeners.”

  “Well, I had another idea,” she said. “I have some special books that I used to use for the Nicaraguan kids, and I was thinking maybe it would be a good tool to use with your kids. Since it’s a private school, they won’t mind if I teach them about Jesus, will they?”

  “No, they’ll love it. The director’s a Christian, and so are most of the teachers. Let me just clear it with the administration tomorrow and I’ll get back to you. But I know it won’t be a problem. If somebody volunteers to do something they don’t have to pay for, they’re going to be thrilled. They’re constantly having budget problems. I was shocked that they offered to pay me.”

  “Well, I was just thinking I could come every morning at the same time and work with the children. And on my bad days I could skip and no one would be any worse off for it.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Tory said. “But, Sylvia, are you sure you want to do that? I mean, if I were you, I’d probably be focusing all my energy on getting well.”

  “I am getting well,” Sylvia said. “It’s all in God’s hands. Besides, we’re supposed to bear fruit in every season of our life. I don’t plan to take this season off.”

  Tory looked down at her hands. “Sometimes I wonder if I bear any fruit at all.”

  “Of course you do,” Sylvia said. “How can you think such a thing? Look at all the work you do with your children. That’s bearing fruit. Some day they’ll grow up and bear fruit of their own. You’re doing your life’s work right now. This is what you’re called to.”

  Tory got up and started picking up the toys on the floor. “Remember when I wanted to be a writer?”

  “You’re still a writer,” Sylvia said. “You write better than anyone I know. And those days are not over. But right now you’re called to take care of Hannah and Spencer and Brittany, and the children at the school. If that isn’t bearing fruit, I don’t know what is.”

  Tory dropped the toys into a basket beside the couch, then hugged Sylvia. “When I grow up, Sylvia, I want to be just like you.”

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-Seven

  Sylvia got permission to read to the children at the Breezewood Development Center, so she ordered the wordless books she would need, and took them to the school the Monday after they came in.

  Tory and Linda, the teacher, spent the valuable time planning their activities for the rest of the day, while Sylvia sat in a circle with the children. She started off trying to teach them “Jesus Loves Me.” A few of them picked it up, but most of them only hummed and muttered words that sounded nothing like the words in the song.

  Then she gave them each a wordless book, and began teaching them what each page meant.

  “Red is for Jesus’ blood,” Sylvia would say, and the children would stare blankly at her. “And black is for the bad things we do, all the sin in our hearts. And white is for how clean we are when Jesus washes us.”

  On their way home, Tory voiced her skepticism that Sylvia’s work would do any good. “It’s hard for them to grasp concepts like Jesus’ blood washing away their sins,” she said. “I’m not even sure they understand sin at all.”

  “Oh, they’ll get it before you know it,” Sylvia said. “Within a few months I’ll bet we have every one of them asking Jesus into their hearts.”

  Tory turned into Cedar Circle. “I don’t know, Sylvia. That might be a little optimistic.”

  “Optimistic? Why?”

  “I just sometimes feel that salvation isn’t even a message that needs to be brought to these children. They’re never going to reach the age of accountability, because they’re mentally handicapped. They’re already God’s children. Their minds never really grow into mature adulthood. Don’t you think that they’re already saved by virtue of being perpetual children?”

  Sylvia regarded her for a moment. “I’m sure that’s true. But it never hurts to teach them the truth. And the best truth in the world that we can teach them is about Jesus’ love for them and what he did to prove it.”

  Tory pulled into her driveway and let the car idle for a moment. Hannah slept in the back, so there was no hurry to get out. “I just think the concept of salvation is very complicated. They can barely even learn ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ Can they ever really grasp that Jesus died on a cross, and was raised from the dead?”

  “Don’t you want Hannah to?”

  “Well, yes, of course. But I don’t have much hope that she will. I think God will make a special provision for her.”

  “Of course he will. But I think you need to raise your expectations. Jesus said to come to him just like those little children. He wouldn’t have said that if he meant it to be complicated. It’s the adults who make it complicated.”

  Tory frowned. “You really think so?”

  “Of course I think so. We teach them that we did bad things and God decided to send his Son to take our punishment, that when he died on the cross he bought our way into heaven. That’s simple, Tory.”

  Tory looked back at Hannah, sleeping soundly in her car seat. “I know. But there’s so much more, even beyond that. All the things I’m learning in the Bible about sanctification and obedience and bearing fruit.”

  “Those children can understand it on their own level. God isn’t some phantom that hides from the innocent. He’ll reveal himself to them. And it’s good for us to share him with them. It grows us when we bear fruit.”

  As Tory took Hannah into the house, those two words rolled over and over in her mind. Bear fruit. Bear fruit. It was the main focus of Sylvia’s life. Yet Tory wasn’t sure it was a focus at all for her.

  Hannah woke up as she started to put her down, so Tory got the wordless book Sylvia had given her. She had never tried reading to her before, never even thought it would have any effect, but maybe Sylvia was right. Maybe she could teach little Hannah about the love of Jesus. The result was completely up to God.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-Eight

  Mark slammed into the house in late March, sweating from head to toe, an angry scowl on his face. He looked as if he’d been dipped in tar. “This is absolutely the worst day I’ve ever had in my entire life!”

  Cathy flipped the hamburgers she was frying and glanced at Steve, who leaned against the counter. “What is it, Mark?”

  “It’s a crummy job, that’s what. I almost fell off the roof today, and it got so hot out there I thought I was going to die. Eighty degrees in March? It’s some kind of record or something. And I couldn’t take my shirt off because yesterday I took it off and I got so sunburned that I’m blistered. They work us daylight till dark and the money’s crummy.”

  Steve winked at Cathy. “You’ll get used to it. People always do. There are people who have been in that business for most of their lives.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t do what I’m doing all those years. They advance to management, and the management guys don’t even get up on the roof. They just go from site to site overseeing.”

  “Well, maybe you can work your way up to that.”

  Mark dropped his keys on the counter. “I don’t even want to be in this business.”

  Steve cleared his throat. “Well, you know, it takes a lot of brains to do construction work, Mark. Reading and interpreting blueprints, making everything come out all right. And roofing is not a small thing. The roof protects the whole house…”

  “Maybe so, but all I’m doing is hammering and getti
ng tar under my fingernails.” He stretched. “Every muscle in my body hurts.”

  “You’ll build your muscles up,” Cathy threw in. “After a while, you won’t notice it anymore.”

  “There are better ways, Mom.”

  She turned from the stove. “Well, Mark, what would you like to do? It was your idea not to go back to school.”

  “I know. I’m just thinking maybe I need to look for a different job. The problem is, I don’t have time because I’m so busy working at this one. By the time I get off I’m filthy and exhausted. I don’t have time to go do anything else. Besides, nobody wants to hire a guy with my record. Even when I get my GED, it’ll be practically worthless when it’s balanced against the conviction.”

  Annie came into the room, munching on a celery stick. “Told you you should go to college. It’s a breeze, Mark. Practically like a day at the beach compared to what you’re doing.”

  Cathy shot Annie a look. “Annie, stop snacking. We’re about to eat.”

  “Seriously, Mark. You’ll have your GED in the next month or so. You should sign up for the summer term at the college. You’ll have fun, especially after all this.”

  “I don’t want to go to school,” Mark said. “I just want a decent job, where they don’t treat me like some kid.”

  “Well, you are a kid,” Annie threw back. “Mark, you’re only sixteen. Give me a break. What do you think they’re going to do, let you become a stockbroker?”

  Cathy grinned. “She’s got a point, Mark.” She got out the buns and put one on each plate. “The fact is, you’re trying to grow up too soon. You need to slow down and take your time, do the things that a sixteen-year-old is supposed to do, like go to school and work for the grocery store bagging groceries. Take your time planning what you want to do for the rest of your life. You can do that, Mark.”

  Mark went to the sink and washed the filth off of his hands. “But I don’t even know where to start. What if I can’t even get into the community college?”

  “I think you can, Mark. And if you make good grades, I’m sure you could get into a better college when the time came.”

  Steve handed Mark a towel to wipe his hands on. “Mark, I know you think your sentence will always hang over your head, but the truth is, if you have four good years of college with good grades and good behavior and no more trouble, people will forget that when you were in high school you made a few mistakes.”

  Mark slumped over the counter. “You think so? Because right now that’s all they care about, like I’m some kind of drug dealer who’s wanting to get on their payroll.”

  “People will forget,” he said. “It’s a lot easier to overlook a year at River Ranch when you’ve got four good years of college and good behavior.”

  “I’d definitely have good behavior,” Mark said. “I’m not so sure about the good grades part. I’ve never been a very good student.”

  “But you’re more mature now, Mark,” Steve said. “You can do it. You’ve got it in you now. Look how much you’ve learned about the Bible on your own in just a few months.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Mark said. “I guess when I’m interested in something I can apply myself.”

  “Well, maybe you could make yourself be more interested in English and history and science when you realize that it’s your alternative to getting up on a roof every day in the hot sun and hammering shingles.”

  Mark thought that over for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Why don’t you run up and take a shower?” Cathy said. “We’ll hold supper until you’re finished.”

  “Good,” he said. “The sooner I can get this filth off of me, the better.”

  They watched as Mark trudged up the stairs.

  Cathy turned around, grinning, and Steve raised his hand for a high five. “It’s working,” he whispered.

  Annie’s mouth fell open. “You two planned this.”

  Cathy swung around. “What? Us?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You knew all along he’d hang himself with his own rope.”

  Cathy laughed. “Harsh image, Annie. We just hoped it would work out this way.”

  “Boy, you guys are slick.”

  Cathy almost danced as she set the table.

  It started to rain about lunchtime the next day, and Mark was sent home from work. The house was empty when he got there, so he took a shower, cleaned up, and then decided to go to the local community college. Something had to give, he thought, and this hard manual labor was for the birds. It wasn’t that he was too good for it. He wasn’t. The other guys on the crew were hardworking men who did what they had to do to make a living. And there was something satisfying about working with his hands and coming home exhausted at the end of the day.

  But he wanted more. His mind needed stimulation. He wanted to stretch it somehow, the way he’d done when he’d home schooled with Brenda. His GED test was this coming Saturday, and he felt confident that he’d pass it this time. Then he’d be ready to move on.

  He drove over to the community college, found the administration building, and went in and got a catalog. Then he sat out in his car and flipped through it, wondering if he did go to college, what in the world he would study. He liked computers, he thought, and he liked to draw. Years ago before he’d gotten too cool to do it, he’d even been pretty good at it. He’d once considered being a graphic artist. His father had suggested architecture, but that seemed like a lofty goal, too far out of his reach.

  He flipped through the catalog and looked up graphic art, then architecture, and saw that some of the basic courses were the same. Maybe he could have a broad target and start with both of those, then narrow it as his focus cleared.

  Whatever he did, he felt an urgency to sign up for the summer term.

  Man, he hated it when his parents were right.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-Nine

  Sylvia floated along for the months of March, April, and May, taking her radiation treatments and her Tamoxifen, volunteering at the school, teaching the Bible study with Harry at her church, and writing letters to the children in the orphanage in León. In the afternoons, she rode her horse, visited her neighbors, and prayed for those around her.

  When her lower back began to ache, she told herself that she had pulled a muscle, and went on with her life.

  She threw a neighborhood party for Mark when he got his GED, then celebrated again when he got into college for the summer term.

  Though she was tired from the radiation and still had frequent hot flashes from the hormone pills, she felt as if the cancer was just a part of her past. She began counting the days until the radiation would end and she could return to her work in León.

  But then the oncologist ordered blood tests at her three-month checkup. Her tumor markers were elevated, so he sent her for more scans.

  And a sense of dread began to fall over her again.

  The doctor’s face was grim as he came into the office to deliver the results. “We’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. The scans showed that the cancer has metastasized to your lower spine.”

  Sylvia sat frozen, not certain she had heard right. The cancer that had been cut out of her breast, blasted with chemo, burned with radiation, had now conquered her bones? She turned her stricken eyes to Harry.

  She heard the groan that seeped out of him as he pulled her into his arms. “Honey…”

  “Please don’t panic,” the doctor went on in a calm voice. “The skeleton is not a vital organ. This is still treatable.”

  Sylvia gaped at him. Was he crazy? Not a vital organ? Did he equate her bones to tonsils or appendixes? “Not a vital organ? We’re talking about my skeleton. How can you say it’s not a vital organ? I can hardly live without it.”

  “He’s right.” Harry’s voice trembled. “The truth is, the prognosis can still be pretty good with this kind of cancer. If it were in your liver or your brain or your lungs, we’d have a bigger cha
llenge.”

  So she should be grateful that it had only attacked her bones? All that time that she’d thought she was out of the woods, had it been laying ambush to her spine? Would it begin to attack her joints, her skull, her limbs? She didn’t want to think about what was to come. She’d felt so good knowing the cancer had disappeared, that she had fought it back valiantly, and that it had fled. But now it was back, hunkering down in her body, waiting to attack other cells and organs. “What does this mean?” she managed to ask.

  “Well, for right now I think the best approach is to change your hormone therapy,” the doctor said. “We’ll see how the cancer responds to that. Meanwhile, we’ll just continue with the radiation and pray.”

  Sylvia was quiet all the way home, and so was Harry. She’d believed she was out of the woods, but now she felt so deep in them that she couldn’t see her way out. The cancer could still kill her, despite her efforts to fight it.

  She thought of her grandbaby, little Breanna. Would she watch her grow up after all? Would she be around when Jeff found the right girl and married? Would she hold any more of Sarah’s babies?

  And would she ever be able to return to her work, and hold little Juan and the Nicaraguan children who were so much like her own? Was all that behind her forever?

  When they got home, Harry sat down. “Honey, talk to me.”

  She paced across the room, her arms crossed. “I can’t,” she said.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No. I just want to read. I want to get all the books I have about cancer and dig into your medical journals, and try to find out what my chances are.”

  “They’re good, Sylvia. Very good. You can’t give up yet.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “But I thought I was cured. I know they tell you not to think that until you’ve been cancer-free for five years, but I still thought it. I’m not prepared to fight metastatic disease. I’m afraid of this cancer, Harry! It’s so aggressive, nothing can kill it.”