That Short Story I've Been Promising...

 

Worth Something

~A short story~

I think the first time my brother and I experienced the brevity of life was with my grandfather. 

I was twelve then, a young girl still learning when to speak and when not to.  Still learning the demands of the world outside my own.  Not that I fully understand those things now.  I was more myself then, I guess.  More honest with my thoughts.

Cory was a year younger than me.  He was five parts fun, six parts annoying, and a hundred percent little brother.  He was all right.

It all started when Grandpa had a stroke.  Before that, he hadn’t been very interesting to Cory and me.  He was a rather tall man with short gray hair who liked to pretend that he was younger than he really was.  Judging from the way our parents talked of him, he was slightly eccentric.  He was always off somewhere in the world or busy with one of his “projects.”  Cory and I could brag that we had a grandfather who had been in this country or that, but there wasn’t much more to say for him.  When we saw him, he would comment about how we had grown and perhaps give us some small speech about having a good heart or following your dreams.  I think he meant to be inspiring.  Now I see those lectures were too vague and, well, (I have to say it) shallow for them to ever get into our heads.   I suppose Grandpa’s traveling and souvenir-collecting really meant more to him than that type of thing.

Then that stroke came.  Thankfully, he had it while he was in the country.  The attack cost him the use of his left side.  He did retain his speech, though it was slow and broken.

He was moved into an advanced care facility.  Our parents brought Cory and me to visit him in his new apartment several times.  We were there to encourage Grandpa in his recovery because the doctors said that control of his left side could return with time.  We felt bad for Grandpa, of course, but we didn’t like being in that tiny little room any more than he did, I’m sure.  We weren’t really happy to visit.

One time my parents talked with Grandpa some while Cory and I waited outside.  Then Mom and Dad came out to tell us that Grandpa wanted to talk to us alone.  There he sat, his one side horribly limp and a sad smile on his face.

He said, “Tess and Cory.  I’d like to tell you something.  Would you listen to me?”  Cory rolled his eyes (so only I could see) and went to plop stomach-down on the bed.

He called me to the small chair next him, but Cory stayed collapsed on the bed, his chin resting on his fists. 

“Cory,” he began, “And Tess.  You’re young, you see.  You’ve a lot of years ahead of you.  I’ve lived a long while – not as long as other people, I guess, but still rather long.  Oh, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.  But I’m tuckered out.  Look,” and his weak, leathery hand (his good one) gripped my shoulder, “Look, I’ve talked to you both before about making good choices and having good hearts, but, well, maybe I didn’t really listen to myself.”

His voice continued, broken and very earnest.  It was his unusual earnestness that made me pay attention for once.  “Listen to me, children.  Listen to me.  Your Grandpa is a sad, dejected, weary man.  Jesus saved me when I was younger, but some time ago I started living like He didn’t make any difference at all.  I see it now – all that traveling, all that work – I was just trying to please myself.  Some yearning inside me wanted to be satisfied, and I wanted to satisfy it myself.  I knew I couldn’t, I knew – but I tried anyway.  I knew only Jesus could satisfy that ache, like He had done for me before.  He wanted me to live fully for Him but I didn’t want to give that much of myself.

“Traveling: we think it’s so wonderful.  So free; you’re not just sitting around being a homebody.  That’s why I did it.  You’re told that you’re doing so much with your life.  But there were so many more things I could have done with my time.  So much more love I could have sacrificed.  All that time I spent in selfishness was time squandered.” 

Cory had crept off the bed to kneel by Grandpa’s knee, seemingly fascinated by his words.  Or perhaps he was tired of the bed.  His voice cracking, Grandpa kept on.

“Please.  Please, please don’t let you children do that to yourselves.  The years are so much shorter than you think when you spend it all on yourself.  They just fly by.  Because they’re nothing.  Nothing.  Look, I know you can’t promise, but, please, don’t spend all your time on what God tells you won’t satisfy.  Because it won’t.”

And he pulled us close with his good arm and there were tears in his eyes.  And I sort of gasped, because you don’t expect Grandpa to cry.  Cory was whispering, “It’s all right, Grandpa!”  I hugged Grandpa tight, partly because I wanted to comfort him, partly because I just wanted his tears to stop.  They made me feel I was supposed to be sentimental, which I didn’t want to be.  It’s uncomfortable.

So the beauty of Grandpa’s confession didn’t really hit me that day.  A little less than a year later a second stroke killed him.  It was the first time someone close to me died, and it was a bit of a shock, no matter how his health had been declining. 

I have been growing since then, and I think that speech left an undeniable mark upon me.  I never got to thank Grandpa for it, but maybe Jesus has told him for me.  Grandpa had squandered a lot of his time on selfish things.  He thought he had wasted his life, but he warned Cory and me against wasting ours.  And I think that must count for something, don’t you?

 

finis.

 

So, there it is!  I usually write in omnescient narrative (not to be confused with third-person), which I honestly think is the best narrative to write a novel in.  So writing this loose, first-person account was really fun for me.  Oh, and this is not taken from a true story, by the way.

And I finished reading one of the two novels I was talking about in my last post.  It was AWESOME.  If really complicated.

Please, respect my creative *cough* genius *coughcough* and don’t steal this story.  Many thanks!  – Rachel

A Short Story

Yes, I took off for the summer.  Without really meaning to.  But now I'm back!  So, you know, just say you're glad to see me on here again. :)

I thought I could possibly make up for lost time by posting a short story I had to write for the first week of school.  It's supposed to be written in the spirit of O. Henry (who, by the way, grew up in Greensboro); specifically in that his stories always had surprise twists.  If you haven't heard of his short story, The Ransom of the Red Chief, do read it.  It had me in giggles.

On with the story...

 

The Past Irretrievable

by Rachel

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.”

—Isaiah 43:18, 19

♦ ♦ ♦

The sun shone in a clear North Dakota sky as the young man checked his watch again in a professional manner.  At the same time, however, his other hand fingered the dark material of his suit nervously.  It was the only sign of edginess about him: Jonathan Gregor had learned to hide his feelings well in the last years.

He had come far, really, over those last years.  They hadn’t been easy ones, that was for sure.  He had had to pick himself up and push himself harder than most young adults saw a need to.  After stumbling hopelessly through junior high and most of high school, somehow God had fixed the pieces of his world together just before college.

He had originally fallen because of his father.  No one would question that.  The man had left one afternoon, when Jonathan was ten, and two days later had filed for a divorce.  He hadn’t seen him since.  Even after his mother had remarried and Jonathan had been adopted by his stepdad, his new father had kept at a distance as if afraid of Jonathan’s reaction if he came too close.  Fears of worthlessness haunted the young teen.  Uncertainty clouded his decisions.  He wasn’t sure he could be a man without another man to tell him so.

Thank God he had moved past that.  He had studied and worked harder than anyone in college, graduating with flying colors and a degree in business.  His past was behind him, the world ahead.  Forgiven were the dark, lonely years.  He was out in his own delicious, challenging world of possibilities.  In fact, right now he was standing before the steps of an office building with his briefcase, waiting for a job interview, not wanting to be too early or too late.

Now was the time to go in.  Once through the door, he made his way to the front desk, his eyes taking in the drab gray tile floors and the exposed brick walls.  He was directed to the third floor and given the room number of human resources.  There, the secretary bade him sit down, offered him water (which he accepted) and told him Mr. Patrick Leeson would be in to interview him shortly.  Jonathan started slightly, but thanked her.

As the secretary had promised, within moments a suited man entered.  Jonathan took in the lanky form, the stiff gray hair, the lean face.  The man extended his hand with a taut smile.

“Jonathan Gregor, yes?”

Jonathan almost went into auto-mode.  His body rose from the chair and accepted the other, older man’s hand with a “Yes, sir.”

They sat down and the interview proceeded.  Jonathan felt his confidence building, and along with it the mask guarding his emotions.  He answered the other man’s queries easily, politely.  In between questions, his eyes studied the small placard on the desk reading, “Patrick M. Leeson,” and then shifted to rest on the business man’s face again: on the narrow nose, creased forehead, and stern gray eyes.

“Well,” Mr. Leeson said some time later, shuffling some papers on the desk, “I think that does it.”  He rose from his chair, offering his hand and another taut smile to the young man.

Jonathan clasped the hand.  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

The business man squinted at him with a sudden look of uneasiness.  Then he nodded.  “We’ll be getting back with you.”  He opened the office door and escorted Jonathan to the elevator.

As the doors opened, Jonathan thanked Mr. Leeson again.  He took a last study of that narrow face, those stern, impatient eyes and entered the elevator.  Just as the doors were closing, he looked back one last time and said calmly,

“Bye, Dad.”

finis.