‘I hate Valentine’s Day.’ Mandy twisted crepe paper to make flowers – red of course – to decorate cards. Polly, her daughter wanted to give them away at school. Some of the flowers were strangled, rather than twisted. How had she allowed herself to be cajoled into such an activity? Polly flopped on the chair beside her and started to arrange flowers on the front of a card, lettered with eight-year-old precision.
Gulping
back a retort, she turned back to the task. Cut, roll and strangle, cut,
roll
and strangle.
Later she
fell into bed alone, for single mothers are always alone, unless a mini person
sneaks in. Lights out. House quiet. Sleep elusive, she gazed at the dark
ceiling. ‘Are you listening tonight, Lord?’
In the
ensuing silence she adjusted her greeting. ‘Okay, Lord. That was a silly
question. You are always listening. You’ve never failed me yet…but its nearly Valentine’s
Day. The shops covered in red and hearts and cupids. Gross. Facebook ads are suggesting
I spoil my Valentine. Which is ridiculous. Surely, they know I don’t have a
Valentine, will never again have one. Just another year sitting at my desk, smiling
at everyone, taking flowers and delivering them to some blonde bimbo in the back
office. Always delivered with fake excitement and false enthusiasm. Yuk. I
don’t think I can do it another year.’
She rolled
over, allowed herself a few self-pity tears, and succumbed to sleep.
To the side
the angels huddled together to consult. ‘Isn’t Jesus her beloved? Maybe we
can spoil her this year? Send her heavenly gifts, heal her heart. We will have
to ask the boss.’
Valentine’s
day dawned clear, with a few clouds scattered to the east. The sunrise lit the sky with vibrant reds,
golds and pinks . Polly, jumping with
excitement, called Mandy from the kitchen so show her.
‘Polly, we
don’t have time today. Do you have your shoes on?’
‘Ooh,
Mummy. Now there is a big rainbow, a double one…’
‘Pack your
bag, Polly. I’ve got a tough day and I don’t need to be running late. Have you
got your cards?’
‘Decided
not to give Boris one. He’s boring.’
‘Well find
someone else to give it to. I haven’t gone to all that trouble for nothing.’
The angels
were scrambling. Two of their gifts were unseen, unopened. They spotlighted the tree
trunk near the letter box, where Jesus had carved a heart, ages ago. Maybe
today she would see it.
mocking me God? There’s even a heart in my own yard now.’
The work carpark
was full. Frustrated, Mandy yanked her car into the back up park and took a
short cut through the garden. She stubbed her toe on a tree stump, but missed its message,
and rushed inside. ‘God give me your grace. You say it is sufficient. It will
need to be today.’
That afternoon she walked out of the office with several flowers. A red rose, a pink carnation with curled petals, a stem of purple iris and a potted fern that her boss sent with her, claiming it would die at her place. Mandy placed the flowers on the car seat and nestled the fern between a couple of bags so it wouldn’t fall. All second-hand, leftover, unwanted gifts that had been passed on to her - poor jilted, forgotten Mandy. She released her hair clip, allowing her hair to fall as a curtain to hide her tears.
Polly had gone home with a friend after school so Mandy stopped at the river and wandered down to the stony little beach under the bridge. Sitting on a rock she smoothed the sandy surface and doodled.
'God, I wish I could pray but I feel so let down today. Did you even hear my prayers?
Who did
you bless today?
The random
thought set her back? Her hackles rose and she spoke to the river. ‘I wished
everyone a Happy day.’ The river sang in response. The leaves danced above her.
Looking down, she realized she was tracing hearts in the sand. Her hand
destroyed them with one sweep. Hot tears wet the sand. ‘I’m sorry Lord. I’ve
been so busy worshiping my own pain, I didn’t do anything for anyone. And I’ve
been given so much. Even Christy shared
from the bouquet her fiancé sent.’
Her hand smoothed the sand and drew a large slightly-wonky heart. Feeling a little foolish, she scribed her initials and below added ‘Jesus’.
The angels
danced with joy around her. She couldn’t see them, or even discern them, but
her heart filled with warmth and she relaxed beneath the green canopy.
In the car,
the flowers grinned at her. The fern was the exact one she'd wanted for ages. The
carnation was the same as the one her grandmother grew. Maybe God had been in
her day.
At her
front gate, balancing flowers and the card, Mandy stopped at the tree and traced
her finger over the heart. 'I’m sorry, I missed it Lord. Thanks for giving me a wonderful day.’
In this
simple story, God is Mandy’s lover, her friend. But she was slow to see Him, to
hear Him, to understand.
When I’m
writing I can do the same. He presents an idea to my thinking. I miss it or
discard as a terrible idea, only to appreciate it some time later. In one book,
my protagonist was locked in a remote hut. I had plans to progress the plot
while she was there, but the whole book was written from her point of view. I
spent 3 days, stuck, not a word written as I seemed to be at a dead end. In
desperation, I decided to get her out of the hut by using the delete button.
Rewrite. Just before I did, I asked God. He showed me the information to advance
the plot was in the hut. It was brilliant. If only I wasn’t so slow to understand.
How about
you? Does He lead you, or sometimes do you too miss it?
Jo recently won the Stories of Life writing competition for 2021 with her short story, 'Mum, meet my mother.' Her award winning novel, Though the Bud be Bruised was published in 2012, but still blesses people today. Her passion is to inspire others to walk deeper with God and hence reach their full potential.
