Pluck'in Daisies
Full Circle
by Donna Rhine
I stood gaping in disbelief at the thick novel my good friend, Deborah Ordan, just placed in my hand. As my hesitant gaze rose to meet her pleading eyes, I asked, “You want me to read this?” Deb tucked her short brown hair behind her left ear, and flashed that heartwarming smile. I knew in that instant avoiding her request would be nigh on to impossible!
“It’s a good book!” she said. “I enjoyed it, so I thought I’d share it with you.” With a wave of her hand, Deb high tailed it down the hall. “Got to go! My class is at the other end of the building.”
Thanks for nothing! I exclaimed, but only in my brain. In truth, I was glad she couldn’t hear my impertinent thoughts. Deb’s friendship meant the world to me, but how could she ask me to do this? Didn’t she know how I felt about reading—books? Up till now I’d been successful at avoiding the written word—as much as a junior high student could. I cringed at the thought of accomplishing such a task. A novel? She might as well have issued me a jail sentence.
As Deb moved out of sight, the initial shock wore off. Curious, I turned the book over and read the back cover. I knew in that instant what Deb’s game was! I kept telling myself there was something strange about that girl. Why didn’t I listen to the warnings in my head? Avoid her like the plague! All right Deborah, now that the cat’s out of the bag, I’m on to you! Maybe it is a romance, but…this inspirational label is definitely not an oversight on the publisher’s part! The title, Not My Will, was enough to make me squirm. This is grand! Just what I need, another Jesus freak trying to shove the gospel down my throat!
I moved down the hall toward the cafeteria with my yellow sock-it-to-me lunch bag draped over my shoulder and sat down to a nourishing meal of raw carrots, peanut butter and hostess cup cakes. Yum! My friends at the table were off on some tangent, so I escaped to my own little world, something I was good at.
My life did seem to be scattering in all directions of late. Were the emotions stirring inside me part of a greater plan, or were they a figment of my imagination, mixed up in my teenage head? My thoughts didn’t stop there; they plagued me for weeks to come.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t believe in God. After all, I’d gone to church all my life. I’d been confirmed, I sang in the choir, and participated in plays about the baby Jesus—even the baby Moses. Never once did my pastor try to pressure anyone into having a personal relationship with a God who was up in Heaven—sitting on His throne. You know, like a King of sorts.
I had always thought of my pastor as a wise man. But, I did wonder if he knew about this life-changing power so many were talking about. Oh, he went out of his way to teach folks how to be good citizens. He participated in social events. He reached out and cared about people in general, but he didn’t try to invade their space; and at this phase in my life, that worked for me!
I liked things the way they were—crisp and clean, with no one trying to prick my conscience or tell me I was a sinner going to hell if I didn’t repent. Besides, what sins were they talking about? I was only thirteen, a good person. I did what I was told—most of the time. I didn’t cause any major problems in others’ lives. What was the big deal?
Church should be a nice place for people to socialize with others wanting to help their community, not a place where the preacher wants you to get down to the crux of your spiritual problems and implores you to make them right.
My mother’s friend, Phyllis Bodtke, had already turned my home-life upside down. I could hear the two of them talking. Truth is, I often found myself hanging on their every word. Of course, I only joined them at the table for a cup of tea and to eat Mom’s incredible blueberry muffins. After all, everyone needs nourishment! So what if it took me an hour to eat each one! The weird thing was, they never seemed to mind my presence. In retrospect, I’d say some of their conversations were intentional.
As if telling her wasn’t bad enough. Phyllis would open her Bible and show Mom passage after passage telling her about the life of Jesus, and His desire to have a personal intimate relationship with His children. Mom read the book Phyllis brought her, Face Up with a Miracle, and she bought the whole spiel, hook, line, and sinker! I was sure that life was all downhill from there. So, why was I so intrigued—yearning to hear more?
Now Dad was asking questions. Oh, not in front of my mom…but he was asking.
My father, raised a Pennsylvania cattle farmer, was now a smooth talking sales manager for a chemical corporation. His determination to serve and please others could not be faulted. He was everything a child could dream of having in a father. When my friends offered comments about my parents, they were always positive. Those comments would only confirm what I already knew; Dad and Mom were a rare breed—special.
Don’t get me wrong. My parents weren’t perfect, but in an era where marriages were being dissolved right and left, I never doubted my parent’s love for each other. Oh, they fought and had their share of spats just like everyone else; however, in the end, they would openly forgive each other. Dad’s all encompassing arms would shelter Mom in a warm embrace and he would kiss her like there was no tomorrow—in front of all of us. There was no pretense involved in their open displays of affection, just two folks—crazy in love with each other. In my opinion, all children should have the chance to witness a love like theirs in action.
Having watched my parents over the years, I seldom missed a thing. It was rare for Dad to do anything that would make Mom think he was rocking the boat. I could see that if Dad really looked at the situation as it stood, he’d see that Mom not only rocked the boat, she had gone overboard with her good friend and spiritual sister, Phyllis!
Dad was a bit of a skeptic. I’m not sure why, but I shared his uncertainties. Maybe it had something to do with me being born on his birthday, or that I was named after him. I don’t know.
One night, Dad’s curiosity must have overtaken his doubts. He woke all four of us kids up after Mom had gone to bed. When he led us into the family room—practically sleep walking; we were all looking at each other, wondering if we had done something wrong. Whatever it was, it must have been terrible for Dad to wake four kids up in the middle of the night!
Being the daring child, I sat down on the sofa and chanced a peek. The expression on Dad’s face was not one of fury, so maybe this wasn’t about us. Good thing! There was nothing I hated more than being drilled to find out who did something wrong, when only the guilty person had a clue as to what Dad was talking about!
I watched in silence as he closed the sliding door between the family room and the hallway. Hush! Hush! We were about to embark on a covert meeting, of which Mom was not a part—a highly unusual situation for our family who did almost everything together.
When Dad began pacing, I couldn’t help but wonder if something was drastically wrong with my rock-solid father. Questioning his love for us was never an issue. Having lost their first beautiful daughter, Deborah, at three years old to a thoughtless drunk, my parents knew better than most that life held no guarantees.
Minutes passed before Dad stooped down and eyeballed all four of us. We were taken aback. His words were even more shocking! “What do you kids think about this Jesus your mom’s been talking about?” As far as I could tell, he really expected us to give him answers. You know—spiritual ones!
Pam, a tall slender beauty and the oldest at fifteen, opted for silence—totally within the bounds of her personality. Todd, the ten-year-old son with a handsome face not unlike Dad’s, joined Pam in her valiant efforts to ease our father’s disquieted mind. Craig, the blonde haired, blue-eyed dreamboat, at only eight, was seldom expected to house a vast array of knowledge—this time was no different. That left me, Donna, only thirteen, holding the key to all wisdom in the spiritual realm. I wanted to help, but the key I had would not open the lock—leaving me clueless as well. Another look into those desperate blue eyes and I knew I had to say something—anything that would help my father sort this out. I had never seen him like this—almost vulnerable!
I asked, “What do you want to know about Jesus, Dad?”
“Well…you know what Mom is saying.”
I took a stab in the dark. “I did hear Phyllis tell her that Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sins. And…that He wants to have a personal relationship with us. What confuses me about what Phyllis said, is that we have to take the first step toward Him… How can we do that when He’s up in Heaven, Dad? You know what Pastor says, He’s seated at the right hand of the Father.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought! Your mom has really been affected by this relationship she claims to have with Him. Have you noticed?”
All of us nodded. She really was different—peaceful. The conversation went on and on. While little was solved that night, it did get everyone to thinking and opened the door for many more discussions that would follow.
I went home from school that Friday with many reservations about opening the book Deb had given me. While I did long for something more fulfilling in my life, I was sure it had to be something more tangible like a horse—or some other fix. I harbored no doubts; my longing had nothing to do with God.
Though uncertainty lurked in the hidden recesses of my mind, curiosity overpowered impending regret. I opened the book. Like nothing I had ever read, this novel drew me in, held me captive, and would not let me go!