don’t want to talk about it here…like this.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do with the locket now?” Gemma watched as the nugget of silver swung by the chain in her fingertips, sparkling beneath the overhead lights. “Maybe you should call these ladies. Maybe they want their locket back.”
“It’s a little late for that.” Or…was it?
“So, you’re just gonna keep it? I don’t think Mama would like that. She would say—”
“I know what your mother would say, Gemma. Remember, she’s my sister. She’s been telling me things for…well, forever.”
“Uh huh.” Gemma tilted her head to the side as Oscar settled on his haunches beside her. “Do you want me to put it back in the pocket, then?”
“No. Hand it to me.”
Gemma dropped the cool silver into Grant’s palm, and the pair of faces, frozen in glossy black-and-white photo paper, gaped up at him. For a moment, Grant found himself transported back in time. Sirens wailed and a voice shouted. His knees, skinned and bloodied from their battle with the second-story window ledge, throbbed in time to the searing scratches along his forearms as he fought his way out of the thorny rose bush and took off running. The day was hot, the sunlight a torch of fire against the back of his damp black T-shirt. Sweat dripped into his eyes, turning a shimmer of neatly-manicured grass to muddled waves. Something—someone—body-slammed him and he tripped, stumbled. The breath rushed out of him as he sledgehammered the concrete sidewalk. A weight fell on him—someone much larger and stronger—and his arms were wrenched back and pinned behind him at an impossible angle. The pain came in a hot slash as something in his shoulder tore. The day went black as his knees weakened in a wave of agony. The voice, gruff and angry, veiled over him in a condescending threat as he fought for air, for breath…for life. Darkness closed in as he began to suffocate—
“Are you OK?” Gemma’s tug on the hem of Grant’s suit jacket coaxed him back. “You look real sick, Uncle Grant. Are you gonna throw up? Sometimes Mama does when her head hurts real bad.”
“I’m OK.” But Grant shuddered and rubbed his shoulder as the memory faded. It had taken months for the tear in his shoulder to heal, and even now, on cold, damp days, he still experienced a slight throbbing. He sucked in a single, deep breath as his vision cleared. Sunlight streamed through the living room windows, but its warmth failed to chase away the chill that had seeped into his bones. “I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t…at the moment, he was anything but fine.
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. The promise from 1 John 1:9 washed over Grant to reassure him. He’d confessed to his Heavenly Father several years ago, the horrible events of that afternoon—as well as the days and nights leading up to it—and had found a sense of peace. But that peace had come before he realized he still had the locket. Now, he knew there was more work to be done before Divine calm could have any chance to be permanently his.
He had to return the locket to its rightful owner. But, after all the time that had passed, who, exactly, might that be?
2
Maggie Andrews flipped through her attendance book, picturing each student fondly as she silently read his or her name. She paused at each line of the wire-bound journal, reciting a quick yet heartfelt prayer for the children she was quickly growing to love, though they were barely a month into the school year. The action had become a permanent part of her routine, and now, as always, she began the day ensconced in the solitude of her classroom at Knoxville’s Christian Day School—before a baker’s dozen of energetic kindergartners appeared to shatter the silence.
Claire Bailey loved to color and jump rope; the blonde-haired cutie—soon-to-turn six and one of the eldest in the class—often
“Well, what’re you gonna do with the locket now?” Gemma watched as the nugget of silver swung by the chain in her fingertips, sparkling beneath the overhead lights. “Maybe you should call these ladies. Maybe they want their locket back.”
“It’s a little late for that.” Or…was it?
“So, you’re just gonna keep it? I don’t think Mama would like that. She would say—”
“I know what your mother would say, Gemma. Remember, she’s my sister. She’s been telling me things for…well, forever.”
“Uh huh.” Gemma tilted her head to the side as Oscar settled on his haunches beside her. “Do you want me to put it back in the pocket, then?”
“No. Hand it to me.”
Gemma dropped the cool silver into Grant’s palm, and the pair of faces, frozen in glossy black-and-white photo paper, gaped up at him. For a moment, Grant found himself transported back in time. Sirens wailed and a voice shouted. His knees, skinned and bloodied from their battle with the second-story window ledge, throbbed in time to the searing scratches along his forearms as he fought his way out of the thorny rose bush and took off running. The day was hot, the sunlight a torch of fire against the back of his damp black T-shirt. Sweat dripped into his eyes, turning a shimmer of neatly-manicured grass to muddled waves. Something—someone—body-slammed him and he tripped, stumbled. The breath rushed out of him as he sledgehammered the concrete sidewalk. A weight fell on him—someone much larger and stronger—and his arms were wrenched back and pinned behind him at an impossible angle. The pain came in a hot slash as something in his shoulder tore. The day went black as his knees weakened in a wave of agony. The voice, gruff and angry, veiled over him in a condescending threat as he fought for air, for breath…for life. Darkness closed in as he began to suffocate—
“Are you OK?” Gemma’s tug on the hem of Grant’s suit jacket coaxed him back. “You look real sick, Uncle Grant. Are you gonna throw up? Sometimes Mama does when her head hurts real bad.”
“I’m OK.” But Grant shuddered and rubbed his shoulder as the memory faded. It had taken months for the tear in his shoulder to heal, and even now, on cold, damp days, he still experienced a slight throbbing. He sucked in a single, deep breath as his vision cleared. Sunlight streamed through the living room windows, but its warmth failed to chase away the chill that had seeped into his bones. “I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t…at the moment, he was anything but fine.
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. The promise from 1 John 1:9 washed over Grant to reassure him. He’d confessed to his Heavenly Father several years ago, the horrible events of that afternoon—as well as the days and nights leading up to it—and had found a sense of peace. But that peace had come before he realized he still had the locket. Now, he knew there was more work to be done before Divine calm could have any chance to be permanently his.
He had to return the locket to its rightful owner. But, after all the time that had passed, who, exactly, might that be?
2
Maggie Andrews flipped through her attendance book, picturing each student fondly as she silently read his or her name. She paused at each line of the wire-bound journal, reciting a quick yet heartfelt prayer for the children she was quickly growing to love, though they were barely a month into the school year. The action had become a permanent part of her routine, and now, as always, she began the day ensconced in the solitude of her classroom at Knoxville’s Christian Day School—before a baker’s dozen of energetic kindergartners appeared to shatter the silence.
Claire Bailey loved to color and jump rope; the blonde-haired cutie—soon-to-turn six and one of the eldest in the class—often