Southern Fried Sushi, page 34
It was medicine, it was music. A song swelling inside me I could barely contain.
I read with voice choked, blinking back tears. If Rick noticed, he never let on. When I left him around midnight, he slept peacefully, chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythms of slumber.
“Shiloh,” whispered Adam, brushing my hair back from my cheek.
I opened my eyes and saw Todd’s math book inches from my nose. I jerked my head up and rubbed my eyes.
“We’re back. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The kitchen was dark, but the microwave glowed a bright green 1:39.
“How’s your dad?”
“He broke his arm in two places. Took awhile to set the bone, but he’ll be fine. Guess he won’t climb up on the roof anytime soon.”
I fumbled for my purse. My eyes felt stuck together.
“I’ll take you home. Just jump in the truck.”
“No, I need my car tomorrow. I work.”
“No problem. I’ll bring your car by in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“That was a statement. Not an offer. The truck’s unlocked.” He squeezed my shoulder affectionately and disappeared into Rick’s room with me staring after him. If his dad was stubborn, Adam was a chip off the old block.
I yawned, forgetting what I was supposed to argue about. And let Adam drive me home. I saw nothing except warm summer stars, balmy night breeze, and locking the front door behind me.
Home. Quiet. And my own comfortable bed, so warm and welcoming.
But I had one more thing to do.
I switched on my bedroom light, seeing the soft shine on the golden floor, and grabbed Mom’s Bible.
Mom’s journal lay there, sparkling blue in the lamplight, but for once I needed someone else’s words. God’s.
I paged back to 1 John with trembling fingers. And spotted it in verse 9, waiting for me exactly where I’d left off: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
That was it. That was what I hadn’t done. I believed—I saw—I knew—and now I wanted to come home. Forever. Like Mom had done. To hang up my coat of anger and hurt and let this Jesus, whoever He was, bathe my feet with His tender mercy.
I wanted not just to sprout but to bloom and grow and multiply. To explode with life. To trade my selfish, near-sighted ways for His eternal vision.
God can raise the dead.
Like Indian summer, I’d been given another chance.
I slipped awkwardly onto my knees in my jeans and heels, pressing my face into the blankets. I knew I didn’t need to; if God was as powerful as He said, I could pray standing on my head. But I wanted to remember this moment. To remind myself that I was dependent—not only on grace, but on Grace-in-the-Flesh called Jesus Christ. That my own self-sufficiency was no better than the smelly Green Tree clothes moldering in my tote bag.
“God,” I whispered, voice echoing against the remnants of Mom’s life that colored the room, “I don’t really know You. You know me though. You created me. I read it tonight in the Psalms. But … I want to change. I want not just to know You, but to come home to You.”
I scrunched my eyes closed, aware I’d missed a Billy Graham prayer by a long shot. But something inside urged me to go on. To speak. “I don’t really know how to do this, but I’m sorry I sinned against You. That I’ve built my own kingdom like Rick said—which is nothing more than dust.”
Sin after sin came to my mind—the lies, lots of lies, the puffed-up pride and unforgiveness, the self-righteousness and words I’d spoken in anger. My fracas with AP. My arrogant judgment of those around me, including Adam and Faye and others. Dark and painful images stabbed me with regret.
“I’ve sinned against You, and I’ve hurt others, too. It’s too late for me to tell Mom I’m sorry, but I have a feeling it’s not too late with You.” I took a deep breath. “I want to be different, God. I want what Mom had. I want Jesus. I want Him to raise me from the dead and forgive my sins. I want to live and not die and give You glory, all the days of my life.”
Chapter 41
The phone was ringing.
I rubbed my face, blinked, and then stumbled out to the kitchen, squinting at the bright sunlight. Put the phone up to my ear and plopped down in a chair. Yawned. Realized I hadn’t said anything.
“Hello?” Randy better not call me again. I’d talked to him several times, making it clear he’d receive nothing more than my friendship, but he still kept offering to take me to battlefields. And e-mailing goofy pictures of us Photoshopped together, along with lengthy love poems.
No one spoke on the line, and for a split second I thought maybe Carlos had called. I reached to hang up.
“Shiloh?”
Odd. “Stella?” I sat down again.
“You okay, honey?”
“Me? I’m fine. Why?” I rubbed my eyes again, still feeling groggy. The kitchen sweltered, and I stretched the cord to the window to let in the fresh morning breeze.
“Oh, I just didn’t hear nothin’ on the other end. Wondered if you was there.”
“I’m here. Just half asleep. What’s up?”
“Yeah, I saw ya come back real late last night with that fella in the blue truck.”
I yawned. “Adam? I was helping his brother.”
“He’s a nice one, Shiloh.”
“His brother? You’ve met Rick?”
“Naw, Adam. The blue-truck fella. Such a gentleman. Sheeewwwweee!”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy.” I rubbed my eyes, which had fallen shut again.
“You ken say that again! Come by and give me yer keys this mornin’ ‘cause you was sleepin’. Real nice and polite. Didn’t know God still made men like him!”
“He dropped my keys off?” I glanced out the window, seeing the back curve of the Honda.
Stella kept right on going. “He always waits for ya outside when you’re alone, like he’s got some kinda class or somethin’. I noticed he was differnt right off.”
“Yeah, he’s got this thing about always waiting out … what? You noticed?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Well, it’s a small world, hon, and these eyes don’t miss much.” She tittered. “Ev’rybody round here’s talkin’ about ya, tryin’ ta figger out what kinda gal you are. They think you’re a peach by now! A good head on yer shoulders, yessiree! I told ‘em myself! Not like Misty Wilcox, always foolin’ around with whatever Tom, Dick, or Harold shows up in her livin’ room. Why, jest last week she an’ that Shifflet fella …”
This was a really weird conversation, albeit enlightening. I didn’t know people actually paid attention to anything I did, good or bad. However, we’re talking about Stella here.
“Um … so maybe I should come over and get my keys?”
“Keys? Oh sure, honey. But that ain’t why I called. I done fergot.” She giggled. “It’s about yer roses.”
“My roses? What’s wrong with them?” I was already scrambling for my sandals.
“No, hon. They look fine. It’s just that white bush.”
“The white one? That’s the most important one, Stella. Did something happen to it?”
“No! That’s why I’m callin’! I don’t know what kinda fertilizer you been usin’, but it’s workin’!”
“What do you mean?”
“You jest gotta see it! I went out this mornin’ for a smoke, and there it sat, all …”
The phone clattered to the floor. I ran, still in my pajamas, and threw open the door. Jumped the deck steps two at a time. And stopped short at the snowfall of lush white blooms covering Mom’s Kobe rosebush, petals sifting lightly to the ground in the gentle breeze.
I stepped through the warm mulch and knelt there, gawking at the spectacle of sparkling white rimmed with faint pink like a sunrise. Thick blooms loaded on the leafy stems, mounded like scoops of ice cream and perfuming the breeze.
Mom’s Kobe rosebush bloomed.
The one as good as dead. The one without leaves. The one that hung brown and bare.
I felt déjà-vu-like there on my knees, remembering last night’s prayer by my bed. Everything became new. The dead rose to life. The heart beat clear and strong. I can live again! I can bloom again!
“Jesus,” I whispered. “You did it. You really did it!”
A whiff of smoke tickled my nostrils, and Stella’s flip-flops came skooshing through the grass.
“Toldja it was bloomin’,” she crowed, letting out a hazy breath. “Ain’t it something? What’d ya put on it?”
“I didn’t do anything.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the piles of white, shimmering in the morning sunlight and bending down the branches with their weight. “It’s just … God.”
I sounded like Becky, but with proper grammar. It felt weird. I wiped my eyes.
“Hmm. Yeah. I reckon so.” Stella puffed in silence. “Them’s real pretty. Seems like I remember yer mom takin’ special care of this’n. Always real careful prunin’ it and stuff. Her favorite, I reckon.”
I pinched off a perfect cup-like blossom and placed it in Stella’s chubby hand. “Here. Mom would have wanted you to have it, too.”
She turned the white bloom over then shyly pressed it to her nose. Snuffed out her cigarette and plopped down on my porch in her housedress, eyes pooling with tears.
I sat down next to her, not saying a word, and we watched the morning together. The blue jays and finches in Stella’s tree. Squirrels scampering across my yard. Mist rising over the pastures, pearly pink.
And then I bade Stella farewell. There was still one more thing I had to do.
The narrow road up to Green Hill Cemetery twisted through emerald woods, long and lonely. The iron gate swung in the breeze, unlocked. I idled my car at the entrance and pushed it open then drove inside and parked. Listened to absolute stillness descending as I slammed the door.
Robins twittered overhead in the latticework of green and hints of yellow as I strolled quietly among the headstones. Some crumbled with age, dating all the way back to the early 1800s. I paused by a child’s grave decorated with a lamb, imagining the black-clad crowd that gathered here so long ago. An eleven-year-old boy. No explanation, just a name and dates. Infection? An epidemic? An accident? I winced, thinking of Todd.
“Safe in the arms of Jesus,” read the lichen-covered script. My breath caught in my throat.
From now on that would be me, safe in the arms of Jesus. No matter what happened, He would stay with me. In me. Living through me.
I walked through the years, watching them pass by me, ghostlike and silent. I touched stones so old the carvings blackened and faded with lichens, and a sudden rash of markers dated 1863. My spine quivered. The war? I wondered if any Donaldsons numbered among them.
Mom’s grave lay toward the back, up where the grass met a thick stand of woods. I hadn’t come here since the funeral, so I felt lost, weaving through the markers in search of hers.
I spotted it easily though—the gray granite shiny and polished. The rectangle still patched with brown earth where the grass had begun to grow over.
I stood there, feeling the warm fall breeze ruffle my hair and jacket and then stooped down to touch the newly carved letters: Ellen Amelia Jacobs. I ran my fingers over the dates of her death and birth.
Ellen Amelia Jacobs, sojourner in Virginia who decided to stay for good.
Ellen Amelia Jacobs, mother of a daughter who’d finally come home.
Ellen Amelia Jacobs, teacher and friend and lover of God, who’d gone through God’s door and found life out of destruction. Who bloomed one last fantastic flourish. Who said to fall and winter: I am not afraid! And whose tender faith, like the white Kobe roses in my arms, carried scents of heaven.
I laid the thick bouquet on the grass, shocking white against dull green, an offering of my heart. Like Mom, it was late—but better late than never.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered awkwardly, putting my hand on the sun-warmed stone, still cool on one side. Kneeling in the grass. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you. That I didn’t want to know you. That I missed the you I could have loved.”
My tears were healing; they seemed to wash away all my malice and hardened anger. I could forgive now, just like God forgave me.
The gas was flowing into my tank. My heart had doubled in size, flooding out a love for Mom like I’d never known.
I couldn’t erase our past or pretend it didn’t happen, but I could cover it, like the snowfall of roses over her grave. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”
No more lies. No more hiding. I could start fresh—from now—and let God reveal the new creation He’d started in me, just as He’d done in Mom.
His workmanship. His poem. His jar of clay, fragile, but holding treasure. Encircled by His powerful hands.
I passed my hand over the hard, carved letters of her name. “You’re not the same person I remember, Mom, and I want you to know I’m not either. I’ve changed, too.” I wiped my face. “And I think you’d be prouder of me now than when I won all my greatest awards. Thank you, Mom. Thank you for what you gave me—life and Life. The very best things of all.”
The riot of birds cried out my joy in the green glory of the morning. Nothing else mattered. Not AP, not my debts, not the house. Not even romance or someone to love.
We could do anything, God and I. Together.
There in the middle of a hundred gravestones, I had never felt more alive.
About the Author
Jennifer Rogers Spinola, Virginia/South Carolina native and graduate of Gardner-Webb University in North Carolina, now lives in the capital city of Brasilia, Brazil, with her husband, Athos, and their son, Ethan. Jennifer and Athos met while she was serving as a missionary in Sapporo, Japan. When she’s not writing, Jennifer teaches English to ESL students in Brasilia. Find out more about Jenny at www.jenniferrogersspinola.com.
Discussion Questions
1. Carlos’ dashing appearance and handsome good looks earn him a lot of positive attention. How does he treat Shiloh and Kyoko? What characteristics does he exhibit through his behavior? Do his good looks have any bearing on his attitudes and/or actions?
2. At one point, Kyoko asks Shiloh if Carlos truly loves her, and Shiloh replies in annoyance, “Of course he does!” Do you agree with her? Why or why not? In your opinion, what is real love like? How is it shown?
3. Pressed for time at the Associated Press office, Shiloh makes a quick, one-time decision to plagiarize a story, thinking no one will find out. What were the consequences for her breach of integrity? Have you ever done something against your better judgment “just one time”? What happened? In Shiloh’s case, if no one had discovered her error, do you think her secret would have still had an effect on her character? Her career?
4. Shiloh continually asserts that her mother means nothing to her, but Shiloh’s shock, turmoil, and anger indicate otherwise. Why do you think this is the case? Have you ever struggled with a difficult family member or painful memories? What helped to bring you peace?
5. At Tim and Becky’s cookout, Shiloh is surprised that something as simple as “a couple of hamburgers and a radio” could bring such clean, free joy. What do you think Shiloh senses in her friends that she’s been missing? How do they receive her and her many problems? What does this tell us about the impact believers can have on near strangers for Christ? Has anyone inspired you in a similar way?
6. Adam makes a reputation for himself as an oddball by refusing to go in Shiloh’s house alone. What reason does he give for his actions? Can you think of any other reasons Adam’s caution might have been a good thing? Have you ever “gone out on a limb” to make an unpopular choice based on your convictions? What happened?
7. Becky says once that Jesus isn’t a “Happy Meal,” and there isn’t a toy inside every box. What does she mean by this?
8. When Adam takes Shiloh fishing, she expects him to give her a spiritual lecture or sermon. Why do you think he refrains? In what ways does Adam still share his faith with Shiloh, and what is its impact?
9. Have you ever had to wait tables, work in a store, or do a similar type of work? What was it like? If not, can you imagine the drastic life changes someone like Shiloh would face? Can you see any positive changes in Shiloh’s character as a result of her hardships?
10. During a conversation about suffering and sin, Shiloh tells Faye that Adam and Eve, not she, ate the forbidden fruit. Faye replies that “there’s a little bit of Adam and Eve in all of us.” What did Faye mean by this? How is this reflected in Shiloh’s life? In your life?
11. Toward the end of the book, Adam’s brother Rick says “we’re all amputated in some way.” Are there any areas of your life or personal relationships you’ve cut off or left behind, either voluntarily or against your will? How has God brought healing to your life as a result?
12. After conceiving against all odds, Becky loses her miracle baby. Have you ever suffered a great loss of something? Why do you think God allows our sometimes best-laid plans or greatest hopes to be dashed? What reasons do Tim and Becky give for continuing to follow God in faith even during tragedy?
13. After reading her mom’s journal, Shiloh comments that it seemed like her mom “came to life.” What did Shiloh mean by this? How did Ellen’s life change? And how did Shiloh’s behavior exhibit the same transformation?
Jennifer Rogers Spinola, Southern Fried Sushi
