Unconditional (22 page)

They cheered in affirmation.

“Once upon a time,” I read, “there lived a little baby oriole bird. His mama called him Firebird on account of his amazingly beautiful orange feathers. Now Firebird just lived for the sunshine. He would bask in that sunshine for hours.”

I turned the page. “Your turn,” I whispered to Keisha.

“But when the rains would come,” she read out loud, “he would go complain to his mama. He wanted to know why God gave storms the power to take the sun away. And Mama bird would just smile and say, ‘You'll understand when you walk on the clouds someday.'”

I glanced toward Joe, whose wife sat tucked under his arm at the end of the sofa. They beamed with pride. Denise rolled her head back against Joe's arm and laughed in that way she was known to do—silently, yet with such fullness of joy.

Mattie's clear eyes sparkled in concurrence.

“Very good,” I said to Keisha. “Very, very good.”

That spring I
received a call from Denise wanting to know if I could come to the house to help with snack time and homework. I'd been working on my next book—the one about Samurai Joe and his loyal apprentices—when the call came. I told her that her timing was perfect and that I'd gladly take a break and drive into town.

“Would you mind terribly stopping at Murphy's? Picking up some peanut butter and jelly for sandwiches? We're out, and it would surely save me some time.”

“Be happy to do that too,” I said.

An hour later I was pulling up to the curb outside of Murphy's, a place I'd grown accustomed to dashing into for last-minute items Joe and Denise—and sometimes Mattie—needed. But this time I paused before reaching the door.

In the window someone had taped a two-dollar bill under a handwritten sign that read:
PASS IT ON
.

After a moment or two of staring, I went on inside. The scent of fresh ground coffee wafted through the store, and I thought, as always, of Billy and of the night he'd brought coffee to Anthony Jones. “Hey, Murphy?” I called as my sandaled feet crossed the unpainted wood floor between shelves of stocked grocery items.

“Hey, Miss Sam!” he hollered back.

His voice had come from the back of the store. I followed it to where two of the local old-timers were engaged in an intense card game. Murphy's back was to me. He peered over the shoulder of one of the men, checking out his cards, but cast a glance my way once I was close enough to talk without shouting.

I pointed to the front of the store. “What's up with the two-dollar bill?”

“It was T's idea,” he said. “He's got one up at the shop where he works, and there's one over at the restaurant where Mattie's been working ever since she got herself sobered up, thanks to you. I even saw one stuck in a cab's windshield the other day.”

There's enough love to go around, Sam. You just have to share it.

My fingertips came to rest at the base of my throat. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, ma'am. You look around. You'll see 'em all over the Commons. Wouldn't be surprised if they aren't all the way to the county buildings by now.”

Maybe, I thought, to Detective Miller's office.

“Isn't that something?” I said.

“Your husband, see, he was here one night. Just one. Got the lights turned on for me, but in his own way he's turned on a light that cain't be turned off. And cain't nothing outshine love, Miss Sam. Not a thing I know of.”

“Not a thing I know of, either,” I said. “Not a single thing.”

I purchased the peanut butter and jelly and left the store, but not before deciding to drive over to the service station where Anthony worked. He wasn't there, but sure enough there was the same
PASS IT ON
sticker holding a two-dollar bill against the glass window of the station's convenience store.

I headed on over to Joe and Denise's. As soon as my feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk, I heard cheering coming from the backyard. I was late. The kids were already there. In my efforts to see Anthony—to thank him—I'd lost time.

I hurried around the side of the house.

As soon as I turned the corner to the backyard, everyone—Joe, Denise, Mattie, the children, some of the mothers, and Anthony—yelled, “Surprise!”

They wore colorful party hats, and the tables were covered in paper tablecloths with giant balloons along the edges. Each table held a centerpiece made of birthday balloons. Macon stood front and center, holding a cake loaded with lit candles.

Anthony started the chorus of “Happy Birthday,” with Joe accompanying on his saxophone. When the song was over, the children chanted, “Make a wish! Make a wish!”

I squeezed my eyes shut . . . took in a deep breath . . . and I blew.

The following week
Cricket and I took an early morning pleasure ride around the fields and through a trail in the woods. After returning, I removed her tack, then let her walk freely outside the barn with Penny. Together they grazed on grass and hay, content in the world in which they lived.

Just as I was.

I then went upstairs to the loft to make some final touches on
The Tale of Samurai Joe
. I had worked on it for about an hour when the first rumblings of thunder rolled overhead.

I chose to ignore the approaching storm.

A few minutes later Cricket and Penny's neighs came from below, answered by Maggie's moo. Within seconds heavy rain pelted the roof of the barn, the cadence sounding like a marching army. I looked around, suddenly aware of how dark the loft had become. Only the light from the lamp on my desk held back the shadows.

I slid off the stool where I perched while working, and I walked over to the wide loft windows. I pushed them open. Outside the rain turned the world's colors to magnificent hues. Just above the horizon, dark clouds hung thick in the gray sky. I blinked slowly and smiled, because I knew . . .
I knew
. . . that high above those clouds, the sun continued to shine.

Constant and unchanging.

On a whim I climbed down the stairs and threw open the barn doors. Stepping into the barnyard, I held my arms straight out before me, allowing the rain to cup in my hands before spilling over. I tilted my face upward toward where I knew the sun still shone. I closed my eyes and felt the rain wash over me, plastering my hair to my scalp. And I breathed in the glory of it all.

I smiled as my hands reached heavenward slowly, slowly, until—in my heart—I burst up through the clouds and took a walk on them.

Life is so
beautiful. So full of magic and possibilities. When Billy died, I thought that my story had come to an end. But I was wrong.

Joe helped me to find something I had lost along the way. Something I'd once believed so strongly: that the storms of life were bound to come, but maybe even in the storms, in the loneliest times of all, you're never really alone.

Love is the most powerful thing on earth. I've seen what it can do. And it can do amazing things. Sometimes I imagine a world where everyone knows of a love that's unconditional. And what a beautiful world it is.

I think Billy had it right, that there truly is enough love to go around. All you have to do is share it.

What if God's love is like the sun, constant and unchanging? What if you woke up one day and realized . . . nothing can take that away?

This story was
inspired by actual events from the life of Papa Joe Bradford. Papa Joe and Denise Bradford's ministry began with one child and a piece of candy. Today they are committed to partnering with others to share God's love in a way that changes the lives of children who are terribly at risk due to circumstances beyond their control. To find out how you can help, or to learn more about Papa Joe and the ministry of Elijah's Heart, visit www.papajoe.org or www.elijahsheart.com.

Right now more than 113,000 people are waiting for an organ transplant. Of those, eighteen will die every day waiting. One organ donor can save up to eight lives. One person's donation saved the life of Papa Joe Bradford, who has gone on to change the lives of many others. Whose life might you save? For more information on becoming an organ donor, go to www.organdonor.gov.

Acknowledgments

I cannot thank
all the good people at Harbinger Media and B&H Publishing enough for trusting me with this story. Thank you to Bill Reeves of Working Title Agency for knowing I would be a good fit. Thank you to Jonathan Clements, my extraordinary and fabulous agent. Thank you to my editor, Julie Gwinn. What fun to finally get to work with you!

Thank you to my critique partner, Shellie Arnold. You make me think harder and feel more deeply than I like to. (I always cry!) But in the end the product shows the effort. You are amazing.

David Webb, you are “da man” when it comes to editing. What a great team we made! “Udderly ridiculous” is what we are. Every writer should be so blessed to work with you at least once.

Thank you, Papa Joe and Denise Bradford, not only for sharing your story with the world, but for sharing it with me. Thank you for what you do for these kids. My heart soars every time I think about it. You are an inspiration to so many. You are an inspiration to me.

Thank you to my huggy hubby, who has supported me 150 percent in this “writing and publishing thing.” Next to Jesus, you are my greatest gift from God.

Sweet Yeshua,
todah raba. Todah raba.