FireQuill Publications
The Short Stories And Bible Studies
The Short Stories And Bible Studies
of Kathy Kearney
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Love Is For Giving Away
By Kathy KearneyIt was raining when I pulled into the teacher’s parking lot. I reluctantly maneuvered my car into a space for I wasn’t looking forward to the drenched trek across the well puddle lot to the building. I switched off the ignition and sat for a minute thinking of how different it was teaching in a large, city high school from the small town one I had just left this fall. It was not the microscopic increase in pay that had attracted me, but rather the fact that I would be close to the university where I was taking my masters. I could hardly wait to complete my studies and return to my safe, out of the way community in the valley.
Most of the time I had been here I felt awkward, uncomfortable, and unhappy. The only time I felt at home was in my class. I loved teaching and my students. I had actually instilled a liking for Shakespeare in them. Now that’s what I call bridging the generation gap!
Smiling to myself and not looking I swung open the car door into Mrs. Davis the vice-principal. Down she went in a flurry of arms, legs, books, and one bent umbrella. Good grief, I thought, as I hurried to help her up. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Davis,” I stammered out my apology. “I wasn’t watching what I was doing”.
“Thank goodness for that,” she laughed good-naturedly. “Just think what you might have done if you had aimed that door.” She brushed off her coat with her chubby hand. “Come on, let’s get out of this flood.” We both walked swiftly to the shelter of the administration building.
When we got inside I apologized again to Mrs. Davis and started to walk toward my classroom, but Mrs. Davis called me back. “Lori, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for some time. Will you have coffee with me this afternoon in my office after your three o’clock class?”
Her round face was serious now. As if she was deeply concerned about something. That, or worse, who? Me? “Of course, Mrs. Davis. I’ll be there”. Perceiving my puzzled tone she was quick to assure me. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to throw you to the lions.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not yet, anyway. Well, I must hurry. I have some irate parents to confront with the reasons their pride and joys are failing.” She grinned sardonically. “Talk about lions!” She patted my arm and hurried off to her office.
Just as I once again turned toward my classroom the door from the teachers lounge opened and Ann Wallace, another English teacher walked out; or I should say backed out. She was loaded down with books. Thinking to help I reached out and pulled the door open. Of course, as fortune would have it, she was so intent on getting through the door she didn’t see or hear me. Consequently when I pulled the door the sudden loss of it’s balancing weight against her back sent her sprawling.
Oh no, I thought for the second time this morning. Given another hour I could wipe out the whole faculty. I began scooping up books as she hastily scrambled to her feet. Sheepishly I handed her some of the books I had retrieved. “I’m sorry, Ann. I should have warned you of my intention.”
She looked at me angrily. She was embarrassed and her face was flushed in fury and humiliation. “Yes, you might have tried that. I was managing quite well without you, and…” She clamped her mouth shut and teeth gratingly refrained from any further words about me and my help. Then she whirled and stalked off down the hall.
Quick, angry tears welled in my eyes. In a dejected blur I walked down the hall to my classroom, thankful that no one had seen the altercation. After putting my raincoat and umbrella away I sank wearily into my chair behind my desk.
“You see, Lord, what I mean,” I prayed into the empty silence of my room. “I’m just not meant to be a teacher in this school. I feel like a dowdy church mouse among these other teachers. I’ve been here for two months and not once outside of ‘hi’ in the halls has any one of them offered even a limp hand of friendship. I’m lonely, Lord, and I want to go home. I hate it here. Besides. Besides”, I added wryly. “I don’t think they can survive me much longer. Oh how I wish I had that master’s degree.”
In spite of the rain, which usually slows things down, the day went surprisingly fast. Suddenly it was four o’clock. After answering the final questions of my departing students I gathered up my books and papers, grabbed my coat and umbrella and walked down the hall toward Mrs. Davis’ office.
I placed a timid yet hopeful, maybe-she’s-forgotten-and-left, knock on the door. No such luck.
“Come,” called a voice.
She was pouring coffee from an electric percolator into two fragile china cups. “Ah, Lori. I knew it would be you.” She motioned toward a chair. “Sit down, please. Cream or sugar?”
“Just cream,” I answered.
She prepared it so, and handed me the cup and saucer. I almost dropped it, the cup teetered dangerously for a moment on the edge of the saucer and then decided, much to my relief to stay on board.
“Relax, dear girl,” chided Mrs. Davis as she lowered herself into her chair. She surveyed me over her cup. “Lori, I’ve been watching you for some time. You’re not really happy here,” Then seeing my look of dismay she quickly added, “Oh, it has nothing to do with you as a teacher. In fact, it seems to me that is the only time you are content. But I mean in general it’s not so good. Right?”
I started to deny it, but suddenly it was so overwhelmingly good to have someone actually concerned with how I felt that I found myself wanting to tell this warmhearted woman al my woes.
“Yes, I am unhappy here. I guess I’m homesick. Outside of you everyone else seems…well, not unfriendly, just uncaring. Distant. Then the whole story came out. I told her of the awkwardness I felt with the other teachers. Especially Ann Wallace who had always seemed aloof and condescending in her manner toward me, and then to have it topped off with this morning’s incident. “I can hardly wait to get back home again with people I understand, and where a classroom doesn’t have forty eight students. It’s taken me two months to finally get through to them, to wade through all the sticky discipline problems and the mountains of ridiculous paperwork.”
She didn’t interrupt me once. Just let me talk. When I finished I felt drained as if there simply was nothing left to say. She was silent for a moment before speaking.
“I am asking you to sign a contract for another year, Lori.” She saw the negative glint in my eyes. “No, don’t give me an answer now. Wait a while. We can use good teachers like you. I’m going to impose an obligation on that sensitive mind of yours by saying that if you leave us the burden will be just that much heavier for someone else next year. And as for the seemingly unconcern of our faculty; I think if you’ll make some first moves you will find them amiable enough. They are just people with cares and problems. Who knows, you might have something to ease their heartaches. So don’t stand on protocol, Lori. Wade right in and give yourself away. Well, I won’t keep you any longer – just think about what I’ve said.”
She stood up, and escorted me to the door. The interview was over.
I tossed and turned quite a bit that night. I couldn’t get Mrs. Davis challenge out of my mind. Had I been selfish by being so self-conscious and in waiting for others to come to me? Was my loneliness, and discontent perhaps my own doing?
Finally I threw aside the covers that seemed so hot and heavy, got out of bed and stood looking across the lawn. “Alright, Lord, I prayed. She said I might have something to offer these people. And so I do. I have Christ. Forgive me for forgetting that, and help me to give Him away. His love and friendship, because I have a funny feeling that when I do I’ll automatically be giving away large chunks of Lori Winters.”
I crawled back in bed. The covers were no longer hot and uncomfortable. Now I felt peacefully drowsy, and before I fell asleep I smiled in anticipation of what? Tomorrow? Adventure?
Next morning instead of hiding out in my classroom when I arrived I decided to begin ‘operation giveaway’ and resolutely walked into the teachers’ lounge. Ann Wallace and Gene Martin were the only two in there. They were chatting over coffee. “Well, Lord” I thought, “here we go!”
I walked over to them smiling. Gene greeted me politely and offered to get me a cup of coffee. I accepted and sat down next to Ann.
“Hello, Ann.” “Good morning.” The frozen words hit me like chips of ice. My confidence began packing for parts unknown but just as it rounded my knees Gene returned with my coffee. “Well, Lori,” he began, “Ann and I were just bemoaning the fact that she can’t find a substitute for her Great Books course in Adult Education, for this evening. This being Friday night and all. She’ll have to delay her trip until tomorrow.”
Ann made no comment, just sat there sipping her coffee. Suddenly as though I was being gently shoved from behind I found myself saying, “I’d be glad to help out if I can, Ann.”
Ann frowned and almost choked on her drink. “You would”!
“Sure,” I answered easily. “I have no plans for this evening. I’d be glad to help out. When and where does your class meet”?
“Room 309 at seven. It’s a two-hour class. But are you sure, Lori? I mean, you really want to?”
“Of course. What book are you using?”
The bewilderment in her eyes was almost amusing. This is more fun than revenge I thought. She can’t understand why I’m doing this. Come to think of it neither can I. Here is a woman who has snubbed me, and bawled me out, and here I am offering to do a favor for her.
“We’re studying Nathaniel Hawthorne’s , ‘Scarlet Letter’. I can loan you a copy, and my notes if that would help.”
“I’ll take the notes,” I accepted. “But I have read the book, although it has been a while since I read it.”
Suddenly she smiled and I must admit I was somewhat dazzled by it. It was a real smile not one of those molded grimaces she usually tacked on. “Thank you, Lori and I’m sorry”. She hesitated and looked down then spoke softly. I could see Gene straining to catch her words. Then she stood up to leave. “If you’ll have lunch with me I’ll give you the notes.”
Gene sat there looking after her with his mouth somewhat ajar. “What did she mean, she’s sorry?” he asked me.
I smiled innocently as I handed him my empty coffee cup. “She means”, I said standing to leave, “that she’s sorry.” “Thanks for the coffee” and I left him holding two cups and a frown.
Ann and I discussed her notes over lunch in the cafeteria. “I certainly appreciate this, Lori,” she said as we prepared to leave.
“I’m glad to do it, Ann” I assured her, and was pleasantly surprised to find that I was. “I hope you have a nice weekend.”
To my surprise a look of pain filled her eyes but she quickly looked away. “Yes, well,” she hesitated, “I’d better get on to my class now. Thanks again.”
In the weeks that followed Ann and I became close friends. Every other weekend I knew that she and her husband, Art traveled upstate. It was the one subject that Ann never volunteered to discuss. Although I could tell that something about the trips was making her unhappy. All I could do was wait and pray. God’s timing didn’t call for any probing on my part. Perhaps one day she would tell me, perhaps never, it was up to Him. I had met Art Wallace one Friday afternoon when he picked his wife up. He was a tall, quiet man, and a strange wall of moodiness existed between him and Ann.
One afternoon after my final class Ann dropped by my room just as I was leaving.
“Could you give me a lift over to the garage where I’ve left my car for some repairs,” she asked? “Sure”, I replied. “We can leave now. I’m through for the day.”
As it turned out her car wouldn’t be ready for another hour or two, so I invited her over to my apartment for dinner. She seemed glad to accept. “You can call Art from my place and tell him what happened,” I laughed. “Does he know how to open a can?”
“No, opening bottles is more his specialty,” she answered wryly. “Besides we’ve been separated for a week now.”
To this little bombshell I could only answer “Oh.”
In spite of the bad news Ann had just delivered dinner was a pleasant affair. During steaks and salads we chatted about school, students and books, but during coffee and ice cream Ann became very silent.. Suddenly she looked across at me and asked, “Lori, do you believe in God?”
When my astonishment allowed I answered as firmly as I could, “Yes, I do, Ann”. I said nothing more because I had the strangest feeling that this talk was being guided by someone to whom it was very important. “Let her talk,” an inner voice seemed to advise.
“Somehow I thought you would say that.” She smiled sadly. The sentence hung there for a moment defying me to jump in and give her all my intellectual and Biblical reasons for my belief in God, but still restrained by that inner tugging I stirred my coffee and waited.
She cleared her throat and began; “I want to tell you where Art and I go every other weekend. We visit our son who is in a hospital for asthmatic children. Jamie is six. He’s had asthma practically all his life.” Here her voice clogged with tears. “It’s awful to watch a child struggle to push air out so he can gasp for another breath.”
She stopped momentarily and I watched her trying to regain her composure, then she continued. “Ever since we found out what Jamie has, Art has been much too overprotective. He’s constantly reminding the child just how ill he is, and that he can’t do this or that. Consequently Jamie’s attacks have become worse and more frequent.
The odd thing is that when his father isn’t around Jamie plays pretty much like any other active six year old. I think Art has actually instilled more guilt than fear in him. I sometimes wonder if his attacks aren’t more brought on by his guilt for having fun in spite of his fathers insistence that he be ill. But I wouldn’t try to point this out to Art because we would just end up in a shouting match.
He accuses me of not being protective enough, and I accuse him of just the opposite, and poor Jamie knows with that instinctive knowledge that children have that he’s being used as the club in our clashes. So now we’re all three split up. Jamie in the clinic, Art in an apartment, and me in that empty house.”
“That’s why I asked you about God, Lori. I don’t really think I was really questioning his existence, but does he care about us? Really care?”
When I answered I was astonished at the calmness and clarity with which I spoke. But the words were suddenly there, and I uttered them without falter. “I can assure you beyond a glimmer of a doubt, Ann that he cares for you. He is concerned with your problem, and furthermore is longing to do something about it.”
“What do I have to do to get his attention” she asked?
“You’ve always had his attention, he’s just been waiting for yours,” I said with a smile. “Listen to this, Ann. ‘Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me…for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ “Come, rest, and learn.' When we come to Christ, the Son of God we find rest and peace, and as we learn of Him, we become aware of His care and love, and suddenly we can’t conceive of anyone else handling our lives.”
For a moment there was silence, but a silence filled with the heart’s call for help. When Ann spoke again her voice was husky and broken. “Will you start me off, Lori? I don’t know how”.
And so it was that Ann reached out for Him, only to find that He had reached her first. After that Ann and I often discussed her new relationship with God. How excited and rapidly she seemed to mature as a Christian. Of course the one big prayer of her heart was for Art and Jamie. Christmas vacation came and I went home for two weeks to visit my parents. When I came back it was an excited friend that met me for lunch the first day of school.
“Art and I are living together again, Lori. Talk about God answering prayers.” She laughed at my surprised look. “Oh, it hasn’t been all moonlight and roses. But we’re learning to listen to one another, really listen, instead of flinging our own pet theories at one another. Art seems very impressed with my experience with God, but I try not to force it down his throat. I’m learning that God loves Art even more than I do. His timing will be perfect, and Art will one day be just as ready to meet him as I was. And also Jamie was allowed to spend Christmas with us. He didn’t have one attack the whole time. Art even took him ice-skating. The doctors say he can come home soon. His improved condition is obvious. I guess it’s because we’re a real family now, not two angry people tugging two different ways on a child.”
So I learned a big lesson about giving away God’s love that restless night months ago, and my decision to let God use me unreservedly has paid dividends that will be measured in eternity. I wonder how he’ll use me next, that is now that I’ve signed a contract to stay here next year. I can hardly wait!
