Coming Home

She was finally heading home again. It had been nearly two years but some how for Yessica she felt is if she had only gone yesterday. Everything seemed to have been locked in time, nothing had changed at least not from her vantage point, walking upon slick asphalt towards a place that was her home. cvr_12_1394571146

It was funny to her really. She had only lived in that house for less than three days before she took to the road. That day was equal to this day. Haze hung over the green hills, blocking out any trace of the sun. She had told him that she was going on a walk, she told him she would be right back.

She lied.

She had not intended to run away. In all truth she had begun her journey walking, slowly as if weights had been tied to her ankles impeding her movements. But like a wild pony she began to garner the strength and before she knew it she was running, running away from the very place she was told was now her home.

She stopped and shifted the weight of her shoulder bag and exchanged the suitcase from left hand to right. The sound of the tiny stones crunching beneath her feet lent her the touch of reality that things had indeed changed since she first ran from home.

For one thing, Yessica had nothing when she had taken out on her journey. Her purse was as empty as her soul back then and she had left it lying on her bedside table. But now she was not so empty, not of perishables and not of life.

He had written to her and with each inky word scrolled with shaky, rushing hand across paper, Louis had filled her with everything she thought she would never have. She had not wanted to marry him. He had to have known that. He had to have seen it in her eyes when she looked at him and said “I do.” He had to have seen through the lie she told to his face even if the Pastor missed it and the congregation of overjoyed family and friends hadn’t.

But God had noticed. He knew she was lying. And oh how God had changed her barbwire heart since then. It was as if God had been searching her out and seeking her heart just as much as Louis had been.

She hadn’t gotten to far, maybe 100 miles by the time Louis found her. He was a strong solid young man, everything about him chiseled and hard as stone for he was hard working. If he had wanted to, he could have scooped Yessica up with one arm, tossed her over his shoulder and took her straight home without her being able to stop him…but he didn’t. Instead he held his hat in his hand and stared down at his feet for several long minutes when he first caught up to her.

Yessica had to force herself to breath she was so frightened at first. She had done him wrong, dreadfully wrong and she deserved to have gotten a good dressing down for all the humiliation and fear that had sprung from her heels for him when she took off. But instead, when she looked at him, looked at the dark hairs of his long lashes fanning across his high cheek bones, she felt nothing but pity. And when he opened his lips, the words he spoke to her made her afraid, but not in the way of danger.

“Can I write to you, Yessica?” He asked her. He still had not brought his eyes up to meet hers and the way of his timidity kept the answer lodged in her constricted throat. When he finally did raise his dark eyes to hers she only managed a nod. With that, Louis hurried for his wallet and plucked from it more than half of the money he had been carrying. He pushed it into her hand even though tearfully she had said no.

“You are my wife now, and a man has to provide for his family. I won’t have you starving out here. You just…You just write me so I know where you are and I will send you what you need.” He turned to leave but then hesitated, reaching for his other pocket he pulled out his first letter to her. He set it down on the table by the door in the tiny cottage she had found her way to. An old widow had taken her in. Then with a quick but strong hug, Louis was out the door.

Yessica finally made it to the front steps of her home. She set down her bag and touched the dog eared edges of the first letter her husband had written her. She was suddenly feeling that old fear again. Two years was a long time to be gone. What if he didn’t want her any more? She felt her fingers curling around the letter and she meditated on the words that had been penned upon it: “To my beloved bride, delicate as feathers floating on the wind, I love you and I will wait for you to find your way home.”

A hot tear forced itself from the corner of her eye and slid down her face. She had no right to return. No right at all. Instantly the parable of the Prodigal Son played in her mind, but she could not shake that she was not the son and Louis was not his hopeful father. Yes, she knew God would take her back, but Louis was a man and all his loving words could have  been weightless. Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? Because she had wanted his love for her to be true. She had wanted him to truly want her. But how could he?

Heart racing and hope fleeting far from her now, she bent down for her bag but was captured by the shoulders instead.  The earthy scent of Louis’ soap pooled around her and his glassy eyes drew her to him. Before she knew it she felt the cold and doubt being forced away by sweet kisses and the warmth of his strong arms. It was as if his embrace has chased all doubt away and it had.

She had finally come home, she felt it in that very moment. She knew it in Louis’ words and she knew it in his arms. She could not help but tell him even though she had failed to several times before, “I love you, Louis, I do.” This time it was truth, she knew it, he knew it and so did God.

THE END

Okay…I just finish publishing one story and this one sprung forth right on its heels. I am actually feeling might free in this moment, less controlled creativity i.e. planned actions and more of a sweet flow. Truth is I had a bit of prayer about how things were going this month and Messiah Yeshua (Jesus) answered me quite nicely.

I am still learning about my creative self in the place in life that I am currently in, and right now, this week, my art is full of words…and that ain’t a bad thing at all.

Cheers Fellow Soup Seekers!

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