Chayei Sarah: (Memoirs of a Teenage Author)

(This is post #16 of the My Journey to Gritty: Memoirs of a Teenage Author series)

We went to Blackbeard’s church that weekend. I remembered Blackbeard's hint that my husband was in the assembly, and cheerfully wore my favorite handmade dress. The church was on a yearly Bible reading cycle, the same cycle that our usual assembly was on, so I was well aware that the preaching would be about my favorite Bible story: Isaac and Rebekah.
It seemed to be the perfect Scripture portion to meet my husband on. We had all the players in place, right? An older man, a younger woman, a servant that set them up, God's hand orchestrating it all...

Blackbeard greeted us as we entered the building. I craned my neck and looked around him at the parishioners. There weren’t very many people there, and most of the men were married. I couldn't see my husband anywhere!
I frowned in disappointment.
The service started. The worship was sweet. I found that I kinda liked it here in this small, quaint building.
Then it came time for the preaching. Blackbeard went up to the front and spoke. I can’t remember a thing he said. I was too busy watching his ever-changing facial expressions.
That guy was a character. Everything was passionate and emotional with him. He was the funniest person in the world to people-watch.
“What’s the matter?” Mom nudged me and whispered, midway through the service.
“Blackbeard is funny,” I whispered back, stifling giggles. “He’s so dramatic.”
Mom’s eyes looked over my facial expression, then she smiled and looked back to the front.
After the service, there was a meal. I hurried to the back of the building to look around, in case I had somehow overlooked my husband in the crowd.
No… apparently not. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I looked all over the whole building, almost as if I was expecting him to be hiding somewhere, like King Saul in Israel’s baggage.
But he was nowhere to be found, at least not this week.
I didn’t eat much that night. Instead, I picked at the food on my plate and moped.

Blackbeard started regularly calling our house after that, asking to speak to my parents. I always knew who it was on the phone without asking. His voice was distinctive, I recognized it every time.
Mom was starting to act really weird, too. She looked at me with strange facial expressions. And she was actually asking about my husband. Sometimes she’d come into my room and ask, “How’s your husband feeling today, sweetheart?”
I’d suspiciously look at her, then think over my intuitions I’d received that day.
Sometimes my answer would be, “Um… good, I guess.”
Sometimes it’d be, “He’s having issues with his daughter.”
Sometimes it’d be, “I don’t know. I haven’t got much today. Pretty normal, I suppose.”
Whatever I answered, her smile would widen to a big grin, then she’d skip away from my room without giving me even a scrap of information.
I’d sigh and turn back to my writing. My parents were as crazy as I was….

Apparently, our chilly trailers made quite the impression on Blackbeard.
Hardly a week passed before he bought a couple of old wood-stoves, cleaned, sanded, and painted them, then dropped them off in our front yard.
Dad looked at the gifts with a compromised expression on his face. He wasn’t sure how to properly set them up in the trailers.

No matter. Blackbeard had organized the men in the church and was planning on bringing the whole group out to install the stoves the next weekend, the day after Sabbath.

Click here to read the next post in this series: Glass Wall