Truly Miraculous B

B is for Book Entry. I have been putting first draft snippets of my book at the end of some blogs. It seems a simple way for me to save them and to share them. Prior to publication, I will, of course, compile, edit and refine them as well as add conjoining material as needed. To make "Book" entries more easy to find, I will be adding a B to the title of any post to which one is added.

Now back to today. It was a glorious Saturday, and I reveled in it as I drove to Kissimmee. The sun was brilliant, the temperature just right, and I was pain free, breathing on my own, driving a reliable car.... all of which were special blessings many folks do not enjoy. I am so thankful to live the life I live. I can't say how often I stop and stand just amazed at how well my Heavenly Father takes care of me! Truly Miraculous!

I spent the morning cleaning at the church with two precious people who always inspire me, then I went to Sam's Club to get paper plates, etc. for a homeless shelter. I came home, played with the dog, finished reading "The Red Badge of Courage," and visited with my honey when he got home from work. I had a blast all day!

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Truly Miraculous!

Growing up, I thought of my mother as boring and could not imagine her having a single adventure in her entire life. She said she had sown some wild oats in college, learning to jitterbug, driving a car one time and even smoking a cigarette. I remained unimpressed. Mama just didn't tell any tales of "derring-do."

But I was vastly mistaken and did not perceive my error until Mama was in her eighties. When at last I realized the magnitude of her lunge toward a wild and unpredictable life which was made all in one day, I saw her in a glaringly new light, apprehending all the more the awesome miracle of my own conception.

Having left the T.B. sanitarium to be sheltered and fiercely protected by her step-mother, Iona, Mama grew more reclusive by the year. She had always preferred the safety of home, shunning most social interaction, fearing the erratic moods and judgments of others, especially men.

Long abandoned, if it had ever budded and blossomed at all, was any hope of romance, marriage and a family of her own, although she loved children, or so she thought. In truth, while babies were not threatening, children were somewhat intimidating, and the thought of dealing with a husband who would be expecting so much more than she could possibly provide... Well, her life was best left as it was, and after all, she was well past thirty and in frail condition at that.

Iona ran a boarding house in Custer, S.D., and one of the boarders subscribed to the Denver Post. On a sultry Sunday evening in August as Thelma browsed through the want ads looking for nothing in particular, she was bemused by an ad from a Denver man seeking to correspond with a "refined young woman." The ad bore his address and Mama, on a whim, made note of it. She didn't honestly think she would actually write this man, but in the end, that is precisely what she did. As she wrote, she told herself, she would never really post the letter - four pages of it - and was filled with excitation when she finally slipped the envelope in the box along with the outgoing mail of the boarders.

Soon, they had exchanged photographs, although hers was not a recent one, and she was writing Edgar Hamlet Snider almost daily and was receiving as many missives in return. Over the next three months, they opened up to one another, the distance lending an air of safety to their disclosures. She told him of her illness, of the fears held over from childhood, of feeling helpless as she heard her father beat her brother, and he shared his regret over his brief marriage to a firey waitress with whom he fought continually. They told one another things they could tell no other, secrets of heart and mind known only by God Himself.

At length, they pledged their love and he proposed, sending a railway ticket and money for the trip, not waiting for her assent. She replied that she would come to Denver but had to discuss marriage in person.

Riding the crest of a wave of elation, Thelma packed and prepared for the trip. She blocked all thoughts of Iona's reaction and was thankful her father was not then in the area, but as soon as all was in readiness, she boldly made her announcement. She must do it quickly or her nerve would surely fail. In a rush, she burst into the dining room as the boarders were being seated for supper and Iona was laying foods on the table before them.

"I'm going to Denver on a little holiday," she blurted, her voice quavering and shrill, "to see my friend I've been writing." She had never divulged that her pen pal was a man, but clearly had not committed the sin of claiming she wrote to a woman although she well knew that's what everyone believed.

Iona was in a dither. She finished setting the food about for her tenants before putting forth her arguments against this rash and potentially dangerous excursion. Both women were stunned by Thelma's resolve, yet each privately took a degree of pride in it. Thelma was discovering things about herself she would not have known. Iona considered this newfound strength with hope for more. Letting go was hard, but it was only for a visit.

Thelma had no problem spotting Edgar as he met her train. He was a deeply tanned, dashing man almost a head taller than most of the crowd and crowned with a shock of thick black hair which grew in a large V forming a wide Widow's Peak. He did not reach to touch her, but beamed his approval as they made awkward attempts at conversation. By the time they were out on the street, they had become more comfortable and found life and each other incredibly amusing. They were laughing and, before she even realized it, holding hands.

They walked a while and Thelma began to be chilled and tired. It was a cold December day, and she was not accustomed to so much activity. She was mystified at how openly she could talk with Edgar, even letting him know she needed to sit a while. A movie theater was nearby, so they bought matinee tickets and went in to rest and warm themselves. He placed his arm protectively around her shoulders and she didn't let herself stiffen at his touch. She sat silently marveling that she was alone with a man who might be her life's companion. Nothing could have been more unlikely, only last spring.

Soon, Edgar inclined his head until she could feel him lightly against her hair. Worry began to gnaw at the edges of her euphoria and she quickly and deliberately fought it back. She would need to repel nagging doubts more than once this fateful day, but she was resolute and bound to maintain a tenacious grip on what she felt was her first and last chance at "real" life, "true" love. She turned and looked into his leathered face, smiling. Then without warning, but ever so tenderly, he held her by the chin and kissed her full on the lips. At 33, she felt like a blushing schoolgirl.

The skies had grown darker and a light snow was falling as they left the theater. Amid gusty flurries, he walked her to a nearby park and sat her on a snowy bench whereupon he knelt on one knee and quite formally asked her to marry him. She had already decided and gushed "Oh, yes, oh, yes!" She was thrilled with his sense of romance although he appeared to be a rugged man not accustomed to the more refined side of society. They were oblivious to the weather as they celebrated their mutual commitment with a second kiss followed by unrestrained laughter. She had not laughed so much in her entire life as she did this wonderful, fairy tale day.

Next Edgar hurried her to a car parked within sight of their bench and drove her to the courthouse. He had obviously plotted to take her to the park and left his car in readiness for the next step of his plan.

"You mean we're getting married today?" Thelma said in utter astonishment.

"Why not?" Edgar grinned, "Are you thinking you don't want to?"

He had declared his love for her and she him, so awe struck and swept along by the joy of it all, she threw herself into the magic of the moment and spontaneously reached up to hug him.

That afternoon in the Denver courthouse, Mama did the most uncharacteristic thing of her life; she said, "I do," to a man she barely knew... and it began the most incredible journey imaginable, especially for a recluse! Truly miraculous!

But she never looked back. She was wholly committed to Daddy for the rest of her life. She had doubts about many things and worry was her continual companion, but she never doubted nor regretted her wedding vows.