Each Shining Hour (30 page)

“How do you so easily forgive those past cruelties?”

Connie looked down for a moment and sighed. “It's hard. Sometimes it's terribly hard. Truthfully, I'd like to punch Randall in the nose. But he seems to be trying. If I don't forgive him, then I have to carry that hatred around.”

“So you think this is what you need to do?”

“It is. I don't feel like forgiving him, but it's the right thing.”

“How so?”

“Because I know my name is written in the palm of His hand.”

Connie Thompson was beyond me. Her depth of wisdom and her capacity to love and forgive came from a well of strength I could not begin to comprehend. And yet, all that she had said rang true. Now it seemed the inequities and injustices of her life were finding redemption.

In time, she rose to go.

“Thank you, Luke, for everything.”

“By the way, would this be a good time to ask you about that unbelievable dance routine I witnessed you and Estelle doing last night?”

Connie regarded me flatly. “No. Don't think it would.”

“Oh, now, that's not fair. Inquiring minds need to know.”

Connie's old self had returned. She lifted her chin and regarded me through the bottom of her gold inlay glasses, speaking a voice of low reprimand. “What happens at the prom stays at the prom, Dr. Bradford.”

I smiled and nodded, knowing that further queries were useless.

“So, the grand opening is this weekend?”

“Yes. We're both pretty nervous about it. We're afraid no one's going to show up. It's silly, I guess. But a gourmet bakery is a bit radical for Watervalley.”

“I think folks are going to love it. Pastries, artisan breads, barista coffee . . . I can't wait.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Hey, what name did you decide on?”

Connie closed her eyes and shook her head. It was clear this was an exasperating topic for her. “You'll have to wait for it. It's a big surprise. The sign has been covered up and will be unveiled Saturday.”

I smiled. “All sounds good to me.”

Connie nodded. I walked her to the door, where she gave me a long hug. She was about to leave, but then she turned toward me, and as was her way, she spoke in a kind but instructive voice.

“You know, Luke, I wasn't kidding when I said that Oscar Fox and you have followed similar paths.”

“How so?”

“Just like him, you came to town without any intention of staying. I don't guess you planned on falling in love either. But these things happen.”

I only stood and glanced down, not wanting to meet Connie's tender but penetrating gaze. No doubt, this was her way of telling me something I hadn't told myself. I let silence be my answer.

Her voice of mild reprimand continued. “Anyway, go call that pretty girlfriend of yours and fix whatever it is you're not telling me about.”

I grinned. “See you tomorrow.”

“Humph,” was all Connie offered before walking to her car.

As I shut the door behind her, I knew she was right. My head and heart were burning to talk with Christine. As it turned out, they would have to smolder for several
days.

Finding the Words

I
probably should have figured something was wrong when Christine didn't return my call on Sunday. It didn't occur to me until Tuesday morning that she didn't want to talk, or at least, at a minimum, she wanted a cooling-off period.

At first I was panicked. A dozen scenarios ran through my mind. I replayed Saturday night over and over in my head, remembering every word, every gesture, desperately wanting to comprehend what had driven her to be this angry and hurt. As the hours passed, my early frenzy gave way to an irritated frustration. She was being childish if not outright rude. Fine. If she didn't want to talk, then we wouldn't talk. I would give her the space she wanted. I had left her several messages, so the ball was in her court. Besides, Friday was graduation and my speech was sorely lacking. I needed time and space to think about what I wanted to say. But even in this I was greatly conflicted.

I adored the people of Watervalley and had grown to appreciate their rural life. But I had known a larger existence. There was a broader world out there and it wasn't all bad. I considered ignoring
the advantages it offered, but I felt a great sense of personal responsibility to speak honestly. Somehow I had to find a way to tell them about a world that might make theirs seem petty and small and backward. I should never have agreed to the task.

Wednesday passed into Thursday and still no word from Christine. Left to my own, I filled the empty days with a low-boiling anger and a general disdain. Ann and the staff had taken notice and seemed to be tiptoeing around me at the clinic, leaving me to brood in my office when patients were not waiting to be seen. I made a point of avoiding Connie, not wanting to be called to account regarding the affairs of my heart. Even Rhett seemed to shy away from me, cautiously lying across the room and eyeing me with wary curiosity.

I arrived home Thursday afternoon to an empty, silent house. After changing clothes, I took a moment to stare at my phone. Secretly, I was hoping that somehow I had missed a call from Christine. But I hadn't. I went back downstairs to grab a beer. But as I shut the refrigerator, there was a knock on the front door.

My heart leaped. Rhett sensed this and wagged his tail intensely as he followed me down the hall. It seemed I couldn't get to the door fast enough, and upon opening it, despite all the thoughts that had been pouring through my head over the last several days, I was struck mute by the sight of Christine standing before me, as lustrous and beautiful as ever. She smiled cautiously, sweetly.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” The mere sight of her, the pressing delight of simply being near her again, brought a smile to my face. Forgotten was all the frustration, all the invective that had been swirling in my head
since the start of the week. Even still, I wasn't about to show my hand, to offer anything. For the moment, I would play a game of wait and see.

Christine noticed the beer I was holding. “Mind if I grab something to drink?”

“No, help yourself.” I followed her to the kitchen, where she retrieved a water bottle from the fridge and then patted Rhett on the head. The air between us was stiff, awkward.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Okay. Busy. The clinic's been a little crazy this week. But not too bad. How's school?”

“Same. Busy. Got the year wrapped up, which is always sad and happy at the same time.”

I nodded, content to let her carry the conversation.

She looked away and saw my laptop on the kitchen table. “So, how's the graduation speech coming along?”

“Not that great.” I had responded slowly. What was she doing? She didn't return my phone call for a week and now she came by only to make small talk? My amiable veneer was beginning to wear.

“Oh? Why not so great?”

Her words were nonemoting, polite. My chafed feelings began to bleed through my words.

“I'm at a loss, you see. I'm at a loss for what to tell them. Watervalley is what it is, and that's been fine. But there's a larger world out there. And as big of a shock as it might be, there are actually people living happy, interesting, fulfilled lives beyond the county line.”

“I think they know that.”

“Do they?”

“Of course they do. They're not lepers living in isolation.”

“Well, I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think what living here teaches you is to have a healthy fear of any place with more than three stoplights.”

“That's absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. I don't understand, Luke. What's brought all this on?”

“Well, I think that's a little self-explanatory, isn't it? Look, Christine, there's a whole world out there beyond the hills. I know it and you know it. So maybe, just maybe, I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to figure out how to tell them that there's more to life than just shit-kicking manure around the farm.”

“I don't think this is about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think this is about you.”

“Oh, don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don't, you know, turn into Madam Freud all of a sudden.”

“Fine. It's just that you seem upset because some of them may be happy here, because some of them are okay with living modest, simple lives, while you actually think it's beneath them.”

“That's not true.”

“Isn't it, though? I mean, you're discounting the things that they know and love when you haven't tried them yourself.”

That did it. Something in me snapped. My voice grew stern, forced, pushed to anger. I released in one infuriated outburst the whole packed weight of my confusion, my burning aggravation.

“Oh, I get it. This is all about me and life on the farm, isn't it? Is that what the silent treatment has been about all this week? Ha, and here I was thinking it was all about me leaving so suddenly Saturday night. Look, I don't want to milk cows, I don't want to
ride a horse, and I don't want to grow a blasted garden. I just want to be a doctor. I want to do what I promised I'd do. Be here for three years, and then after that, I guess I'll just see.”

Christine stared at me for the longest time, enduring my strident and abusive words, absorbing them like a seasoned boxer taking punches. She stood with a fragile and sensitive face, waiting for me to exhaust myself, to spill out all of the festering frustration.

Finally, she spoke with a mixture of hurt and resolve. “So, I guess those three words pretty well sum it up, don't they?”

“What three words? ‘For three years'? Well, yeah, I guess they do.”

“No, Luke. Not those three words.”

“What, then?”

“‘I'll just see.' You said ‘I'll just see.' Not ‘we'll just see.'”

“Well . . . okay, fine, but . . . you're splitting hairs.”

“No, it's okay. I just . . . It's just that I've been thinking about things differently. I guess . . . I guess I've made some assumptions that I shouldn't have.”

She paused, folded her arms, and looked down at the floor. Then she nodded in resignation and exhaled a deep breath. A frail smile trembled on her lips.

“You're right, I haven't called you back this week and I'm sorry about that. I know all about what happened with Randall Simmons Saturday night. That's not it. And it's not about you and farm life. I just needed time to think. You see, I'm a foolish girl, Luke. I can't hide my feelings . . . don't want to hide my feelings. I knew that first day I saw you standing in my doorway at school that I would fall in love with you. That's why . . . that's why for the longest time I wouldn't go out with you. Because I thought you probably hated this place, and I don't. I love Watervalley. Despite its faults, and failings, and stupidity, I still love it, almost as much
as I love you. If you moved away tomorrow, if we never saw each other again, neither love would change. It would break my heart, but it wouldn't change my love for this place, and it wouldn't change my love for you. Watervalley will always be home. But staying here or not staying here is not a deal breaker. I just thought it was a decision that, in time, we would make together. I was wrong.”

I tried to absorb everything she said. But it was all too much. There were too many emotions at play in this conversation. Anger and hurt from her weeklong silence, frustration and anxiety over this damnable speech, and now Christine's talk of love. It wasn't the right time, the right place, the right moment to discuss these things.

I stared blankly into her face, so sweet and soft and fragile, like I was looking at the petals of a delicate flower. I wanted to pour the words of my heart into her silence, to empty the full measure of my affection and passion. But I couldn't. I couldn't find the words. I could only stand before her like a foolish mute, able to do little more than exercise my talent for concealment.

After several long, silent moments, Christine pursed her lips into an accepting smile and nodded. She turned and walked to the entrance hall and out the front door. I wanted to speak, to somehow change everything. But it was not to be. She was gone. My cautious and protective heart had once again been the author of an inexpressible loneliness.

I had no one to blame but myself. My world had slid sideways. I walked to the fridge to retrieve another beer. It wouldn't be my last of the night.

The Graduation Speech

F
riday morning I woke up to a brilliant sun pouring through my bedroom window. I took Rhett downstairs and out to the backyard. The world before me was fully bloomed. The thick grass and densely canopied trees were wrapped in a calming, soft haze. The air was sweet and balmy and a delicate breeze stirred occasionally, pulling at the heads of the newly arrived daisies. A light dew remained. Even still, the expanding warmth of the early morning foretold that the hot-breathed days of summer would be soon upon us.

Despite the splendid day, my world had a strange feel to it, an odd combination of foreboding and expectancy. And why wouldn't it? I was unsettled in both head and heart, wrestling with my own thoughts, my own desires. Yet in a couple of hours I was expected to stand before a gathering of Watervalley seniors who stood at the pinnacle of hope for their lives and somehow offer them words of insight, wisdom, and assurance. I was profoundly unfit and unprepared for the part.

Shortly after nine thirty I arrived at Watervalley Lake, where
row upon row of white chairs had been neatly lined up on the flat grassy area near the entrance to the newly finished bandstand. The first three rows had been cordoned off for the Watervalley High seniors, all forty-two of them. Additional chairs had been placed behind and along the sides. Altogether, over four hundred family and friends would be seated and waiting for the processional. A place like Watervalley had few ceremonies during the year, so events like a graduation served as a good excuse for a large community turnout.

In the front a low stage had been built, draped in the gold and purple banners of the school's colors. A row of chairs lined the back of the platform and a small podium stood front and center. The bandstand, now glistening white in the perfect May sun, had also been richly decorated for the reception to follow the ceremony. Conversations from the gathering crowd were lively and the clamor of preparations could be heard echoing out across the lake as several moms on the bandstand set out refreshments.

I found the principal, Carl Suggs, who greeted me cordially and showed me to my chair behind the podium. I spoke politely to those around me, sat down, and awaited the processional of the seniors, who were gathered under a tree in the far distance. As nonchalantly as possible, I surveyed the crowd and, to my delight, found Christine smiling warmly at me. The light seemed to shimmer off of her. She was radiant, beautiful, and she gazed at me without reservation. I smiled and glanced down, pretending to review my notes.

Eventually, I looked up and noticed Connie taking the seat beside Christine. This shouldn't have surprised me. They were friends. But I couldn't help wondering about the level of intimacy and disclosure between them. I was burdened with regret over my outburst from the day before and now was hounded with
embarrassed contrition that Connie might know. This served only to further fuel my uncertainty, my nervousness.

Yet as I sat there and thought about the two of them, a simple reality washed over me. These two women loved me. Less than a year ago I had come to them a stranger. Now all I knew from both of them was pure affection and devotion.

It was a crushing realization.

I needed to concentrate, focus on the words I was about to say. But a wealth of feelings poured over me, paralyzing me. It seemed that my time at the podium was now destined to be a disaster.

The processional music started, abruptly waking me from the fog of my confused state. The seniors filed in. Some were striding anxiously; others were plodding along; all were wearing irrepressible smiles. They were seated and Principal Suggs gave a few opening remarks. This was followed by an invocation and the singing of the school alma mater. I had a few last moments to think.

I found myself looking around, absorbing all that I could see and feel: the perfect blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun, and the soft breeze that drifted in from the lake. A spontaneous excitement, a collective pride, permeated the air. Before me lay an ocean of smiles, of beaming, adoring faces. And as always, the people of Watervalley humbled me. Despite their uncomplicated outlook and their unadorned ways, they had become my people, my friends, my community.

As the students and faculty and parents sang allegiance to their school and their small town, it seemed in that moment, under the sunlight of this perfect day, that we had all been gathered into one shared life. In that instant, time stood still.

I was reminded again that my presence here was part of a larger story. In the faces of the students before me I saw the light of hope and in their parents' eyes shone the joy of expectation.

But most importantly, I saw in the eyes of Christine a pure and selfless love . . . strong, audacious, unapologetic. My guarded and protected heart could not comprehend it, could never allow itself to be so open, so genuine, so vulnerable. Yet I knew in that breath that I saw in her gaze a potential for happiness beyond the farthest reaches of my dreams.

I shuddered to think that I could be so incredibly fortunate, to breathe in such air, to experience such a day, to know such a feeling that defied the brokenness of this life. For years I had silenced my emotions, seeking some perfect time and place for them to safely find a voice. But I was wrong. This was as close to pure happiness as anyone ever got.

I had been struggling with what to say to the graduating seniors because I had foolishly assumed that idiot chance had thrust their way of life upon them and had limited their choices. But I was wrong. What I had failed to see was that time, and chance, and difficulties, happen in all lives, including mine. I had wanted to be prescriptive, to give them the cure to life's challenges. But I had no such answers, nor did I need them. I only needed to assure them of what they already knew.

Principal Suggs had called my name a second time. I abruptly realized that I had been sitting oblivious to the progress of the ceremony, lost in the past minutes' revelation. The entire gathering was absolutely silent, waiting for me to stand and speak.

Quickly, I rose and shook the principal's hand, thanking him. I moved to the podium, spread my papers, and took a deep breath. For several long seconds I stood speechless, able to do nothing more than stare at Christine from across the crowd. Finally, Principal Suggs cleared his throat and I realized that the long silence had grown awkward. I looked toward him and gave him a shallow nod. I finally knew what I wanted to say.

But first, I wanted to have a little fun.

“Thank you, Principal Suggs.”

I gazed buoyantly at the crowd before me. “Graduating seniors, distinguished faculty, school administrators, students, parents, family, and all you old people who just come to these things, welcome!” The crowd rippled with laughter.

“I am delighted to be here and amazed at you graduates sitting before me. Just look at you. You're all grown-up, confident eighteen-year-olds. And to think, I knew many of you all the way back when you were just shy, budding seventeen-and-a-half-year-olds.

“The other thing that amazes me about all of you is that after four years at Watervalley High School, none of you know the words to the second verse of the school's alma mater. Admit it. I watched you. All of you mumbled right through it.”

The graduates laughed, exchanging nodding glances among themselves.

“Before I get started, it's important that all of you know something. Though you see me as a doctor with several degrees and various accomplishments, there was a time when I sat exactly where each of you is sitting. No, really. I came over here early this morning and sat in every chair, all forty-two of them. It was fun. I took selfies from each one. Oh, also, I think I absentmindedly stuck my gum under one of them, so if you get bored and start feeling around . . . well, just be careful.” The students cackled. Clearly they were content to spend the entire time laughing rather than listening to a handful of clichéd truths.

“I want each of you to know that a couple of months ago when I received the invitation to make this speech and attend the prom, I was greatly honored and set aside a considerable amount of time and went to some effort to prepare. Of course, I'm talking
about the prom and not this speech. I started working on that last night. After twenty agonizing minutes, I couldn't come up with anything so, as a short diversion, I got into an online game of Assassin's Creed with a guy out of Wisconsin who kicked my tail for several hours. Fortunately, he was only nine years old and eventually his mother made him go to bed.”

This comment brought about some confused looks from a few of the older adults, but the senior high class laughed outrageously, ending with a short applause.

“So, as I started preparing my speech this morning, I have to confess that I was pretty conflicted. There are several messages I would like to share and it is difficult to pick which one. So what the heck, I'm going to give them all to you. Not to worry, though. I should be done in three or four hours.”

This brought a roar of laughter from the parents. Even they got that one. Now I began to shuffle my papers, pausing for effect.

“Well, this is fun. But I think it would be good to say a few things of substance to you before I end. So, here it is. I'd love to stand before you today and be the pied piper of possibility, to offer you lofty thoughts about reaching for the stars but keeping your feet on the ground, to tell you your life is an open book and you are completely empowered to write whatever you want on the pages. But I would do so knowing that, sadly, those things, at least in part, are lies.

“Furthermore, if I was to do that, I would be insulting each of you, wouldn't I? I would be assuming that you have learned nothing about life over the last eighteen years. I think we all know the world can be difficult, and unfair, and, worst of all, sometimes uninteresting.

“So, fact. If you haven't been paying attention for the past several years, then you have limited your possibilities. Since many
of you have been applying to college, I imagine you've already figured that out. Fact. If you have been going through the motions, sleepwalking, if you will, through any or all aspects of your life—whether it be your academic, your social, your athletic, or yes, even your spiritual life—odds are you are likely to do the same in the years ahead, and it will take a conscious effort to change course.”

I paused for a moment and looked to the side. Then I looked directly at Christine, whose smile had never faltered, and at Connie, beside her, whose face beamed with pride.

“You see I know this because . . . well, because I have sleepwalked through certain parts of my life. I have failed to see the strength and courage of those around me. I have failed to understand the selfless hearts of those who have loved me. And I have failed to appreciate the good and beautiful things in my life. Sometimes, even when those things and those people were right in front of me.

“So my comments to you today are not so much about attaining your hopes and dreams, but about how you live your life. It seems our souls are restless and we are easily enamored with the glamorous, with the new and different, and with the promised adventure and glow of distant lights. These things have their place. And yet it is the modest, happy life—the life that each day is filled with love, and significance, and simple enjoyment—that in our heart of hearts each of us seeks.

“So, with that understanding, here is my advice. Chart your course, set your goals, and be about the business of attaining them while keeping one simple thing in mind. Life will, and invariably does, change your plans. And know that the disappointments, the setbacks, the unintended redirections, can become catalysts for reinvention. For it is how we adapt and how we persevere that defines our lives.

“And sure, have dreams that are big. But I would also encourage you to have dreams that are small. Have big hopes, but have little hopes too. Take pride in big accomplishments, but take delight in small ones also. Practice tolerance, kindness, and patience. Because the world out there will rarely reward you for these things in the short term, but it will revere you for them in the long run. And every day, every single day, take time to try and understand what your creator is doing with your life.”

I paused for a brief second and chuckled lowly. “And if you don't think you have a creator, spend some time each day trying to figure out what makes you so sure.” This brought an array of smiles from the teenagers.

“You see, I have come to realize that in this life, all things have their time and are gone. During our short years here we attain only a few glimpses of what perfection can be, of what heaven can hold; and those glimpses are what give us hope, give us courage, and remind us to hold tight to all that is good and true and enduring.

“I want to close by telling you something about myself. As many of you know, I grew up in a large city, went to college in a large city, learned my mad dancing skills you all saw at prom in a large city. And while I know that some of you may look to the distant horizons with great envy, I would submit to you that growing up there did not give me many of the advantages that you have had by growing up here in Watervalley.

“Life in the city did not teach me to appreciate slow winter days, or the change of the seasons, or the sweet, laughing sound a brook makes in springtime. It did not teach me to appreciate the multitude of colors that can be found in a sunset, the beauty of frost on an open field, or the good honest smell of a hay barn. It did not teach me the blessing of having a good neighbor, the joy of
knowing that everyone I pass on the street knows my name, or the contentment of recognizing that there is a place where your roots are so deep, the storms of life cannot blow you away. It did not teach me a thousand things that have been second nature to each of you all your lives. Things that in their own way are beautiful, strong, and eternal. The earth endures, and living in Watervalley has taught you this. Living here has taught you to be close to the soil, to cherish friends, and community, and faith, and to know there is a place you can always call home. Never underestimate the value of your experiences here.