Into the Fire

(From my novel Destination. Available for Kindle only.)

From chapter titled "Light in the darkness" . . . 

     “Oh, land sakes! Almost forgot. Dang old age,” she muttered as she reached into her jeans’ pocket. “Here, son. This here is the key to the door down the hall from your room and around the corner. It’s your own private entrance. This here’s the one to the front door, and you just flip it over to use it in the back door at the laundry room. I’ll give ya one of the garage door openers for your rig when we leave today and keys to the car and truck. Might as well park yours in the garage, too. This here’s the one to the door leading into the garage on the far side of it. We never used to have to lock the doors, but like the Bible says, these are the last days, and there’re always those folks who want what they can’t have unless they work for it. Lost souls, you know. Anyway, now you’re set.”
     Wanting to say more, he settled for a thank you.
     She walked out of the barn, and Thomas went into the tool room to get what he needed. He marveled at the Jonsered chain saws, the mauls, the wedges, and axes. Clearly, this was a regular activity at this ranch. The thought struck him—how in the world did that tiny wisp of a woman operate a chain saw that probably weighed at least half of what she did? No way, but knowing her, he couldn’t quite convince himself she wasn’t somehow capable of it.
     As he readied himself for the task, he could feel the heat grabbing a hold of him. In spite of not being used to its intensity, he welcomed it. He’d work, and he’d sweat. Later on he’d be sore. He smiled. Sure beats the heck out of a shirt and tie and no windows in his office. He fueled the heavy chain saw and took it out to the logs, firing it up.
     Just short of panting, he used his key to unlock his “private entrance”. His long hair was wet and sticking to the sweat on his neck. His socks were soaked in his work shoes, not to mention being covered with wood shavings above his shoe line and all over his chest after removing his shirt shortly into the task. He wasn’t about to track anything into the house so he looked around thoroughly before he dared to strip down to his underwear and shook out his clothes, wiping himself and his jeans off with his T-shirt before entering the house. He slipped into the air conditioned house and down the wide hallway into his room, grateful to be able to immediately soak under the water he barely allowed to get lukewarm. Thank you, God. Jesus, I feel your friendship—you know how much I need you. Holy Spirit, help me in all I do here. Please let me bless Grams and the others I meet. Help me not to offend them, Lord. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
     He wondered as he stood naked in the bathroom if it would be acceptable to wear shorts into town. He decided against it and found another pair of jeans. When they returned from town, he’d have to do a load of laundry. He did opt for sandals, though, not being able to tolerate putting socks on again and wearing them in this heat. He found a white T-shirt and pulled it on, realizing he was sporting a royal sunburn. Uh-oh.
     He made it out to the kitchen at about 12:50. Grams had a plate of food set at his spot where he’d eaten last night and an ice cold coke.
     “Wow, Grams. Thanks,” he said gratefully. “Looks delicious.”
     “A man’s gotta eat, don’t he?” She smiled.
     He bowed his head briefly before he took a bite.
     “Mmm,” he moaned. “This some of that beef we had last night?” he asked between bites.
     “Yep. Slow cooked but rare roast beef. Best sandwich meat.”
     “You ain’t kiddin’,” he said enthusiastically with his best country slang.
     “Hey, you. College educated man—you don’t get to talk like that. Well, maybe once in awhile, I’ll allow it, but most of the time I wanta hear your fine soundin’ English. I talked that way once, but around here when we used to have a lot of hired help, I didn’t want ‘em thinkin’ I was all uppity, you know? Now, I gotta help some poor folks at the church who can barely speak the language, and now it’s a habit. You’re a man of such few words anyway, I like hearin’ ‘em all pronounced right and used properly. And I don’t want you to forget how to talk right, you hear me?” she warned.
     “Alright, Grams.”
     He hadn’t meant to gulp down his meal, but the sandwich and the fresh fruit, the coke, the chips—well, it tasted so good he couldn’t help himself.
    “I heard they don’t feed you so good in prison,” she remarked as she took his plate to the sink. “You ready to go?”

Father, every word, every thought, every concept. If they're good, it's all you. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.