Faith for the Journey: A Spiritual Memoir

By Carol Blair

 
When her husband died suddenly on New Year’s Eve, Carol was left to raise their six boys, ages 11 months to 16 years.  That night she made a promise to God: if He provided for her and the boys the way He promised in His Word, she would go anywhere He sent her and tell others of His care.  But if He didn’t, she would burn her Bible on the front lawn and tell any onlooker that it was just a book of pretty words and pious phrases that wasn’t true when you needed it to be.
 
God not only provided but had a big surprise: He sent her across the globe to share her story.
 
Carol was then given an unexpected career in television and radio as host and producer, and later, a new husband.
 
Faith for the Journey tells firsthand the life-changing things that can happen when you trust God with all your heart.   
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creation House
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781629984872

Book preview

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INTRODUCTION

IN A COURT of law, witnesses are called upon to give testimony to what they have seen and heard. They are to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. They are asked to swear this testimony on a Bible; and they follow with the words so help me God.

Jesus tells us we are to be His witnesses until the day of His return, proclaiming the good news of God’s love and forgiveness: You will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth (Acts 1:8, NIV).

I chose to write this book as my witness to how God led me to find the way, the truth, and the life: Jesus Christ (John 14:6). He used people, books, scriptures, music, and circumstances to meet me at precise moments in time to convince me of my need for Him. I want to tell how He kept building my faith, one step at a time, until I could trust Him with anything; and I don’t think it is by chance that you are reading this book.

The Holy Spirit gave me understanding. Like the woman at the well, I sought water to satisfy my thirst; He gave me living water to satisfy my soul (John 4:10–15).

I’ve learned that God uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things. This is my testimony; this is my truth as best as I remember it.

This is my witness, so help me God.

Chapter 1

SOMETHING MISSING

Spring 1968

THE BABY CLOTHES churned in the washer; half a turn left, half a turn right. It reminded me of the rhythm of my life: a lot of movement, but going nowhere.

Look! Out in the yard: faster than a crawling baby, more powerful than a speeding tricycle, able to leap tall building blocks in a single bound. Yes! It is she! Cook, laundress, checker of homework: it’s Super Mom!

Back in the kitchen the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. That scent always reminded me of Mom and her little percolator that made pop-pop noises when the water hit the glass dome.

I have a feeling I’m not going to see you for a very long time, she sighed, when Tony and I were leaving Manhattan for his new job in Dallas.

Mom, we’re only going to be gone a year.

But she was right and I was wrong. It had been ten years; ten years of rented apartments, new jobs, old cars, and five healthy baby boys in a row.

We finally bought a house in Fountain Valley, California, where the city motto is A nice place to live. And it is. Scarlet bougainvillea and purple morning glories cover my back fence; hummingbirds dip for nectar, butterflies flit among the flowers, and birds twitter in the trees. It’s peaceful and quiet and a great place for raising a family, but sometimes I miss the energy of New York City with its excitement of people, places, and things. Most of all, I miss Mom. Her call this morning took away any hope of seeing her this summer.

I would love to come for a visit, but you know my situation. I can’t leave. What if Nicky needs me?

"It’s always ‘what if Nicky needs me.’ What if I need you, Mom? It’s been ten years. Haven’t you done enough for Nicky? How many more times are you going to bail him out of jail? How many more of his children are you going to adopt?"

At that moment my ten-year-old son, Tony, made a noisy entrance and let the screen door slam. Mom, look! Isn’t he cute? Can we keep him? A puppy wriggled in Tony’s arms and licked his face.

I want to hold the puppy! Eddie exclaimed, coming out of his makeshift tent under the dining room table, while a chorus of Mommy, Mommy came from Tommy in his crib.

My mother laughed on the other end of the line. Go take care of your kids, sweetheart. I’ll call you next week.

I sighed and she hung up.

Show the puppy to your little brothers and then take him back to wherever he came from, Tony. We already have a dog. Tony set the puppy down, and I watched it scamper down the hall leaving a trail of pee.

While I peeled potatoes for dinner, I mentally composed a letter to Cosmopolitan Magazine editor, Helen Gurley Brown. Her sexual philosophy was that all men were fair game, married or not, and women now possessed the sexual freedom to go after any male they chose. This was the liberated ’60s and women were free to burn their bras and get on the free sex bandwagon.

Well, Miss Helen Gurley Brown, you do not speak for me. I’m still in love with the man I married fifteen years ago; and if you or any of your free loving sisters approach my husband, you will reckon with this Italian bombshell.

I put the potatoes into the pot of water just as Tony’s car pulled into the driveway. Tony: although his blond hair was now feathered with gray and his blue eyes sported contact lenses, my heart still skipped a beat whenever he walked through the door. When he took me in his arms and kissed me hello, I forgot all about Miss Helen Gurley Brown.

So, Dad, can you get home in time to see our Little League game at C field? my son Tony asked his father as he passed the mashed potatoes.

Little League, huh, at C field? Back in New York we played baseball in the streets with a broomstick while we dodged cars, he laughed.

I looked around the table admiring my handsome brood and noticing for the hundredth time how different they were: Tony, Eddie, and Tommy, were fair skinned, blond, and blue-eyed like their father, while Joe and Johnny were olive skinned with dark hair and eyes like me. Tony’s people emigrated from Eastern Europe, whereas mine were from southern Italy and Sicily. Recessive genes from my red haired, blue-eyed grandpa accounted for the anomaly, but it was always embarrassing when strangers asked, Do all these children have the same father?

After dinner, Tony and I relaxed in the living room with our coffee, while the older boys noisily accomplished their kitchen chores. Our youngest sons, Eddie and Tommy, played in front of us with their cars.

There was a call from Mom today, Tony. She’s not coming, and it’s the same reason she always gives: ‘what if Nicky needs me.’ Sometimes I wonder if she even loves me anymore.

Oh, come on, Dolly, you know Mom loves you. It’s just that Nicky manages to get himself into so many jams. Tony shook his head. (Dolly was the nickname given to me as a child, and only my family called me that.)

But that’s just it, Tony, he needs to take responsibility for his own actions and stop relying on Mom, especially since she’s adopted his two children.

Babe, Tony motioned towards the little ones, let’s change the subject.

I waited a beat and then said, Tony, do ever feel like there’s something’s missing in our lives?

"What? With all the noise in this house, how could you tell if something was missing? he laughed. What’s the matter, Doll; too much time on your hands? He teased. Don’t you have enough to do to keep you busy?"

Busy, yes; but not satisfied. I always feel like there’s something missing. Do you know what I mean?

No, I never have that feeling. You and the kids are enough for me. Why aren’t we enough for you?

Oh, don’t go taking it personal! It’s as if there’s something else out there waiting for me to find it.

By the look on his face, I knew I better come up with a better explanation. I love being a wife and mother, Tony, you know that; but there are so many other things I want to do, too. I mean, here I am, thirty-four years old and soon I’ll be fifty, wondering ‘where did all the time go? What have I achieved?’

‘Soon you’ll be fifty’? Yeah, that’s coming up real soon, he chortled. "Okay, tell me some things you want to achieve." He folded his muscular arms across his chest and listened.

Well, first I’d like to learn to swim.

He threw back his head and roared, Swimming is what’s missing in your life?

I couldn’t help but laugh too. Well, it’s one of the things I never learned to do.

And what else? The crinkles near his eyes told me he was ready to laugh again.

I want to go back to school.

His smile disappeared. "We’ve been over this a dozen times. How are you going to manage school and the kids?"

I’d go at night, I said, handing him the Fall Schedule of Orange Coast College.

You know I don’t like you out by yourself at night, he said, scanning the schedule.

But look, you can come too. See? Here’s a course in landscape design on the same evening as this class I want to take. You said you’d like to take a class like that.

And who’s going to watch the kids?

We could get one of the Scarpine girls from around the corner.

"Do you honestly think one of those girls can handle five boys?"

Yes. Terry’s the oldest and very mature. I already asked her mother, Carmella. Oh, sweetheart, it would mean so much to me to go back to school. Please say yes.

Landscape design, huh? He read the description of the class.

It would be fun for us to go to college together, Tony.

Oh goody, he teased, I can hardly wait. He threw the schedule into the air and began tickling me. Squealing, I slid off the couch and on to the carpet and he slid down beside me.

Hey kids, Mommy and I are going to college together. She says it’s going to be fun!

Eddie and Tommy had no idea what we were talking about, but they piled on top of us.

Chapter 2

SCHOOL DAZE

WE’LL BE HOME right after class, Terry. The two little ones go to bed at eight and these three have to finish their homework before they can watch TV."

Don’t worry, Carol, Terry said, eyeing my sons, I can handle them.

Tony gave the boys a stern look. Boys, I’d better get a good report.

Yes, Dad, they said in unison.

Tuesday nights soon became the high point of my week: a night out with no conversations about potty training or breast versus bottle feeding. And all my essays got ‘A’s.

When the fall semester ended I immediately signed up for the spring class. Again I was getting A’s on my work, but I wondered why my teacher never read my classroom character sketches aloud.

One night she asked me to stay after class. Carol I really like this one: ‘She wears cute clothes, but I think her miniskirt is an indication of her IQ.’ And this one, ‘His long hair and beard may be in defiance of society, but they also do a good job of hiding his pimples.’ These are great, Carol, as general observations, but in a class of this size everyone will know who you mean. That’s why I don’t read them aloud.

When spring semester ended, Tony gave me some disheartening news: he wouldn’t be returning for the fall term. One year of landscape design is enough for me. Then seeing my disappointment, he added, But don’t worry, I’ll still take you to school.

Chapter 3

MOM

EARLY IN JUNE my brother called. Mom’s in the hospital, he said. I think you better come home. She . . . His voice trailed off.

I’ll borrow the money somewhere, Nicky, and get there as soon as I can.

Don’t worry about the money; I’ll send it Western Union. Just get here.

My sister, Honey, met me at the airport, but ten years had brought so many changes we walked right past each other.

How was I supposed to know you’re now a redhead? I laughed.

What about you? I thought you were a movie star, with that tan and those dark sunglasses.

We laughed but then I asked, How serious is Mom’s condition, Honey?

You better prepare yourself, Dolly.

Driving through Manhattan I realized nothing had changed: blasting horns, flashing lights, sidewalk hawkers, and people everywhere. When we stopped at a light, a transient came up to the car and tried to wash the windshield. Honey told him to get lost.

Is that something new? People washing your windows when you stop at a light?

They don’t wash them; they just smear the dirt around.

She yelled at a truck driver who cut her off: Where’d you get your license? Disneyland?

Honey drove fearlessly through the streets of Manhattan, whizzing past bars, restaurants, and towering buildings. When we reached Beth Israel Hospital she maneuvered the car into the only empty parking spot and I let out a sigh of relief.

Where did you learn to drive like that?

I’m a New Yorker. Whereas you would still be at the airport letting others go first.

In the elevator I shook with anticipation of seeing Mom. Honey, I’d like to go in first and be alone with her for a few minutes.

Sure, I understand.

Mom was sitting up in bed, coughing. Dolly, she cried, and opened her arms to me.

Oh, Mom, it’s been so long! I ran into her arms and cried.

You’re here now; that’s all that matters.

A second later, Honey burst into the room. It’s time for the patient’s beauty treatment. She made up Mom’s face, braided some daisies into her hair, and handed Mom a mirror.

Mom looked at herself. Who am I supposed to be? Heidi?

At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

Her cardiologist introduced himself. I’m Dr. Franco. I take it you’re the daughter from California. He ushered me into the hall. She’s been waiting for you to get here. The sad look in his eyes said more than I wanted to hear.

I’m moving her to a private room, but you and your siblings need to keep visitors to a minimum. She’s very weak and needs rest.

While the nurses moved Mom, Honey went to the cafeteria to get us some drinks. I waited in the lounge, staring out the window that overlooked Stuyvesant Square Park.

Aren’t you going to say hello?

At first I didn’t recognize the man. Dark circles were under his eyes, and creases, that had once been his smile, were now deep furrows.

Nicky?

Gone was the waterfall of curls that once covered his brow and a small hat covered his balding head.

Nicky! I hugged him and all my pent up anger disappeared. Thank you for getting me here. She’s going to get better, right?

We don’t know, Dolly. Every day she gets weaker. Bringing you here may be the last gift I can give her. Tears slid down his cheeks. She talks about you all the time.

By now we were in front of the elevator, waiting for Honey. But when the doors opened, we were suddenly surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins who had come to see Mom.

Propped up with pillows in her new room, Mom looked exhausted as she tried to keep up with all the conversations around her. My Uncle Max took me aside.

We’re so worried about her, Dolly. She’s always been such a dynamo and to see her like this . . . His voice trailed off and he wiped tears from his cheeks.

She needs to rest, Uncle Max. The doctor wants visitors at a minimum.

Yeah, good luck with that, he said.

The nurse finally came in and announced visiting hours were over. Our relatives and friends began to clear out; and then the nurse whispered to Nicky, You or your sisters may want to stay the night. For me, that was ominous.

After an hour, Honey suggested we leave and come back in the morning. Nicky walked us to the elevator.

I want to stay in case she needs something, he said.

This was the brother I knew from my childhood: my playmate—loving, sweet, and kind.

But the next afternoon, while Mom took a nap, he led me to the cafeteria and reverted back to his street-wise talk.

There’s another reason I brought you to New York, Dolly. You and Crab need to move back here with the kids. He used my husband’s old nickname.

Why would we do that?

You’re a New Yorker; you don’t belong in California. I can be a big help to you and Crab. You wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. The only thing Crab would have to do is change his name to ours. If he had an Italian name, I could help him.

"You mean a Sicilian name, right?"

Yeah, last I heard you’re half Sicilian. Then he could become part of the family, he grinned.

I knew my brother didn’t mean our family and I wasn’t sure which family my brother belonged to, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea, even before he finished talking.

Discuss it with Crab and get back to me as soon as possible.

I’ll give you the answer right now, Nicky. It’s not worth the risk.

What risk? Who said anything about ‘risk’? He snuffed out his cigarette and looked skyward. She has five kids and says ‘it’s not worth the risk.’ You want to keep having it rough, you and Crab? That’s fine with me, Miss Goody Two Shoes. Let’s go.

Later that day, my nephew, Nicky’s son, walked me to our old neighborhood. It was just a few blocks from the hospital and Lulu’s Bar and Grill still occupied the ground floor.

Aunt Dolly, wait until you see all the changes in the apartment, he said, as he ran up the stairs ahead of me, You won’t believe what I did with your old room.

Instead of being excited, as I’d always pictured I’d be climbing these stairs, I felt weighted down and sad. I was reluctant to enter the apartment.

Two German Shepherds sat erect and stared at me when I walked in; but seeing my nephew, they lay back down. A fat gray cat sat on the window sill. She blinked her eyes and turned away. On the fire escape was Mom’s garden: two wilting geranium plants.

Standing in the dining room, I looked down the succession of rooms before me. I’m sorry, Louis, but I feel uncomfortable being here without Mom.

But you grew up here, Aunt Dolly; Mom would want you to feel at home.

My feet were like cement. I couldn’t go another step into that apartment. All the years I’d been gone, ‘going home’ meant being here with Mom. Home wasn’t a place; it was a person. What I’d missed all these years was Mom, not the apartment or the city.

I turned and walked slowly down the stairs followed by my bewildered nephew.

Bernie, Honey’s husband, drove me to the hospital at dawn on my last day in New York. I sat there praying and watching Mom sleep.

O God, please be merciful to my mother. Forgive her sins. She lived out her faith as best she could. I’m sorry she didn’t get an annulment to marry Henry, but please look into her heart and see what a kind, wonderful person she is.

My prayer was interrupted by a priest standing at the door to Mom’s room. Florence, are you a child of God?

Yes, she said, opening her eyes.

Do you believe that as His children we sometimes hurt our heavenly Father?

She nodded, Yes.

Thinking the priest was about to hear Mom’s confession, I stood up to leave; but he motioned for me to sit down.

Do you repent of your sins?

Yes, Father, I do.

Your sins are forgiven. I’ll be back with Holy Communion.

All I could think was how merciful God is! He’d answered my prayer! Mom would now receive the Holy Eucharist. In my entire life, I’d never seen my mother receive Holy Communion.

When the priest left, Mom said, What day is this?

It’s Friday, June 6.

Isn’t Johnny making his First Holy Communion tomorrow?

Yes, Mom, he is. How on earth did she remember that?

Go home, Dolly, and be there for him. When I’m better, I promise I’ll visit you.

But when I kissed her good-bye that morning, I knew I’d never see her again in this life.

Tony’s tears mingled with mine when we got the news of her death a short time later. She believed in me, Dolly; that’s why she gave you to me. I knew exactly what he meant.

Mom, what will I do without your wisdom to guide me? You were that one ray of sunlight in a dark and gloomy sky; the one yes in a world of naysayers. You believed I could do anything I set my mind to, but you forgot to tell me how to do it without you.

Father Coleman was like a dad to me, and when he heard about Mom, he called. I’m so sorry, Carol. I heard she was only fifty-eight years old. I’ll say the Mass for her.

But a few weeks later, Father Coleman suffered a massive heart attack and he died. He was only fifty-three years old.

O God, why did you have to take both of them this summer?

Trust in God, no matter what is happening, Mom always said.

Why should I trust Him? He took the two people I relied on the most.

Chapter 4

JOURNALISM 101

IRETURNED TO ORANGE Coast College. The only writing class still open was Journalism 101. Clyde Woods, the instructor, found it easy to tell you that your story was terrible, the worst. He used words like crapola and horse pucky.

Your assignment this week is to get your local paper and rewrite a feature story from a different angle. And don’t bring me any crapola, he warned.

Two stories in our local paper held promise. The first was about a young woman who had trained for classical ballet but was now a go-go dancer at The Pink Pony. The second was about a woman who had sewn 10,000 dresses for Korean orphans.

I decided to rewrite the go-go dancer story. I called the club and asked for the manager. A man with a graveled voice said, This is Gus.

Hi Gus, my name is Carol Vrab, and I’d like to do a story on Clarissa Roane, the ballet dancer who works for you.

Somebody already done a story on her, he said.

"Yes, I know, but I’d like to do the story from your point of view. What you were looking for, the kind of auditions you do, stuff like that."

Are ya going to bring a photographer?

Yes, of course. What a good idea!

Auditions are Saturday mornings. Bring the photographer. Eleven o’clock sharp. He paused, Ya gonna put my name in there?

Yes; it’s going to be about you.

See ya Saturday. Ah . . . Miss, what’s your name again?

Carol. Carol Vrab.

Okay, Miss Carol. See ya Saturday.

I could hardly wait to tell Tony when he got home. Tony, wait until you hear the story I’ve got lined up! I gave him the details.

Whoa! Slow down, Lois Lane! Do you honestly think I’d let you go to some strip joint in LA for a story?

It’s not a strip joint; it’s a dance club, I protested.

Find another story.

Chapter 5

ROSE BIRZLER

HUNTINGTON BEACH WOMAN Sews 10,000th Dress for Korean Orphans"; that was the title of the other feature story in The Daily Pilot and Rose Birzler was the name of the woman. I found a listing in the phone book and called.

Praise the Lord! answered the woman, in a cheery voice.

In my entire life, I’d never heard anyone answer a telephone in that way. What was I supposed to say?

"Yes, praise the Lord. I read about you in The Daily Pilot."

"That writer gave me the glory that should have gone to God. I didn’t like it."

Well, I was wondering if we could get together for a rewrite.

Will you let me see it before it goes to print?

Actually, I’m doing this as a school assignment, Mrs. Birzler; but if it ever goes to print, I promise I’ll let you see it first.

She agreed, and gave me an address on Rhine River Drive in Huntington Beach.

It was a cream colored house with blue shutters. Large showy clusters of purple hydrangeas outlined the perimeter of the house and pink and scarlet impatiens grew along the walk. A giant sycamore towered over the lawn.

Behind the screened door stood the woman from the newspaper photo. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun; round spectacles sat on the bridge of her tiny nose. She had an ample frame and her white apron hung loose over her blue flowered house dress.

Carol, we’ve been praying for you. Come in. She embraced me as if I were the returning prodigal son.

"You were praying for me?" I grinned.

We always pray for people who are coming to see us, she smiled and removed a tray of cookies from the oven. Aromas of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air. She turned up the flame under the kettle and said, While the water heats, I’ll show you my work room.

Down the hall was a tiny room where an old Singer sewing machine sat beneath the window. A beige couch sat next to a corner table with a hobnail lamp at its center. A worn out Bible completed the décor.

She slid open the closet doors that ran along one side of the room. Thirty red dresses hung from the rack. She’d used the same pattern, yet each dress was distinct: a lace collar, or buttons on the sleeves, a white hanky sewn into a pocket.

They’re all the same but different, I laughed.

Right, she chuckled. God didn’t make any two of these children the same, so I try to make each dress unique. Come with me, I have more to show you.

She led me to a sunny room where the bed and dresser were covered with knitted hats and sweaters in a profusion of colors. Amazed at the number of articles, I said, How do you have time to make all these things?

Oh, I sew only the dresses. Other ladies do the crocheting and the knitting.

In the next room, she pointed to a pile of quilts on another bed. Women from the Catholic church sew the quilts.

How do you pay for all the materials and the shipping?

She smiled, Let’s go have our tea and I’ll answer all your questions. She limped back to the kitchen table, wincing as she sat down. These old legs give me trouble. Not too long ago they hurt so bad, I had to get around on my knees. I asked God to heal me so I could finish this work.

She poured the tea. Now let’s have your questions.

Okay; why are you making clothes for Korean orphans and not American orphans?

"These are American orphans; well, part American. Their fathers were servicemen who left these kids in Korea. Children like these cause a family to ‘lose face.’ That’s why their mothers bring them to the orphanage."

"You mean their mothers don’t want them, either?"

She shrugged, The families disown the mothers because of the children. Some of the mothers work at the orphanage to be close to their kids, but others abandon them at the door.

That’s so sad, Rose. How did you get involved?

"I read a story in World Vision Magazine and asked God how I might help. At the time I was babysitting a little girl, so I used the money I earned to buy material. When I’d made fifty dresses, I contacted World Vision and asked them to pick them up.

Then I made a fifty more dresses and World Vision sent someone to write an article about me for their magazine. That’s when things really started happening: God gave me bolts of material and cones of thread.

"What do you mean, ‘God gave you bolts of material and cones of thread?’"

God uses people, Carol, to accomplish His purposes. People read the article and started bringing me material. One was a clothing manufacturer. He sent me bolts of material that were left over from a project. Other people also donate material they have left over. Let me show you what happened most recently.

She led me back to the work room and said, Open that box next to the sewing machine.

I knelt and opened the bulky carton. It contained a dozen cones of red thread.

Six weeks ago the clothing manufacturer sent me bolts of red material. I needed red thread to make those dresses in the closet. I prayed and waited on the Lord. A few days later, a woman comes by and says, ‘can you use these cones of red thread?’

Rose smiled, God supplies all my needs like it says in Philippians 4:19: ‘And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.’

"But you’re taking that scripture out of context, Rose. Why does it say that? What comes before it and after it? Why will God meet all your needs and not someone else’s needs?"

Rose sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her for me to sit on.

"You know who Paul is, right? Well, Paul was traveling all over the Roman Empire to bring the good news of the gospel. The Christian people in Philippi sent help for his travels. He says because they share in his needs, God is going to supply all their needs. Do you understand?"

"I guess so. Paul was willing to do the work, but he needed support. The people in Philippi sent him money, so he prays that God will supply their needs because they are taking care of his needs. So you’re willing to do the work but you need others to supply the goods; and when they do, God blesses them for supplying you. Is that it?"

Now you’ve got it! Let’s go finish our tea.

On the way back to the kitchen, I blurted out, Rose, you’re going to heaven.

Why do you say that? She laughed.

Because of all this good work you do for God.

Is that how you think you get to heaven, Carol; by doing good work for God?

I’m sure that’s a big part of it. Doesn’t Jesus say that when we do these things for the least of His brethren it’s the same as if we did it for Him?

"Yes, but don’t put the cart before the horse, Carol. Your good works should be the result of your faith; otherwise how would you explain Isaiah 64:6?"

I gave her a blank stare. She may as well have said, How do you explain Popeye 23:9?

Isaiah 64:6 says all your good works are like filthy rags before God if you are doing them to justify yourself with God. You’re not justified by your works, Carol.

"Then what does justify us in God’s eyes?" I asked.

Faith is what justifies us, and we can’t even take any credit for that; it’s a gift from God. Let me read it to you from Ephesians 2:8 and 9. She had another Bible on the kitchen table and read, For it is by grace you have been saved through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.

Look at Abraham, she said, he was justified by faith and counted righteous by God.

But he offered his son, Isaac, to God as a sacrifice. That was a work.

"That was after he was justified by faith in God. Paul talks about this in Romans chapter 4. He believed when God told him he’d be the father of many nations, even though he didn’t have any children and was ninety years old at the time. That is recorded in Genesis 17. His faith was what made him righteous in God’s eyes."

But doesn’t the Bible say that faith without works is dead?

Yes, that’s in James 2. But what has to come first, the faith or the works?

I thought for a second. Faith has to come first, otherwise why would you do the works?

That’s exactly right!

So you do these works because you believe . . .

I do these works because of what Jesus did for me.

Oh, you mean because He healed your legs?

"No; what He did for me and for you." She looked at me expectantly.

I hesitated. You mean like . . . dying on the cross?

"Not like dying on the cross but by actually dying on the cross for our sins, yours and mine."

But He did that for everyone, right? He died to take away the sins of the whole world.

"Yes, He did, but the whole world doesn’t believe that, Carol. So it comes down to you and your sins and what you believe. Do you believe He died for your sins?"

I don’t have any sins right now.

A deep voice from the far side of the living room called out, You’re a liar. A wizened old man, holding a pair of scissors, stood up and stared at me through thick glasses.

If you say you have no sin, you are a liar; and the truth of God does not dwell in you; First John 1:8. Look it up.

Who . . . who are you?

Oh, that’s my husband, Joe. ‘Joe, you scared this poor girl out of her wits. Put down those scissors and say something nice.’

Instead of saying something nice, he repeated the scripture. If you say you have no sins, you are a liar and the truth of God does not dwell in you—1 John 1:8.

My face flushed. "What I mean is I have no current sin. I go to confession and my sins get forgiven."

Humph, a Catholic, the old man said. I should have known. You think you have no sins because you talked to a priest.

"I don’t just ‘talk’ to a priest. Jesus said, ‘Confess your sins one to another; whose sins you shall forgive are forgiven them and whose sins you shall retain are retained.’ My sins are forgiven." (I knew I had been taught this, but I was not aware I was quoting James 5:16 and John 20:23.)

Rose nodded, "Yes, Carol, but what actually takes away your sin? Is it simply the priest saying the words? Or is it what Jesus did that makes it possible for the priest to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven’? You see, 1 John 1:7 says it is the blood of Jesus Christ that cleanses away your sin."

What was with these people? They spoke in scripture verses instead of sentences!

Look, Rose, you and Joe are probably Baptists or something. I’m Catholic.

"Do you believe that Jesus died for you?"

Of course I do.

Do you believe that if you were the only person on earth, He still would have gone to the cross for you?

"I’m not that bad that Jesus had to be crucified for me!" I retorted.

Joe cited Romans 3:23 and 6:23. The Bible says all men have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. And the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life for those who believe in Christ Jesus.

I was flustered by these two, so I reached for my purse and said, I had better be going. I’ve taken enough of your time; thank you for the . . . the interview.

Now wait, Carol, Rose pleaded, don’t go running off just because we disagree. There’s so much more I want to show you. Come out to the garage.

She took my arm, but I hesitated. What if I go in the garage and one of them hits me over the head with a Bible? Or worse; that little guy with the scissors is right behind me.

Joe, put down those scissors, Rose ordered again, as if reading my mind.

Joe set the scissors aside and explained. I was cutting quilt blocks from the scraps of Mama’s sewing. We don’t waste anything of what God gives us.

In the garage were five huge barrels filled to overflowing with quilts, sweaters, and hats. While I was marveling at them, Joe removed his shoes, stood on a bench, and jumped directly into one of the