To Those Who Would Love: A Metamorphosis

By Marie Hunter Atwood

To Those Who Would Love is unique. Its difference lies in the metamorphic growth of its heroine, June, who is capable of making life-changing decisions in spite of the pain it gives her, but not because it is what she wants. Love, she finds, is not always enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543431506

Marie Hunter Atwood

Marie is passionate about God, her writing, and her family. Born in a town named for an Indian Chief who was never defeated by the American Army, she grew up on tales of that world in the midst of a new country that was springing up around her. She has experienced both the amazement and sadness that is a part of living and has always been drawn to recording what she sees and learns with pencil and paper and more lately with the benefit of the computer and internet. Drawn to writing from her earliest memories she records her life in poetry, memoirs, and short stories but finds her greatest satisfaction in writing spiritual books from which she is able to share the love of God.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Marie Atwood.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2017909631

ISBN:                  Hardcover               978-1-5434-3108-7

                             Softcover                 978-1-5434-3107-0

                             eBook                       978-1-5434-3150-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/28/2017

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CONTENTS

1. Introduction

2. Innocence

3. The Beginning

4. A Year Later

5. Letting Memories

6. Reflections and Values

7. Patience and Change

8. A Parting

9. Reality

To Those Who Would Love

A Metamorphosis

to LOVERS

the fulfillment of

TRUE LOVE

Don’t Go Darkly Into Night

Go With Wisdom’s Light

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1

Introduction

There were four. Looking back, the significance of that overwhelms me. It is as if unknowingly, each provided a vital piece for a grand design in progress —a design for the future. And surprisingly, I am now able to see that the future is mine. I know also that the design is a mosaic and that it has shaped the entirety of my life thus far, and that being so I sometimes question does this mean it is a definite observation or a desired observation? Had I considered it then, it would have scared the daylights out of me, and most likely, I would have run from such a future. At this time and place, however, I am inclined to look for other options, and the words that come to me have to do with preparation—you know, getting ready, being prepared. There is just one problem. How do you prepare to love someone or be loved? It is, perhaps, possible if one considers how to love, but to be loved is quite different. I know from observation that to be loved can at times be a burden. For instance, I have a friend who fell in love and then fell out of love and learned the meaning of the word unrequited. She said for a time, it was miserable, and still just the possibility now gives her the creeps; so one definitely has to learn how to cope with such situations. Though truthfully, what she said was "Oh well, you know, the incredible pain of having to deal constantly with someone who loves you so desperately."

But I’m afraid I’m getting too far ahead. Let me take you back to the beginning so you can understand how all this came about.

2

Innocence

As I was trying to explain, I hadn’t really considered life to any extent, but if I had, it would have been with the comforting knowledge that my family is fairly ordinary. Not much happens from day to day that marks us as unique, different or exciting. Days blend seamlessly into the tomorrows taking their places on dusty shelves of memory to become a colorless blur of sameness. Even holidays and birthdays are ordinary in their sameness, and why not, as each possesses a foregone conclusion that those yet to come will be no different from those of the past.

Thank God for seasons. Seasonal changes bring a measure of relief to such drabness and none to the extent as that of fall and football. In our little town, they are synonymous. Football is more than a game, and fall, more than a season. Blended into one, they become the defining moment of who we all are. Football can almost be considered a tribal event.

Even shopkeepers lay claim to their share of glory in the big event by signs and sales, whether they sell bread or fabric; and if they happen to sell corsages, their cash registers are prepared to sing! To wear a corsage on game day is the very essence of chic. To be connected in some way to this time of celebration is proof you are a vital part of the town. It is true, however, that no merchant can surpass the prestige of the corsage vendors. A gorgeous ’mum decorated with school colors is the criteria by which every female is evaluated on this day of days. When the hoopla finally experiences explosion, the crowd erupts from their exceedingly pent up enthusiasm, and the game is on.

3

The Beginning

It was such a day and night that my life experienced its own gentle bump into the heretofore mysterious future. Of course, I have watched with an interested if somewhat bewildered eye when couples pair, but I am mostly ignorant of what has brought them together. I myself feel no inclination to be so attached. This might possibly be because I have a brother and my own opinion of what it is like to be around a guy. In spite of such denial, however, I often feel an ache that follows sleepless nights and a restlessness when I used to be sound asleep. On this particular night, having finished my chores, I went to bed with a copy of Emily Dickinson to while away the hours until I could sleep. Otherwise, I would have passed the time staring at the high ceiling of my wallpapered bedroom. The faded roses on an old pattern form endless stripes that never come together, causing me to wonder if they, too resent the continual sameness of being but not going anywhere. I personally resent the principle of stagnation in any form and gladly made a change to happier thoughts.

I was suddenly drawn from such musings to the open door. Normally closed by this time of night, I had deliberately left it open in order to feel and smell the extra-crisp fragrance of this autumn’s almost cold night. I found myself listening to the soft darkness of the outdoors, the rustle of dried leaves and the songs of crickets and frogs, but suddenly I heard a more rhythmic tread of a shoe or a boot—and I wondered who would be calling at this late hour. I started to jump down to close the door, but Mother appeared about that time, and we heard the footsteps again and, a moment later, a soft knock.

Mother indicated I was to