An Unsettled Path

By E.A. Baxendale

Everyone faces decisions in life that will lead them down a path, either toward or away from their purpose (Romans 8:28).

Travel with Jo as her choices bring her full circle with the will and purpose of God in her life, when she must make the most important decision yet.

The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you. Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways (Proverbs 4:18, 2526, NIV).

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490876450

E.A. Baxendale

E.A. Baxendale has been happily married to her best friend for over twenty years. Born in the South, she enjoys a quiet life with her husband reading, cooking, biking, and gardening. She has had a twenty-plus year career in the corporate world and is looking forward to exploring a different path in her second half of life.

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Copyright © 2015 E.A. Baxendale.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-7646-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7647-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7645-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905824

WestBow Press rev. date: 5/19/2015

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Special Thanks

To my dear friends and mentors…Mary Ann, Amy, and Donna.

Your support and love (and honest feedback) gave me the courage to write this book. Thank you.

To my best friend Whitney – what would I do without you?

You have been the best friend a girl could want and I hope we can spend our retirement years making scones and croissants!

And, finally, to my husband…

Thank you for loving me unconditionally.

To quote a favorite movie line, We are M.F.E.O.

PROLOGUE

T he view was breathtaking. At this height, the world below looked serene and the mass of people flowed like a gentle stream. T he sight of the cars driving by with their blinking taillights, visible from the twentieth floor corner office, made me feel like I could manipulate the people below with marionette strings . Looking down at the rapidly moving throng of people going home from work, ready to celebrate Christmas, I felt omnipotent, yet disconnected from the world below. It was like watching a play from far away, missing the dialogue but seeing the action.

I sighed and pressed my nose against the floor-to-ceiling window and stared down from 75 State Street. Steam collected on the thick glass. Absentmindedly, I pressed my hands on the glass, making steamy handprints on the window as I had when I was a child on a cold winter morning waiting to go outside.

Far below, I could see a mother and her children dashing for the warmth and comfort of a waiting car. A man stepped out of the driver’s side, kissed the woman, and ushered the children into the backseat with one hand while holding the door open with the other hand. I couldn’t tell from this height, but I felt sure they were all smiling happily, eager to go home to a warm house and drink hot cider in front of a fireplace. At least in my dreams and in novels, that was what a happy family did on chilly winter nights before Christmas.

My memory drifted back to my childhood in Tennessee. So long ago, so far removed from my life today. Where had the time gone? As usual, I began to think of my father and the earliest memory I could muster of my mother. A knock at the office door brought me out of my reverie to the decision at hand…

CHAPTER ONE

I was only five when my mother passed away in 1972 after a year’s struggle with cancer. By the time Mom visited the doctors, it was too late. They tried, but nothing worked. Mom passed away, leaving my dad and me to cope with life on our own.

I vaguely recall the funeral. I do remember, albeit fuzzily, well-meaning friends dressed in simple black dresses telling my dad, I’m so sorry, Frank. So sorry for both you and Jo, or If there’s any help you need with Jo, don’t hesitate to call us. We will always be there to help you. At the time, I did not understand what they meant, but gradually over the next few weeks it became clear to me that Mom was not coming home again. Then I understood their meaning.

Mom died in March. I was not yet in school. My parents had decided to keep me at home instead of sending me to kindergarten. Looking back, I think Mom did that so she and I could have one final year together before she died. My only clear memories of her are from that year.

At Thanksgiving, she showed me how she made pumpkin pie and cooked turkey. She wrote down her favorite recipes for me, penned on her simple 3 by 5 index cards. I did not understand then how precious they were, but I am grateful for them today. They are part of my cherished memories, now dutifully recorded on my home computer.

During Christmas, we made sugar cookies and frosted red velvet cakes for church parties. When the only snow of the season came in January, I remember making snow angels while she sat on the front porch and watched me, laughter and encouraging words drifting down to me from where she sat. By February, she was too sick to go outside. On Valentine’s Day, I took my homemade heart card, which Dad helped me make, to their bedroom. We had a great day, eating chocolates and watching TV. By Easter she was gone.

I tried to adjust to combing my hair and going to sleep without Mom by my side. She always brushed my hair for me and tucked me in bed. She read a Bible story and told me how much she loved me every night. At first I waited for Dad to take her place. After three weeks, I realized he was not going to fill the void. My Bible sat unopened on my nightstand. I couldn’t read well yet, and Dad didn’t want to read, especially not the Bible. Jo, I don’t think the God your mother loved would allow her to leave us. Why would He let us hurt so much? It was a question I couldn’t answer for us.

The last thing I can remember Mom saying to me was, Remember me when you go to church, but don’t cry because I’m not sitting next to you. I’m in your heart, just like Jesus is. My soul will be in heaven, praising God, and in your heart, loving you forever. You can talk to Jesus and to me anytime your heart wants. Remember me when you think of people who love you, and remember me when you think of people who are proud of you, because I’ll always love you and be proud of you. While I’ll miss you more than you know, don’t worry about me. I’ll be in heaven with Jesus. It’s a happy place. Don’t be sad for me. When you are in need, call on Jesus. He will always answer your prayers.

How could God be bad if Mom was so excited about spending time with Him forever? It didn’t make sense to me. Dad was angry with Jesus and God, but Mom was happy to finally meet Him in person! All I knew was that I was here on earth with Dad, and because Dad was mad at God, we didn’t go to church anymore.

Dad cried constantly the first few days after the funeral. Neighbors dropped off casseroles, which we ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every time someone left a casserole, he cried. Some of the women hugged him, but most just hung their heads and backed out the door, unsure of what consolation they could bring the new widower.

My dad took a few weeks off from work to get the household in order and to grieve. It was during those weeks, as he interviewed housekeepers and makeshift nannies, it sank in that Mom was not coming home again. In 1972, day-care centers were nonexistent in small town Tennessee, but there was a plethora of women in their mid-sixties who wanted something to keep them occupied or bring extra income. After the first week, random women began coming by the house, most of them African American, for interviews as the housekeeper/nanny.

Eventually, Dad hired Rose, a fifty-year-old, African American woman who needed the money. She agreed to mind me during the summer and after school in the fall. In addition, she would keep the house clean and make dinner for us five days a week. More often than not, Rose ended up cooking my breakfast and dinner for me during the summer months.

Many of the women my dad had interviewed would look my way and shake their heads or Tsk, tsk, tsk at me. Some even hugged me. Rose did neither. She smiled at me, looking down the tip of her nose, said I was pretty and sweet and she would just love to stay with me. I saw no hint of pity in her eyes and heard none in her voice, though it was soft and caressing. It was the beginning of a twenty-year relationship that in many ways shaped the woman I was to become.

Dad was still off work, but the laundry had overtaken the hampers, and the house was becoming filthy. Dad finally broke down and called to see if she would be willing to start earlier than scheduled. She was.

Bright and early Monday morning, Miss Rose entered my life. She wore calico or polka-dot dresses every day, paired with black support hose and sensible shoes. She was plump but not fat. The only jewelry she wore was a wedding band and a gold cross. I soon learned she smiled more often than not and loved to laugh. She had bright, mischievous eyes that sparkled conspiratorially, and pearly white teeth. Looking back, I am sure she was pretty when she was young, but those things did not cross the mind of a small child.

She did not seem to have any pity on Dad or me, but she was not harsh with us, either. She was kind but firm. Rose was definitely in control of the house but didn’t try to replace my mom. I supposed she knew she couldn’t, but she was smart enough to know she needed some measure of control. She was a practical soul, with a peaceful countenance I couldn’t understand.

Miss Rose arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. on Monday, ready to cook breakfast. As if she could see into the future, she came with two bags of groceries. I was awake but still in bed, staring at the picture of Mom in my hands. It was hard to wake up in the morning with the realization that she wouldn’t be there to ask me what my plans were for the day or push me on the swings. I heard Miss Rose’s car pull into the driveway and then heard one door shut and another open and shut. I could see her walk past my bedroom window toward the back door and into the kitchen. She had been given a key to the house. It was not long before I smelled bacon cooking and heard the familiar gurgle of the coffee while it percolated.

I did not get out of bed for breakfast right away. I heard her softly singing a song while she worked. Somehow, her alto voice soothed and comforted me. Her voice sounded sturdy, like something I could depend upon, lean upon, and relax in. Through the walls I could hear the unmistakable sound of homemade biscuits being rolled out on the countertop. I could hear her pick up the dough and then drop it on the Formica, jam her fist into the ball, and work the dough over with the rolling pin.

I knew that Dad was still asleep, or was playing possum like me. He had not stirred despite the smell of coffee. It seemed like he was sleeping later every day.

Eventually, the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen was more than I could ignore. Reluctantly, I swung my feet onto the floor and rubbed my eyes. I decided that I could go into the kitchen and taste the food she cooked. I owed her that much, regardless of my personal feelings toward her presence in the house. Also, I had not eaten a really good breakfast in a long time. Dad occasionally made pancakes while Mom was sick, but they were only Aunt Jemima pancakes from a box. This breakfast smelled homemade.

The kitchen was separated from my bedroom by only one thin wall and a hallway. I had to walk through the hallway and dining room, and then make a u-turn to reach the kitchen. Once I was at the threshold of the kitchen door, I was not sure what to do next. Unsure of what to do, I stood in the doorway and waited for an indication to enter. At first, Miss Rose did not seem to notice me. After a few seconds, she turned and asked me simply, Do you like your eggs scrambled or fried?

Still standing in the doorway, I replied simply, Fried. I took her question as my cue to enter and sit. She cracked open two eggs and dropped them into the cast iron skillet, already sizzling with butter. Immediately the clear liquid turned milky white forming a little crusty butter browned edge and the yolk began to firm.

The trick is not to break the yolk when you flip them, she stated, The best way to keep a whole yolk is to gently test the corners before you flip the egg. If the edges are not sealed right, then the white will rip and the yolk will run. Then, you’ve got yourselves a real mess. She laughed and shook her head at her own story.

I nodded my head in agreement. It sounded like a good theory. Miss Rose continued talking while she watched the egg cook, My name is Miss Rose. I’m going to be helping out around here. There’s a lot to keep a person busy here. I am probably going to need your help too. I don’t think I can do it all by my lonesome. You seem to be a very smart and capable person, so I’m sure I’ll need your advice on things. Do you think we can work together? Can you help me out?

Work together? That sounded much different than when Dad said she would be running the household. She made me feel needed and important, like Mom had. I nodded my head again. It sounded like another good theory to me. I could help her with household activities, much like I had helped Mom.

She handed a plate to me filled with eggs, bacon, biscuits and sliced honeydew melon. It smelled heavenly! I started to dig in, but she stopped me. Don’t forget to thank Jesus for the food before you eat.

But we don’t say grace here anymore. I replied.

We do now, she answered, then lowered her head and closed her eyes. I do not remember the prayer she prayed exactly, because by the time she finished thanking Jesus for the food, I was so hungry the only thing on my mind was the plate in front of me. I did sneak a piece of honeydew while her eyes were closed. I felt a little bit of shame in sneaking the melon slice, but I hoped it was all right with Jesus. After all, I was hungry.

Halfway through breakfast, I heard Dad walk to the bathroom. He was awake and on his way to the kitchen. I knew that he had not been shaving every day. In the grocery store, I had heard someone comment to her friend as we walked by how sad it was that he had let himself go since her passing. I assumed that meant he was not shaving. Mom had said the same thing with a smile on her face when Dad did not shave over the weekend. She rubbed his face and smiled, You’ve really let yourself go this weekend! The difference between the two scenarios was that Mom was smiling and caressing his stubble when she said it, not shaking her head and whispering to another person while examining tomatoes in the store.

Good morning Rose. Dad said as he entered the kitchen. He walked over to me, stroked his hand across the top of my head, then kissed my head. Good morning, Punkin. He said to me.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, ladled in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and sat down across from me. He picked up the cup in both hands and caressed the warm ceramic in his palm. He held it under his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. Miss Rose repeated the egg question, asking his preference between scrambled or fried, then nodded in agreement when he said fried. She sat a similar plate in front of Dad, and we finished our breakfast in silence.

Jo, I have to go into town today and settle some things. I will probably be back in the afternoon. I’m going to leave you in Miss Rose’s capable hands. I want you to mind her and do what she says, OK? I nodded. To Miss Rose he said, Feel free to go anywhere or do anything you want with Jo. She’s a well behaved little girl and I am sure she won’t give you a minute’s trouble, right Jo? I nodded again as he leaned over and ruffled my hair. He thanked Miss Rose for the breakfast. Miss Rose smiled at me and said I’ve got a few errands to run at the grocery store once I sum up what I need for here. Other than that, we should be all right here today. I’m sure that Jo will be a big help to me. Nodding in agreement, Dad pushed back from the table and drank one last gulp of coffee. He sat the cup in the sink, looked at me, smiled weakly, dropped his head and left the room.

That day was the first time he had left the house without me since Mom had died. Silently, I left the table and went to my bedroom to watch him through my window.

He rounded the corner of the house and approached the car. Slowly he opened the car door and sat down. For a long time, he sat in the car with his hands on the steering wheel at the 10 and 2 positions. The burden of being in the car by himself was too much of a load for him to bear. I saw him wiping tears from his eyes.

He held up a small object in front of him, oblivious to me watching through the window. It was Mom’s compact mirror she kept in the car for make-up emergencies. He wrapped his hands around it hard, as if crushing it would somehow dull the pain and loss. Then he rolled down the window and threw the compact into the trash bin by the door, started the car, and drove off.

In a panic, I ran out the front door to avoid the kitchen exit and Miss Rose. I retrieved the compact from the bin and wiped the shiny metal on my nightgown and took it inside. After I opened it to make sure the mirror was not broken, I safely stored it in my dresser drawer next to Mom’s recipe cards and photos which I had started collecting while I ambled through the hollow and empty house each day.

As I shut the dresser drawer, I heard a knock on the door. Turning I saw Miss Rose standing in the frame. I thought she might ask what I was doing, but she just smiled and asked if I was going to get dressed today. Unsure of how to respond, I stood in silence and looked at her. She took a step into the room at the exact same moment she asked permission to enter. She started talking to me, not waiting for answers. Miss Rose moved to my closet and opened the bi-fold doors. Most of my clothes were either lying on the floor or in the bathroom hamper.

She shook her head and exclaimed, My, my, as she bent over to pick up my clothes. Are you going to help me? I can’t sort these out by myself. Which ones are dirty and which ones are clean? We have to get this closet straight and pick up this house if we are ever going to get to the Red Food Store today.

I took a step forward and silently picked up clothes, sorting dirty in one pile and laying clean ones on the chair. In hindsight, they were probably all dirty. We spent time cleaning my room and then she suggested that I dress. I quickly learned one important aspect about Miss Rose. If she suggested something it was not an option. She only made it sound like a request.

That first day I spoke only a couple of words to Miss Rose, but I do not think she minded what a dull conversationalist I was. She continued talking to me, not expecting an answer. I continued following her from room to room, and listened to her without offering any replies. We cleaned the house and then went to the grocery store. She let me have an ice cream for lunch, explaining that once in a while