by Donya Dunlap | Jun 26, 2013 | Modern Day Slavery
One week ago today I had the privilege of meeting a young woman who had just days before experienced rescue from a life that many of us could never imagine. For several hours I was able to sit alongside her and two others who had been ministering to her, loving her, and providing for her basic needs. What I witnessed was a miracle in progress—the beginning of a beautiful story of restoration and recovery, of love and redemption.
I have studied human trafficking and victim statistics for about 18 months now. I had a certain level of understanding of what I should expect, and on the other hand, I had no idea what I might encounter.
My first impression surprised me. She looks a lot like my aunt sans 20 or so years. She is petite, fair skinned and freckled. She loves to draw and was working on a project to give to those who had been helping her as a way to thank them. Her love and gratitude was obvious, even though there was a visible battle of fear and mistrust trying to overcome her at the same time. She has a puppy that she loves and is concerned for, even more than her own welfare. She is just like you and me.
Except she isn’t.
Long before she was able to legally drive, someone that should have had her best interest at heart sold her for the money. During a time in her life when school and fashion should have been her main concerns, she was trying to survive unthinkable cruelty. Years of abuse followed, aging her physically and stunting her emotional and mental development. Her body was used as a commodity with no thought to her well-being or basic human rights.
Thankfully, the story doesn’t end there.
Justice Ministries in conjunction with Rise Up Ministries was able to provide safety, clothing, and shelter for this beautiful girl in Jesus’ name. Words of hope and healing were spoken into her soul. Constant reminders of Jesus’ love for her were shared. Given time, I believe she will accept them and believe them for herself and true rescue will take place. I pray this happens soon.
I am so thankful for this up-close view of the power of God. I too was once separated from God. And just as Jesus saved me from my sin, He can save every young women still trapped in lives of slavery. I am reminded of the promise given in Isaiah 61:7-8.
Instead of your shame there shall be a double portion; instead of dishonor they shall rejoice in their lot; therefore in their land they shall possess a double portion; they shall have everlasting joy. For I the Lord love justice; I hate robbery and wrong; I will faithfully give them their recompense, and I will make an everlasting covenant with them.
Those rejected by their earthly families can have the opportunity to be adopted into a heavenly one that will love them as the precious sons and daughters that they truly are. It’s our job to offer this to them. To provide them rescue from harm and share with them the love of the One who can redeem their souls.
Will you pray with me as I seek to do that very thing in Jesus’ name? It is my desire that years from now I will have seen hundreds of such rescues take place. You can take part as well through your prayers and gifts to organizations like Justice Ministries, Rise Up and Citylight. For with God, nothing shall be impossible. (Luke 1:37)
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by Donya Dunlap | Jun 17, 2013 | The Spiritual Life
My dad once told a friend that if he ever took me to a football game, I would be worried that the guys in the huddle were talking about me. He was right.
Go Blue!
Well, not literally of course, but figuratively he was spot on. I struggled quite seriously about what people think about me for years. It was a problem that would often steal my joy, fill my mind with worry and cause great anxiety. The Holy Spirit really worked in my life in this area, mainly through the message of a book called Loving God with All Your Mind by Elizabeth George and through meditating on Philippians 4:8.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. – Philippians 4:8
I actually felt like this was part of my past, until recently I have found myself struggling again with regards to my writing.
I have had several people ask why I wrote Forgetting the Fairy Tale and my answer is always the same. I couldn’t NOT write it. I have a deep passion to help young women realize that they can only find satisfaction in Christ, and not in all the ways the world is teaching them to look for it. That passion drove me through the writing, editing and publishing process and continues to burn in my heart.
Lately however,
I’ve put a lot of effort into building what is referred to as a “platform” in order to sell my book and help the message spread. While that isn’t a bad thing in itself, it has lead to a change in my internal focus from helping others into a desire to see my blog numbers increase. I started worrying about what the guys in the huddle were saying again.
Why does one post spread and others aren’t hardly opened? Maybe people really don’t think I’m a good writer. Maybe I need to be funnier. Maybe I’m just wasting my time. I hardly get any comments—I wonder what my readers are thinking?
In all of the striving I lost sight of the goal. I lost sight of my passion. I lost my love for the “game” and became annoyed with the work of running the plays.
(And I have now reached my limit of football knowledge and applicable metaphors. Not a sports chic. Sorry.)
Instead of applying Philippians 4:8 to my writing I have been letting my mind dwell on the necessary, but secondary elements of promotion.
So today I confess to you my sin and begin again.
I will still read the writing books and learn what I can about creating a better blog, but my focus will no longer be on the stats and how I’m scoring in the blogosphere. This means tightening up my posts and not trying to please people with my writing. No more filtering. I’m going back to the basics of putting my passion on paper and loving people, not worrying about what they can do for me.
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by Donya Dunlap | Jun 11, 2013 | The Spiritual Life
For many years, I barely gave the Holy Spirit much thought at all. But over the last two years or so, He has taken much more of my attention. It all began when I read “Forgotten God” by Francis Chan for the first time. I wrote about my thoughts during that first reading in the posts God-Sized Dreams and A Supernatural Testimony. But last night, during our Infusion Bible Study, a thought came up that I felt was worth writing about. It is a subtle shift in thinking that I believe can make a world of difference in our lives if we take the time to explore it.
The paragraph in the workbook said this:
In Luke 11, Jesus teaches His disciples how to pray. He tells them to ask, and it will be given to them; to seek, and they will find; to knock, and the door will be opened (v. 9). He says that every human father knows how to give good gifts to his children. And then He draws a powerful conclusion: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (v. 13).
I have to confess, when I read this in the workbook I thought, “Does it really say that?” You see, all my life I’ve read that verse and in my head it says, “how much more will the heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him!” Do you see the difference? Just to be sure, I looked up the same verse in both KJV and ESV. Guess what. It says the same thing. You may be thinking, “Donya…what’s the big deal. I don’t get it. Of course God gives good things to His kids.” You’re right. He does. But that’s not what the verse says. The verse says how much more will He give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him.
Think of a wedding ceremony. The celebration is not about the exchange of rings. Yes, they are beautiful and meaningful, but that’s not the point. It’s about the person that you are vowing to remain in relationship with for the rest of your life. (Sometimes this gets muddled in girls’ thinking, but that’s a post for another day.) In the case of Luke 11:13, God doesn’t just want to gives us good things, He wants to give us the best thing—Himself in the person of the Holy Spirit. I even posted on this topic last week and still got sideswiped when I saw it in this verse. I can be so slow sometimes!
Imagine what could happen if you shifted your thinking from what the Holy Spirit can do for you and instead thought of what might happen if He had free reign in your life. I know it might sound like the same thing, but think about it. Instead of praying for God to give you the right words to say when you are reaching out to someone, what if you prayed for the Holy Spirit to fill you mind and mouth with Himself. He knows the person you are going to meet inside, outside and upside-down. You don’t. Praying for His help isn’t bad…but the focus in that instance is still on you. Praying for God to give you the Holy Spirit takes you out of the picture. Do you see the difference? What freedom can be found in that tiny shift! No more worrying about saying or doing the right thing or being smart enough to handle whatever questions may be asked. Just release yourself completely to the Holy Spirit to use you as a vessel to do His work as He sees fit.
I wonder, does this mental shift resonate with you? Is there something you have been praying about that needs a change in your thinking and praying? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.
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by Donya Dunlap | Jun 10, 2013 | Making a Difference, The Spiritual Life
Have you ever wondered what made Paul the man that he was? How could he set aside the guilt from his past and go on to rock the world for Jesus? How could he stand before kings and share the gospel without fear? How could he remain joyful despite being literally shackled in the harshest of circumstances? I think he shares the secret with us in the book of Ephesians.
I have been especially enamored with Ephesians the last week or so. One of the passages that amazes me is almost a PS of sorts. It’s at the very end of the book where Paul is wrapping up his letter to the church and says, “Oh by the way…pray for me.” That’s a pretty normal request. But what isn’t normal is what he asks prayer for. He doesn’t say, pray that I can get out of these chains. Pray that the rulers will understand that I’m innocent. Pray that I can get a good night’s sleep in these uncomfortable conditions. Paul doesn’t say any of that. Paul asks for prayer, “that words may be given to me in opening my mouth boldly to proclaim the mystery of the gospel.”
This seems ludicrous to me. If I were to request prayer for boldness, that totally makes sense. I’m a big chicken. But this is Paul—Master Missionary, Preacher of the Gospel, Apostle to the Gentiles. This guy wrote half of the New Testament and he’s asking his friends to pray for him to be bold? Why would Paul feel weak in such an area? The answer is in the preceding verses.
Ephesians 6:10-20
10 Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. 11 Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. 12 For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. 13 Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. 14 Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, 15 and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. 16 In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one; 17 and takethe helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, 18 praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints, 19 and also for me, that words may be given to me in opening my mouth boldly to proclaim the mystery of the gospel, 20 for which I am an ambassador in chains, that I may declare it boldly, as I ought to speak.
There is so much darkness in this world. So much pain. So much evil. But every physical manifestation is a fruit of the unseen spiritual force that is running the show.
We have to stand up to the darkness. We must use our voices to speak for the unborn, the abused, the impoverished. We each have God-given passions on behalf of those in need. But what we need to realize is that we aren’t just fighting against violence, trafficking, abortion, and poverty. We are fighting against the forces of evil. And we can’t do it alone. Even Jesus and Paul needed prayer. They didn’t attempt to do God’s will in their own strength and neither should we. We need to “be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might,” and the only way to do that is through prayer.
God places us in unique positions (like prison in Paul’s case) to reach those around us with the gospel and thereby spread light that can defeat the darkness. So yes, raise your voice in the area God has called you to. But do so in the power of the Holy Spirit, motivated by the gospel of Jesus Christ. Hand out food and necessities to the poor. Drill wells of fresh water where there is none. Reach out to frightened young mothers. But keep the main thing the main thing.
Pray for boldness. Pray for wisdom. Pray for discernment. Pray for opportunities. Pray, pray, pray for yourself and for others in the fight. AND THEN jump in the fight and share God’s love—the only thing that can provide true healing and make a lasting difference in this world.
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by Donya Dunlap | Jun 7, 2013 | Fiction
I thought I would do something a little different today and share a short story I wrote for a storytelling class. Fiction writing is still new for me so I’d love to hear your critiques, thoughts, suggestions and opinions in the comments!
Micah held his breath as he cracked open the door to his bedroom and peered down the hall. Finding it empty, he took a silent step and closed the door behind him. Carrying his shoes in his hand he decended the stairs, avoiding the middle of the fourth step down. He crossed through the living room and paused at the threshold to the kitchen, praying that the room would be clear. It wasn’t.
“Get over here boy!” Micah flinched at the explosion of sound. His father’s angry, bloodshot eyes glared at him while his own, blinking back tears of disappointment, watched his stocking feet shuffle across the linoleum.
“Look at this floor! Is this how your mother raised you? You ain’t good for nothin’! Out riding that bike all over this town and leavin’ this mess for me to tend to. Look at it. Look at it!”
Micah felt heat radiating from the back of his head where his father had taken hold of his hair. Each command for him to look around the room was punctuated by a shove and a shake. The mess wasn’t his, but it wouldn’t do to correct his father.
“I’m sorry Pops. I’ll get a rag and clean it up right now.”
“You better believe that’s what you’re gonna do. And you know what else you’re gonna do? You’re gonna clean up that. And that.” Micah winced with the impact of each bottle against the wall. He was far enough away that the splintering shards couldn’t reach him, but his father’s actions caused a pain that was much more real than if they had.
“You clean up this mess before I get back or I’m taking the broom handle to your back side. You hear me?”
The slamming of the back door punctuated his father’s threat, which Micah knew to be more of a promise. He stood very still until he was sure his father wasn’t coming back. The breath he had been holding escaped as he sank to the floor against the refrigerator and hugged his knees to his chest, willing them to cease their trembling.
Micah looked around the room and took account of the damage his father had caused during the night. From the back door to the kitchen table, was a trail of muddy footprints and dog food from the bowl that had been kicked across the room. The remainingbottles of the six-pack that had been used as ammunition minutes before lay on their sides on the kitchen table, empty of their contents. An open pizza box on the floor next to the table contained two dried crusts and a scattering of chicken wing bones.
A whimper from the direction of the laundry room reminded Micah of his plans for the day. “Hey buddy,” he said as he scratched the ears of his furry companion. “It’s okay. He’s gone for now. Help me clean up this floor, will ya?”
Max sniffed in the direction of the chicken bones and then busied himself with the scattered remnants of his last meal. Micah began to sweep as his mind raced with all the things he wished he could say to his father. A prick of glass in his finger opened the dam of hot tears he had been keeping in check. Leaning over the counter for support, Micah sobbed, creating another puddle that he would have to clean. He rubbed the tender spot on his head as his outburst of emotion calmed.
Once the last of the mess was in the trash, he and Max headed to the lake. Micah picked a sturdy branch from the ground and threw it as far as he could. Max returned it to him within seconds. With each toss, Micah’s fear abated and his anger grew.
“Do NOT sit in that chair and lie to this court. You are guilty! Your wife didn’t fall down those stairs. You pushed her! She would have lived to tell about it if you hadn’t been too drunk to take her to the hospital. You killed her! Admit it!”
Micah whirled around at that crunch of leaves behind him. A girl that looked to be about his age was walking her bicycle in his direction. Micah felt his face get hot, and turned back to Max so she wouldn’t notice.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked.
Micah shrugged his shoulders and tossed the stick again. “Nobody. Just my dog.” he replied.
“Well it sounds like you’re mighty upset with him.”
“Naw. I was just practicing for later.” The young girl gave Micah a puzzled look as she lowered her bike to the ground. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Jennie. Do you plan to yell at someone later today?” Micah watched the girl move through the grass and kick a pine cone towards the lake. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might have had a sister to play with if things had turned out differently.
“I wish.” he replied. “Not today, but some day. See that book over there by my bike? That’s a law book. I got it at the pawn shop by my house. I come out here and read it to Max and practice so I can be the best lawyer in Mississippi when I grow up. Someday I’m gonna put all the mean and angry drunks in this whole state in jail.”
***
“Ma’am, you’ve made it clear how busy you are, but I just can’t help you today. A few of my guys didn’t show. I got two cars draining and three more outside. If you can’t wait until tomorrow, I suggest you call Joe’s across town. There’s a pay phone outside.”
Micah felt the intended sting from the woman’s look but was too annoyed to dwell on it. The vibrant ring of the bell as she huffed through the door seemed out of place amidst the sound of the tools coming from the garage behind him and the thunder rolling near the edge of town. He grabbed the rag off the counter and tried to wipe a little more of the grease off his hands before assisting the older gentleman that was waiting to pay. He was relegated to the front of the shop today, yet that incessant oil seemed to cling to everything. Even the air in here felt thick. The bright shine of the gold band on his left hand stood out in stark contrast to the stains on his skin that never quite seemed to come clean. No matter what, that ring never seemed to dim. It was a constant reminder of why he was here, in this life, in this garage.
He got his first taste of motor oil back in shop class in ’94. About the same time that he got his first taste of Jennie’s candy cane red lipstick. Back then working on cars was his way of showing off and getting away from his gin soaked step-dad. He didn’t figure he’d still be in this God-forsaken town ten years later with the same shaggy haircut, the same pair of tattered gray-blue overalls and the same 5’2″ piece of dynamite that got him into that ring.
He remembered a day with weather similar to this one, but with a happier tone. He and Jennie were walking around the lake at the edge of town and talking about their plans for the future. He had just been accepted to Harvard and she was thinking about nursing school. He wanted to share his good news, but couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her he was moving away in just three short months.
Her laughter mingled with the sound of thunder drawing nearer to their special place. He loved the way the sun broke through the dark clouds, lighting upon her as if the universe was her stage and she had the leading role in the play. The celestial spotlight brought out the strands of gold in her amber hair. Her bright green eyes glistened with hope and excitement and just a tiny bit of trepidation at what might come. Her words barely registered in his mind, so captivated was he by the intoxicating sweetness that streamed from her every pore. His lips caught hers mid sentence and stole her thoughts.
For a brief flash of time, the lightning came within them. And then a moment later, it hit a tree just thirty yards from where they stood as the raindrops began to penetrate the canopy of leaves above them. With a squeal of surprise, Jennie slipped from his arms and darted for the pier at the bottom of the hill, grabbing his hand as she went. Their laughter seemed to open heaven’s dam. As the raindrops fell, so did their dedication to restraint. It was the only time they had broken their vow to wait until their wedding night. But as they would soon find out, it only takes once.
Micah closed the register and wished the customer a nice afternoon. A glance at the clock told him three more hours remained in his shift, but at least for now the steady stream of vehicular problems had come to a halt. He rummaged through his coat pockets for change to feed the vending machine and felt the pieces of the toy ring he had stepped on that morning. He deposited the coins in exchange for a Twinkie of questionable origin and headed to find the right tools for this most important task.
Micah shoved aside the sales receipts and pens and found a small tube of Super Glue at the back of his desk drawer. He looked at the tiny piece of jewelry and wondered what it would feel like to have another man place a ring on his baby’s left hand. Behind his closed eyes the twirling form of his little Savannah transforms into a young woman in a white dress, standing at the edge of a pond, holding the hands of a young man as the strands of her dark hair and a thin white veil blow gently in the breeze.
With a shake of his head he turned his attention back to his task, scolding himself for his melancholy. As he waited for the epoxy to dry, he glanced at the waiting room television. He was too far away to hear what was being said, but he didn’t need to. He knew exactly how the man felt as he watched his wife being rushed into surgery. His throat tightens as he tries to understand the doctor. Something is wrong with the baby. Jennie is crying. This is his fault. He had wished dozens of times that she had not gotten pregnant and now their baby was going to die. He wants to take it back. He wants to tell Jennie he is sorry for being angry with her, but the nurses are pushing him away from the bed. The alarms on the monitors seem so far away. Where were they taking her? He tries to follow them, but a man in scrubs has a hand on his chest. He points to a chair outside the swinging doors and tells him to stay there. How could he sit? He needs to be with Jennie. He needs to hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be okay. Their little girl was going to be okay. Wasn’t she?
An oil pan rattled to the floor and jolted Micah back to the present. A pink plastic oval surrounded by tiny white “diamonds” sparkled at him under the bench lamp. A gentle tug ensured that the toy treasure was indeed as good as new. He thought of Savannah’s quivering chin this morning when his bare foot had located this tiny piece of shrapnel. He had been ready to snap at her for leaving it out on the living room floor until he saw her face. She would be so pleased that he had fixed it for her.
Micah leaned against the rails that allowed the large, garage bay doors to glide open and closed at the beginning and end of his days. The sounds of the local country station, the various tools at work and the brotherly banter between the two men under the cars formed a soothing soundtrack to his thoughts. He studied the steel gray clouds fighting to be the first to cross the tree line and rolled his wedding ring between his fingers as if it were a coin. It had only been six years since his wedding day, but sometimes it felt like he was an old man trapped inside a 24 year old body. He prayed he wasn’t turning into his old man.
The jingle of the shop bell brought Micah back to the present. With a sigh, and a, “Be right there,” he placed the ring back on his finger and headed for the register.
“Daddy!”
“Hey Princess. What are you two doing here?
Jennie gave Micah a quick kiss on the cheek. “I know you’re busy, but we have a present for you and Savannah wouldn’t nap for being so excited.”
“Head over to the break room and I’ll be right there.” Micah pointed towards the back of the waiting area and yelled for Jimmy to listen for the bell. He glanced down at the ring that symbolized so much mystery and so much happiness at once.
He remembered the dampness of the early morning ground seeping into his jeans as he kneeled before Jennie with a smaller version of the same ring in his hand. He could only afford a simple band, but he couldn’t tell Jennie he was leaving without giving her a symbol to promise his return and his faithfulness while he was gone. He thought at first his hand was filling with her tears of joy, but then he heard her whisper, “I’m pregnant.” In that instant he knew he would never leave her.
He closed the break room door and knelt before the tiny replica of Jennie that stood before him. In her little five-year-old hands she held a thin, rectangular box wrapped in green and red paper leftover from the Christmas before. It was obviously awkward for her to hold, but she had insisted that she be the one to give her daddy the present.
“I picked out the paper myself and helped mommy with the tape.” she said. “You did good baby girl.” he replied as he took the package from her arms.
Micah began to slowly loosen the paper all the way around the edges so he could have more time to watch Savannah dance with excitement. As the paper fell from the box to the ground he thought of the day of her birth and realized how empty life would be without her.
Jennie cleared her throat, betraying the nervousness she was trying to hide. As was her manner when she had something important to say, she began to move, as if her body was trying to help her mind form the words. She simultaneously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with one hand and tapped the counter beside her with the other. She began to explain the gift, taking a half step toward him and then back again as her hands accompanied her words with an unintelligible sign language.
“Do you remember a few weeks back when I found your wallet at the bottom of the laundry pile?” Jennie’s eyes shifted from Micah to the broken thumb nail she had gotten while washing dishes that day. She rubbed her index finger over the uneven surface, noting the stark difference of the white of the revealed nail next to the bright red of the polish that matched her gingham top.
“Well, I pulled out the picture of me from Senior year to read what I had written on the back and found the little piece of paper you had folded up behind it.”
Micah paused to look at her, holding the partially opened, paperless shirt box in mid air. Jennie’s eyes sifted from her nail to his face and back again.
“When I saw what it was I realized—well, I thought about how hard things had been for you with the medical bills, me being so sick after Savannah was born and then all the early mornings running that paper route just so we could buy formula. You work so hard here and at the horse farm on the weekends and all I do is complain about never seeing you and whine about not ever having enough money.” Micah watched her face flush. It was one of the things he loved about her. Her every emotion was painted on her face. She dropped her eyes and twisted her wedding band around her finger.
Well, momma had called to tell me about Uncle Danny that morning and there I was folding your tattered t-shirts and thinking about what to do with the money when we got it. I had already sold the house and was decorating the new one in my mind complete with a walk-in closet full of new clothes when that paper fell into the sock pile. When I unfolded it I felt so ashamed.” She looked into Micah’s eyes, silently pleading with him to understand what she was trying to say.
Micah rubbed his hair with his free hand, squinted his eyes and did the funny thing with his lips that he did when he was trying to figure out the directions to assembling one of Savannah’s toys on Christmas morning. “Jennie…I don’t care that you looked at my wallet. What money are you talking about? Uncle Danny died six months ago.”
“Baby, I’m trying to say that I understand what you did. When I saw the seal and return address of Harvard on that scrap of torn paper, I knew you had been accepted and never told me. I knew you did it for me. For us. And I knew right then that God was making things right for you. For our family.” She gestured toward the box. “Open it.”
Micah handed the lid of the box to Savannah and took out a dark brown, leather bound portfolio. Embossed in the lower right corner was the name Micah James Crowley.
“See, momma called that morning to tell me that Uncle Danny had left us some money in his will, and I was going to tell you that night at dinner, but then I found the paper. I decided to do a little digging and I made some phone calls and wrote a letter and I’ve been praying every day…”
“Open it daddy. Open it.” Savannah pulled his pant leg to accent her command.
“I don’t care about living in Jackson anymore. We can come see after momma during holidays and we can make new friends. I know I’m always complaining about the cold, but it’ll be okay. Momma understands and she wants this for you. For all of us really.” She reached down and lifted Savannah onto her hip.
Micah released the bronze colored clasp and opened the portfolio to reveal a brand new pad of yellow legal paper, a Cross fountain pen with his name embossed on the barrel and a sheet of fine linen stationary with the same regal looking seal that he had kept in his old, worn wallet all these years.
“Jennie. This is an acceptance letter. How…? When did you…?”
“Well, it took some doing, but I got your mom to bring down your high school boxes from her attic and I found your transcripts and the original letter. I wrote to the school to see if they would consider letting you in even though it’s been a few years. You have to take an entrance exam and maybe some remedial classes, but they said yes. Law school is waiting for you if you still want it.”
Micah set down the box and walked over to the cabinets next to the refrigerator. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a large volume of case law with dozens of brightly colored slips of paper poking out from the edges.
“Remember this? I had it with me the first day we met. I still read it once in a while when it gets slow around here.” Jennie laughed and nodded. Micah looked intently into her eyes. “Are you sure? Have you thought about what this means for us?”
Jennie gave him a shaky smile. “I’m nervous, but I’m sure. It will be difficult, but we’ll make it. You were by my side when I needed you most. Now it’s your turn.”
Micah stood quietly for a moment more. Returning the book to its hiding place, he grabbed Jennie’s hand and pulled the two of them into his arms and flashed them the grin that Jennie fell in love with so many years before “Well then, I guess we need to go shopping. Massachusetts is pretty chilly this time of year.”
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