Why Does God Allow Hardships?
An article written and published on https://www.whatchristianswanttoknow.com/why-does-god-allow-hardships/.
Knitting Lessons
Knitting Lessons is a story about an unlikely friendship and the meaning of love. I hope you enjoy it!
Dashing across the front yard, I ran up our neighbor’s porch stairs and knocked on her door. Mrs. Nelson had come home from the hospital just this morning, so Mom had dished up some lasagna and asked me to take it over.
Shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, I wondered what could be taking her so long. Finally, I heard a bolt slide back and the door opened. Mrs. Nelson peered out.
“Jasmine! What a wonderful surprise!”
I was startled to see how much weight Mrs. Nelson had shed. Her clothes hung from her frail body. Her lovely round face, once the color of coffee beans, had shriveled to the likeness of a peach well past its prime.
I held out the container. “Mother thought you might like some lasagna.”
Mrs. Nelson pushed the door open, holding tightly to her walker. “Come in, child.”
I shook my head. “I… I have the sniffles. I really shouldn’t –.”
She frowned. “I need to use both hands on the walker. If you could just pop in and set the food on the table, I’d really appreciate it.”
I stepped inside, trying to smile convincingly as I edged past her, then set the container on the chipped Formica table top.
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Nelson said, her walker clicking as she padded along behind me. “How are you and your mother doing?”
“Fine.” I nodded. “And you?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she said, lowering herself into a recliner. “The doctors aren’t very optimistic but, ultimately, it’s in God’s hands.”
The next day, I brought beef stew. When I knocked, Mrs. Nelson called out for me to come in. She was sitting in the same place I’d left her the day before.
“Stew,” I said, holding up the container.
“Thank you, Jasmine. You and your Mom are so thoughtful!”
She was knitting a daffodil-yellow blanket, her hands flying along as she deftly wrapped a strand of yarn around a needle, then pulled it through in a loop which she worked into a stitch. Her fingers were gnarled with arthritis, each finger bent at the knuckles like a row of men hunched over their work. I watched in awe, mesmerized as her needles whipped across one row, then another.
“Do you knit?” Mrs. Nelson asked, as she stabbed, looped, pulled, and tweaked the yarn.
“No. But I’d like to.”
“Pull up a chair then and I’ll teach you.”
She handed me a pair of aluminum needles and a skein of dark grey worsted.
“Grey?” I frowned. “How about something a bit more colorful?”
“Grey will do just fine for now. Believe me, you’ll do plenty of stitching and tearing apart before you’re ready to work a project. Now, make a slipknot.”
I gave her a blank look.
“Oh child, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
Taking the yarn, she tied a slipknot, then poked one needle into the loop, showing me how to jab, loop, then pull the yarn through and over.
“Now you try.”
I held the needles stiffly, thrusting them together, like two rams butting heads.
“Relax your arms. Lower the needles. They’re supposed to work together, not against each other.”
The thick yarn felt strange as it wound through my fingers. The needles flopped like wet, slippery fish in my unskilled hands. I plunged the right needle through the next stitch, then attempted to loop the yarn over it. The thread resisted, a rebel in my bumbling hands.
Mrs. Nelson resumed her own knitting, tactfully ignoring my clumsy efforts. I glanced over, watching as her needles clicked away, obedient little pixies in the service of their master. She made it look so easy.
The next day, I didn’t fight with the needles as much. Soon, I had a big, grey square that didn’t look too bad.
“Let me show you something,” Mrs. Nelson said, leading me to the guestroom.
The bed was piled high with blankets in shades of purple, red, orange, blue, green, and yellow. A rainbow of love, all knit by hand.
I was shocked. “What’s all this?”
“Blankets for an orphanage overseas. I don’t have much to give those poor babies. But I can knit.”
“How many blankets have you made so far?”
“One hundred and twenty-six.”
I gasped. “That many?”
“But not nearly enough,” she murmured, tears pooling in her eyes.
Spring warmed into summer. I started helping with the blankets. Blue, pink, purple, lavender, and bright yellow yarns worked their way through my fingers, onto my needles, slowly emerging as blankets that would provide warmth and comfort to many children.
But as the summer wore away and autumn brought cooler weather, Mrs. Nelson seemed to shrivel like the leaves falling from the trees. She was barely five feet now, a stooped little figure, struggling for every breath. I knew she was still fighting, but I wasn’t convinced she was winning.
It was mid-September when Mrs. Nelson died. For several weeks after the funeral I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a pair of knitting needles. I told myself I needed time to heal. How could I knit without my teacher, my mentor, my friend? It just wasn’t the same.
It was almost Halloween when I arrived home to find a moving van in Mrs. Nelson’s driveway. Her daughter was cleaning out the house. Several large bags had been placed on our doorstep. Dragging them inside, I opened the first one. It was full of yarn. Like a bag of Skittles burst open, colorful skeins in pinks, reds, yellows, and blues spilled out onto the floor. A note lay among the skeins.
I picked it up and read, “For my sweet Jasmine. Remember me with each stitch you knit. Love, Mrs. Nelson.”
In that moment, I knew I had to continue the blanket project in her honor. For in teaching me to knit, she had taught me something far more valuable; she had taught me how to love.
© Renee Vajko Srch, April 2018
Charity
The old woman sat on the cathedral steps, hunched against the strong breeze blowing in from Lake Michigan. Her gnarled, chapped fingers tugged at her thin sweater as she fought to quell the shivering that racked her frail body. The cardboard sign resting against her bare legs read, Homeless. Anything helps. Beside her, an old rusty Campbell’s soup can held two copper coins.
Instinctively, she cocked her head as the massive wooden doors of the Cathedral opened. Worshippers emerged, scattering like ants as they rushed off after Mass. A few seconds later, the doors closed with a thump. A pair of sleek, black Oxfords scampered down the steps, paused for a second at the bottom, then scurried away.
The woman hung her head and pulled her sweater tighter as she slumped against the hard, cold handrail. The prospect of a hot meal before nightfall seemed as distant as the stars. She closed her eyes, like shutters blocking out the world, and drifted off to sleep.
The click of high heels startled her awake. She stirred, forcing open her heavy eyelids as a pair of bright red stillettos approached, then paused near the bottom step. Lifting her gaze, the old woman spied a slender brunette, snugging the collar of her
cashmere coat about her neck with her right hand. Her left hand, which boasted a very large diamond, clutched a Harrods shopping bag. The elderly woman couldn’t help but wonder how many hungry mouths that ring could feed.
The shopper set down her purchases and reached into her purse. For a brief second, the street beggar allowed an inkling of hope to take form, then watched it shatter like glass as the young woman whipped out a smart-phone and raised it to her ear.
“Hey, sweetie!” the brunette said. She leaned down to retrieve her shopping bag then tottered off, head bent against the blustery day.
The old woman’s stomach rumbled. Reaching into her coat pocket, she withdrew a granola bar. She’d eaten half yesterday, saving the other half for today. Breaking off a small piece, she placed it on her tongue, savoring the sweet blend of honey and oats. She chewed slowly, trying to entice as much pleasure as she could from this one tiny morsel. Despite the hunger pangs gnawing at her stomach, she squirrelled away the last tiny morsel, huddling on the cold stone steps as she prayed some kindhearted soul would come her way.
The rhythmic patter of soles woke the old woman from a light slumber. She’d dozed off again, head leaning against the chilly, iron railing. A priest passed by, black patent leather shoes peeping out from under his cassock as he headed to evening
Mass. He glanced at her, seemed to hesitate for a second, then continued up the steps. Behind her, the cathedral door closed with a finality that robbed her of any last shred of hope. If he didn’t care, who would?
The wretched woman closed her eyes against the tears threatening to spill. The realization came to her that if she died on these steps, she would just be another nameless vagrant among so many others huddling on the city streets. Searching her pockets for a scrap of paper, she pulled out an old gum wrapper. She brought it to her nose and took a long sniff of sweet, fruity goodness. Ah, the simple pleasures of the poor!
Fingers numb with cold, she struggled to hold the nub of the pencil she’d used to write her sign. Through a blurr of tears, the homeless woman scribbled these words: “My name is Charity Darby.” Snorting at the irony of her life, she stuffed the wrapper back into her pocket and reached for her tin can, ready to leave the catheral steps in search of a warm place to sleep. Dusk was setting in and with it came the dangers of the night.
Out of nowhere, a large hand snatched up her soup can. She blanched and shrank back against the steps, fearful her assailant would take more than her two coins. But as she looked up at the stranger, she saw only kindness in his soft, brown eyes.
Behind him stood a woman, her skin a deep honey-brown. Her shaby head-scarf and thin dress seemed so inadequate against the frigid wind. Two small children held
her hands, both clad in well-worn clothes that appeared a tad too big. Probably refugees, thought the old woman.
The young mother spoke rapidly to her husband in a foreign language. He nodded, slipped something into the beggar’s can, then set it back down. Eyes wide open with surprise, the old woman nodded her thanks, then smiled at the mother and her two children. They nodded in return, then hurried up the street.
The homeless woman reached into her can and pulled out the contents. Hands shaking, she counted out ten one-dollar bills. Small change for most, but to her it represented a fortune. If she was careful with the money, she’d have enough to buy food for several days.
Struggling to her feet, she picked up her sign and shuffled down the street, anticipation in every step. She knew a food vendor where she could buy a thick, juicy burger for just one dollar. She chuckled at the thought of shedding her hunger, at least for a while, and maybe even finding a warm bed at one of the Missions. Hope was slowly returning.
As she rounded the corner onto State street, she almost stumbled over an old man huddled in a doorway. His red, chaffed hands held a sign that read Homeless. As the old woman glanced at the beggar, she remembered the shopper, the priest and the refugees.
Without a second thought, she asked him, “Care to join me for a hamburger? My treat.”
The look on the old man’s face was answer enough.
© Renee Vajko Srch, January 2017
The Intruder
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s in my house,” I whispered into the phone.
I’d barely fallen asleep when I was awakened by noises downstairs. Someone had broken in. At first, I’d assumed it was my cat, Ginger, but she was still curled up at the foot of my bed.
“Where are you right now?” the dispatcher said.
“Hiding in my closet.”
I jumped as a loud crash carried up the stairs. Shying further back, I prayed the intruder wouldn’t come searching for me.
“A squad car is on the way. Stay on the line with me until the officers arrive.”
The sound of glass breaking sent a shiver up my spine. Come on, come on, come on, I thought, willing the police to speed up.
The day I’d moved into the renovated barn fifteen miles out of town, I’d believed myself the luckiest girl alive. The beautiful, quiet location on the edge of Stockton Lake was an artist’s dream. I had only to glance out my window to find inspiration. In the two months since I’d moved in, I’d completed a dozen paintings. Creativity was flowing like a river after a heavy spring rain.
Now I was questioning whether I’d made the right choice. Living in such an isolated location rendered me vulnerable to crooks. Latched windows could be smashed, locked doors could be busted open. In the time it took the police to arrive, a burglar could commit quite a bit of damage. Or was it they? Were there several? The thought sent a shiver up my spine.
Something brushed up against my leg. A squeal of fright burst from my lips. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I hoped the sound hadn’t carried downstairs.
“Ginger!” I hissed as the cat let out a soft meow. “You scared me witless.”
Fat lot of good she was, hiding in the closet with me. Maybe it was time to consider a dog. Something brave and fierce-looking on the outside yet sweet and gentle as a lamb on the inside.
Another crash produced a whimper. Where are you? I silently pleaded for the police to hurry.
“Are you okay?” the dispatcher said, her voice calm and reassuring.
I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see me cowering in the dark. “Yes.”
“Hang tight. Officers should arrive any second.”
The faint sound of a siren made my heart leap.
“They’re here. Thank you,” I said, then hung up.
The siren grew louder, luring me from my hiding place. Red and blue lights strobed the bedroom ceiling.
“Police! Come out with your hands up.”
I strained to listen. No one responded.
“I repeat, come out with your hands up.”
A second police car sped up the driveway, spitting up gravel. Car doors slammed. Voices barked orders.
“This is your final warning. Come out now. We have the place surrounded.”
Nothing. I waited a beat, then another. Suddenly, the front door burst open. Feet pounded inside, moving swiftly through the ground floor then up the stairs.
“Clear. Clear. Clear,” voices called out, one after the other.
Pulling my bathrobe tighter around me, I flipped on the bedroom light.
“Hands up!” a burly man with a Glock yelled, swooping into the room.
“I’m the one who made the 911 call,” I said, arms raised. His name tag read Jenkins. “I live here.”
He noted the bathrobe and slippers and lowered his gun. “We don’t have eyes on the intruder yet but he left a mess in his wake.”
As I trailed Officer Jenkins down the stairs, one of the other officers spoke into his shoulder mic. “Sir, we have located the suspect.”
Jenkins gestured for me to stay put. Rushing down the last four steps, he sprinted into the kitchen. I heard a guffaw followed by several bursts of laughter.
Dashing down the stairs, I paused on the last step and drew in a breath. Lamps had been knocked to the floor, their glass domes shattered into fragments. Books lay in a heap, their bindings broken. Water from the cat’s dish had pooled under its base, staining the wood floor.
A tall form stepped through from the kitchen, startling me. “We’ve located your intruder, ma’am.”
The officer waved me into the kitchen. I stepped through the doorway, nervous, yet eager to meet the person responsible for those fifteen minutes of terror. Five officers surrounded the culprit, the hint of a smile on their faces.
My eyes widened. “My Roomba?”
“Somehow it must have switched itself on and was crashing into furniture, knocking the books and lamps over.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Hey, no harm done – except to your house. If I were you, I’d unplug it when you go to bed or leave the house.” He pointed to the cat who had just wandered in. “Your cat might have accidentally activated it by stepping on the power button.”
“Ginger! Did you trigger all of this?”
With a swish of her tail, my orange cat sauntered across the room and fled out the cat door.
“Again, I’m so sorry I called you out here for nothing. Guess I should have gone down and checked.”
“You did the right thing waiting for us. If there had been an armed intruder you might have been shot.”
I watched them leave then wandered back into the house. I would need to call someone in the morning to fix my door. Fetching a dustpan and brush, I began sweeping up the broken glass. From the next room, I heard a faint bleep.
Padding into the kitchen, I noticed the Roomba’s green light was lit. “Artificial intelligence? Right. More like artificial impudence. I have half a mind to trade you in for a broom or a vacuum cleaner. At least they won’t cause any damage.”
With a loud bleep, the Roomba made an about-turn then made a break for it, sweeping through the cat door and out into the night.
© Renee Vajko Srch, June 2022