Comfort & Joy

Outside, I collapse onto a park bench and lean back. My heart is beating a mile a minute.

I look up just in time to see Daniel and Bobby come out of the ice-cream shop. Both are frowning.

“Are you okay?” Bobby asks me.

I can see it in his eyes, the fear and worry. He is a boy who knows how life can turn on a dime, how people can be there one day and gone the next.

“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m not. I’m not even in fine’s neighborhood.

They’re searching for me.

What do I do now? How much longer do I have in anonymity?

My purse. They could find my purse.

“What is it?” Daniel asks, looking down at us.

I’m panicked and shaky. I want to say I can’t go back, but the words would make no sense to him. When I look up, I catch Daniel’s gaze and lose my place. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes my heart speed up.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

His concern touches a place deep inside me. I have bee

n alone—lonely—for too long. Apparently the slimmest strand of caring surprises me. I am stunned by how much I suddenly want to stay here. And yet, now I know that the clock is ticking. Once they discover my name, I will have to return home.

“I’m fine. Really. ”

I get to my feet, feeling unsteady. Bobby sidles up close to me.

Together, the three of us walk down the crowded street. The decorated windows catch my attention, give me something to think about beside the news story. Occasionally, we go into stores, and when we do, we are welcomed. People look at us and smile and wish us a Merry Christmas. Dozens of knickknacks and souvenirs tempt me; an ornament made of Mount St. Helens’ ash, a wind chime made of copper and shells, a T-shirt that reads: “Wet and wild in the rainforest,” but I don’t have any money with me. I make a mental note to come back to some of these shops on my way out of town. I’ll want to add plenty of brochures and flyers and maps to my file cabinets back home.

Back home.

I push the thought aside and focus on enjoying the day.

We stroll pass a diner with a Christmas painting on the window, then a frame shop.

Bobby stops dead.

I glance down at him. “Bobby?”

He’s staring at the building to our right. It’s a gorgeous stone church with stained glass windows, a big oak door, and a nativity scene in the yard.

Daniel looks down at his son. “We could go in and light a candle for your mum. ”

Bobby shakes his head, juts out his chin in a telling way. He isn’t going to move.

“Maybe Christmas Eve,” Daniel says gently, taking hold of his son’s hand.

For the next half hour, we window-shop on Main Street, and then Daniel buys a bucket of fried chicken and we sit at a picnic table in the park to eat. Bobby sets out a paper plate, napkins, and a fork for me, but to be honest, I’m not hungry. The news story has ruined my appetite. Apparently I’m not the only one who has been upset by our little trip to town.

“So, Bobby,” Daniel finally says, snapping open a Coke. “You want to talk about it?”

Bobby stares down at his plate. “Talk about what?”

“You being mad at God. ”

He shrugs.