Free The Beloved Daughter by Alana Terry Page B

tired. Would you do me a favor?”
    “Anything,” I promised, as curious as I was earnest. I wondered what I could possibly do to repay the Old Woman for her friendship and encouragement.
    The Old Woman took a deep and labored breath. Inside her chest was a dry rattle that made me cringe. “Such a dear child,” she croaked, almost to herself. It was not until that moment that I realized the Old Woman’s body was subject to sickness and weakness just as mine was. The thought was terrifying. “I am so very tired,” she repeated. “It would be an honor if my little daughter would pray over my weary soul and body.”
    I confess to you, beloved daughter, that I was disappointed by the Old Woman’s request. I was ready to strip off my clothes in order to give my friend extra warmth, to forgo food for a week in order to provide her with additional rations, to deny myself sleep in order to offer her my lap as a pillow as she did so often for me.
    Nevertheless, I couldn’t refuse the Old Woman’s request, however incompetent I felt. I held her feeble hand, shut my eyes, and mumbled some pitiful prayer about comfort and rest and protection. I was certain that I failed the Old Woman, but when I was done, she pressed my hand weakly and whispered, “Thank you, little daughter” before another coughing fit racked her entire body.

 
     
     
    Hovering
     
    “We ourselves … groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” Romans 8:23
     

     
    The next day I was surprised to find the Old Woman still asleep when the electricity was turned on. Every morning for the past nine months, I woke up to the sound of the Old Woman singing hymns or speaking her prayers in her low, croaking voice. When she saw me, she would stop and smile, the joy from her face illuminating our entire cell. “And how is my righteous daughter today?” she would ask. We would spend the rest of the day together in quiet rest or deep conversation.
    But this morning, the Old Woman didn’t wake up as usual. Her breathing remained as rattled as it was the night before. Through her threadbare prison garments, the Old Woman’s ribcage pulled and tugged with each labored breath. I didn’t want to admit to myself what was clear before my eyes: my friend and mentor was sick. A familiar sense of fear and dread swept over me. I still couldn’t understand why I was here in this cell, but I knew that my nine-month respite from beatings and torture was solely the result of my relationship with the Old Woman. My body grew hot and ached with memories of torment and agony.
    As I watched the Old Woman sleeping, looking fifteen years older and ten kilograms lighter than she did the previous day, an even deeper fear than that of torture crept into my spirit. In the Old Woman’s presence, I experienced peace and joy like I hadn’t known since before Father was arrested. If the Old Woman died, I was terrified that every ounce of conviction that was born once again in my heart after my father’s death would be buried with her forever.
    God , I prayed, I need her so much. Don’t take her away.
    The Old Woman moaned and cracked open one of her blue eyes. “Little daughter?” she whispered. I rushed to kneel by her side. I touched her forehead. The Old Woman felt cold and moist.
    I squeezed the Old Woman’s hand; her presence seemed to be my only source of hope or strength. “What do you need?” The Old Woman looked at me and squinted without answering. I tried to slow my racing heart and then asked again, “Can I get something for you?”
    “Water,” the Old Woman croaked. Her gray hair hung over her forehead in clumps.
    I ran to the locked door of our cell. “Help!” I called out through the bars. “Please help us!” Although I never addressed a guard in my entire tenure in the detention center, I didn’t worry for my safety. I knew the guards scurried like ants to show the Old Woman their deference and wasn’t