Free Sufficient Grace by Amy Espeseth Page A

hollow eyes are still red-rimmed and burning like coals. ‘Pastor’s staying in prayer, so we’ll walk.’ Her lips are straight and tight; she don’t let her thoughts betray her none, even if she’s got some betrayal in her.
    When my mom suggests a ride, taking it in turns since we all won’t fit at once, Gloria shakes her head and keeps that rigid mouth.
    And Naomi starts in, whining and complaining about her good shoes and the snow and wind whipping up her dress. ‘The ride is here, Momma. Can’t we take it?’ Naomi stamps her feet, trying to thaw through her legs, and wraps her purple scarf higher around her face. ‘It’s not my fault.’ Naomi’s eyes are always so brown and wide and warm, but tonight they are blinking and squinting against the cold. She is moaning and carrying on, but Samuel stands still, hands holding on to his elbows. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak. He is without a hat, and his hair catches in the wind; he isn’t wearing a jacket, just his Sunday button-down shirt and a sweater. His sister keeps on going. She makes the whimpering of a turned-aside calf.
    There is no moving her, Gloria; she chooses the hard way for its own sake. She silences Naomi with a fierce look and points her chin at Samuel, slumping silent and head down. ‘Thank you, family, but we’ll live.’ And she pushes Samuel in the back, forcing him to walk ahead of her while she holds Naomi to her side.
    Mom shuts the truck door and then reopens it and yanks it fast again; it never catches the first time closed. The rubber inside the door has cracked and come away, but it will seal eventually given enough firm direction. As they walk away, Samuel dragging his feet one step ahead of Naomi and Gloria huddled together against the wind, the night seems to get darker with stars burning millions of miles away moving even farther from us. Maybe the moon has gone behind a cloud.
    Mom’s fingers kneading her sore leg lets me know she is troubled, that none of it sits right with her neither. ‘He’s on his knees,’ is all she says, and she starts her humming, her heart reaching out to the Lord.
    Whether she means Ingwald or Samuel, I’m unaware, but she does not speak against the anointed. We don’t always know another way. Daddy and Reuben clamber into the truck, snow clumping off their arms and melting onto our warmer bodies.
    As he clunks the truck into reverse, Daddy takes one look at Mom and holds up his other hand. ‘Don’t start, Marie. I can’t tell my brother what to do. They’ll survive the walk.’
    And Mom keeps on humming, looking straight out the window. Then she pauses her song. ‘Who will Ingwald pray for when there’s no one left?’
    The engine churns under the hood.
    It is a dark, cold night, and we are all tired and in need of rest. The truck has warmed long enough; we begin our journey home.

7
    GRANDMA’S BARN NEEDS RE-SHINGLING . MOSTLY IN TATTERS, the shingles left hanging on the roof through this past summer’s storms are starting to slip under the weight of wind and wet. Every now and then, you can see them dropping to the dirt, caught on a blowing gust like crumpled maple leaves leftover from fall. Where the shingles land, they smudge the snow, and Grandma says that from her kitchen the roof looks like a patchy cur dog with mange. That can’t be good. Seems like most the barns in our area burn down before they fall down; we’ve had three go just this last year. But Grandma don’t want to lose that barn no matter what.
    We women are clearing the table after Thanksgiving dinner. Even though my foot hurts, I have to help. We scrape and stack the plates near the sink where Grandma is running the faucet. The hot water steams up the window that looks across the farmyard; each of the four panes of glass is clouding over, and the barn is now out of sight. The shingles