Free Rain Dance by Joy DeKok

While I cleared the table, Ben ran the pie to our neighbors. We knew seven-year-old Brady next door loved chocolate.
    I heard the kitchen door slam and Ben kicking off his shoes. “Brady says thanks.” Ben grinned and added, “I think he has a crush on you.”
    “He’s a sweet boy.”
    “What are your plans for now?”
    I shrugged. “Read for a while, I think.”
    “I guess I’ll watch the races.”
    Curled up in the living room with a new book and my goblet of bubbly juice, I heard Ben turn on the big screen television in our basement. Racing was meant to be experienced in surround sound with the volume turned up.
    I got up and put an instrumental CD on hoping the simple music might revive my parched soul.
    “Lord, I know Your Word says we are all sinners and fall short of Your glory. But where does it say You punish sin this way? What about the millions of babies aborted each year? Isn’t there sin in their mothers’ lives? Many of them get to conceive again later. What about the mothers who abuse their children? They still get to have them. Even good mothers sin—don’t they?
    God remained quiet. No verses of wisdom or comfort eased across my mind.
    Through the window I watched the wind move a single oak leaf hanging onto its branch. The others had fallen when the frost loosened their grip or the snow weighed them down. My conversation with God changed directions.
    I’m going to hang on to You the way this leaf is hanging on this branch. I don’t understand, but I refuse to let go of You.
     
    Monday morning I woke up angry again and decided to clean house. I spared no room, drawer, cupboard, or closet. Sweating, I turned off the furnace and cracked a few windows open. On the CD player, Charlie Daniels sang about redemption. His passionate, Cajun Christian country struck a tender chord in my heart and started to thaw the icy edges.
    “Shoot!” I murmured. I’d wanted to stay angry a little bit longer.
    I walked through the house later, admiring the shining furniture, polished wood floors, and sanitized bathrooms. I took a deep breath. Lemon wax, scrubbing bubbles, tropical breeze cleanser, and vinegar glass cleaner mingled with the cool air from outside. I enjoyed the smell of a clean house almost as much a dozen roses or fresh brewed coffee.
    A little later as I poured myself a hot cup of Colombian roast, I thought, Two out of three ain’t bad. Then, the doorbell rang, and a delivery guy dropped off a dozen yellow roses. The card read, Just because. Love, Ben. Some days you just can’t lose.
    My peace was short lived.
     
     
     
    Tuesday morning I went to Bible study even though I knew Della would be there. Every week I hesitated about going. The women in the study were either young mothers or older women—mothers of adults and grandmothers. All of them had delivery room war stories. The whole group relived them every time someone else got pregnant. Even though I dreaded these announcements, I wanted to connect, and so I went. Our pastor’s wife, Janice, led the study, and her wisdom and gift of teaching made it worth the effort.
    Life blind-sided me on that gray and blustery day. I entered the library, jiggled loose a Styrofoam cup, and poured some coffee. I settled in at the long table we used and watched rain spatter the window. Della and her best friend, Bernice walked in and went to the coffee table.
    “I think you might be right, Della. Although I wonder . . . maybe the Lord knows Jonica wouldn’t be a good mother so He is withholding a child from her.”
    Things moved in slow motion for a moment. Raw, untamed, and unfamiliar emotions swept through me. I wanted to hit something—or someone.
    Instead, I gripped my cup, crumpling it. Hot coffee and tears hit my skin at the same time. I jumped up, staring at the spill.
    I heard Bernice say, “Jonica, we didn’t see you.”
    Looking at the two of them, I wanted to hurl swear words at them. A few choice ones crossed my now not-so-pure