Free Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson

working at the carpet store he’d owned for over forty years until “Mama Martha,” as the locals called her, put her foot down and said it was time for them to enjoy some retirement, buy a motor home, take the Alaska Highway, do something before they had to hang it up.
    They never did buy that motor home.
    I sighed and hunted for the cordless. At least my mom was young enough to manage on her own. I was the youngest of three, a “happy accident,” Daddy used to tease—though they hadn’t been very happy with me when I dropped out of college, got engaged to a man I met in France (whom they met for the first time at a lavish Virginia wedding), and settled in that foreign country called The South.
    I finally found the phone in the cushions of the wraparound couch where I’d talked to the boys the day before. At least we were Central time now, same as most of North Dakota. I dialed.
    The phone picked up on the other end. “Hello?”
    â€œHappy Easter, Mom.”
    â€œOh! Happy Easter to you too. I’m so glad you called, honey. I thought about calling you, but didn’t know about the time difference in Alaska.”
    â€œMom! It’s Gabby. I’m in Chicago, remember?”
    My mother seemed flustered. “Oh, well, that’s right. You’ll be leaving for church soon, I suppose.”
    Even though that’s exactly what I’d been wanting to do, I felt a tug of irritation. “We just moved here, Mom. Haven’t found a church yet.”
    â€œWell, sure. But I bet there’re some good Easter services on the TV. How are the boys?”
    That did it. I started to blubber and ended up having a good cry. Nothing like talking to your mama when you’re feeling homesick and missing your kids.
    When I hung up twenty minutes later, I picked up the remote to the plasma TV embedded in the wall and clicked it on. Sure enough, a large choir in white and gold robes was joyously singing, “Christ the Lord is risen today-ay, Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-le-eh-lu-u-jah!” I got a fresh cup of coffee, tried two or three other channels, and finally settled on the Chicago Community Choir, taped earlier that week, singing Handel’s Messiah. The choir looked like a ten-bean soup packet, all sorts of colors and shapes. The choir wore white blouses and shirts topping black skirts or pants—except for the occasional blue shirt or orange blouse of someone who for-got the dress code. I closed my eyes and just listened as the majestic music took over our living room.
    Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . .
    He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised
for our iniquities. The chastisement of our peace was upon
Him . . .
    and with His stripes we are healed . . .
    â€œWhooee. What a run!” Philip’s voice broke into the choral music. “I’m starving. Is breakfast ready?” Flushed and sweaty, my husband stuck his head into the living room. “What’s this?”
    I held up my hand for quiet. I wasn’t ready for Philip to return.
    . . . All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all . . .
    In the background, I could hear stuff being banged around in the kitchen, and minutes later the shower running in the master bath. Well, he could just wait for breakfast or get his own. Why did he expect me to jump up and take care of him? It was Easter Sunday, after all. And right now I was mesmerized by the familiar and yet strangely new words and music . . .
    How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things! . . .
    Humph. My own feet were tucked up under me, pretty much not caring if my husband got any breakfast or not.
    â€œBring glad tidings of good things?” Oh well, why not. I reached for the remote, turned down the volume, and pushed myself off the couch. By the time Philip