A Different Kind of Yellow

The restaurant was as full as I expected for a Friday night. My agenda was simple—order dinner and go home.


An elderly woman sat on the only available bench in the crowded restaurant with a dozen or so individuals lingering around the takeout counter. After placing my order I pardoned my way through the waiting crowd until I reached the bench.

“May I?”

She nodded and tried to scoot closer to the wall.

I sat as close as I could to the large barrel that pinned us in.

The door on the other side of the barrel opened and closed with new customers arriving and satisfied ones leaving. The unusual briskness in the night air crept in with each opportunity and nipped at my bare ankles. I tucked my legs under the bench.

“Cold one for this time of the year,” my seat mate commented.

I smiled. “Yes.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, thinking our conversation had ended.

“Worked all day and decided I wasn’t about to cook,” she continued.

I looked her way. She wore light blue scrub pants and a multicolor top. I wondered if she was a nurse or perhaps a dental hygienist.

“Me too.”

She glanced at the school ID badge on my jacket. “Been up since four shampooing carpets.”

House keeper? Maid? I guessed again at her occupation.

She nodded more to herself. “Did my house, then went and did my parents. Two houses in one day is exhausting.”

Care giver to aging parents?

“I bet they appreciate having clean carpets,” I said.

The server at the counter tapped a bell next to the cash register. “Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham, your order’s ready.”

Most of us glanced around and I suspected some, like me, checked one more person off of a mental list to how much closer we were to having our names called and headed to another destination.

Mr. Cunningham reached the counter, picked up a couple of Styrofoam containers and then walked past me. The smell of the hot seafood made my stomach grumble.

My companion chuckled. “For over twenty years, I’d head over when they’re out of town and usually do something.” She shifted to better face me—our knees close to touching.

“One time Mama had no idea what I was up to. I asked her, ‘if you could paint your kitchen any color, what would it be?’ Mama said she wanted yellow. Not too light or to dark.” The woman tucked a gray curl behind her ear. It blended in with the rest of her shoulder-length hair. “I found the color. A different kind of yellow. By the time my folks returned home from vacation, I had the entire kitchen painted.”

“That was thoughtful.” I found myself enjoying our conversation.

She gently touched my arm. “You know what my mama said? She said, ‘why’d you do all of this hard work?’” She leaned toward me. “I told her, ‘cause she’s my mama and I love her.”

“Jensen?” The server called out.

The woman next to me stood and headed toward the counter. I was sad to see our conversation come to an end. She picked up her containers and walked toward the door, but stopped when she reached the barrel.

“Mama’s in heaven now. I still take care of my step-dad. She would want me to. He’s coming home to clean carpets.” She winked at me before she headed into the cold night.

A loving daughter.

Church in a Tow Truck

My car broke down an hour from home, on a Sunday, after a writer’s conference. And the friend who traveled with me was sick. The only think I needed to make the situation worse was rain. Thankfully God held that back.

I sat with my friend in the car and tried not to imagine our ride home with a stranger is a tow truck. The last time I remember being under similar circumstances, my dad had died and our car broke down in West Virginia on our way to his funeral. A rather large station wagon arrived from a nearby towing company.

“This is probably one of the largest station wagons I’ve ever been in.” I tried to make small take since I was sandwiched between the driver and my husband. Our four kids filled the seat behind us, yet our luggage had ample room in the rear.

“Yes’um.” He reached over my knee to adjust the static of the country music station. “Work two jobs with this here, Nellie.” He patted the dash. “When I’m not towin’ I use her as a hearse.”

That ended my small talk.

I forced the memory from my mind as I sat in a similar situation. I hung up after I called AAA. “Someone should be here within the hour,” I said.

My friend smiled, closed her eyes, and then rested her head against the car door.

Our rescuer arrived thirty minutes later. An older man stepped out of the truck. Faded tattoos covered both arms and disappeared under the short sleeves of his back Tee shirt. He walked with the stride of a cowboy yet wore converse. His skin appeared leathered with a distinct contrasted from his white hair and mustache. He made a quick inspection of the car. I tried to answer his few questions.

The driver glanced at my companion and me. With a slight nod toward the truck he said, “One in the front and one in the back.”

I ended up in the front. I inspected the cab while I waited for my car to be lifted onto the truck bead. A sticker on the dash read, “No smoking, fasten seat belt, tipping okay.” I chuckled.

Above the review mirror hung a picture of a family—two girls, two boys, and possibly a grand child. In the photo, all surrounded the image of our driver. At least six more pictures were tapped on the upper edge of the dash window. A license hung from the mirror with the name Frank Bannick.

Frank entered the truck and asked for the mechanic’s address. He punched the information I gave him into his GPS before he eased into traffic.

“Nice family,” I said when the silence became noticeable.

He nodded. “Pray for them most days.”

I raised my brow. “You do?”

“Well, since I’ve been saved anyway.” Frank turned his head toward me and smiled. No, he radiated.

“How long have you been a Christian?”

“Since the week before Christmas. I knew God wanted me, but I kept running from Him. But when my cousin died, I stopped running.”

I did a quick calculation in my head. Frank had been living as a Christian for only ten weeks.

For the next hour, Frank shared his story with me. At times his eyes moistened. He’d apologize for his emotions as he wiped tear-brimmed eyes with the back of his hand.

He talked about prayer and the power of forgiveness. How he’d found God’s peace when it didn’t make sense. He shared about friends and family members he prayed for. And other who grieved him with their choices. He shared regrets he’d made with his children and how he asked God to help him point them to a heavenly Father.

Frank continued to talk after we dropped my friend off at one location and met my husband at the mechanics.

I thanked him for the ride and his openness. “I feel like I’ve been to church,” I said.

The broad smile I’d gotten use to seeing spread across his face again. “God, told me what I do is a ministry. I gotta keep trying to reach people. I gotta keeping praying.”

We exchanged business cards.

As my husband put my bags in the car, I watched the red tow truck pull back onto the main street. I won’t forget Frank. A baby Christian who wants to change the world—one tow at a time.

Thanksgiving in March

I’m attending the Florida Christian Writer’s Conference where I feel like I’ve been invited to a feast.

God seem to whisper in my ear, “What will you have?”

“A healthy portion of faithfulness, please,” I reply, “So that I can be faithful in what You’ve called me to do with my writing.”

He smiles. “Enjoy.”

I feast on the words and wisdom of the staff writers who have been where I am and now enjoy the fruit of their labor. I quench my thirst with the excitement of other conferencees as I listen to the passion with which they tell their stories. I savor the workshops.

“Full yet?” God asked me this morning as I woke to day two of the conference.

I think about the meetings I want to attend for the rest of the weekend and the people I hope to speak with. “No. I’m as hungry today as I was when I arrived.”

“Good. Enjoy the feast.”

Excited about my day, I throw my bed covers off of me. “I will.”

Thanksgiving in March? Who knew.

Encouragement

Emily walked by my desk for the third time to throw something in the trash. She glanced my way as she headed back to her seat. She opened her text book, closed it, and then opened it again. Emily sighed.

I looked in her direction.

She nervously smiled my way, before she dropped her head to reengage with her history book. Which I doubt she read. As we sat in study hall, she waited on me to finish reading her story. A few days prior, Emily had approached me and asked if I would read something she'd written.

I smiled. "Of, course."

She tilted her head to one side causing large ebony curls to cover half of her face. Emily tucked them behind her ear and exposed the deep dimple in her cheek. "That would be great."

"Do you want any feed back?"

She hesitated. "Yes. please." Emily turned and walked away. She half skipped her first few steps.

To be asked to read a paper may not seem unusual except I'm not Emily's English teacher; I teach her math.

Emily loathes math. I'm not quite sure that's a strong enough word. She sits in the back row and desperately tried to understand the formulas and theorems I write on the board. Often I look at her when I ask the class. "Do you understand this concept?" If she doesn't nod, I approach the new material another way.

At times, Emily's face will get red and with furrowed brow, she looks like she's about to cry.

"If you're still confused," I glance around at the freshman, "see me after class and we'll try to meet another time."

Emily pinches her lips closed and nods. Not so much to me, but to the math book in front of her. The one she desires to burn and has told me so repeatedly.

I approach Emily at the end of class and encourage her not to give up.

"It's not you, Mrs. Perkins," she forces her book into her backpack; "I like you. But I hate math."

I watch one of my brightest students leave frustrated...again.

I knew of Emily's interest in writing because of how she spends the majority of her time in study hall. She often pulls out a pad of paper and—hunch over it like a scribe with a quill—writes for the entire class period.

One day, I'd asked what her writing interests were.

"Sweet stories," she said. "No violence. No killing. And no math."

I’d laughed.

That Thursday, I finished reading the piece Emily had written. I smiled. She does write sweet stories, but more than that, she has a talent for writing. I looked up into questioning eyes. "This is good," I said.

Emily exhaled, "Really?" She held her history book to her chest.

"Yes. This is really good. May I show you a few suggestions I made?"

Emily almost knocked over her chair trying to make her way to my desk. For the next few minutes, we look at her piece together.

"This means a lot to me, Mrs. Perkins. Thank you."

I saw something in Emily's eyes that I'd not seem all year. Hope. We'd found a common group--one on which I could encourage her to believe in herself and one on which she could receive.


May you be encouraged today by the smallest act of kindness. Better still, may you be the one to give it.