Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Cooking or Baking (01/04/07)
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TITLE: NOT DONE YET | Previous Challenge Entry
By Rose Spagnola
01/07/07 -
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“Hello? Mrs. Harrison? Lt. Mallory here, from the Paso sub-station. We have your son here for ghost-riding and being under the influence. Come and pick him up.”
“Ghost what? Oh, never mind, I’ll be right there, Officer.”
As I pulled on my coat and shoved my toes into some slip-ons, I thought of the roller coaster ride these last few months with my youngest son, Allen. He was seventeen now and had been with us for over seven years. That was longer than with his birth parents but it didn’t seem to matter. He was still a very angry young man looking for himself.
My husband drove with me to the station but I wished he had stayed home in bed. His temper wasn’t much most times but I was afraid of what it would look like when he saw the boy. Please, no scene at the police station, dear God.
We loved our son since we first met him. He was a cute, wiry ball of energy but that healthy exterior hid a massive chunk of pent-up and confused emotions that had been developing since birth. His first parents had been violent drug users in a rural area where guns and meth went hand-in-hand. Allen was too young to understand why he couldn’t live with his parents but what hurt him most was that they didn’t call or visit when the social workers said they could. After two years of almost no visits, Allen arrived at our home with only a day’s notice.
I had prayed for a child to adopt who truly needed us since our own children were mostly grown. I wanted a child who was blind or in a wheelchair because I had learned that the world was a lot nicer to children with visible handicaps. Then Allen came. He was so healthy the needle almost broke when it was time for shots. Colds didn’t come near him but neither did tears or eye-to-eye conversations.
At the station, Allen behaved as usual, eyes on his shoelaces and mouth tightly shut. My grandmother’s words came to mind as the three of us drove home in total silence.
“Not done yet,” she would say when she saw a family member doing something foolish. It was a long time before I understood what she meant. Grandma was a serious cook, always baking up something in her shiny O’Keefe & Merritt. When I was visiting, I would try to take a peek at what was rising in the oven and she would say “Not done yet. Just be patient.” Grandma Reba thought of people in the struggles of life as cakes in the oven, rising under the steady heat of circumstances and choices until cooked to perfection, God’s perfection. She taught me that a good cake was slightly brown on top but still soft and sweet inside when finished.
Once at home, Allen headed straight for his bedroom cave, but Dad slipped in front of him just a few feet before his destination. “We will talk about this tomorrow,” my husband said soberly without wasting a single syllable.
I vigilantly prayed all the next day. We ate dinner as a family, seated across from one another, most every evening and I knew that the dreaded conversation would happen over dinner that night. I could see the lack of sleep on my husband’s face as he walked in from work but in his voice I heard hope. He too had spent much time in prayer that day.
As Allen sat down, he slid a note across the table. My husband read it quietly and then passed it to me. With my heart pounding, I opened it and read “Mom and Dad, thank you for everything you have done to help me. I’m sorry. Please don’t stop loving me no matter what I do. Love, your son, Allen. P.S. Please be patient with me. I’m just not done yet.”
The tears drizzled down my cheeks. “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed silently. “My son, still soft and sweet inside.”
Grandma was right. God’s perfection does take patience on our part. I think most of us “aren’t done yet.”
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