Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: MOTEL (03/06/25)
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TITLE: Faith, Frowns, and Paper Wings | Previous Challenge Entry
By C D Swanson
03/06/25 -
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"Sam," she said with that lilt of exasperation reserved for couples who have weathered fifty years of each other's quirks. "Can’t you try to look for the good in things?"
"Good?" Sam snorted. "Myrtle, the ceiling fan makes a noise like a wounded walrus, the shower runs cold, and I’m pretty sure the microwave just growled at me."
Myrtle, undeterred, opened her Bible to Psalms. "For you, Lord, are my lamp; the Lord turns my darkness into light."
Before Sam could formulate a snarky response, the muffled roar of chaos erupted from the room next door. The sound of children—at least three of them—shrieking, thudding, and laughing with the kind of unbridled abandon only youth could muster. Sam rolled his eyes. "Perfect. We got an orchestra of hooligans next door. Just what I needed."
Myrtle smiled faintly. “Children are a blessing.”
“From whom? Loki?” He flopped down on the bed, the springs groaning under him. “Blessing my—”
A knock interrupted him, tentative but rapid. Myrtle stood, smoothing down her blouse, and opened the door to reveal a frazzled young woman holding a baby on her hip, while two children tugged at her legs, fighting over a single, battered toy truck.
"I’m so sorry," the woman stammered. "I know we’re making a lot of noise. I... we’re having a hard time settling in."
Myrtle immediately softened. "Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I know it’s not easy."
Sam, watching from the bed, frowned. "What’s this, an outreach program?"
Myrtle ignored him. "Come in, dear. Let me at least get you something to drink."
The young woman hesitated before stepping inside, the baby shifting restlessly in her arms. "I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just—well, we’re between places right now. Staying here until I can figure things out."
Sam’s frown deepened as Myrtle bustled around, pulling bottled water and granola bars from her bag. "This isn’t a shelter, Myrtle," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
Myrtle shot him a glance so sharp it could’ve pierced armor. "The Lord teaches us to welcome the stranger, Sam. Have you forgotten?"
Sam folded his arms. "I don’t recall Him saying anything about paying the stranger’s motel bill."
The young woman flushed. "I—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We’ll just—"
"No, no," Myrtle interjected, guiding her to sit down on the chair by the window. "You’re not intruding."
The baby gurgled, and Myrtle reached out to tickle its chin. For a brief moment, the room softened. Even Sam, for all his cantankerousness, couldn’t help but glance at the kids with something resembling begrudging amusement.
The eldest boy looked up at him, clutching the truck as though it were a talisman. "You’re grouchy," the boy declared matter-of-factly.
Sam blinked, then barked out a laugh despite himself. "Kid, you’re not wrong."
Myrtle chuckled. "Fifty years together, and that’s the first time I’ve seen you outdone by a child."
For a while, the room was filled with the sounds of small hands rifling through Myrtle’s bag of snacks, the young woman murmuring thanks, and even Sam grudgingly showing the kids how to fold paper airplanes from motel flyers.
When the family finally returned to their room, Myrtle sat back down beside Sam, her hand resting lightly on his. "You know," she said, her voice quiet, "I think we forget sometimes, Sam. Life’s about more than worn-out bedspreads and grumbling."
Sam studied her face, lined with age but still radiating the same quiet strength that had drawn him to her half a century ago. He sighed. "You’re going to tell me this is a sign from God, aren’t you?"
Myrtle smiled. "Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s just life reminding us to be kind."
Later that evening, as they lay in bed listening to the distant hum of the highway, the door to the adjoining room creaked open slightly. A tiny hand slid through, gripping a hastily folded paper airplane. Attached to it was a note, scrawled in crayon: "Thank you for being nice."
Sam turned the paper over in his hands, his throat tightening inexplicably. Myrtle looked over at him, her smile tinged with that quiet, knowing look she always seemed to have. "See?" she said softly. "Even the grouchy ones can make a difference."
Sam didn’t respond, but as he placed the paper airplane on the nightstand, Myrtle caught a rare glimpse of something she hadn’t seen in a long time—a flicker of faith, however small, in the man she’d loved for half a century.
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