But it was just a bunch of gibberish evidently written by someone named Isaiah. The only ink on the page was the word “Jesus” with a question mark, but that was definitely his mother’s feminine, tidy handwriting.
He stared at how she’d written the word “Jesus” as though she’d taken her time with each letter. He recognized her distinctive J with a curve at the top, a long-buried memory punching into his consciousness.
He could hear her voice…feel the touch of her hand over his.
“Just imagine an umbrella, Jonah. See? That’s your J. The first letter of your name. J is for Jonah.”
A tear fell and landed on the page. The ache for her rose up and strangled him, as it still did from time to time, even fifteen years after losing her.
He turned a few pages, feeling a different pang. Suddenly consumed with the need to find more of her writing and a message that had to be for him, he started flipping madly through the pages.
He found something titled “The Book of Jonah” that gave him hope, but it was just that old Bible story about some dude swallowed by a whale.
She hadn’t even written a word in that book, which he thought was weird. Where did she write?
The paper made a rustling sigh as he turned, finding his way to a fog of words titled “Ezekiel.” Wrath. Wheels. Warnings. Something about dry bones. Wait a second. Isthatwhere Mario Kart got the character name?
Toward the last third of the whole book, there was much more of his mother’s writing in the books that even a heathen like Jonah recognized as the gospels.
John had held Mom’s attention, with scribbling up and down both sides of almost every page. Words underlined likegraceandloveandabide in Himwith three exclamation points. Full paragraphs highlighted in yellow, pink, and green. Notes and questions on both sides, filling in the lines he imagined made this a “journal” Bible.
But no message to poor, cursed Jonah.
“Come on,” he muttered as he flipped from section to section. “There has to be something in here for me.”
He turned back to Psalms, which looked promising—lots of cries for help and ill will on enemies. Plenty of underlined verses, not many notes.
Then he landed in Proverbs and noticed the frequent mention of the word “son”—and nearly every time, she’d circled it and written his initials again.JFL.
With a kick of hope, he flicked through the pages, and stopped at one that was covered in her writing. Proverbs 17 was starred, underlined and highlighted.
He skimmed the words about strife, prudent servants, and deceitful lips.
Why did she?—
And then he saw it. Highlighted in neon green with the word GRANDCHILDREN written in capital letters. He squinted at the scripture, reading out loud.
“‘Children’s children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children.’”
His throat tightened as he lifted the book to read the tiny script she’d written.
“Children’s children are my grands!!”She’d actually drawn a little crown, which was so Mom, it almost hurt.
His gaze dropped to the note beneath it, again reading the words out loud.
“‘Dear Lord, let me be a grandmother someday. Let me hold Jonah’s baby and hear that child’s voice. Let me kiss Meredith’s little girl (has to be!) and rock her to sleep. Let my children know they are not the end of a broken line, but the part of one that is highly favored. Bless these babies that aren’t yet conceived, knit them with love, and help them know You above all. That is this Someday Grandma’s prayer.’”
He couldn’t breathe.
Her words hit with the weight of a thousand tears and fifteen years of grief.
Bending over the book, he gave in to a full-body sob and let the tears pour over his face and onto the page. His shoulders heaved, his chest let out a groan, yet all he could feel was…peace.
Absolute, indescribable peace.
He didn’t look up until Atlas kicked his little night sac, and let out a weak pre-cry, the one that sounded like a mouse squeak.
Jonah was next to him in an instant, lifting his tiny body to hold him against his chest.
