Promises to Keep Nan Rossiter (books for 7th graders .txt) 📖

the one—they’d kept their packing to a minimum, at least for now. Saturday evening, while Ben and Macey went out to dinner, The Pepperoni Pizza and Root Beer Book Club had their long-overdue meeting, and Ben heard from Gage again. This time, he called and he told Ben his dad had passed away, and since the service was planned for Tuesday, he wouldn’t be back to work until at least Wednesday. Ben had told him to take all the time he needed, and then asked if it would be okay for Maeve to stay at the cabin to look after the chickens. Gage had agreed, but when Ben hung up, he admitted to Macey that he’d sounded a little reluctant—all of which, Macey had, under duress, shared with her sister.

Maeve continued to watch the robin, her thoughts drifting now to the evening before with Harper, which had turned out to be just the distraction she needed. Her niece had been reluctant to finish their book, Because of Winn-Dixie, without Gage—who’d listened to the beginning with them, but Maeve said she didn’t know when Gage would be able to listen again, and Harper, because she was eager to find out what happened to India Opal Buloni and her beloved—albeit wayward—dog Winn-Dixie, agreed. In the end, they not only finished the book, they also stayed up late to watch the movie—both of which were, in Harper’s words, awesome!

“Aunt Maeve, how do you find so many books about orphaned girls who all end up finding what they need?” she’d asked when Maeve tucked her in next to Keeper, after Macey and Ben had already gone to bed.

Maeve had smiled at the simple—yet profound—question. “Maybe, because it’s also what a thirty-six-year-old girl needs to hear once in a while,” she’d said laughing.

“Are you comin’ to church tomorrow?” Harper had asked hopefully.

“If I wake up in time after this late night,” she’d replied, kissing her niece’s forehead.

“Night, Aunt Maeve,” Harper had said, smiling sleepily. “Thanks for our book club.”

“Night, kiddo,” she’d replied. “You’re welcome.”

Later, when she’d gotten back to the cabin and checked on the quiet chicken coop, she had—even though it was late—texted Gage to express her condolences, and she’d been surprised when she saw the little dots that meant he was writing back, but his reply was simply Thanks.

She’d stared at it. It was better than nothing, she thought, but then, the tears she’d been holding back all day spilled down her cheeks. So much had happened, all at the same time—it was as if the endless years of her own hesitation and lack of conviction had spiraled into a perfect storm. Grandy, her beloved grandmother, had always told her that God’s timing was perfect, but Maeve couldn’t see how his timing was perfect in this unbelievable mess. If Mason had come into her life just one day later, she’d be with Gage in Tennessee right now—she’d be there to support him and finally meet his family. . . . But, then again, if she’d been in Tennessee when Mason came one day later, he wouldn’t have found her . . . and what an incredible loss that would be, so maybe God’s timing was perfect. “Oh, jeez,” she’d muttered. “Who knows what’s right?” She’d shaken her head in dismay and then buried her face in Gage’s pillow, breathing in the scent of him and whispering, “Oh, God, please don’t let me lose him.”

That morning, she’d woken up to the predawn raucous sound of Pilgrim crowing, shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee, and gone out in her slippers to feed them—her singular reason for being there. “Good morning, ladies and gent,” she’d said softly, just like Gage always greeted his tiny flock. She’d reached into the nests and found three warm eggs. “Good girls!” she’d praised, just as he would say, but then she’d deliberately closed the gate behind her—blocking their freedom. There was no way she was going to let anything happen to them while they were in her care!

Sitting in church now, she felt a gentle tug on her hair that also tugged her back to the present. She realized everyone was standing to sing the first hymn, and when she stood, she looked back at Harper, the culprit, and teasingly raised her eyebrows—but Harper feigned innocence and pointed to Ben. Maeve eyed her suspiciously, and then joined in singing “Amazing Grace,” feeling oddly as if it was meant for her.

After the hymn, one of the deacons made his way up to the pulpit to read from the Old Testament a passage from 1 Kings, familiar to Maeve from her Sunday school years. It was about God appearing to a very reluctant Elijah, and what made it memorable from her childhood was that he hadn’t spoken to his wayward servant in any of the dramatic ways one might expect—a powerful wind, an earthquake, or a fire. He had spoken to Elijah in a gentle whisper.

Maeve settled in to listen to the sermon, hoping—somehow—it would speak to her, and from it she might discern what God wanted her to do. Was it crazy to think this? Perhaps, but there had to be a reason she’d felt nudged to come to church that morning.

The young minister stepped up to the pulpit, leafed through the tremendous Bible that rested there, and read the lectionary passage from the New Testament—Psalm 85. When she finished, she looked up and smiled. “Sooo, my friends, do any of you see similarities in our two readings this morning?” She paused and looked around the congregation. “Yep,” she continued, chuckling, “I can absolutely see . . . from the looks on your faces,” she teased, “that you noticed that both the Old Testament and the New Testament readings are examples of God trying to communicate with us! In Psalm 85, he is speaking . . . and in 1 Kings, he is whispering! This is important to remember because, in this very church, we are all about God trying to communicate with us—in fact, we even have a banner that says,