Page 1 of Serial Love

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Eight-year-old Jack Bryant walked along the gravel drive, shuffling his feet as he kicked at the red dirt. The school bus had already discharged the other children living in the big houses in town before making the long journey into the country to his parents’ farm. He could hear his father’s tractor in the field next to the driveway but did not look over. The events of the school day, fresh on his mind, diverted his attention away from everything except his anger.

By the time he entered the kitchen in the large farmhouse, even the sight of his mother pulling out a tray of cookies did not make him happy.

“Jacques,” she said warmly. “You look like you could use a cookie.”

He tossed his backpack onto the table and slumped into a chair. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven made it difficult to maintain his pout, but he attempted it, nonetheless.

“Fine, I’ll have one,” he grumbled.

She poured a tall glass of milk and placed the drink on the table with a saucer filled with cookies. Eyeing her son, she sat down at the table and helped herself to a cookie as well.

“Hey,” he complained, watching his mom eat the chewy goodness. “That was mine.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes while he quickly ate the other cookies and drank the milk. The snack had the desired effect—he relaxed slightly in his seat now that his stomach now satisfied.

“So, do you want to tell me what had you in such a bad mood when you came home?” his mother asked. Her kind eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at her only child.

“I hate being teased,” he blurted, feeling embarrassed at the admission.

Her son was tall for his age, often mistaken for being at least ten years old already. “Teased? Who’s teasing you?” she asked.

“Some of the kids.”

“And what are they saying?”

“It’s my name. It’s a stupid name,” he confessed. “No one else is named Jacques. Tommy Perks says so.”

“Who is Tommy Perks compared to God?” she asked, her expression full of compassion.

Jack sat quietly, knowing there was no answer to that question. Sighing heavily, he nodded, dejection still on his face.

“My father was named Jacques,” she said, repeating a story he had heard many times. “In the little village where your grandfather was born, the boys werenamed for saints. Your name…and his were no different.”

Jack had lifted his gaze from the empty plate to his mother’s smiling face before she plucked another cookie off the platter to serve him. Munching slowly, he focused on her words.

“St. James the Greater knew Jesus. He was one of his first followers. Do you understand how important that is?”

“Then why couldn’t my name be James? That sounds cooler,” Jack complained.

His mother’s laughter rang out in the kitchen as she nodded. “Yes, I suppose that does soundcoolerto you.” Sobering, she continued, “When your grandparents escaped the Great War and moved to the United States, they brought with them the traditions of their beloved country. And in France, boys were often named Jacques for the Saint. He is also known as St. Jacobus.”

Jack did not remember his grandfather, but his grandmother had lived with them until she passed away last year. Just like now, she would sit in the kitchen and listen to how his day at school had been. She would tell him stories of her life in France when she was a little girl and the handsome village soldier she had married.

Jack’s mother added, “Since Jacques was your grandfather’s name…well, my son, it became your name.”

He sat, finished the last of the cookies offered to him, his full stomach taking the sting out of Tommy Perk’s words. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “At least I can be called Jack.”

“Yes, you can be called Jack,” she agreed, patting hishand. “You know, St. James was considered to be a very impulsive and self-centered man before developing an understanding of holiness.” She peered at her son carefully before adding, “You may follow in his footsteps.”

Sliding down from the chair, he turned to walk out of the door knowing his chores on the farm needed to be finished before dinner. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked over his shoulder at his mom still sitting at the table, her face gentled with a smile for him. Impulsively, he ran back throwing his body into hers as his arms wrapped around her middle. She held her only child tightly as mother’s tears slid from her eyes.

Then, with the exuberance of a little boy, he ran outside ready to face the world once more.

Twelve Years Later

Jack Bryant stood proudly at the bus stop as he waited to board. With an Associates degree under his belt, he was prepared for the next phase of his career—the Army. The Greyhound bus rumbled down the street as he turned one last time toward his parents waiting with him.

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