Page 70 of Freedom's Kiss
They strolled past several more stores before he stopped in front of a jewelers. “What about something from here? Maybe a necklace with all our birthstones or something.”
“We got her that three years ago for Mother’s Day.”
Maybe he could write Amber a blank check and she could buy the gift herself. He obviously didn’t know what he was doing.
She hooked her arm through his. “Come on. Don’t give up yet. You’re the smart brother, so between the two of us we should be able to figure this out.”
He peeked down at her. “The smart brother, huh?”
“You tell Michael or Trent, and I’ll deny it to my grave.”
“How very pastoral of you.”
She shrugged and continued window shopping.
How did his quiet, shy, brainy sister get to the point where she’d pick an occupation that forced her into a fishbowl, everyone watching and criticizing her every move? One that had people against her simply because of her gender? One that required her to speak to crowds? If he’d had a million guesses he’d never had even imagined she’d choose pastoral ministry as a career. “Why a pastor? Always thought you’d end up a teacher or social worker or something like that.”
“You know? I always thought I would too.”
“What changed?”
She thought a moment, her finger tapping against his bicep. “When Michael was in the hospital, I prayed. A lot. Sometimes at his bedside. Sometimes in the hospital chapel. My knees would hit the floor, and I’d pour out my heart. All my fears and frustration and confusion. And then I’d sit there, breathe in the silence, and just listen.”
They walked several yards before she started speaking again. “Something clicked…inside me…right here.” She laid her hand against her heart. “A rightness. A sense of knowing that I was where I belonged. Not long after that, the door to the chapel opened and several people stumbled in. You could tell by the looks on their faces they were in shock. The chaplain came in behind them and started talking with some, but this one girl strayed away from the group. Her eyes kind of fixated on the stained-glass window of Jesus, and she fell into the front pew. Something came over me. Now I’d say it was the Holy Spirit, but I didn’t recognize it at the time. Before I knew I’d even moved, I sat beside her. As soon as my hand touched her arm, she curled up into me and cried. I didn’t know what was happening, but I prayed over her. Didn’t stop until the chaplain came over and touched the back of my hand.”
She had a vibrant inner glow, as if she’d plugged herself into an infinite power source. Maybe she had.
“Whenever I stepped foot in that chapel, that sense of rightness would shift back into place. I’d feel at peace. It was like…” She looked up at him, and he felt himself getting sucked into her conviction. It tethered his heart and pulled, but something inside him refused to surrender.
“It was like I was being called. Maybe not like Moses at the burning bush, but yeah, fire lit inside me. A passion. To help others in situations like Michael and the families like ours.” She took a final draw from her smoothie, then chucked it in the trash. “But you know how that is. To have a passion and purpose.”
She meant his passion with food, but that was not where his mind took him. Instead he found himself picturing his many interviews with his clients at the prison. The pleas…those heartrending pleas…for him to help.
“Oh! What about this?” Amber’s tug at his arm brought his attention back to the present as they stepped into a store. Shelves lined the wall filled with vases, bowls, cups, balls—all different shapes and sizes, all pieces of art.
“Blown glass?” He picked up a bowl that looked like a flower. Waves of different shades of blue spiraled inward and reminded him of the ocean. It was pretty. Mom would like it. He picked it up and showed Amber. “How about this one?”
She eyed the bowl and then him. “I take back my smart-brother comment.”
He rotated the glass bowl in his hands. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.” She plucked a pamphlet off the counter. “What’s it Mom always says, she values memories over stuff?” She waved her hand around the store. “This is all stuff. This”—she placed the pamphlet in his free hand—“is making a memory.”
Adam stared down at the colored pamphlet. Glassblowing classes for beginners. They offered everything from a thirty-minute to a six-week course. Mom would love it. He put the bowl down and hooked an arm across his sister’s shoulders, bringing her to his side and planting a kiss at her temple. “You are definitely the smart sibling.”
