Alone at Midnight

By Jane Thornton –

Gaze darting hither and thither, I stretched my lids as wide as possible. Midnight, alone in my bedroom. In the basement.

I’d been fine while huddled under the covers reading. But frequent yawns nagged me to get some sleep. School would come bright and early. As soon as I laid my novel on the bedstand, fear whispered in my ear.

Shadows thickened. Something rattled in the hallway. My drowsiness vanished and nerves screamed to take cover. Just outside my door on the right, loomed the cavern of the staircase. To the left lurked the fearsome portal to the dangers of the outdoors during the witching hour.

My choices were slim. To find haven with my parents, I’d have to scramble up the dark steps and traverse the length of the house, which included wall-to-wall, gaping windows. My sister’s room was much nearer, but I’d have to pass the outside door. Neither option appealed. Still, I needed to be near a live, breathing person. If I didn’t find refuge, my heart would burst from my chest.

I gathered all my nerve (and my teddy bear). Taking a gulp of air and holding it to sustain me through my flight, I leapt from my bed and clambered across the landing, throwing a wild glance at the outside door. I skidded around the corner and raced for Nancy’s room. Slithering to a stop (on the side of the bed farthest from the door), I panted and tapped my soundly sleeping sister’s shoulder.

“Nan,” I hissed. “Can I get in bed with you?” I poised with my fingers already grasping the blanket.

“No.” The muffled voice was grumpy.

“Please!” Tears choked my throat as I begged. “I won’t take up much room, I promise.”

After much pleading, combined with threats, she grudgingly allowed me three inches on the edge of the mattress. I lay with my hand literally dangling to floor to support most of my weight. But I was satisfied to feel safe.

Over the years, I have been blessed to have little legitimate cause for real terror. A couple of brushes with Peeping Toms encompass the extent of the menace I’ve faced. Most of my scares have been experienced vicariously with characters of books.

Snuggled securely in my armchair, I like to ponder how I would react to a true threat. Forgetting my hysterical reactions to eyes at the window and bumps in the night, I prefer to give myself credit for great potential bravery. I look ahead to the worst that could happen and imagine I could handle it.

My confidence and logic might not hold up in the heat of the moment – if I ever have to face it. But even if I melt into a quivering puddle of incoherency, my faith rests on a kernel of truth. Whatever I face, God will be with me. And when all perils end, I will be with Him.

“Because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’ So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’” (Hebrews 13:5b-6)

Oooh, Baby

By Jane Thornton –

This spring my bi-annual case of nature fever struck as scheduled. Some time every March, when the sun has shone for seven days straight, and the daffodils and redbuds sing of the coming season, I get a yearning to be outdoors and plant flowers. The bug attacks again in September when the temperature stays below ninety degrees for seven days in a row. Unfortunately for my garden, the passion is always short-lived, and I tend to migrate to my habitual pastimes of reading novels or watching movies during every spare moment.

As usual, when my zeal peaked this year, I binged at Home Depot then came home to don my gardening attire. Since my lily-white skin rarely sees the light of day, I need to take advantage of these fits. On went the raggedy shorts and the T-shirt with arms and neck scooped out for tanning purposes.

After a few hours, my hair straggled over my forehead although a kinder person might have described it as tousled or windblown. Potting soil clung to my knees and had seeped through my gloves to embed itself under my nails. And, to use the southern, feminine term, I glowed.

At this point, my husband, Wes, drove up, returning from some long errand. I smeared my dirt-encrusted glove across my face, trying to see through the rattails of my hair. With a hand braced in the small of my back, I creaked to a stand, making it to an almost-erect position.

“Wow! You’re working.” He strode across the lawn, swept me into an embrace, and laid a fervent kiss upon my lips. Apparently he found the unusual aroma of perspiration an effective aphrodisiac.

I have noticed another aberration over the years. Wes finds the vision of me behind an ironing board a bigger turn on than me in a skimpy nightie, perhaps because the ironing is a rarer sight. We once went to a marriage seminar at which we were asked to share with each other actions which made us feel cherished. Ironing came up. So much for the impression gained by my novels and movies—they suggested a smoldering look was all it took. Recently, Wes threw out another shocker. He opened the cabinet and, finding I had stocked up on his favorite grape Kool-Aid, casually commented that a plentiful supply of the drink made him feel loved.

Now, I’m not knocking the usefulness of a beautiful negligee, but the desire for a successful marriage requires us to learn some of these other quirks—and to do something about them. Look at the description of a wife of noble character in Proverbs 31:10-31, NIV.  This woman “gets up while it is still dark,” “sets about her work vigorously,” “grasps the spindle with her fingers,” “makes coverings for her bed,” etc. The result? “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her” (Proverbs 31:28 NIV). I have a new habit of buying a few containers of grape Kool-Aid every time I’m at the store.  And at this moment, the ironing basket is calling my name.

Hand in Hand

By Jane Thornton –

One hot August Monday morning I walked hand in hand with five-year-old Matthew up the wide concrete steps to Plummer Elementary. My heart was in turmoil; his probably was too. Read more

I Think I Can’t

By Jane Thornton –

Returning from the bathroom and twirling to snap into position by my classroom door, I caught a glimpse of Natalie sobbing at her desk; Anne patted her haplessly on the shoulder. Immediately I shut the door for privacy and hurried to squat and rub her other shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Read more

Can’t Wait

By Jane Thornton –

Mrs. Sneed was not to be interrupted during reading group. For any reason. So, when that first twinge hit my seven-year-old body, I knew I’d have to wait. I cocked an ear to her progress. They were just getting started. Read more

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