Page 56 of In a Word, Yes

Well. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Here, however, I must air a confession.

I wish I had.

Nineteen

convivial(adj.): relating to feasting, drinking, and good company

Two days later, I’m seated beneath a rustic chandelier fashioned out of deer antlers watching the minutes slug by, waiting for Ian to show. I swirl a tea bag in my mug, bewildered. Why does the proposition of meeting a man for a casual hot beverage put more of a shake in my hand than being left in charge of the town’s newspaper?

Sadly, tea options at the Trading Post aren’t nearly as tantalizing as the ones Ian crafts over at Sweet Reads. Right now, me and my swirling tummy could really go for the ginger-turmeric blend he calls Sunriver, with its just-right kiss of citrus.

The café is thrumming. So’s my mind. My eyes dart around the historically popular watering trough, from the regulars who guzzle and gab on barstools at the old Formica counter (I hear their coffee milkshakes are to die for), to the row of well-worn booths upholstered in vintage Western fabric, and then backto this more recently added section boasting more of a ginmill meets Starbucks sort of vibe.

Huh. So this is where all the stay-at-home moms dose on caffeine before taxiing kids from school to the next thing. I angle my chair slightly so my back is mostly to the crowd but I still possess a covert view of the entrance. What madness have I agreed to? Ian is small-town famous in Charity Falls. He and I are about to become a burnt sacrifice on the local gossip altar.

At least Nina doesn’t work today. She puts in plenty of long days here, baking, cashiering, waiting tables, and being generally indispensable. I know I can count on my neighbor for discretion, but for the time being, I’d prefer to keep this little experiment under wraps.

Brilliant idea this wasnot, showing up fifteen minutes early to avoid a fuss over who pays, because now I’m stuck with time for second-guessing. As if I didn’t already do enough of that last night after awakening at 2:30 in the morning with my sleep shirt wrapped uncomfortably around my waist, followed by ninety minutes of wide-eyed wakefulness, debating the wisdom of whatever this is I’ve agreed to here.

Outside, the crisp cornflower sky looks like freedom. Somewhere beyond the businesses across the main drag, a flash of yellow sparks among the treetops. The spire of a tamarack, its needles beginning to turn. How have I never noticed it before? I could make a run for it. Worry about apologizing later.

Except, no. Ian’s a friend. I said a tiny littleyesto something that can and most definitely will remain strictly platonic—because anything more is one hundred percent off the table for me. Right? Right.

Except that if he chooses to stand me up—and is that what’s happening here? Already he’s eight minutes late—I’ve said yes to rejection.

I slide fingers through my hair. It’s now twelve past the hour, time to come to terms with what is clearly a sign. I don’t needthis kind of angst in my life. This is what I get when people-pleasing—or is it loneliness?—leads to regret. Add rejection to singleness, and what do you get?

A thing to be sharply avoided. A sharp thing.

Clearly, where relationships are concerned, God wants me to leave well enough alone.

I take a deep breath, release it long and slow. So much energy goes into holding my boundaries and tensions. Can I offer myself a moment simply to breathe, to settle in here? What if I chose to give this moment my full presence, trusting I have everything I need? I mean, I’m never without a divine companion who adores me in spite of any pathetic scrubby-juniper tendencies.

Talk rumbles around me.Book.I’m never without one of those either! Notebook? Pen? Check and check. See, I am well supplied.

On the cover of the little book, which I rescued from Sweet Reads’ bargain bin, is a glowing candle. No bigger than the palm of my hand, the book contains a collection of short letters, the personal correspondence of missionary Amy Carmichael leading up to her death in 1951. Already from the introduction I know Carmichael was a woman who said a lot of big yeses to God.

Yes to intercontinental travel long before it was a thing. Yes to living in an inhospitable environment, serving in India for half a century without ever once returning to her homeland. Yes to rescuing young women from temple prostitution.

So, yes to adventure. Danger. Singleness.

And yes to inspiring others through her many published words.

I open to the first page.Interesting. From what she writes here, you’d think it was the smaller yeses that gave her the most trouble.

The best training is to learn to accept everything as it comes, as from Him whom our soul loves. The tests are always unexpected things, not great things that can be written up, but the common little rubs of life, silly little nothings, things you are ashamed of minding one scrap.

Mundane little everyday decisions.Silly little nothings. To Amy Carmichael’s thinking, these are often the yeses that stretch us most.

But all is well if only we are in Him, deep in Him, and He in us our daily strength and joy and song.

Deep in him.Rootedness. Twisted Sister (not the band) comes to mind. Last night when Chase and I joined Dot and Tony for homecooked Thai food (bless her peachy little heart, she made a quesadilla for Chase), it was easy to diagnose that the plant’s troubles stemmed from shallow roots.

Warmth tingles through me, along with that heart-swelling sensation as if I’m about to birth a breakthrough.

I scribble some thoughts. Somehow this idea fits into the story of me. Theunfinishedstory of me. Unfinished manuscript. Unfinished woman. Both works in progress.

Maybe that’s the point.