Page 638 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Well, yes. It’s just that … in a lot of ways Kendall reminds me of—well—um.” She stopped.

“Of who?”

Sydney shook her head. “Oh, never mind. I’m just rambling”

“Of Avery? Is that what you were going to say?”

Sydney’s eyes met Stella’s, and she nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Stella moved over and sat next to Sydney. “I miss him too.”

Sydney’s eyes misted. “I just feel so helpless. I’ve tried so hard to find out what happened to Daddy, and here it is four months later, and I don’t know any more now than I did when I first got here.”

Stella took Sydney by the hand. “I’ve been giving this whole thing a lot of thought. Maybe it’s time to let this go and get on with your life.”

Sydney’s eyes widened and she looked at Stella. “What are you saying? How can I possibly do that?”

“Hand me my Bible.”

Sydney reached for it. She looked skeptical, like she knew where this was going.

It took Stella only a second to find her place. She began reading. “Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3. ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die … a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’”

Moisture formed in Stella’s eyes. “And there’s a time to move on. This whole thing—it’s tearing you apart. I just can’t bear to see that happen.” She patted Sydney’s hand and the two sat in silence.

Sydney withdrew her hand from Stella’s grasp and shook her head. “I don’t know if it’s possible for me to go on. I’m so messed up on the inside. So many terrible things have happened. I just can’t put it all out of my mind.”

Stella understood, had even felt, some of those same feelings, but she knew how empty and useless hate was. It would destroy her granddaughter. She had to find a way to get through to her. “Do you remember when I told you that it rains on the just and the unjust?”

Instead of answering, Sydney stared in the distance.

Stella nudged her. “Sydney?”

“I remember.”

“Do you know what I meant by that?”

Silence.

“If every person were immediately struck down the moment he did an evil deed, or if every person instantly rewarded for good deeds, there would be no freedom. God allows us to have a space in between so that we can choose how we’ll act.” Stella paused to see if she was getting through. Sydney’s face was unreadable. Stella knew her next words would hurt, but they needed to be said. “Sometimes the Lord allows bad things to happen to good people.”

Sydney’s lower lip began to quiver. “Why would a loving God take away my parents?” she whispered. “He took away everything—my identity—even Judith.”

“We don’t always understand why, but if we continue to have faith, He’ll help us through it,” Stella finished gently.

“Those are just words. I don’t feel God’s love. I don’t feel anything.”

The bitterness in Sydney’s voice took Stella aback, and she uttered a silent prayer so she would know how to respond. “You never met my mother—your great-grandmother Bessie. She died before you were born.”

Sydney remained quiet.

“I grew up on a farm in a little bitty old shack of a house that got so cold in the wintertime that on sunny days, we’d go outside just to get warm.” Stella chuckled. “Mama didn’t own acar. She walked everywhere she went. She was always helping somebody. Whenever Mama went on one of her crusades I, of course, had to go with her. Sometimes we’d walk for miles down railroad tracks and old dusty roads. My feet would hurt and I’d start complaining. ‘Come on, Stella,’ she’d say, ‘don’t quit on me now. Them poor ol’ folks ain’t got nothing. They need our help.’” Stella laughed at the remembrance of it. “It never occurred to Mama that most people considered us poor.” Stella paused. “Mama had a lot of heartache. My father died when I was two years old. She raised me and my two older brothers alone. She had plenty of reasons to be bitter, but she stayed so busy raising us and helping the whole countryside that she hardly had time to think about it.” Stella looked at Sydney. “And then there were the chickens we raised.”

A smile crept over Sydney’s face, and she shook her head. She loved hearing Stella’s stories, even if they were a form of chastisement.

“We raised chickens so we could sell the eggs. One time we decided to keep a few eggs and let them hatch. Benny, my brother who was only three years older than me, and I watched those eggs for weeks. Finally, they started to get cracks in them, and we saw a little beak pecking its way out of one of the eggs. We got so excited that we started helping him. We pulled away a few pieces at a time—and just kept peeling until we’d exposed the entire chicken. We were devastated when our baby chick died a few hours later. I told Mama what happened, and her expression grew cross. I’ll never forget what she told us. ‘Ben, Stella, y’all done killed that chicken.’

“‘We were just trying to help him,’ we said. She gathered us close and explained that every baby chick had to fight his way out of his own egg. It was that fight that helped make him strong enough to survive.”

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