Page 11 of A Taste of Grace

Over the next few months, I was alone in Farmerton but not lonely. Once a week, I worked half a day, taking time to learn about the city and pour into myself. From the artist-run art gallery to the old-time movie theaters with ushers who dressed in classic uniforms, I loved the simplicity of the growing city. In the evenings, I often sat on the back porch of my house with a glass of wine and a personalized charcuterie board, journaling and making declarations for a future full of peace and love. My favorite thing to do was watch the sun set. In my spirit, I knew I wouldn’t always be alone. These were sacred moments that gave me time to think.

Since my coffee house meeting, Nita checked in with me almost daily. She invited me to join her at women’s Bible study on Thursday nights at her home. I met some nice women, although some of them were a little standoffish. That confirmed that I needed to be just Grace the writer with them.

Over time, I felt more comfortable sharing information about my past with Nita. As I traveled to and from my excursions, I would call her to tell her how my days went.

“What did you do today, Grace?” Nita’s high-pitched voice rang through my car’s Bluetooth speakers.

Like many of her calls, I assumed she was working out on her exercise bike since she spoke somewhat breathlessly.

“I met with a couple of clients and hung out. What about you?”

“This and that. Ministry doesn’t sleep.”

“I hear that.”

“How are your books coming?”

I gripped my steering wheel, thinking about how I wanted to answer Nita. She was a holy woman, and I didn’t want to offend her delicate sensibilities. She didn’t come across as a fake Christian, though.

“Please don’t judge me when I say what I say.”

“I don’t judge. Be your authentic self.”

“Well…I met a couple of clients who want me to write romance novels for them, the kind of humping and bumping ones women of God like you might not approve of.”

Nita’s silence had my mind racing, despite me not being ashamed about writing to make a living.

“How does it make you feel to write your novels?”

I thought about it for a few moments and smiled.

“It gives me hope that I can have that kind of love, too. I used to be vibrant, but…”

“But what?”

“I’m plain and boring now.”

“Girl, please. You’ve still got milk on your breath.”

I chuckled.

“You know how to make me feel special.”

“My pleasure, love.”

We said our goodbyes, and I disconnected our call. I pulled into my driveway, ready for my nighttime routine.

“Do you like kids?” Nita asked the question a couple of days later during my daily call.

I cocked my head to the side, confused about the odd direction of today’s conversation.

“Kids like me. Why?”

“I can’t babysit my great-nieces this Friday and need a sub I can trust.”

“How old are they?”

“Six and eight.”

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