The following is a story I recently submitted for publication to the "Chicken Soup For The Soul" series.
“Baby J”
by Jane Frances Bradley
There it sat, perched on the side of a mountain, defiantly facing the strong north winds of Mount Marcy. The four foot of snow appearing more like a thick warm blanket than the harsh realty of yet another Adirondack winter. The house sitting at an angle, appeared to be giving a cold shoulder to the thousands of acres of forest that encroached upon it from almost every side. It reminded me of myself; weathered by the storms of its past, bold in its attempts to put up a good front, but overall alone, sad, empty.
Our breath formed solid puffs of white that hung heavy in the air as we spoke to one another, serving only to magnify the icy, teeth chattering, I need a cup of hot tea, kind of Cold. Defying the attempts of this bone chilling cold I walked slowly through each room, running my fingers across the thin layer of frost that covered the inside walls. I felt an immediate kinship with the old house. We learned that it had been a summer home for most of the past thirty years. I could almost hear it speaking as if pleading to be filled, to be useful, too have purpose. The overwhelming sense of longing was as familiar as a word that sat on the tip of my tongue. I am sure if the home were able to speak it would have cried out; “Give me a chance to accomplish what I was created to do. Let me provide for you shelter and warmth. Allow me the opportunity to be the
refuge I was intended to be…”
These thoughts whirled about as I went from room to room painting pictures in my mind. I heard the sounds of life; early morning prayer, late night whispers, the giggles of little girls, the shouts of rough housing little boys. I could smell the brewing of hot coffee, the aroma of fresh baked biscuits. I could hear the sizzle of bacon. I thought of Sunday afternoons, roasted chicken, home made corn bread and hot apple pie. I could hear the laughter of family; I could feel the warmth of love.
Our breath formed solid puffs of white that hung heavy in the air as we spoke to one another, serving only to magnify the icy, teeth chattering, I need a cup of hot tea, kind of Cold. Defying the attempts of this bone chilling cold I walked slowly through each room, running my fingers across the thin layer of frost that covered the inside walls. I felt an immediate kinship with the old house. We learned that it had been a summer home for most of the past thirty years. I could almost hear it speaking as if pleading to be filled, to be useful, too have purpose. The overwhelming sense of longing was as familiar as a word that sat on the tip of my tongue. I am sure if the home were able to speak it would have cried out; “Give me a chance to accomplish what I was created to do. Let me provide for you shelter and warmth. Allow me the opportunity to be the
refuge I was intended to be…”
These thoughts whirled about as I went from room to room painting pictures in my mind. I heard the sounds of life; early morning prayer, late night whispers, the giggles of little girls, the shouts of rough housing little boys. I could smell the brewing of hot coffee, the aroma of fresh baked biscuits. I could hear the sizzle of bacon. I thought of Sunday afternoons, roasted chicken, home made corn bread and hot apple pie. I could hear the laughter of family; I could feel the warmth of love.
I stood just inside the parlor, looking out one of the four huge windows that took up most of three walls. I could see in my minds eye snow men, swing sets and sandboxes, little girls playing hide and seek, little boys climbing trees. I saw picnics and birthday cakes, tree houses and hammocks. I could hear the laughter of my own heart as I allowed hope a fighting chance. We discovered at the closing that we were the third family to own the house in over one hundred and fifty three years.
The scars from a past life I lived ages ago prevented me from having children of my own. Despite my inabilities to conceive I somehow held on to my hopes of loving children. Stephen, my husband and I became foster parents. It was not long, before “Baby J’ came into our lives. A bundle of rose petal skin and deep blue eyes, “Baby J”came to us at seven weeks old right out of intensive care. It was a whirl wind of activity; feeding, burping, sleeping, changing and bathing. In between were the sounds of giggles, mine and his.
One morning at dawn as I was preparing to feed “Baby J”, he turned his tiny face towards mine, looking up at me with those big beautiful pools of blue, I could clearly see him; bursting in the back door of the kitchen, mud from his toes to his cheeks, a frog in one hand a fist full of beautiful weeds in the other. Looking up at me, with all the enthusiasm of a four year old, exclaiming; “mommy, mommy look what I brought you” I must of blinked, because as quickly as “Baby J” came into our lives he was gone.
My big beautiful old house suddenly became as cold and empty and sad and lonely as the day I ran my fingertips over its frost covered walls. The only sound I could hear was the sound of my own heart breaking even my tears were silent as they slid down my face into an endless river of despair.
It was less then six months later that my husband accepted a position as Chaplin for the state of Texas; he would be working with at risk youth.
Baby J’s room was the last room I packed. As I sat in the rocker looking around the room, I thought of all the hopes I had for him and how one by one they became heart felt prayers. I pray every day for the moment that he comes bursting through the back door of his mother’s house that he’ll find the woman he calls mommy to have an embrace and a love that’s bigger then Texas; frog, mud, weeds and all….
Janie Bradley is a Free Lance Writer, wife, mentor, volunteer and step mom.
She resides in Whitney Texas with her husband Stephen of nine years and their dog Nikki. For further information please contact her at:
The scars from a past life I lived ages ago prevented me from having children of my own. Despite my inabilities to conceive I somehow held on to my hopes of loving children. Stephen, my husband and I became foster parents. It was not long, before “Baby J’ came into our lives. A bundle of rose petal skin and deep blue eyes, “Baby J”came to us at seven weeks old right out of intensive care. It was a whirl wind of activity; feeding, burping, sleeping, changing and bathing. In between were the sounds of giggles, mine and his.
One morning at dawn as I was preparing to feed “Baby J”, he turned his tiny face towards mine, looking up at me with those big beautiful pools of blue, I could clearly see him; bursting in the back door of the kitchen, mud from his toes to his cheeks, a frog in one hand a fist full of beautiful weeds in the other. Looking up at me, with all the enthusiasm of a four year old, exclaiming; “mommy, mommy look what I brought you” I must of blinked, because as quickly as “Baby J” came into our lives he was gone.
My big beautiful old house suddenly became as cold and empty and sad and lonely as the day I ran my fingertips over its frost covered walls. The only sound I could hear was the sound of my own heart breaking even my tears were silent as they slid down my face into an endless river of despair.
It was less then six months later that my husband accepted a position as Chaplin for the state of Texas; he would be working with at risk youth.
Baby J’s room was the last room I packed. As I sat in the rocker looking around the room, I thought of all the hopes I had for him and how one by one they became heart felt prayers. I pray every day for the moment that he comes bursting through the back door of his mother’s house that he’ll find the woman he calls mommy to have an embrace and a love that’s bigger then Texas; frog, mud, weeds and all….
Janie Bradley is a Free Lance Writer, wife, mentor, volunteer and step mom.
She resides in Whitney Texas with her husband Stephen of nine years and their dog Nikki. For further information please contact her at:
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