Sufficient Grace Read Online Free Page A

round, silver platter without a clink, and she carefully nestles each tray atop the others. Before she slips out of the kitchen to return the stacked platters to their honoured place atop the oak communion table engraved In Remembrance of Me , my aunt puckers her lips together and makes a stern, moist sound. It is all that is necessary: without even exchanging glances, Naomi obeys her mother and quiets her work. Naomi is nothing if not well broken.
    I’m watching from just outside their view, lingering back amongst the coat racks; I learn a lot this way. Sneaky, maybe, but I see and hear more than most. And I rarely repeat what I find out, so I believe it’s something I’m willing to carry. Naomi ain’t no saint, anyway; she can pretend holy all she likes, but I know she is being punished. I heard that too.
    Aunt Gloria is after Naomi for all her haughtiness and vanity, for her attention-seeking ways. About time too, I suppose, for it isn’t a new thing this lip gloss and walking slow down the aisle, straight up the centre of the sanctuary. Even though the girl knew she was late tonight, she comes traipsing up the main aisle — thick black hair hanging down — wanting everyone to turn his head and look. I know Naomi is allowed the gloss — another mistake of her momma’s — but she was putting it on during the service while we were singing hymns. Even if I was allowed to wear make-up — and I’m not until I’m sixteen — but even when I’m allowed, I won’t be bringing out no purse mirror and smearing myself silly in front of the whole congregation. Naomi seems to think her face is the most important thing on her head, where I more admire my brain. She can be fool’s gold, worried more about glinting and shining and less about her true value, but I love her anyway. Naomi is my best friend, and a blessing not a burden to me.
    Carrying the communion trays, Gloria shoves open the sanctuary doors with her hip; they swing back and forth. Here in the racks littered with forgotten sweaters, mittens and even some Bibles stacked on the top, it is easy to miss me. I wouldn’t forget my coat in winter, but I guess some folks have more than they need. And I wouldn’t forget the Word either; my Bible is tucked safe in the purple quilted purse that Grandma made me. Naomi’s matches mine exact, but I’ve stitched my name across the spine to keep it close to me. My family’s jackets hang and wait, still damp to the touch, smelling of soap and mould and coffee. I twist in the woollen jackets and crook my neck, leaning as far as I dare toward the sanctuary.
    My brother slumps in the last pew, hunched shoulders looking like a mountain, solid and unmoving. Mom, twisting her braid, and a solemn-faced Daddy flank him either side. And Uncle Ingwald is kneeling toward them, his bony knees on the seat of the pew directly ahead of them; our pastor’s arms reach across the divide and hold fast to Reuben’s shoulders. I’m still surprised about the whole deal. My brother, he who don’t budge for nothing, held up his big, callused hand and said ‘unspoken’ when the request for prayers was called. Now they’re in there trying their hardest to make that need spoken; my parents and my uncle want to wring it out of him, make Reuben speak what’s on his heart. They let us say ‘unspoken’ and pretend it is between you and the Lord, that they won’t ask and you don’t have to tell. But they’d rather track your path to salvation, checking for footprints and smudges, than leave you on your lonesome, struggling and bleeding alone.
    I can hear snatches of Uncle Ingwald’s prayer, but not much. Something about ‘heavy heart’ and ‘right and pure direction, perfect will’.
    Just now, I feel most sorry for Reuben; we fight, but I don’t like to see him troubled and I really hate to see him