Your Dream And Mine. Susan Kirby

enticements facing Ricky. There was a glut of single parents like her raising kids in precarious circumstances on their own limited strength outside the Lord.

      “Just ask him, Flo. Tell him I’d like to turn it into a campground.”

      “Campground?”

      “Yes, a Christian children’s camp,” said Thomasina. The dream had words now. Spoken out loud, it could not be recalled. It was so heart-stopping a moment, the blood roared in her ears. “Listen, could I call you back this evening? I need your prayers, and advice. And Flo? Thank you for worrying about me. Thank Nathan, too. For… everything.”

      Thank you. Far too small. The only meaningful way Thomasina knew to repay the debt owed was to be a vessel of their kindness, passing along to others the new life begun in her when they took her in and loved her into Christ.

      Her throat was dry, her palms sweaty and her heart pounding so hard, she thought it would beat a hole in her chest. Was this what it was like to give birth to a dream?

       I’m scared, Lord. Help me, help me do it right.

      Trace had spent most of the day with sledgehammer and crowbar, knocking the two porches off the old house. The front one was in slightly better shape than the back had been, and stubborn about turning loose of its moorings. He did what he could with hand tools, then went back to the shop for the chain saw.

      When he returned, cars were gathering in front of the church and down both sides of the street. There was no off-street parking. Paying little heed to slamming car doors, he climbed up on the roof, ripped the chord on the chain saw and made some critical cuts. The porch leaned drunkenly as he came down off the ladder. He pushed a severed column and jumped back. The porch came down like a house of cards.

      Over the screech of rusty nails and the groan of splintering, crashing wood, someone called, “Timber!” Trace looked toward the street as the dust cleared. A petite, blondhaired woman closed the door on her late-model minivan.

      “Will I be in the way if I park here?” she asked.

      “You’re fine.” Trace was turning away when he noticed the plates on the minivan. Arizona. He pivoted, jaw dropping. “Deidre?”

      “Trace?” Her blue eyes widened. “Trace Austin! I don’t believe my eyes!”

      Her smile came out, and the years fell away in an adrenaline rush, a clenching gut and a shower of sparks. She was as golden as ever, flying across the grass with her halo of curls bouncing and her arms open wide. She smelled like cotton candy and burned like sun rays, showering sparks as her arms closed around him in a sisterly embrace. Trace listened hard to catch her silvery laugh over the buzz in his brain.

      “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” cried Deidre. “Let me look at you! My goodness, Trace. You’re as handsome as ever. There now, I’ve made you blush. Or is it the heat? You’re dripping wet.” She laughed and stepped back to knock the dust off her loose-fitting denim dress.

      “You’re looking great, Deidre,” Trace said, trying to shake off the numbness. “How have you been?”

      “Terrific. And yourself?”

      “No complaints.”

      “As destructive as ever, I see,” she said, with a teasing gesture toward the collapsed porch.

      “Got to tear down before you can build up.” Trace’s lips limbered up enough to return her smile.

      “We could use a man like you at school. We’re suffering growing pains you wouldn’t believe. God’s blessed us with so many children, we don’t have room for them all. Say, I don’t suppose I could talk you into a packing up your pony and coming out our way?”

      “I heard you were home, drumming up support.”

      “And spending some time with my folks,” she said, nodding. “Are you coming to the soup supper tomorrow night?”

      “Milt sold me a couple of tickets.”

      “That isn’t what I asked,” she said, adopting that lilting tone he remembered so well.

      “The thing is…”

      “No, no, don’t disappoint me with excuses, I’ve heard them all,” Deidre talked right over his stammering attempt to come up with one. “If you don’t come, I’ll just have to give you the spiel one on one.”