The Path To Love. Jane Myers Perrine
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what the phrases must be—Francie finally went to the checkout counter and asked, “Where would I find something about the fruit of the spirit?”
An older woman with tightly permed hair and owlish glasses said, “Romans,” without even looking up. Then she shouted over her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Harvey? Fruit of the spirit—isn’t that in Romans?”
“She might want to look at Galatians five,” said the white-haired man. “Nice list there. Can’t remember the verses.” He smiled at Francie and turned back to some papers he’d been checking.
“Okay, try Galatians five.” The woman picked up a pencil and started marking off items.
Well, what the—Francie’s thoughts started until she reminded herself to start watching her language. What did all that Romans and Galatians stuff mean? But all she could see was the top of the woman’s tight curls and the back of the white-haired man’s head. They looked so busy she hated to bother them again. Instead she returned to wandering around the store, feeling incredibly dumb.
“Are you looking for something?” a high-school girl asked the third time Francie passed her.
“I need to learn about the fruit of the spirit. Something about Romans and Galatians, I think.”
“Why don’t you look it up in your Bible?”
Ah, so that’s where Romans and Galatians could be found. Why hadn’t Francie thought of that? She looked around. “Where would I find a Bible?”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” The girl smiled. “I’ll show you.”
Within seconds they were in an area Francie’d passed through before. The girl waved her arm at an entire case of books. “Here are the Bibles.”
“Those are all Bibles?” Francie studied the six-foot-high shelves that stretched forever across the room. The books were of all different colors, from black to white with shades of red and brilliant blue and somber brown. Some faced forward to show pictures or symbols. There were hardbacks and others with paper or leather or plastic covers. She shook her head. This was getting a lot harder and more complicated than she’d thought it would be.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Just a regular Bible. How do I know which one?” The silver Bible with a hologram on the front looked interesting but not very…well…religious. Then she noticed the prices. “Are the more expensive Bibles better? I mean, do they have more words and stories in them?” She tried to remember how much money she had—a couple of dollar bills, a five, some quarters. Yeah, price was important.
The young woman smiled again. “No, the only difference is the translation and the binding. Find one that you like to read. You can find something cheap. It’ll have the same thing the more expensive ones have.”
The task still seemed overwhelming. “Which one do you like?”
“This one’s good.” She took one from a shelf and handed it to Francie, then added several more, helping Francie look at the different versions.
After she read a few lines in each, Francie found one she liked and could afford. “Thank you,” she said.
The young woman took Francie’s hand and said, “It was a blessing to meet you.”
What do you know? It was a blessing to meet her. A lovely thought. “It was a blessing to meet you, too.”
Francie paid, then hurried back to her apartment, grasping the bag with the Bible inside tightly.
Not much of an apartment, she reflected as she closed the door. Not even an efficiency. Once up the three flights of stairs and inside, she could take five strides and be at the only window—which overlooked the alley. On the right was a sofa bed; to the left in a tiny kitchen was a card table covered with a bright-yellow checked tablecloth.
Around the walls were splashes of brilliance: Aunt Tessie’s forged impressionistic paintings, fifteen that Francie had saved from the police and would guard until her aunt’s return. They were beautiful and brought so much color into the small room that Francie didn’t need light or a view from the window. Besides, with the pictures in place, only inches of the flaking green walls showed.
She settled on the threadbare sofa and opened the book.
It wasn’t all that hard to find Galatians. In the front, she found an index and turned to the right page. Once there, she discovered that some thoughtful person had divided the book using numbers in large, bold print. In no time, she found Galatians five. Scanning the chapter, she read to herself the words: “‘…the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’”
Francie ran her finger across the words as she read them again. Finally, she whispered to herself as she read, “‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’” With a nod, she added, “I like that.”
She closed the Bible and looked at how thick it was. Then she looked at the end of the last book—1,402 pages. She hadn’t read that much in her entire life. The thought of finishing that many pages overwhelmed her.
Francie sat back in the chair and sighed. Why had she thought she could do this? People like white-haired Harvey and the clerk in book store had probably been reading the Bible since they were kids. Even the young woman who’d been so helpful had probably spent more years reading the Bible than Francie had wasted being a troublemaker in school.
And Mr. Fairchild must have read lots and lots of it. He knew about the fruit of the spirit.
How could she even attempt this? But, if she wanted to change, Francie knew she had to tackle all these pages. Francie Calhoun was not a quitter.
Where should she begin? Obviously at the beginning. It would take her an eternity to finish all of it but she had to, really had to.
Besides, the Reverend Mr. Jonah Miles and that nice lady at the church had probably read the entire book. They’d started her on this road. She couldn’t let them down. She was behind, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.
She said to herself, “‘…love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control….’ That is a good place to start.”
Chapter Two
Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Francie reminded herself that she had to work on this problem of constantly running behind as she dashed up three flights of stairs in the Austin, Texas, courthouse annex. She glanced at the clock on the landing—ten minutes after ten. She was only a few minutes late, but she was also panting and her hair was a springy mess. On top of that, her cheeks must be bright red from the exertion of running from the bus stop.
Terrific, she mumbled. Here she’d wanted to impress Mr. Fairchild with what a fine citizen she was, and she couldn’t even arrive on time for her second appointment. She stopped just inside the door of the parole office and attempted to slow her breathing.
From the cubicles, separated from each other with six-foot-high gray metal walls, she could hear the low buzz of voices. Telephones rang from the offices that surrounded the cubicles. Parolees waited on hard wooden benches, reading or sleeping, while others wandered through the open space drinking coffee and talking.
In spite of the chaos in the small area, she was aware of Mr. Fairchild who sat quietly and alone in his cubicle scanning a page of a file folder.
Oh, my, he was absolutely gorgeous. When she saw him, she wished she was at least three or four inches taller and a few pounds heavier. And wouldn’t she love to have something to wear besides jeans and ratty tennis shoes? And, while she was wishing, wouldn’t it be nice to be absolutely gorgeous, too?
With a pat to the top of her head, she attempted to tame her wild curls as she walked across the scuffed gray vinyl floor toward his desk. “Mr. Fairchild?”