A Friend

When I was little my Dad and I used to live in a small town half surrounded by beautiful mountains, green during the rains and brown when the heat comes. I used to attend a small school in the middle of town that had about four hundred pupils.

One day as I skipped along on the way home, I saw smoke rising into the air from our house. Our house was on fire. Neighbors, police and firefighters were standing around discussing the situation. An ambulance drove off the premises with my Dad in it. I had to spend a couple of days with a caring neighbor. When the weekend was over, Grandpa Mike came and took me to live with him in his cozy house near the lake in the countryside.

As I became a teenager, I came to love the lake house. In the morning, especially on holidays, I’d wake up very early and throw my windows open towards the lake to watch the sun rise above the trees and over the water. The calm lake surface would shimmer reflecting the sun rays when the wind blew over it forming endless ripples. A couple of canoes would always be tied to the bank and birds would fly around them looking for crumbs, snails and worms to pick. Sometimes I’d go outside in the morning and walk around the lake looking for snails hiding in the piles of wooden planks around the bank that were leftover or damaged and left behind by the the men who repaired the boats.

Grandpa would wake later at 8 o’clock, and find his way out to the porch if he didn’t find me in the kitchen. “Joanna!” He’d call looking out to the lake. I’d turn around and return to the house.
“I’ve got snails for soup tonight, Pa,” I’d say. He would smile and rub my head, roughening my hair. We’d have breakfast and do some chores together. He’d do the easy ones like drying the plates, while I washed them or wiped dust off the pictures on the wall.

In the evening I’d go out to the field to watch games. Sometimes Grandpa would come along with me because other teens my age came along with their friends and I had no friends. You see, ever since I came to live at the lake house with Grandpa, I felt different from the other kids. Some kids called me “blackie” and I felt I wasn’t wanted because I had brown skin and short coarse hair. Because of this I was a loner.

One day Grandpa buttoned his shirt and buckled his belt and walked straight up to the doorsteps of many of the neighborhood kids and told their parents that he wouldn’t have their children call me “blackie” anymore because I had cried to him the previous night. The day he did that was the day I knew I’d probably never have a neighborhood friend, but I was glad the kids began to call me by my real name, Joanna.

One morning after breakfast Grandpa took his wallet and left the house. When he returned at noon he held up a lovely magenta gown as he walked into my room. “Say Joanna, this would look good on you,” he said. I jumped up in excitement, wrapping my arms about his neck. “Last I checked, other teenagers all go to the Youth Club and you don’t, maybe ‘cause you’re shy, or you think you aren’t pretty enough. The next one is this Saturday and it’s time you went there.” “But,” I said, looking back at him from where I was admiring the dress in front of the mirror, “I will be out of place.” “No, you won’t. You’re prettier than the whole lot of them. Go make some friends, dear,” he said, patting my shoulder.

On Saturday at noon I put on my new dress and strapped my waist with a black belt, brushed my hair, holding it together above my nape and jelled my hairline in curls. I walked out to the living room and Grandpa looked at me with misty eyes, “I wish your father could see you now,” he said. I embraced him. I remembered, it took me a long time to realize that my father was dead, even after the fire accident because Grandpa kept telling me that he’d gone to heaven. I was five years old and didn’t understand that people don’t return from heaven. My dad and I used to belong to a Sunday School group, but since I moved in with Grandpa, we didn’t go to Sunday School.

I had imagined the club would be a large gathering where youths hang-out, have fun and break the rules, but it turned out to be a small gathering where youths socialize, have refreshments and play Bible games. I was feeling awkward at first, but when I noticed that the smiling faces around me welcomed me as a special new member, I felt at ease. There were many activities.

They served us wrapped cupcakes labeled with different Bible verses. We sat together and they asked everyone to read their own verse and explain it to the rest of the group. Under my cupcake was John 15: 13–14, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends.” I leaned towards the girl by my side and asked her if she could explain the verse to me ‘cause I didn’t know how to explain it. She smiled kindly as she nodded.

When it got to my turn I got up and read it aloud and explained it like my neighbor had told me. After we shared the grace, the girl came over and we talked. She asked me where I lived and promised to come visit the next weekend. I was so happy.

I barged into the house so excited as I got home. I had finally gone to a place where I felt like I fit in just fine. Grandpa sat on the sofa looking up at me and smiling, holding a box in his hand. The box used to belong to my father. I sat beside him and he opened the box for me. It was filled with sheets and sheets of paper containing hymns with their music and tonic sol–fa.

“He used to sing?” I asked.

“Why yes. When he was a teenager he joined a church and was in their band. He played the guitar. He quit the band when you were born and sold the guitar. He got a job and cared for you. I bought you that gown so you’d get up and go for that Youth Day party cause I think your father would want you to know about God like he did. Maybe I can find us a church to belong to. What do you say?”

I smiled and placed my head on his shoulder holding one of the song sheets in my hand. My eyes ran down the lyrics of the song, What A Friend We Have In Jesus. In my other palm was my piece of paper from the party with John 15:13–14 written on it. I squeezed them both tightly and closed my eyes. All this time, did I have a friend that I didn’t know about? Maybe I’d learn again who God really was. I didn’t understand everything, I just listened to the sound of a dove crying outside flying over the open lake. The cool wind rushed in through the window and fanned me and all I knew was that I wanted to know more about this friend called Jesus.