CHAPTER EIGHT: A Beacon

I chewed on the corner of the pen in my hands and squinted at the print on the pink sheet of paper in front of me. My neat handwriting, filling the blanks on the page, showed signs of my trembling hand.

I sighed and got up.

Ding. Hesitatingly, I tapped the bell on the counter. The secretary’s smiling face appeared.

“All finished there?” At my nod, she went on. “Nicole will be with you shortly.” She smiled again.

“Ah, okay,” I stuttered, faintly.

preface

This book is the story of a soul, and her journey through this pathway we call life. Hers may be rockier than many, but it is certainly not uncommon. As a peer counselor at a 1960 Houston pregnancy clinic, I have seen too many girls come through my doors, sit in a cozy seat across from me in the counseling room, and tell Allie’s story.

Is homeschooling a form of legalism? How about counter-cultural practices like courtship (i) and big families, which are common in homeschooling circles? Questions like these have caused me no small degree of confusion. I turn to my own family and many families that I have known, and confidently answer, "no." But then I find blog articles, comments of friends, and even reports on television which seem to credibly contradict my personal experiences. However, as I have repeatedly encountered these contradictions, I have also come across a probable explanation.

{This will be my last post on ApricotPie until after the summer. I may drop in from time to time during the summer and read and comment, but I want to be as 'unplugged' as possible. This story, "Deep Roots" is one of my favorite short stories, along with "In My Father's House" and "Nikolai." Short stories in general I tend to like better than my long ones. So without further ado, see you after the summer, and enjoy!}

A tall Zambian man showed me a handful of dirt, dead leaves, and broken roots. “The roots are so deep, we cannot pull them out.” He said.

{written after studying Psalm 81}

We shall all fall.

We are all to die, because of our treason.
I look about me. They are all placid; they do not understand.
I shake one, then another.

“Do you not understand?” I cry. “I am doomed! You are doomed! We shall all die! We must get out, get free, get forgiveness!”