way to get her hair and nails done. She even believed that there might be a man coming. So it was easy to buy little nighties and pack them away. The first few years, it was easy to keep shining so that the promise, the job, or the man that was looking for her could find her.
After a few years, it took a little more effort, a little more strength to keep believing. Each time there was a notice posted to the door about the water, the electric, or the gas, it took a little more strength to keep keeping on. Each time she had to pick up the phone and make sure there was a dial tone before she dialed, she had to dip into her reserve. The extra strength it required meant Tonya didn’t have time to roll her hair in rollers every night. She couldn’t spare the energy to lay out her clothes. She couldn’t afford to expend the power it took to keep glowing brightly inside and out.
By the time seven years had come and gone—by the time Richard was a memory she questioned—Tonya had learned to sing “Just Jesus Alone,” like the old folks. She’d learned to take joy in the private life, the private love she shared with the Lord. So she began to pray to Him that she wouldn’t need anyone else. She was used to the struggle, to hanging on, and she had developed muscle.
Just Jesus Alone.
It was easier than hoping, more pleasant than watching and waiting. The Lord was perfect—dependable, steadfast, adoring.
Just You alone,
she whispered.
But somehow, though He strengthened her, God wouldn’t give her leave to stop hoping. He required not only that she cling to Him, but that she keep waiting for the promise—for the fulfillment, in this lifetime, of her joy. It was having to hope—the hope and the anxious waiting—that had seemed to sap the last of her strength.
King David, in the days of old, said he would have fainted if he had not believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. It seemed to Tonya it was the believing that was making her faint. She believed to see goodness for others. She rejoiced when she saw God work His magnificence and splendor on behalf of others. To believe for it for herself was something else entirely.
Perhaps it was fighting so hard against herself—while part of her steeled itself and committed to just holding on, the other part hoped and waited—that took the last energy she had to comb her hair, to go to the gym, to search for fashions, to shine her light. If God was going to keep His word and send her promise or send someone, it and he were going to have to find her dimmed, dulled, tired, and hidden amidst the rubble and the clutter of her life.
Tonya wouldn’t let herself cry about Richard anymore.
I hope he’s happy.
She eased her car back into
Drive
and pulled out into the street.
Michelle was wrong about her. It took more energy than she had to try to be desirable and exciting. Jealousy required an emotional mortgage she couldn’t afford.
Tonya turned right off of the side street onto the boulevard that would carry her home. She started and stopped with the other drivers and moved forward down the street until her taillights became another pair of tiny red dots indistinguishable in the darkness from the others around her.
Chapter Thirteen
T onya pulled off her pantyhose and reversed them so that the run would be on the back of her leg. That was good enough. She stood in front of the dryer and secured the end of her ponytail with pins to make a bun.
“Mom-bo, you’ve got to get a life!” Malik shook his head and smiled from the doorway. “Really, Mom, you have to stop going out of your way to look like you’ve been thrown away.”
It was too early in the morning for this. She closed her eyes.
Jesus!
“That bun is killing me. For real, Mom. Don’t you remember when you used to get your hair done and fix yourself up? You don’t have to hide, you know. It’s okay for people to see that you’re a beautiful woman. Look at those shoes, Mom-bo—they’re
After a few years, it took a little more effort, a little more strength to keep believing. Each time there was a notice posted to the door about the water, the electric, or the gas, it took a little more strength to keep keeping on. Each time she had to pick up the phone and make sure there was a dial tone before she dialed, she had to dip into her reserve. The extra strength it required meant Tonya didn’t have time to roll her hair in rollers every night. She couldn’t spare the energy to lay out her clothes. She couldn’t afford to expend the power it took to keep glowing brightly inside and out.
By the time seven years had come and gone—by the time Richard was a memory she questioned—Tonya had learned to sing “Just Jesus Alone,” like the old folks. She’d learned to take joy in the private life, the private love she shared with the Lord. So she began to pray to Him that she wouldn’t need anyone else. She was used to the struggle, to hanging on, and she had developed muscle.
Just Jesus Alone.
It was easier than hoping, more pleasant than watching and waiting. The Lord was perfect—dependable, steadfast, adoring.
Just You alone,
she whispered.
But somehow, though He strengthened her, God wouldn’t give her leave to stop hoping. He required not only that she cling to Him, but that she keep waiting for the promise—for the fulfillment, in this lifetime, of her joy. It was having to hope—the hope and the anxious waiting—that had seemed to sap the last of her strength.
King David, in the days of old, said he would have fainted if he had not believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. It seemed to Tonya it was the believing that was making her faint. She believed to see goodness for others. She rejoiced when she saw God work His magnificence and splendor on behalf of others. To believe for it for herself was something else entirely.
Perhaps it was fighting so hard against herself—while part of her steeled itself and committed to just holding on, the other part hoped and waited—that took the last energy she had to comb her hair, to go to the gym, to search for fashions, to shine her light. If God was going to keep His word and send her promise or send someone, it and he were going to have to find her dimmed, dulled, tired, and hidden amidst the rubble and the clutter of her life.
Tonya wouldn’t let herself cry about Richard anymore.
I hope he’s happy.
She eased her car back into
Drive
and pulled out into the street.
Michelle was wrong about her. It took more energy than she had to try to be desirable and exciting. Jealousy required an emotional mortgage she couldn’t afford.
Tonya turned right off of the side street onto the boulevard that would carry her home. She started and stopped with the other drivers and moved forward down the street until her taillights became another pair of tiny red dots indistinguishable in the darkness from the others around her.
Chapter Thirteen
T onya pulled off her pantyhose and reversed them so that the run would be on the back of her leg. That was good enough. She stood in front of the dryer and secured the end of her ponytail with pins to make a bun.
“Mom-bo, you’ve got to get a life!” Malik shook his head and smiled from the doorway. “Really, Mom, you have to stop going out of your way to look like you’ve been thrown away.”
It was too early in the morning for this. She closed her eyes.
Jesus!
“That bun is killing me. For real, Mom. Don’t you remember when you used to get your hair done and fix yourself up? You don’t have to hide, you know. It’s okay for people to see that you’re a beautiful woman. Look at those shoes, Mom-bo—they’re
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