Rekindled by Tamera Alexander Page B

obvious Isaiah had painstakingly crafted this for him. That realization did little to quell his anger at the moment.
    Larson positioned the walker over his legs. He could move his legs—that wasn’t the problem. Sustaining his weight was another story. He gripped the sturdy pine and pushed up, but he barely got out of the chair before his arms burned from the effort and gave way. He fell back with such force that the chair almost toppled over, taking him with it. Catching himself just in time, rage pulsed through his body. He clenched his jaw until it hurt.
    Larson positioned himself in the chair again, winded from the exertion. “God, why on earth am I here?” he growled through clenched teeth. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed his hands over his face, noticing the occasional spot of facial hair that was growing back in, patchy and thin. Abby had said she would give him a shave tonight.
    He listened for noises coming from the other room. Nothing.
    He could well imagine Isaiah sitting at the table, large hands clasped, waiting for him, watching the door and ready to smile in triumph. Larson huffed in disgust and caught a whiff of Abby’s stew. His mouth watered at the savory scent of meat.
    Adjusting the walker, he managed a firm grip and tried again. His arms trembled from the exertion, but he held on. Once up, he locked his arms and took a second to catch his breath. He gradually transferred a portion of his weight to his legs, certain that at any moment his bones would snap.
    A trickle of sweat ran down his left temple.
    Thankfully, he was facing the doorway so he didn’t have to negotiate a turn. He took one step and paused, then took another. His heart pounded so heavily he thought he might pass out. But at least he hadn’t fallen. Not yet.
    He shut his eyes and willed his right leg to move again. His muscles signaled back to his brain and he let out a gasp. Weary from the exertion, Larson leaned forward until his forearms rested on the walker.
    “Your lack of strength doesn’t lie in your body.”
    With renewed resolve, Larson refocused all his energy on his right leg—and finally, it moved! He half dragged it forward, but still it moved. By the time he made it to the door, his chest heaved with exertion, his arms felt like wax. He slumped against the doorframe for support, able to make out the edge of the table but nothing else.
    He took another step and another, each staggered shuffle a begrudging testament to the determination he thought he’d lost.
    He spotted Abby first, seated at the table. Their eyes met and the light of hope filled her gaze. When she smiled, he managed one back. But Isaiah was nowhere in sight. No matter. Determined not to be bested, Larson struggled forward. He lifted his left leg and was midstride when his right knee buckled beneath him. His grip went slack. He braced himself for the impact, but it never came.
    Strong black arms like bands of tempered steel came from nowhere, taking hold of him. After a moment, Larson dared to look into Isaiah’s face.
    “You did it,” Isaiah whispered, beaming.
    “Oh, Larson,” Abby spoke from across the room, tears glistening. She chuckled.
    Isaiah squeezed his shoulder tight, and Larson drew from his strength. “I knew you could do it. You and the Almighty.”
    Surprising himself, Larson laughed in relief and wondered again at how the man holding him could trust so steadfastly in a God who had allowed him to experience such heartache in his life. Abby too. Isaiah had told him the other night that Jesus held him and Abby safe in the palm of His hand, and Larson found himself wanting to believe that.
    But how could you trust in someone who promised to shelter you safe in the palm of His hand, when sometimes He still let you fall?
    The next morning the three of them shared breakfast at the table. Larson caught the furtive glances Isaiah and Abby shared, along with their secretive smiles. When he finally questioned them about it, Isaiah took