Unfailing Love

by Trinity Santoro (ages 10-13)

Mama had always told me, “Sarah, God sees all things and takes care of His people.” But after Mama’s tragic death, I had bitterly turned my back on God. Where was God when that horrid illness came up? Why hadn’t He done anything about it—especially after I begged Him to heal her?

 Those angry thoughts had repeatedly swirled in my mind over the last two weeks, and now they whirl as I ride through the woods. My horse, a chestnut mare with a white star on her forehead, senses my anger. She whinnies, breaking from a trot into a lope. Star had always managed to cheer me up, some way or another. 

   But recently, nothing had been able to comfort me. Since Mama’s death two weeks ago, my world had turned upside-down. In a flash, Papa had moved us out of our little house a mile outside of San Francisco and to our new house in the country near a little town called Fresno.

A huge wave of anger at God washes over me, and I dig my heels into Star’s flanks. With a snort of surprise, she swings into her top speed.

I quickly regret my outburst and gently pull back on the reins. Star stops, gasping for breath. White lather shows around her mouth and shoulders.

I slide from her sweaty, bare back. “I’m sorry, Star,” I whisper. Though exhausted, Star nuzzles me. I forgive you, she seems to say. 

I rub her velvety nose. She snorts. My troubles forgotten, I stretch out on the grass and close my eyes.

  When I next open them, I instantly realize I’d fallen asleep. The sun hangs low above the horizon, indicating that night is fast approaching. I mount Star and turn her in the direction of home. Kicking her flanks, we take off, arriving home just before dark.

   “Good girl,” I croon as I dismount Star. I lead her into the stable.

   A piercing neigh slices through the air.

   I gasp. A huge black form approaches. “E-easy, B-blackie,” I stammer to the gelding. My eyes are wide, and my heart is pounding. Blackie rears up, his huge hooves pawing the air. He screams again. I don’t know what to do. “B-blackie!” I try again. “It’s me!” Star snorts nervously. She paws the ground and pulls. Terrified, I tightly grip Star’s reigns.

   Suddenly, a small voice says, “Blackie, calm down.” Blackie snorts, but he obeys. My little brother, James, steps forwards and pats his neck. “Easy now, easy,” he murmurs.

A stab of jealousy shoots through me. “Thanks,” I manage.

   He nods. “You’re welcome.”

*** 

The next morning, Papa, James, and I gather at our small table and eat platefuls of eggs and bacon. I rip off a piece of bacon and pop it into my mouth. As I chew, I think about where I might explore this morning. Hmm… I could go fish in the creek; fried trout sounds delicious for dinner.

“Sarah?” James pipes up. “Can I please ride Star today?”

Star is mine! I shout silently. “No,” I reply icily, my eyes flashing at him.

“But why?” he whines. “Please? Just for a little bit?”

I hesitate. No one can deny his absolute love for horses, like how he calmed Blackie last night. But I remember my plans to fish. “I said no! I’m going to ride Star. You can ride Blackie. You asked last week and all the days in between.” Irritated and annoyed from his every-day asking, I glare at him and keep eating.

“Sarah!” Papa thunders. “Don’t talk to your brother like that! You know that Blackie is too tall and high-spirited for him to ride. Apologize.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, but I’m not.

We eat the rest of the meal in silence. 

Then Papa surprises me and James. “Finish up and get ready. We’re going to church.”

Church? That’s the last place I want to go! “We’re going to…” I begin.

   “Yes, we are. Now go find something nice to put on.” Papa stands up and scowls. “Do as I say, Sarah!”

   “Yes, sir,” I grumble as I scoop up the last of my scrambled eggs and swallow them.

   As much as I want to refuse, I know I should obey him. After setting my plate in the sink, I trudge upstairs.

I carefully comb my tangled brown hair. After pulling off my britches and shirt, I put on a simple, pink dress, and tie back my hair with a matching ribbon.

I descend the staircase and meet Papa, who is waiting for us. He holds the Good Book in one hand. “James!” he calls. “Let’s go!”

James flies down the stairs three at a time. “Ready, Papa.”

Upset as I am, I help Papa hitch up our black gelding to the wagon. We climb in, and Papa picks up the reins. He slaps them across the horse’s back. “Giddup, Blackie!” he commands the tall, sturdy Morgan. The wagon lurches forward as the eager horse breaks into a trot.  

While Papa drives us into Fresno, I steam silently. I don’t want to go to church. How many people will stare as we walk in?

As Papa finally pulls Blackie to a halt, my mind is spinning with serval reasons why I don’t want to be here.

I climb out and help James down. When we enter the church, people are milling about, chatting together. The service obviously hasn’t started yet. We choose a pew near the back and settle into the bench.

I notice a middle-aged man make his way to the front of the church. “Excuse me,” the man calls. “Can we all take our seats? Thank you.”

“Hello,” a strange voice greets. I whirl around in surprise and find a young woman standing behind me. “Sunday School class is about to begin,” she continues. “Would you and your brother like to join us?”

I gulp and glance at Papa. “You’re almost thirteen years old,” Papa says. “Run along, you two.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asks as we follow her towards another room.

“I’m Sarah. He’s James,” I reply. We walk through the doorway.

Chairs line more than half of the classroom. Children of all ages are talking. But all chatter ceases when the woman leads us to the front of the room.

“Children,” she begins, “before we begin, I’d like you to meet two of our new students. This is Sarah and James.”

“Hello,” the children say, and I nod. When James doesn’t return their greeting, I jab my elbow into his side. “Oh—uh, hi,” he stammers.

The lady nods at me. “You may take your seats.”

I choose a seat in the back, but James sits next to another boy about the same age.

“Good morning, everyone.” The woman quieted the class. “As you know, Mrs. Whitson is sick this week, so I shall fill in for her today. My name is Mrs. Prescott.”

“Hello, Mrs. Prescott,” the other children reply dutifully.    

Mrs. Prescott smiles. “Alright, we will begin with a song.”

We proceed to sing ‘Jesus loves me’. I know all the words by heart, but I feel uncomfortable singing them with a group of unfamiliar children, some years older than me, some younger.

When we are done singing, we all sit down to listen to the lesson. I shoot a glance at James, who giggles when a boy whispers something in his ear.

I turn back towards the front, where Mrs. Prescott is picking up a Bible. “In Jeremiah 31:3a it says, ‘I have loved you with an everlasting love.’ Today’s lesson is on God’s unfailing and steadfast love.

“Once,” Mrs. Prescott begins, “a family member or friend may hurt you, and you might be unwilling to forgive them because you think they’ll just hurt you again. But God never does that with us. He never gets annoyed at us, no matter how much we sin. He is always ready to forgive you again, to love you, to care for you.”

I mentally shook my head. That’s not what I’ve found out, I retorted silently. God doesn’t care at all—and neither does He help His people. It doesn’t matter to Him if something bad happens. The thoughts whirled angrily throughout my mind, and I believed them. God doesn’t care. 

“Our love has limits,” Mrs. Prescott went on. “But God’s doesn’t. Ephesians 3:19 says, ‘May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.’ You see, God’s love is infinite, meaning that nothing can keep Him from loving us—and His is unfailing.”

She looks at the class. “Today’s memory verses are 1 Corinthians 13:4-5. ‘Love is patient and kind, love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.’”

Mrs. Prescott closes her Bible and sets it aside. “Does anyone have any prayer requests before we close in prayer?”

I hardly hear some children request prayer for a cousin, a traveling friend, and a sick dog. I almost raise my hand and—

I stop short.

   James boldly raises his hand. “My Mama died a few weeks ago,” he informs. “We are really sad.”

I stare at him in astonishment. What a blunt thing for a seven-year-old to say, I fumed. Why would he say that? He doesn’t seem sad at all that Mama’s gone!

   “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Prescott sympathizes. “We’ll pray for you. Bow your heads, children.”

   I bow my head, but my mind is not on prayer. Instead, sudden tears threaten to spill over when I think about Mama. Ashamed that I’m crying in front of a whole classroom of children, I hurriedly wipe my tears away.

   “…in the Name of your Son, Jesus, amen.” Mrs. Prescott raises her head and smiles. “You are dismissed,” she says.

   I hardly hear the words and am barely aware when all the children—even James—rush out of the room like a herd of wild horses.

   “Sarah?” A gentle voice prods into my daze. “Are you alright?” I look up to see Mrs. Prescott standing before me.

“No,” I admit. “I’m not.” With my words tumbling out, one on top of the other, I tell her everything—from how much I miss Mama to being angry at God and James.

   Before Mama’s death, she’d come down with a fever. The doctor had given her medicine, but her fever continued to rise. She died shortly after.

   I remembered the bumpy and unpleasant trip to Fresno. Papa had thrown in all our belongings and we started off. The trip had been long, and most of my time in the wagon was spent crying.

   I’ve had Star for almost six years now. Everything was difficult without Mama, but the mare helped my grief and anguish. Every day I would mount her and go for a long, fast gallop. Then I would stop at a creek or a meadow and pour out my heart to Star.

   By now, I’m sobbing. My breath comes in short jerks. “And I—I just feel so…so alone,” I cried. I suddenly feel a rush of embarrassment. I try to scrub the tears away, but the flood keeps coming. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Prescott,” I apologize.

   “Don’t be.” Mrs. Prescott smiled. “Please, call me Andi. Everyone else does—except in class.” Her smile faded. “Sarah, I know your sorrow. My father was killed in a roundup accident over twenty years ago. I was only five years old, but I was so grief-stricken. My oldest brother and my mother helped me understand that this was all part of God’s perfect plan.”

   My curiosity rises despite my tears. “How…how’d your father die—if you don’t mind my asking?”

    “Not at all,” Mrs. Prescott—Andi—assures. “He and my brothers were rounding up some horses, when a stallion charged a cowhand who’d dismounted his horse. Father, on his horse, Caesar, distracted him, but then the stallion went after Father. Caesar whirled around and Father flew off. The stallion ran right over him, and—” Andi’s voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “Father died instantly. It was really hard, mostly because I saw the whole thing.”

   I feel tears stream down my face. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. But something stirs in me. She knows me! She understands my pain!

 I glance up at Andi, and I am shocked to see she’s crying, too. She holds her arms open, and I embrace her. Tears flow freely between us. Before I know it, I’m praying. God, thank you for Mrs. Prescott. Thank you for someone who understands.

I suddenly realize that this was the first time I’d prayed since Mama’s death.

   I pull loose from Andi’s hug. “But sometimes it seems that God just doesn’t care,” I confess.

   “Sarah,” Andi begins, and I get the feeling she’s about to lecture me on how God loves us, “it is because of sin that bad things happen, not because God doesn’t care. In the beginning, everything was perfect. Animals didn’t kill one another. People didn’t die. Sarah, sin is disobeying God. When Adam and Eve disobeyed, it changed everything. Animals and people died. Nobody obeyed God’s law perfectly. And because of sin, everyone deserves to die. But worst of all, we are separated from God.

“But God has never stopped loving us. In fact, he loved us so much that He sent His only Son, Jesus, to come down to earth and take the punishment in our place so we could be saved, and we could be made right with God. Jesus rose from the dead after three days. He will come back for us, and we will live in heaven, where there will be no death.”

   I nod. Oddly, I felt comforted by her words, but still upset at James. “It seems James is too little to understand Mama’s death,” I admit. “That’s what angers me most. But he’s also sometimes…well… annoying. It’s tough to love him.”

   “I understand that,” Andi replies. “But James’s little mind can’t fathom it yet. He’s grieving, too, but in his own way.”

I swallow—hard. Realizing how horrible I’d treated James, my eyes widen. For the second time in five minutes, I find myself praying again. God, help me to love James, even when it’s hard.

   “Sarah!” James’ voice pries into my thoughts.

I turn and paste a smile on my face. “Hi, James,” I say.

James grins at me. “Papa told me to come get you. Time to leave.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” I smile at Andi. “Thank you for everything, Andi. See you soon, I hope.”

“And you as well,” Andi replies. She hugs me again.

I wave one last time before following James out. “Where’s Papa?”

“He’s waiting at the wagon,” James answers. He jogs effortlessly out of the church. “Hi-ya, Blackie,” James croons as he pats the big Morgan.

I climb wordlessly into the wagon, my previous discussion with Andi occupying my mind.

Papa chirrups to Blackie, and we start our way home in silence.

As our cottage finally comes into view, I turn. “James, would you like to ride Star?”