Author's note: In my Odyssey universe, Accidental Dilemma never happened.
"You know, you need a bell in this place." John Whittaker tucked the bundle of mail underneath his arm and maneuvered carefully around the nineteenth-century model of the Cutty Sark.
"I have a creaky door. It works, and I think Whit's End has the trademark on the bell!" Jason pulled an old wooden chair out from his father's path. "Careful – watch out for the-" He winced as Whit's shins met an elaborately carved spinning wheel.
"Ouch!" Whit fell into the chair and rubbed his leg. "Next time, warn me before I tear my pant leg, will you?"
"Sorry! I've got to rearrange some stuff around here." He took the mail from Whit's outstretched hand. "That thing's a menace. I've got my own collection of bruises. Thanks for bringing me the mail – Wooton says I need an actual mailbox before he can deliver it to my new place."
"How's business going?"
"Oh, pretty well so far. Margaret Faye just bought some teacups, and Fred Porwarth cleaned out the campaign paraphernalia. I have to say, it's pretty humbling when I remember the radio ads that went along with those 'antique' campaign stickers." Whit chuckled.
"Get used to it!" He poured himself a cup of coffee as Jason idly thumbed through his mail. "Anything good?"
"Uh…not so far. Good grief, does this pool installation company have nothing better to do with their time than send me stuff?"
"I get those too – those and the cable company's fliers."
"Any kids at Whit's End planning paper mache crafts? They can use up our junk mail."
"I'll ask Connie. Maybe Penny can take them to the college." Jason continued flipping through his mail and selected a large, official-looking envelope.
"Wow, already?!"
"What is it?"
"Remember I told you about Mike and Karen Thomas? I used to work with Mike, and I'm godfather to their daughter Lisa. She was born right before I moved here. Well, she's graduating from high school next month! Wow, it seems like yesterday she was taking her first steps...right into the cat's litter box, if I remember right. Mike had a new 'Lisa story' every time we talked."
"Ah, they grow up so fast. I should know - it seems like yesterday you were - Jason?" His son had pulled out a long envelope and was staring intently at it. "You know, you have to open an envelope before you can read the letter."
"It's…sorry."
"What is it?"
"The handwriting. It's Tasha's." He carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of yellow legal-pad paper. Jason gave a wry smile. "That's Tasha for you - don't waste time looking for pretty paper." As he read the short letter, suddenly his face paled. Whit frowned.
"Do you want me to go?"
"No. Stay…please." Jason swallowed hard. After finishing the letter, he handed it to his father, then turned away.
Dear Jason,
I debated a long time about writing this letter. I just wanted to let you know about something that happened to me a few years ago.
When we broke up, I had no interest in God or faith or anything spiritual. I lived in a world of lab notes, experiments, and objective data. Or so I thought. Then a couple years later, I was involved in an operation where I had to go undercover as a violinist in a community orchestra. (That extra major sure came in handy, didn't it?) It was a routine case, but after it was over, there was one last concert, and I talked my handler into letting me play it. (Sound familiar?) The piece was Theodore Dubois' "Seven Last Words of Christ." It was the third concert of the week, and I could nearly play the piece in my sleep. But something was different this time. It was as if the music had faded into the background, and all I could hear were the lyrics. I don't know if you've heard that piece, but the chorus sings "He is death-guilty; take him, take him, let us crucify him!" And in between repeating "let us crucify him," the tenor solo sings "Father, forgive them." I don't know exactly how it happened, but sometime between the fifth and seventh movements, I gave my life to Jesus.
I'm writing this so that you know not to worry about me. I'm putting this letter in my safety deposit box to be sent to you in the event of my death. So if you're reading this, Jason, don't be sad. Know that I found God – or rather, was found by Him – and I'm safe. And I'll see you again.
As Donovan told you a long time ago, "Have a good life." May our God bless you and keep you.
Tasha
Whit walked around the counter to put an arm around his son. Rubbing his back gently, he held his little boy close. Jason took a ragged breath.
"I wish I'd known earlier."
"I know."
"At least I know she's-" He bit his lip, then roughly rubbed his face. "Do you think Jack and Joanne would mind if J&J Antiques closed a little early today?"
"Of course not." Whit rubbed Jason's arm. "You do what you need to do."
"Thanks, Dad." Jason gave a weak smile. "I think...I need to take a walk."
Jason wandered along the lake trail, still in a daze. We sat on that tree one time. It was such a pretty day, until the ants were all over us. He gave a weak chuckle at the memory. I don't think either of us had ever jumped so fast! And I was still finding ants in my jacket two days later. Walking over to the tree, now dry and sun-bleached, he sat down and pulled out the letter. She always did have nice handwriting. After reading it again, he pulled out his AppleBerry. A few taps later, he was lost in music. He sat there, entranced, for nearly an hour. I see how this could really have spoken to her. The ending chorus sounded familiar.
"Christ, we do all adore Thee, and we do praise Thee forever; for on the holy cross hast thou the world from sin redeemed."
Thank you, God. Thank you that she's with You, thank you that I know because of what You did for us, I'll see her again. God...could you just tell her I miss her?