Lois Richer - Mother's Day Miracle and Blessed Baby

“Last one in is the biggest chicken,” she bellowed, then gurgled as she stepped off a ledge and the icy water closed around her sun-heated body and filled her gasping mouth. “Oh!”

“You live on the edge, don’t you?” Wade’s big hand wrapped itself around her arm and tugged her toward shore. “You don’t have to prove to me that you’re brave, Clarissa. I’m the guy you married, the fellow whose four crazy kids you took on. Remember?”

“I remember.” She hugged herself tightly, arms wrapped around her middle to conserve what little warmth still pulsed through her body. “Since you already know how brave I am and that I’m not a chicken, c-c-can I get out n-now?”

Wade threw back his head as he roared with amusement at her chattering teeth and shaking lips. Gently he led her out of the water, wrapped her beach coat around her and wrapped his own towel around her dripping head.

“You don’t back down, do you, lady?” he said, admiration lacing his voice.

Clarissa gathered her stuff into her bag and headed toward the cabin, fully aware that Wade was right beside her. “Feel the fear and do it anyway,” she mumbled. “That’s my motto.”

They walked toward the cabin and up the steps. At the top, Wade reached out a hand and stopped her. His eyes held a quizzical look that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Sometimes fear is a good thing, Clarissa. It makes us stay away from situations where we can get badly hurt.” His dark eyes bored into hers.

She held his gaze. “And sometimes hurt teaches us things we wouldn’t have learned if we hadn’t stepped out in faith, believing that God is always in control. ‘If God is for us, who can be against us?’” she quoted softly.

His hand dropped away, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

“I’m going to change,” she told him finally.

He nodded, wet hair drooping into his eyes. He slicked it back, his eyes on her. “In that bag of tricks, have you hidden the ability to cut hair?”

She winked. “I can cut it.” She shrugged. “It might end up a little shorter than you like, but I can cut it.”

He nodded. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Trying.” He opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Featherhawk.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Featherhawk.”

As beginnings went, it was a start. A good start.

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