Thread: Alma's Crosses

Alma’s Crosses

I clutched the fabric cross as Pastor Wayne bid the afternoon’s parishioners farewell. Still touched by a Tennessee twang, his tone held a note of sadness not typical of his sweet, southern-voiced sermons. No Sunday morning message was this, after all, but a Thursday funeral.

“Please, only take a cross if y’all plan to keep it,” he had requested a moment before, as two baskets overflowing with homemade crosses made their way down each pew. “Miss Alma would’ve wanted things that way.” Running my fingers over the now-faded fabric, I stared aimlessly at Pebble Creek Nazarene’s many mourning faces. Despite the pastor’s earlier appeal, every parishioner took a cross—as if taking one kept enough of Alma Hodgkins alive. Picking at a loose thread, I stopped and blushed, only to remember the nimble, yet work-worn hands which had stitched it in the first place.

~

“More coffee?” Alma asked. I nodded, smiling, as she poured me a third cup of Folgers. Ready to resume her craftwork, the withering yet lively 92-year-old sat back down to her wobbly kitchen table and her spool of thread.

“How can you stitch so fast?” I wondered aloud, observing her precise handiwork. “Every cross looks so perfect.”

“Time. Years and years of practice. Plus,” she grinned. “I worked in a button factory back in the twenties—had to train my eye for detail.” Alma’s crosses formed an artist’s palette of colors and patterns—violet, indigo, rosy pink, with polka dots, stripes, and checkers—yet each one looked the same. Each had been crafted by her. Knotting the last bit of thread, she sighed. “Looks like this one is ready.”

Under the safety of my younger, stronger grasp, Alma hobbled into her living room. “Mornin’ Ernie,” she beamed, pecking her bedridden husband on the cheek. As I gazed around the Hodgkins’ oh-so-familiar home, its peculiarities still resonated. Without a couch or television, the Hodgkins’ humble living room instead held a hospital bed and a Christmas tree. Ernie’s bed. Alma’s tree—picked up at Pebble Creek’s Goodwill back in the mid-nineties, for it was then that Ernie discovered the earliest symptoms of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. It was then that Alma first deemed the couple’s need for a prayer tree.

The Hodgkins' prayer tree had since reached church-wide fame; adorning its branches dangled scores of tiny crosses, each harboring the heartache of a troubled parishioner, such as myself. Beside the tree sat a small basket, holding more crosses waiting to hear future visitors’ whispered prayers.

Jolting my daydreams, Ernie gave a lung-crippling cough. Even Alma, conditioned to his years of sickness, suppressed a shudder as she patted her husband’s hand. Ernie offered a toothless grin, as a decade of illness had weakened his voice. Reassured, Alma continued.

“Now, Rebecca, it seems you’re in need of this.” She held out a newly-stitched cross, one with sunshine yellow, checkered fabric. Alma reached for Ernie’s hand, then mine. In humble words as pristine as her stitching, she recited a prayer for my own troubles, ending with a soft, “In Jesus’ name.”

Placing my cross on a branch, I sensed a weight lift. Alma’s hand had a special way of taking others’ burdens. “You come back to see me ‘n Ernie the moment that prayer’s answered, and we’ll take your cross off the tree,” she proposed. To represent an answered prayer, Alma would remove the cross from her tree and place it back in the basket. “Until then,” she nodded, “rest assured that I’ll be prayin’ for you.”

Rounding the Hodgkins’ mailbox, my tracks halted. Ought I to tell Alma that I’d be praying for her too? For Ernie? Ought I to at least go back and give her a hug goodbye? A thank you? As I trudged back to Alma’s porch, ashamed of my thoughtlessness, a frail voice, somber yet trusting, resounded through an open window. Startled, I peered inside, only to see Alma hunched over her tree, one hand holding Ernie’s, the other clutching a cross. Her cross. Clashing with the others, this piece, a pale pink, was old and tattered, with loose threads unraveling from the ends. It was Alma’s cross—and Ernie’s cross—sheltering the silent woes they had first voiced years before.

I longed to rush inside and tell them that I cared. I yearned to embrace the feeble lady and thank her for being so strong—for taking so many crosses on top of her own. Instead, I turned away, unnoticed, leaving Alma to finish her prayer in the hushed company of her ailing husband and her beloved Lord.

~

Departing parishioners nodded farewells as they shuffled down the aisle. Left alone, I examined my cross once more. The tattered edges could be mended, I realized, assuming that I found matching pale pink thread. Sighing, I decided against the idea. Faded and worn, the old cloth was beyond repair.

Besides, I concluded, remembering Pastor Wayne’s words,

"Miss Alma would've wanted things that way."


A note from the author: This story is for my high school English class' "Writer's Workshop." My main concern in that the flashbacks were not clear enough. What do you all think? Any other input, of course, is also greatly appreciated!

I thought it was excellent. Very well written and touching. I didn't find the flashbacks unclear at all, so I wouldn't worry too much about that.
The one thing that I did find a little unclear was right at the end:

Faded and worn, the old cloth was beyond repair.

To me, 'beyond repair' means that it needs to be thrown out, which I don't think is what you mean. Perhaps you could just clarify that although the cloth could not be repaired, it also should not be repaired. I'm sure you could think of a better way to word it, if you decide you need to.

A good piece of writing overall. One issue that I had, however, is your tendency to write sentences with a dependent clause at the beginning:

Placing my cross on a branch, I sensed a weight lift.
Left alone, I examined my cross once more.
To represent an answered prayer, Alma would remove the cross from her tree and place it back in the basket.
Clashing with the others, this piece, a pale pink, was old and tattered, with loose threads unraveling from the ends.

Well, types of writing that don't carry a heavy conflict don't always catch my eye, but it's very nicely written, especially bringing out the narrators thoughts.

I really like how this piece comes full-circle. More specifically, I really like the style and the language you use. Reading this passage makes me think of a very distinct accent and culture.

Your descriptions are lively, and I can definitely imagine what's happening in my head.

I enjoyed this story. If you'd like some tips, I have some ideas about it that you may be free to listen to, if you so desire. There are several conflicts in this story. The main one is the main character's guilt over not having consoled Miss Alma, over not having told her how she would be praying for her "too". As I read the story, I felt the hint of an inner struggle wihin the main character, but I think you can draw it out much more, so as to intensify her struggle. Right now, I believe that the main character finds forgiveness far too easily. Certainly, she should forgive herself, but she should struggle with the fact that she wasn't there for miss Alma. That struggle is in fact, the main interest in the story.

Second, this struggle is introduced quite late in the story. It is a while before we, the readers, catch on to the fact that this is why the funeral is taking place, and that this is why the main character is sad. But the story can quite easily be re-written so that the struggle is introduced quite near the story. To do so would quite intensify the pain on the main character, and the care with which the reader's view the relationship between the main character and miss Alma.

Which brings me to my third point. In this story, the relationship between Miss Alma and the main character is discussed very little. It is hardly developed and almost non-existed. This saddens me, as you could greatly manipulate the readaer's emotions toward both the main character's and Miss alma by developing the scene in which they are talking in the sowing room, and in how they interact with each other, as well as letting the reader know how they both know and understand each other.

In any case, it is a well written and earnest story. I like the story, and I would be very glad to see how it develops.

I liked the way that you described the scenes and the developed the characters. It was easy for me to imagine being in the congregation and in Alma's house. You caught my attention and I was very interested to read further to see what was going to happen. I think that the flashbacks are quite clear.

This is a wonderful story and I am glad to have been able to read it.