I’m the last to climb onto our small church bus. Sierra, Lexie, Elizabeth and Taylor are already in their seats. I find that there are hardly any left, so I have to sit next to someone I don’t know. I don’t mind that so much, though, because I get along with pretty much everyone.

I soon find myself making conversation with the girl beside me, and learn that her name is Mandy. We talk about all sorts of things, starting with the book on her lap.

Pointing to it, I ask, “What’re you reading?”

“It’s a book by Steve Brown called ‘Three Free Sins’,” she answers. “It’s pretty awesome.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him! Is he that pastor on the radio who goes, ‘I’m Steve Brown. You think about that’?” I say, imitating him in my weak attempt at a deep, baritone voice. I’ve always loved his voice.

“Yeah, that’s him!”

“Cool! What’s the book about?”

“It talks about God’s grace,” she explains. “It’s helping me through my insecurity of His love for me… I’ve been dealing with it for a few years. I’ve done some stuff I’m not so proud of and my dad left us three years ago, so… yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” is my quiet response.

“God’s my dad now and there isn’t anything that I need more than Him.”

I nod, but I’m sure Mandy can tell that I’m feeling uncomfortable, so hardly anything else is said during the ride.

We pass by so many farms and strawberry fields on our way to the Jones’ house. I wonder what it’s like to live on a farm. I heard that the family we’re going to help lives on one.

As we turn left onto James L. Redman Parkway, we pass Cowboy’s Steakhouse & Saloon.

“I could go for some steak!” one boy in the back says. His friends laugh and agree.

Mandy’s stomach suddenly growls quite loudly. It’s clear that she’s embarrassed about it as she turns away from me and gazes out the window instead.

“Oh gosh,” I say, giggling. “It sounds like you haven’t eaten in days!”

Mandy turns her head and faces me briefly. The look in her sad green eyes that I see for only a second makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have said that.

“And we are here, guys!” says Mrs. Hills, the bus driver, also known as Pastor Amanda. “Please watch your step on your way out. I’ll be back to pick y’all up in an hour and then we’ll go to Parkesdale Farm Market for treats. I suggest the strawberry milkshakes!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

I exit the van on the right side, as we are told to do, so we don’t exit into the road. It’s a very lonely street, though, but Mrs. Hills is very cautious about things, especially when it comes to vehicles and road safety. I’m sure it didn’t help at all when she heard about what happened to Mr. Jones.

As I walk down the long driveway with my friends, I look around in wonderment at the land… the animals… the food growing in the field!

There’s a cute little white picket fence in front of the house, and behind that is a perfectly mowed lawn and are two fruit trees. I’m just not sure which kind.

Behind those trees stands a huge two story house with creamy greyish exterior walls. Small bushes line the sidewalk leading to their front door, which we have now reached.

“I want to live in Plant City,” Mandy says to me. “Growing my own food would be neat, and I’ve always wanted horses. Oh, and getting milk from a cow in my own backyard sounds cool!”

“Yeah, same here,” I reply with a smile. “I used to ride… until I broke my leg about seven years ago.”

Mandy shudders. “I’ve never broken anything before. I’ve closed my hand in a car door once, but that’s about as bad as it got for me. I started riding horses when I was five, but stopped when I was thirteen.”

My brows knitted, I question, “Why?”

“We couldn’t afford it after my dad left,” she answers, her face losing the brightness it held before I asked that question.

“Oh…”

Justin, the boy who said he wanted steak, rings the doorbell. We can hear loud and clear the sound of feet rushing to the door, but it’s the distinct barking of what sounds like a huge dog that startles us all, and causes Justin to step back several feet.

“Be a man, Justin!” Mr. Gallagher says jokingly, giving him a rough, man-like pat on the back. “If I had ketchup and a bun, we could share that hotdog!”

From inside, a boy shouts, “Dylan, do not answer that door! I’ll be right there!”

The door opens not a second later, and a little boy who can’t be older than five years old greets us with a smile and a wave. He then opens his mouth, saying proudly, “I lost a tooth! And another one is wiggly!”

“Dylan!” is said by a much older boy who suddenly appears behind him. He sighs, musses the little boy’s hair, and then looks up at us. When I get a good look at his face, I notice how vaguely familiar he seems. Everything about his appearance is familiar to me…

His empty green eyes… his curlyish, shaggy brown hair… his olive skin… the way he looks at a person in such a way that it’s easy to tell that he’s guarded. I saw his walls rise instantly upon looking at us.

“Hi, Chase, we…”

Mrs. Hill’s voice fades as the volume of my thoughts increases.

No!

Of all the people… it’s Chase Jones?!

Memories of him in Germany come flooding back to me, breaking the walls that my mind put up in hopes I would forget.

Chase Jones was my personal bully back in elementary school in Germany. I was over there because my dad was in the military and was called to work there for a while. Chase was there, too, and if I remember correctly, my father reported to his. Chase used that mercilessly to torment me, as if he were my commander, too.

I was excited to return to the States, mostly to be rid of him.

My family and I moved to Riverview, Florida, and my parents enrolled me in the local middle school. Then my worst nightmare came true.

He was in every single one of my classes.

He seemed like he didn’t remember me at all… Of course the bullied remembered the bully, but the bully was too self-centered to return the favor.

As visions from the past flash in my mind, I quickly turn around and begin walking back to the van. Before I can turn the corner, though, a gentle, yet firm hand grabs my arm.

“It’s not about how you feel, Abby,” Miss Riley says in my ear. “Philippians 2:4 says, ‘Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.’ Jesus died for and loves everyone, including those who hated Him… Abby, honey, this is easier.”

“You knew?” I ask, remembering the times I’ve told her about him. “You knew that it’s his house we were going to?”

She doesn’t answer my question, but instead says, “You can’t write the future until you right the past, Abigail. When you get home, I’d like for you to read Matthew 5:43 through 45. All right?”

I sigh, not really caring that she hears. “Yes, ma’am,” is my grumbled reply.

Miss Riley and I are the last ones to enter the house. As I look down to wipe my wet boots (the sprinklers must have been on) on the mat at the front door, I see a toddler wrapped around Chase’s leg. The toddler says Chase’s name repeatedly, begging him for a Hershey’s bar.

“Dylan had one,” he whines after receiving several noes.

“Dylan didn’t have permission to have one,” Chase replies.

This can’t be the same person… He seems so gentle and loving, the way he picks the toddler up. This can’t be the same guy. Maybe I made a mistake.

Just as I was thinking I was wrong, a steely, cold glare meets my eyes and brings me right back to Germany.

A moment of stunned silence passes as Chase takes my hand and kisses the back of it, introducing himself as, “Chase Alexander Jones.” Awkwardness suddenly fills the air as I abruptly yank my hand out of his and step back. His face immediately turns to the stony appearance that he wore when he came to the door.

“We’re so grateful you’re all here to help,” he says to the group in what appears to be a pleasant tone. Chase squints his eyes when he turns back to me and says through his teeth in a low, firm voice, “You can start with the toilets.”

Scowling, I reply sharply, “You’re a big boy. You can take care of them yourself.”

“You’re the volunteer.” Chase turns and walks away, disappearing around the corner. From there he shouts, “The supplies are in the pantries and under the sinks!”

What did I get myself into?

“Abigail Brittany Coulson!”

“Yes, Marie?!” I shout back.

“I called you like, a gazillion times,” she says, suddenly behind me, startling me. “Where were you just now?”

“Right here.”

“No, I mean, in your head. What were you thinking about that you didn’t hear me calling you?”

I was busy thinking of how unbelievably rude Chase is.

“Oh, nothing,” I answer. “What were you calling me for?”

“We could use some help in the kitchen,” she replies. “The kids are saying that they’re hungry and I’m trying to clean the kitchen.”

“Pancakes are my specialty!” I say brightly, happy for the distraction from my dark thoughts of Chase. I can’t believe I’m in his house, about to make pancakes for his siblings. This is unbelievable.

I follow Marie into the kitchen, where I find seven-hundred children seated at the table. I busy myself, looking for the ingredients to make my homemade chocolate chip pancakes. Taking a glance at the kids at the table, I decide to give them a healthy appetizer that I find in the refrigerator.

Cantaloupes!

I slice the cantaloupes into squares and place them in a huge bowl, then set it in the center of the table.

“Thank you Miss….” says a boy with bright blue eyes and curly blonde hair. “Miss…”

“Abigail,” I finish with a smile. “You’re very welcome!”

“I’m Elijah.”

“Ew! I hate cantaloupes!” a little girl whines.

“How do you know?” Elijah replies. “You’ve never had one.”

“Yeah I have! They taste like poo!”

“And when was the last time you had that, Emily?” a girl says as she rounds the corner, entering the dining room.

“I taste what I smell,” Emily, the little girl answers, pinching her nose shut, “and cantaloupes smell like poo.”

“No, papayas do!” Dylan chimes in.

“No, you all do,” says a boy who appears to be in his early teens. He reaches to the center of the table and picks up the bowl, bringing it into the living room, where he plops down onto a couch and turns on the television.

“Fine,” I mumble. Speaking up, I ask, “What would you guys like as an appetizer?”

“Turkey!”

“Oatmeal!”

“Eggs!”

“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!”

“Scones!”

“I’ll see what I can do!” I shout over the sound of the many voices. Each one demands something different than the other.

I scour the fridge, searching for something they all might like, and find grapes, strawberries and whipped cream.

Perfect!

I take all three out, wash the grapes and strawberries, and then put them into separate bowls. I place the bowls on the table, then bring the Reddi-wip to the children, telling the teenage girl, who tells me her name is Sarah, that she is in charge. I’m thankful that they already have plates in front of them, so I don’t have to take time away from making breakfast.

“Abby, can I help in here?”

Upon turning around, I see Devon, one of the guys from my church. His bright hazel eyes show his sincerity and willingness.

Grateful for the offer, I reply, “Thanks, Devon! I could really use it.”

“My pleasure!” Devon bends and fumbles with the lock on the baby gate, but can’t seem to get it open. He uses both hands now, but it still won’t unlock. I offer to try, but he insists on doing it himself, saying, “Thanks, but I can do it,” and “I’ve got to learn some time.”

A hand reaches toward the latch and I look up to see a smirking Chase. His chartreuse eyes are even smiling as he uses just one hand to open the gate, and it only takes him a split-second. Making a big show of it all, he gestures dramatically for Devon to go through and, when he does, Chase closes the gate behind him, then locks it. As he walks away, he says loud and clear, “Good, it was doing its job! Keeping the baby out.”

It’s obvious that Devon’s choice to ignore Chase is a hard one. Rolling his eyes, he turns to me with a look that says, ‘Can you believe that guy?’

I shrug, making a face of disgust.

“Come on,” he says in a low voice, “let’s go make some breakfast.”

With Devon, I walk into the kitchen and he starts the pancake mix as I start the eggs.

 “I think it needs just a little more water,” I say to Devon as I stir the eggs in the cast iron pan. He adds more water to the pancake mix and shows it to me again. As I nod my approval, I pull a big plate down and then scoop the eggs out onto it. I now start the over easy eggs… all eleven of them.

Devon turns on the mixer and immediately pancake mix goes flying, including onto me. Some of the kids find this funny and begin to laugh.

As I reach over to unplug the mixer, my elbow bumps into the bowl, knocking it over and spilling all of the contents onto Devon’s shirt. It then lands with a loud crashing sound at the feet of someone I was hoping I wouldn’t see again anytime soon.

“I thought you came here to help around the house,” Chase says, his arms crossed as he gives a disapproving glare as if we’re toddlers. “Not make a disaster of it.” He picks the bowl up off the floor and forcefully puts it down onto the counter. “Since the two of you are so incompetent in the kitchen, why don't you let the 'big boy' take over?”

Devon takes his apron off and turns to leave, throwing it at Chase, who catches it when it hits his chest. “I like my corned beef hash well done,” Devon says, nodding in the direction of the kitchen’s exit.

“And the supplies are already on the counter,” I add, slipping my hand out of the oven mitt and throwing that at him as well. “Thanks!”

Embarrassed and dejected, Devon and I leave the kitchen to go – as Chase so ‘kindly’ put it – clean the toilets.

Devon and I split up to tackle the four bathrooms. He takes the two downstairs as I go upstairs.

I do what I consider a decent job with the first, in record time, hoping to get out of this house quickly. Before I’m able to go to the second bathroom upstairs, I hear Emily calling me from down the hall.

“My big brother says to come and eat now!” she shouts.

Could he really have finished cooking that quickly?

“Tell him I’ll be right there!” I say dryly.

“He said you’d say that, and he told me to tell you to come right now!”

I feel my face flush as anger rises within me. Looking at the little girl, I decide not to answer. Who does he think he is?

Seething, I follow Emily down the hallway, down the stairs and into the dining room. I find myself walking slower and slower as I get closer.

The nerve of that boy!

I recognize a little passive-aggressiveness in me, but I can’t help myself as I refuse to jump to his whim.

As I enter the dining room, I see that Devon is already wolfing down a stack of pancakes. He smiles a chocolaty smile as he says to me, “Abigail, these are really good!” as he uses his fork to point at the pancakes.

Traitor! I can’t be won that easily.

“Yeah, I can see you’re really enjoying it!” I say snidely. I reluctantly sit beside him and stab a pancake out of the plate in the center of the table, then drag it onto my own plate. Even more reluctantly, I take my first bite.

My first mistake was looking up in surprise. Chase’s eyes are locked on mine, and a satisfied smile comes to his face, even before my mouth betrays me.

Second mistake: voicing my delight.

My mouth, without my permission, exclaims, “Mmm!” and I cover it quickly.

“That’s what competence tastes like,” he says as he gets up from the table with his empty plate. I nearly choke on my pancake.

A grimace comes to Devon’s face. “It’s gonna take a little work to win him over.”

I’m still in awe at how quickly he cleaned up and made these delicious pancakes! I would never admit it to that arrogant jerk, though!

With him gone from the table, I zealously attack my plate of pancakes, and as I’m the last one at the table, I’m no longer embarrassed.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Chase’s distinct bass-laden voice causes me to jump slightly in my seat, and I hope it’s undetected.

“I see you’re enjoying my pancakes.”

I shrug. “They’re okay.”

“At the rate you were wolfing them down, it sure looked like you hated them,” he says sarcastically. “Listen, I’m going to take the kids into the backyard. You and Romeo have dish detail. Try not to break anything.” He turns on his heels without giving me a chance to respond.

Romeo?

I wonder what that means as I rise from the table, beginning to clear away the children’s dishes along with mine. I’m starting to feel like his servant.

♥ • ❤ • ♥

Now at home, I open my hot pink and brown bible, flipping through the pages until I find Matthew 5:43.

“[Jesus said,] You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.”

Hm. Easier said than done.