By Ronnell Kay Gibson
The sheriff tossed the yellowed documents onto the Suttonâs kitchen table. âIâm sorry to tell you folks. The documents are real.â
A small cry erupted from Margaretâs lips.
Hank moved behind his wife and gripped her shoulder, hoping the warmth of his hand would lend her strength. âAre you sure, Sheriff?â
âIâm sure. Went and had a judge up in Harlow County inspect âem.â
Margaret wrung the kitchen towel tightly around her hand. âWhat are we supposed to do now?â
Hank stared at the papers. Age and weathering had faded them to a creamy yellow. Yellow. His favorite color. The color of hundreds of acres of wheat blowing in the wind. The Texas sun as it set behind the trees out back. The egg custard Margaret made on special occasions.
But now yellow was spoiled for him because Amos and Billy Judd, the biggest landowners in the county, had found evidence that this land, his land, belonged to their great, great, great granddaddy.
Hank tried to keep his voice steady for Margaretâs sake. âPlease, Sheriff. This farm has been in our family for generations. Doesnât that count for something?â
âNot according to these papers. You were merely caretakers. The land and everything on it belongs to the Judd family.â
Margaret blinked away tears and twisted the towel around the other hand. âJust like that? After all our hard work? Weâre being forced out?â
âIâm sorry, but yes. I tried to talk them into letting you stay and harvest this yearâs crop, but the Judds wonât budge. Theyâre giving you two weeks to vacate the property.â
Hankâs stomach knotted.
Tears trickled down his wifeâs face. âWe have creditors to pay. We need the profits from this sale of crops.â
The sheriff picked up his hat. âIâm sorry, folks. Truly I am.â
As the sheriff opened the screen door, he stopped. âThe Masonâs house down the road is empty. Went into foreclosure when they gave up gold mining and moved in with their son out east.â
The Mason’s rundown place was one-fourth the size of their home, with less than five acres of farmland.
âI know itâs not ideal, but Iâm sure you could get a fair price.â
Hank tried to keep his frustration in check. âThank you, Sheriff. The suggestion is appreciated.â
As soon as the door clicked shut, Margaret buried her face in Hankâs chest. He drew her closer as she sobbed. Let her cry for the both of us.
When her tears subsided, she pulled away and looked at him with tear-stained cheeks. âWhat are we going to do, Hank?â
He only had one answer for her. The same answer heâd given for all their struggles throughout the yearsâdrought, floods, two miscarriages before the twins were born, his bout of pneumonia last Christmas.
âMargie-dear, God has always been faithful to us. Heâll continue to provide. Maybe this is a blessing. Hank wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Boys are getting to be courting age. Theyâll be leaving soon to start families of their own. This place will be too much for just us.â
She tried to smile, but it didnât reach her eyes. She was humoring him. âGodâs plans arenât always easy. But theyâre the best.â
âThatâs my girl.â He clasped her hands and squeezed. It would be hard to leave this home, for all of them, but it was necessary. âAnd just last week, didnât you say how much you missed Charity Masonâs yellow fig trees? Best figs in all the south.â Hank winked. âAnd think of the blue ribbons you could win after you create all-new, delicious fig desserts.”
She patted his slight belly. âHank Sutton, you donât need any more desserts.â She giggled. This time her smile enveloped her face, her eyes once again bright with hope. âBut Hank, do you think the bank will give us a loan?â
âIâm not sure. Without the house, land, or crops…Â thereâs nothing left for collateral.â
Margaret stepped back, wiping stray tears away with the dishtowel still in her hands. âThen it is in Godâs hands now.â
Fourteen days later, Hank closed the door on the old homestead for the last time with a crisp, white document in hand. A rental agreement to the Masonâs old property. The bank wouldnât give them a loan but offered to let it on a month-by-month basis. The first monthâs rent drained what little savings they had.
After all the furniture had been moved, Hank left his wife in the kitchen, giving her time and space to add her special touches to their new home without him underfoot.
While the boys ran into town for a few supplies, Hank walked the new property line, making mental notes about tasks heâd have to accomplish before winterârepair the fencing, trim back the overgrowth, replace the dilapidated barn door. The further he walked, the more the listâand Hankâs anxietyâgrew. Maybe this wasnât the right move after all. What will we do next month? Hank squashed the fear that wanted to rise up.
As the sun began to set, the sky blazed in those radiant golden hues heâd always loved. No, the color yellow wasnât spoiled for him. He would trust Godâs plan, wherever that led them.
He lifted his face up toward heaven, closed his eyes, and basked in the familiar peace that washed over him.
A sound caught his attention. There, at the furthermost part of their property, Hank discovered a brook, bubbling with life. He knelt down and splashed cool liquid over his face. Gold flecks shimmered off the surface of the water.
Or was it in the water?
Hank smiled. Like their faith, their future would be secure.
Fantastic pairing of yellow with the emotions of despair and hope. I didn’t see the ending coming.
Thanks! Much appreciated!
“Since they gave up gold mining…”
BUY THE HOUSE, THAR’S GOLD IN THEM THAR HILLS!!
XD
đ. Right?
That’s hysterical, Rose!
Lovely story!!
Thanks, Beka!
Beautiful story of faith. I loved it!
Nice use to the color yellow, in both trial and hope.
Beautiful story, surprised ending
I expected something like the documents would prove to be fake, but I think this ending shows more faith at work. I love the many connections to yellow.
Also, is there a missing quote mark in the paragraph starting with “Margie-dear”?