Goodness
Written by Emma McCoy
4 minute read
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Hey everyone! Welcome back to a fun and fictional blog series for the next chunk of time. In this series, I’ll be writing fictional short stories following various familiar characters as they try to walk along the faithful path.
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The point of these short stories is to illustrate our big idea: Jesus grows our hope through uncommon friends. But in order to get to this big idea, we first need some scaffolding. Think of these stories like handholds as we’re climbing toward our big idea. A lot of the time, stories that demonstrate an idea are more helpful than just talking about it, so that’s where the fiction comes in. And the handhold (also called an outcome, or learning target) I’m focusing on in this series is this:
We notice and name signs of hope, and learn to receive it too.
If I could put a huge neon sign around that, I would. In this season at Spring Church, we’re going to be using the language of the fruits of the Spirit (like joy, patience, and faithfulness) as we recognize these gifts in our friends. So follow along these stories as I illustrate what it might look like to notice and name these good things in our friends, and how the naming can give us hope. See if you can spot the fruit of the Spirit that comes up!
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We notice and name signs of hope, and learn to receive it too.
If I could put a huge neon sign around that, I would. In this season at Spring Church, we’re going to be using the language of the fruits of the Spirit (like joy, patience, and faithfulness) as we recognize these gifts in our friends. So follow along these stories as I illustrate what it might look like to notice and name these good things in our friends, and how the naming can give us hope. See if you can spot the fruit of the Spirit that comes up!
You can listen to this story narrated like an audiobook on your favorite podcast app!
Good Bones
A story about the kind of friend who shows up when life falls apart
Soren placed the box down on his table, winded. That wasn’t great because the box wasn’t heavy, and the walk from his car wasn’t far. But that’s how it was now—something as simple as walking across the kitchen, or trying the stairs, or even helping dress his young daughter left him out of breath. It always scared him, and made him feel weak, even though he was grateful to be breathing at all.
Angelina’s booth next to his was still empty, so he went back through the farmer’s market to his car to get his folder of larger art prints. The market wouldn’t open for another half-hour, but he was walking slower these days and needed the extra time to set up. The folder sat bulky under his arm. Since getting sick, he hadn’t painted anything new. But it was summer, the first days of sun starting to peek over the buildings, promising a hot day, and that meant tourists. And that meant people who didn’t care if his art wasn’t current, because they’d never seen it before.
Angelina was there when he got back, her booth of silver and turquoise jewelry already set up, and she was laying out his art prints. Had he really been gone that long? It still managed to surprise him, how slowly he was moving. Angelina was a woman around his age, with short, dark hair and large eyes like the cartoon princesses his daughters liked to watch. When she saw him, she smiled.
“Soren!” she cheered. For Angelina, every day was a celebration.
“Hi, Angie,” he said, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t fool her. She grabbed his folder and organized the prints while he sat down heavily behind his table.
“So, what’s Hanna up to today?” she asked.
“I think she’s taking the girls to the zoo,” he replied. “I heard something about an ice cream treat afterward, but that might be hearsay.”
“Then I’ll rule it inadmissible,” she said seriously. While he’d been in the hospital, he’d watched a lot of TV, which on the hospital TV had been mostly reruns of Law and Order and Judge Judy. When Angelina had come to take the kids and give Hanna a break, sometimes she’d bring them back so tired they’d fall asleep piled on top of each other on the pull-out cot. Soren wasn’t sure how Angelina had come into his family’s life—Hanna had said she’d been surprised by Angelina’s offer to help, combined with actually showing up—but he was grateful. His daughters loved her, Hanna had a new friend, and it was great to talk to a fellow artist. He hadn’t expected it: a near-stranger, no more than an acquaintance, had proved more reliable than most of his friends who he’d known for years.
“How’re Lacey and Rita?” she asked.
“Oh, they’re doing great. Rita started piano lessons and Lacey’s jealous, but she also doesn’t want to play piano, so that’s been a fun argument to monitor.”
“I believe it. My sister and I would fight when we were younger over the dumbest things. Any news from the doctor?”
“Nothing too new. They changed the drug cocktail up a little bit, so I’m tired. But I’m always tired, so I suppose there’s no difference.”
“You have to be the luckiest guy in Colorado, getting COVID when you already had tuberculosis.”
“I guess so.”
It had surprised him—him and his wife. He’d somehow avoided COVID through the entire pandemic, and when he’d finally gotten it, it had kicked a dormant TB infection into action. Tuberculosis? he’d said. Isn’t that an old-fashioned disease?
Yes and no. He’d learned a lot about it over the last few months. After a three-week hospital stay, and plenty of medication, he’d been cleared to return home. Turns out, lots of people can have dormant TB infections that never come to life. But something like cancer, a traumatic injury, or COVID, could bring it to the forefront.
He was back at the farmer’s market, but only every other week. It was good to be out of the house, seeing other people now that he wasn’t contagious. Angelina’s booth was always the most popular, thanks to her viral videos combining literature and metalworking, and didn’t need to have an in-person booth anymore, but he suspected she liked talking to people.
“Market’s about to open soon,” Angelina said. She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “I was reading last night and came across this poem. I think you’ll like it—it’s by this American poet, Maggie Smith. Can I read it?”
“Sure,” he replied.
Angelina cleared her throat. “Okay. Good Bones, by Maggie Smith.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.”
As she finished, Soren felt the strong urge to cry. It was like when he was a child and sometimes would cry for no reason, his mother asking what’s wrong? what’s wrong? when there wasn’t anything wrong. It was like there was a tender place in his heart, in the marrow of his bones, that could only occasionally be reached. This poem pressed a gentle finger to that place.
“I like it,” he said roughly. “It’s a good poem.” He looked at her, and thought about the nights she brought food to the hospital, or watched his children, and felt compelled to speak. “You’ve got good bones, Angie. There’s goodness in you. You make this place beautiful, like the poem said.”
Angelina teared up. “Thank you,” she said thickly, and turned away, wiping her face. Just as the market gates opened, the sun came over the horizon, light hitting all the bracelets and earrings and necklaces in Angelina’s booth. They shone.
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About the author
Spring Church member, Emma McCoy (M.A.), has two poetry books: This Voice Has an Echo (2024) and In Case I Live Forever (2022). She’s been published in places like Across the Margin, Stirring Literary, and Thimble Mag. She reads for Chestnut Review and Whale Road Review. She’s probably working on her novel right now. Catch her on Substack: https://poetrybyemma.substack.com/