Peace
Written by Emma McCoy
3 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!
Peace
A story about the kind of friend who listens deeply
Miriam’s hands moved quickly over her crochet hook, the yarn spinning and turning like it had a mind of its own, forming neat rows. She watched Oliver come in through the back door. He hung his backpack up on the rack in the kitchen and opened the fridge. He was always hungry coming back from class. It’d been a year since he’d graduated college, and as the job market continued to fluctuate, he’d decided to get his CPA certification from the community college. He said it would add value to his resume.
Miriam didn’t know much about accounting, but she’d been glad to help him pay for it because it had really seemed to lift his spirits, at first. She knew he’d been having a hard time since graduating, and when his friend Agatha had died six months ago, it’d only made it worse. She was grateful her grandson had been friends with Agatha at all—how many twenty-four year olds hung out with elderly women?—but the loss was the first of his adult life. She worried for him. She couldn’t help it. She could no more stop worrying for Oliver than she could forget how to crochet.
“How was class?” she asked. Oliver came into view, eating a sandwich. He pushed his cap up on his head.
“Hey, Mimi. It was fine,” he replied. “It’s still weird being back in the classroom, but I’m getting used to it. We were mostly working on entity and individual taxation today, and what applies in what scenario. It’s a lot to memorize.”
“I can imagine,” she said, fingers flying over the yarn. “What are you up to this afternoon?”
“Couple things,” he said. “Trevor’s in town for a few weeks because his sister’s getting married, so we might go out to that new sports bar downtown. Until then I’ve got some homework. Might go on a run. I dunno.”
“Sounds like a busy day.”
Oliver lingered in the living room, looking around at all the photos. Lots of him and his grandparents. Some of his parents, dead twenty years. Other friends and family. When he didn’t leave, and didn’t offer more conversation, Miriam set down her project.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked.
“What? Nothing.” But he still didn’t leave, shuffling his feet. He finished his sandwich.
Miriam sighed. This was nothing new. Ever since he was a kid he’d linger by your feet, getting in the way, until you finally pressed him. He wasn’t in the way now, but she was glad he still lingered.
“Oliver.”
“I just—” he paused, thinking. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think I’m doing it right.”
“Doing what right?”
“I don’t know. Everything? It just seems like everyone else is doing better than me, and I’m not even sure what I’m doing. It’s like…every day I wake up and I’m behind. Am I doing the right thing? Is there something I should be doing?” He shook his head, his baseball hat askew. “It’s confusing. And then you’re so sure of yourself!”
“Well,” she laughed, “I do have a few years on you.”
“It’s not just that,” he insisted. “You have this…way about you. I don’t know. It’s like you’re so calm all the time, but you also push when it’s right to. Like when I didn’t want to go to Agatha’s funeral, you made me do it anyway. I would’ve regretted not going. Or when I wanted to drop out of college, you pushed me to stay. But you never forced me to go visit my parents on the anniversary, because sometimes you could tell I needed time alone. It’s like…you are sure in what you do. Not like you ever make mistakes, but there’s…serenity. Peace. And I wish I could be like that.”
“Oh, love,” Miriam said, and Oliver sat down beside her. “You’re still so young, there’s a lot of life ahead of you. And I’m sure that with time, peace—or a fruit of the spirit like it—will become apparent. God has a funny way of bringing us to Him, and the product of that can be peace. Or love. Or joy. And I’ll tell you this—your mom had a lot of peace about her.”
“Really?” Oliver asked.
“She did. I think she was like me in that regard. But your father? He was all joy. A loud, boisterous kind of joy that always tickled your mom. Different fruits of walking with God can show up at different times—you’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself right now, and that’s the burden of the young. Bring that to God, and I think you’ll be surprised by what you find.”
“Hmm,” Oliver said. He didn’t look entirely convinced. She wasn’t surprised—young people had to find their way, and they often didn’t like to take advice from their parents. Or parent figure. But it was fine. He’d figure it out, so long as he stayed close. He left, probably to take a shower. She picked up her crochet hook again, and peace settled over her.
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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/