Obadiah

Eighteen

The more time he spent with Guinevere, the more he wanted to stay with her.

He liked her company. He liked her smile. He liked her happiness. She was beautiful.

But most of all, she was safe.

He was comfortable with her.

He'd never been comfortable with a person the way he was with her.

She touched him and he didn't freak out.

But it was more than that.

She taught him the one thing he wanted to know more than anything.

And she showed him as well.

Her kindness, patience, smiles, and beauty showed him just how real and intentional the Lord was.

He understood now that the Lord had something to do with their meeting. He had to.

It seemed too right.

Everything seemed too right.

He knew how to read now.

He knew how to write now.

And he wasn't in torment anymore.

Was this how it worked?

He didn't have it in him to question why it hadn't happened sooner. Not anymore.

He was far too grateful for it to be his now.

He liked this feeling.

Freedom.

Maybe even joy.

For once in the forty-six years of his life, Obadiah felt glad to be alive.

With his head bowed and eyes closed, as he'd observed Guinevere do, he prayed. "Lord, I don't know if I'm doing this right, but I am grateful. I never dreamed of a day like this, I never thought it could happen for me. I-it happened so soon, is that how You work?"

He chuckled softly as tears stung his eyes. "I don't know if the nightmares will be gone forever, but even one night without them is a gift. I believe what You said and that's all I can do. I don't know nothing else that You'd want, so I'll just believe."

Little did he know, the Lord only wanted his belief. The simplicity of his faith blessed the heart of the Lord who sought to deliver him and would.

-

The next morning, Obadiah was in town delivering honey and furniture.

This was night two of dreamless sleep.

The onlookers watched as the 6'7 man walked with a pep in his heavy steps.

Gone were the days of walking with his head down to hide the exhaustion and avoid making eye contact.

He still didn't want to speak to people, but he could do it now without being ashamed of his appearance.

"Afternoon, Obadiah," Beaumont said as he entered the mercantile.

Obadiah nodded at the man and carried the crates to the counter.

"How'd she like it?"

Obadiah eyed the nosy man in confusion.

Who was she and how would he know?

Beaumont smiled cheekily. "Guinevere, your sweetheart. How did she like the barrette?" He pressed while leaning against the counter.

Obadiah took a step back. "She liked it." He said simply but had to ask a question himself. "Why do you call her my sweetheart?"

She was a sweetheart. A very sweet and lovely woman, but she wasn't his.