Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Debra Glidewell

December 15, 2006

Hear ye, hear ye, another new writer!  Debra Glidewell becomes writer #382 for Storytime Tapestry.  Please email her and welcome her to our family.

Mr. and Mrs. Gott

Debra Glidewell

They were an elderly couple who lived a few doors down across from my childhood home on Newton street. He opened the car door for every sunday morning while she teetered toward it holding her withered hand close against her body. Her good hand steadied herself with a cane. It was the only time a stray neighborhood child could be sure to catch a glimse of them; Sunday morning heading to or returning from church.

One Sunday afternoon I was invited into their home for rhubarb, or perhaps gooseberry pie. Over time I was introduced to both, but liked neither. I did learn to adore both of the Gotts however.  She rocked in her recliner in the too warm living room while he scooped whatever odd pie was on the menu that sunday and brought it from the even warmer kitchen.

Mrs. Gott liked to read from her tattered,  margin-scribbled Bible and would sometimes read aloud for my benefit. On one occasion she asked me if I knew the story of the man with the withered hand. I remember she turned directly to it and 'read' it mostly from memory. Sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of her recliner I listened to every word. After the story I was silent. Why had her face shone with such love while her own hand remained useless at her side? I climbed onto her lap and hugged her. Tears slipped down my cheeks. My child's heart ached for her. "Why can't Jesus make your hand whole?" I sniffed while she smoothed my hair. "He could, dear. Jesus can do anything." I looked up into her old kind face and pouted, "Then why doesn't He?". Mrs. Gott stopped rocking. Mr. Gott turned a page of the newspaper pretending not to listen. "I haven't asked Him, dear. Let me try to explain why." I slid off her lap and resumed my pose at her feet.

"My withered hand makes me feel closer to Him. I can read that story and it is a very real way that He and I can connect. It is just a hand. I would rather keep it just as it is. Do you understand?"

Years later, perhaps I do.

Debra Glidewell

Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Debra Glidewell

December 15, 2006

Hear ye, hear ye, another new writer!  Debra Glidewell becomes writer #382 for Storytime Tapestry.  Please email her and welcome her to our family.

Mr. and Mrs. Gott

Debra Glidewell

They were an elderly couple who lived a few doors down across from my childhood home on Newton street. He opened the car door for every sunday morning while she teetered toward it holding her withered hand close against her body. Her good hand steadied herself with a cane. It was the only time a stray neighborhood child could be sure to catch a glimse of them; Sunday morning heading to or returning from church.

One Sunday afternoon I was invited into their home for rhubarb, or perhaps gooseberry pie. Over time I was introduced to both, but liked neither. I did learn to adore both of the Gotts however.  She rocked in her recliner in the too warm living room while he scooped whatever odd pie was on the menu that sunday and brought it from the even warmer kitchen.

Mrs. Gott liked to read from her tattered,  margin-scribbled Bible and would sometimes read aloud for my benefit. On one occasion she asked me if I knew the story of the man with the withered hand. I remember she turned directly to it and 'read' it mostly from memory. Sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of her recliner I listened to every word. After the story I was silent. Why had her face shone with such love while her own hand remained useless at her side? I climbed onto her lap and hugged her. Tears slipped down my cheeks. My child's heart ached for her. "Why can't Jesus make your hand whole?" I sniffed while she smoothed my hair. "He could, dear. Jesus can do anything." I looked up into her old kind face and pouted, "Then why doesn't He?". Mrs. Gott stopped rocking. Mr. Gott turned a page of the newspaper pretending not to listen. "I haven't asked Him, dear. Let me try to explain why." I slid off her lap and resumed my pose at her feet.

"My withered hand makes me feel closer to Him. I can read that story and it is a very real way that He and I can connect. It is just a hand. I would rather keep it just as it is. Do you understand?"

Years later, perhaps I do.

Debra Glidewell

dcglidewell@aol.com