Memories of Love

 Read our February Writing Challenge Winners

What is love?

What is a powerful memory of love from your own experiences?

How have you seen love communicated in your life?

The Southern Christian Writers Conference's writing challenge for February asked those questions; it asked our members to reflect upon and write about a memory that defines "love" to them.

We received many wonderful submissions, and are excited to announce our top winners.

Congratulations to...

1st place: Matthew Partain

2nd place: Victoria Cole

3rd place: Marion Surles

Honorable mention: Vicki Moats

Enjoy reading the winning stories and essays below.

"Love and the Other Half of the Bean"

by Matthew Partain

This isn't your typical love story. It's certainly not one that would normally fit a celebration of Valentine's Day, but  it does happen to be one of the few times in my life I was able to see true love with the greatest clarity. No, not the mushy sort of emotion that reveals itself in hugs and kisses, but something much more. It's when love comes from some place deeper than the heart. A love like this can only be digested by the soul because it's a love that only Jesus can give, and it's only through his leading that it can be given to someone else.

Midsummer, 1986. I was ten years old and my father had been laid off from his job a few months earlier...again. He worked various jobs throughout my childhood, and our family economy usually reflected the status of his employment. We never had. much anyway, but during these times of joblessness it was all my parents could do to put food on the table. And because our garden was done producing for the year, the prospect of going hungry was very real and present. That thought had my young mind thinking of the Channell family. I figured that we would likely end up like them if things continued in this rut.

Frank and Sarah Channell were the sort of folks that you felt sorry for. They had nothing, materially speaking, and it seemed that their lot in life was one of perpetual struggle. Their tattered clothes and ruddy appearances were evidence of what everyone already knew about them. They were poor. In fact, they were the only family I knew that was poorer than us. Their home was made of tar covered cardboard used to insulate frozen goods during transport. Their dirt floors were covered with used carpet remnants from a church member who owned a carpet store, and their bathroom was nothing more than an inside room with plumbing that ran to an old outhouse. They had only one vehicle: a worn faded blue Chevy truth with four bald tires that smoked terribly. I felt sorry for them even though they were our closest friends, and our families spent a lot of time together.

I'm not sure I can remember a time in my life when the Channell family wasn''t there. Frank and Sarah had two daughters that were around the same age as my brother Jeff and me, and they attended the same church we did. My earliest memories are of our families killing chickens, cutting wood, and canning vegetables together. Their daughters, Tracie and Corey, were our same age, and they seemed to understand, as we did, that life for us was not the same as other children in our church. We seemed isolated together on an island of poverty that lacked a map for escape. We were stuck...but we were stuck together, and our mothers seemed to be caretakers of the rich love our two poor families shared.

I also don't remember the first time I heard my mother or Mrs. Sarah talk about the "other half of the bean," but it was always in our family's lexicon. As poor folks with nothing, our mothers would say to each other, "If I was down to my last bean, I'd give half to you." It likely started as a joke between the two of them, because neither of our families went hungry. Mr. Frank and Mrs. Sarah always cultivated a huge garden, and it complemented our own small plot of fruits and vegetables. In the Summer months we seemed to live at each other's house picking and canning all that the Lord gave us through our labor. Nothing was easy, but we never had less than we needed. This time, however, was different.

I remember going to the grocery store one Friday evening that Summer when things were at their worst. The tension was palpable. There was no money .What little we had bought that day--sugar, flour, and a few pounds of ground beef--filled only two bags where we usually pushed a full cart to the car. The four of us walked to the car in silence, and the two-mile drive home was equally as quiet. None of us seemed to know what to say. Words have never filled an empty cupboard.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway that evening my brother and I grabbed our baseball and gloves from the carport and started to run towards the backyard. There were a few minutes of daylight left, and that was more than enough time for us to throw the ball a little; baseball for us was an escape from the dark clouds of poverty. Before we reached the back of the house, however, we heard a sound that stopped both of us in our tracks. A scream...a mournful wail that pierced through the walls of our home and into our ears. My mother's voice! Both of us started running.

Bub and I sprinted back to the front of the house. There we saw our father standing just outside the open kitchen door. His face was ashen and he slowly shook his head from side to side as tears welled up in his soft brown eyes. In front of him was out mother, collapsed on the kitchen floor with her head in her hands, sobbing. The wailing was now replaced by indistinguishable words broken by emotion. In front of her, covering every inch of our kitchen floor, were paper grocery bags filled to the top with more food than we would have normally bought in two weeks. In her hands, a small piece of paper with one sentence faintly scribbled down: "Here's your half of the bean."

"Soulmates"

by Victoria Cole

Everyone talks about finding their soulmate. Some people wait around for years to find theirs. Some people don’t believe in soulmates. I, on the other hand, have always believed that God creates someone for everyone. Someone who makes you happy, who you look forward to seeing, someone who brightens your day and that you can sit in silence and be content. A soulmate is all of that and so much more.

For a long time I sat around waiting and wondering where my soulmate might be. Why hadn’t God brought him to me? I used to think that a soulmate had to be the person you were going to marry. That there was only one type of soulmate and it had to be romantic. This is certainly the image portrayed throughout television and on social media. So for a long time I started to doubt that I had a soulmate, maybe God had forgotten about me. But the older I got I started to realize something. God didn’t forget about me, He had actually blessed me with my soulmate thirty one years ago.

My twin sister.

Growing up my twin sister and I were always pushed to do things together and all we wanted was to be individual people. We hated it. But now at thirty-one years old we love being together. We live together and hang out regularly. We will wait to do things so that we can do them together.

My twin sister and I have always had a special bond that nobody else can really understand. We fight like all siblings do but five minutes later one of us can say something off the wall and we will be laughing with each other again. My sister is someone who I look forward to seeing, We can sit and hang out with each other all day. We are each other’s confidantes, we are there for each other in thick and thing. We will always protect each other and have each other’s backs in any circumstance. We can make fun of each other but nobody else better say a negative thing about my sister.

I truly believe that my sister is my soulmate. My sister and I like to say that God knew we would need each other throughout life and that is why He made sure we were twins. When people find out that we are twins, one of their first questions is always, “Do you like being a twin?” My answer is always the same, “Of course, she’s my best friend.”

So a soulmate doesn’t always have to be a romantic relationship, it just has to be someone who you couldn’t imagine your life without. I don’t know what I would do without my twin sister, and I hope to never find out. I thank God for giving me my soulmate since birth. He certainly knew I would need her.

"Love"

by Marion Surles

The mother-in-law cabin served its purpose. Since the first day it opened its only door, a schedule of Hispanic ladies and a daughter cared lovingly for a little lady as she fought a cruel disease. Now it sat behind the main house contemplating its new status. What would become of it? Why was it called “mother-in-law” in the first place? What else could it do?

From the start the little house enjoyed eavesdropping on gossip shared, recipes compared, and children’s games played as the lady slowly forgot who she was. The house remembered her though. It remembered when she was smart and funny, so socially adept that visitors questioned her diagnosis. But the house knew.

When the daughter came for visits, the lady brightened.

“Hon, why don’t you fix yourself up a little?”

The daughter smiled. “Oh, Mama, do I look that bad?”

“Comb your hair at least.”

“Mama, don’t you remember? I have naturally curly hair.”

The lady wrinkled her nose. “You could try to brush it a little.”

The caregiver gave a worried a glance at the daughter.

“It’s okay. We didn’t have products for curly hair when I was growing up. Mama never knew what to do with it.”

“You could put on some lipstick,” the lady said.

“Okay, Mama. How about a game. Password? Scrabble?”

“No. Y’all play. I’ll watch.”

The daughter modified Password, giving clue phrases. “A person who helps.”

“A helper,” interrupted the lady.

“No, Mama. You can’t use a form of the same word.”

The caregiver shook her head, confused.

“A person who helps without pay,” the daughter tried.

“Why would anybody do that?” the lady asked, indignant.

“Mama, let her answer.”

“Those clues are not helping her.”

The daughter turned to the caregiver. “A person who helps without getting paid.”

“Why would anyone do that?” the lady interrupted again.

“Mama, stop interrupting. The word is volunteer,” the daughter announced loudly.

“She’s not deaf. She speaks Spanish.”

The house tried to contain a giggle, hiding it in the noise of the running toilet that needed jiggling. Giggling into jiggling, the house thought.

“Mama, wanna go for a walk instead?”

“I need a sweater and a Kleenex.”

“Mama, it’s ninety degrees.”

The caregiver got the sweater and a tissue.

The lady pulled on the sweater, putting each button into the correct slot. She applied her lipstick, then turned to her daughter, “Didn’t you think we’d be smart forever?”

The daughter hugged her as they walked into the dry heat.

The cabin watched its resident shuffle along. She was strong, but the decline was evident.

The cabin held in the cool air to welcome its resident back.

“Naptime, Mama. It’s nice in here.”

“Read me something.”

The house offered Gone with the Wind from its ample shelves. The daughter helped the lady into bed, adjusting the rails. As she read, the house listened, content.

After two years of hosting its one resident, the house realized the end was near. One day the lady left and never returned. The house sat empty. Alone. Sad. So much to offer, so much wasted time and space.

But then, after a few years, the lady’s granddaughter visited. She cleaned cobwebs from its windowsills. She collected dead crickets from its corners. The little house felt an excitement.

Would it have a new inhabitant?

The next day, the granddaughter returned, guiding her mother into the front door.

“You wanna play a game?” the granddaughter asked.

“I used to say that to my mama. Your hair is so smooth and pretty. Mine never looked like that.”

“Thanks, Mama. Let’s play Scrabble.”

The house watched and listened. It wanted to help. It wanted to hold the lady tight and tell her she would be fine here.

“Mama, you go first. Do you have a word?”

The lady looked at her string of letters in confusion. The house watched helplessly.

Finally, the lady looked at her daughter. “Didn’t you think we would be smart forever?”

The house sighed as the air-conditioning turned on.

“I have a word. I’ll go first.” She placed the word helper on the board, the H on the star. She looked at her mama’s letters. “Look. You have a big word to connect to my R. Volunteer!

That’s a helper who doesn’t want any pay.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

The granddaughter looked around the house. “For love, Mama.”

The house sighed. It understood its purpose. It was not a mother-in-law cabin. It was a house of love.

"Grandma's Arms"

by Vicki Moats

Back in the day, Grandmothers didn't wear skinny jeans or dye their hair pink.

At least mine didn't. My Grandma was a dumpling of a woman who sported her long gray hair in a somewhat neatly coiled bun. Picture Santa’s wife and imagine she had a sister. Also, if you picture Santa’s wife with a tray of cookies, that would be spot on.

Furthermore, my Grandma didn’t have a cutesy name like “Mimi” or “Nana” or “Glammy.” My Grandma was called “Grandma” until my second-grade teacher introduced us to the proper name “Grandmother.” What heresy! 

When I picture my grandma, she was never shopping at the mall or driving a sports car. She could always be found in one of three places: her garden or her chair or her kitchen.

Early in the morning, Grandma would be outside. She had a weedless flower garden that extended almost indefinitely beside her house. Every morning as soon as it was barely light, over the hydrangeas and lilac and beyond the dahlias and daisies, I could see her form bent over her digger. While kids today are getting pedicures and swinging in parks, I spent much of my childhood in a garden amongst lilies, phlox, roses, and hollyhocks. Her garden wasn’t for show. We lived in the country, and she seldom had guests. She had a garden because she loved to see things grow and blossom, and she shared that love with me. The arms that hugged me in the garden were tinged with perspiration and smelled of earth. In my own little Eden, those arms were the first I knew of love.

Part of each afternoon was spent in her chair. I would sink into the softness of her lap, my head against her ample chest. I could trace the blue veins from her arms to her hands through the translucence of her skin. She read to me wondrous tales of rabbits and foxes and garden mice, of princes, and palaces, pirates, and knights. I learned of baby Jesus in the manager and shepherds on the hills. Those arms that surrounded me were cool and secure. I knew I was both loved and safe.

Perhaps the place I liked best was her kitchen. She made homemade jams from our summer fruits and preserved everything that could be sauced or pickled. She cooked copious pots of chicken and dumplings, made fried apple pies out of her own apple butter, and used every leftover to create something new and delicious. However, she was best known for her dishpan donuts…so named because she made a dishpan full at a time. And when she hugged me, her arms had the soft dampness of kneaded dough, smelled of yeast, and were frosted with powdered sugar.

I have tried so hard to be a modern grandma. I have my hair colored and clipped at a salon, I own a couple of pairs of leggings which I occasionally force my rippling thighs into, and I drive a flashy red Honda. I don’t want my grandchildren to think I’m totally out-of-date. Still, I spend time with them in the garden so they can have a taste of Eden.

I hold them in my arms until my lap is too small and my arms no longer reach around them, and then I ask God to keep them secure. I work with them in the kitchen and invite them to, “Taste and see that God is good.” When they have grandchildren of their own, I hope they pass down this legacy of love. We love God because He first loved us, and sometimes this first love is best shared in gardens and laps and kitchens by grandmothers who have soft laps, lots of hugs, and doughy arms frosted with a little powdered sugar. 

Thank you to all of our SCWC writers who contributed to this month's challenge. It was a joy to read your stories, reflections, and essays!

Stay tuned to learn about upcoming writing challenges and other SCWC activities. And we hope you'll join us on June 7-8 for the 2024 Southern Christian Writers Conference in Birmingham, Alabama.