24. God Giveth and Taketh Away #2
It isn’t until we cross the threshold of her home that her body softens against mine. Still unaccustomed to this kind of closeness, perhaps—to being in another's arms or coveted so openly. But she yields all the same. And I mean to take great advantage of that compliance.
Following her directions leads me past her well-furnished living room into a decorated hallway and finally to her private space.
It’s immediately clear how personal the space is to her. Because where the rest of the house is a collage of color, a mish-mash of furniture pieces and objects, this is serene.
Bookshelves to my right hold several glass cases.
A small bed, barely large enough for us both, dressed in clean off-white sheets and a lavender quilt, with only a few decorative pillows in soft colors.
More books are stacked in uneven towers along the floor and sit beside a lantern on the table beside the bed.
Soft light slips through the lace curtains that veil a narrow window, allowing sunlight to filter in. Plants line the far wall, all not merely surviving but thriving.
After I set her gently on the edge of the bed, I wander. In my periphery, I catch her pulling a throw blanket over her legs. I smirk but don’t comment. I have no qualms about nudity, but she clearly does. Something I hope, with time, to relieve her of.
“You like growing things.” It’s an observation, not a question.
“Yes.”
I reach out and brush my fingers along the broad leaf of a ghost orchid, surprised to find it healthy, its pale bloom intact in a world where it should not be.
I carefully rub the surface between my fingers.
Then I study the thick, twisted growth of a young Welwitschia nearby, its stubborn leaves split and curling, alive through sheer refusal to die.
Both of them should be extinct.
I glance at her again with renewed curiosity.
“These are hard to care for unless you know how.”
She points at a section on the far right of her bookshelf. “Yes, also something I’ve learned through trial and error. Books on herbology have helped.”
I make my way over to the bookshelf. Up close, it’s clear these weren’t gathered for display. They are well used yet cared for. All worn, the titles faded, the binding cracked from frequent use. I pull a few free and flip through them.
Practical Uses of Medicinal Plants.
Gardening Where Nothing Wants to Grow.
Water Systems for Beginners.
I pull them out and flip through the pages. Notes scribbled in the margins. Sections highlighted and pages marked with a fold. I return them and shift my attention to the shelf below, where the subject shifts.
Basic Repairs and Simple Machines.
Foundations of Chemical Reactions.
Basic Laboratory Methods and Measurements.
Useful things. Things learned because they were needed.
Then art, tucked in without ceremony on the bottom shelf.
A Study of Light and Shadow.
Charcoal and Ink.
Nature and Natural Pigments.
I glance back at her. She’s watching me intently, as if unsure what I’ll make of this.
“You don’t stick to one thing,” I say.
“No. I didn’t have the luxury to.”
I slide the book in my hands back into place. “You like learning.”
“I do.”
There’s no pride in it. No self-consciousness either. Just fact.
The glass cases on the shelves to the left are the sort meant to house insects or small amphibians.
“What do we have here?”
I peer into the smallest glass sanctuary and find grasshoppers and crickets, along with one lone praying mantis who clings motionless to a branch, so perfectly camouflaged that at the right angle it vanishes from sight.
The next enclosure holds frogs—small, alert things pressed close to the glass, throats pulsing faintly as they breathe.
The last case is the largest, and inside, coiled in the corner, near a shallow pool of water and a rock, is a massive horned lizard, thick-bodied and frozen in place, its skin mottled and ancient-looking. Its eyes are half-lidded as if nothing in the world has ever rushed it.
“Insects and animals with a tendency to leap, as well as this lazy desert dweller,” I remark, a chuckle slipping out. “Friends of yours?”
She fidgets, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “You could call them that. They remind me,” she murmurs, “that life, all life, is precious.”
I nod, studying the enclosures again.
They’re alive because someone chose to keep them that way.
And that tells me so very much about her.
“I don’t take life lightly, you know,” I say while turning. “I never have.”
I glance down at my hands, as if they might still remember what life it’s been asked to draw back. “There are moments I wish the burden belonged to another. Moments I would gladly set it aside if I could.”
“So why don’t you?”
I lift my gaze to hers. “That’s not possible.”
She watches me closely, saying nothing.
After crossing the room, I motion for her to stand, then pull back the covers. “Come. It’s time we finally rested.”
She moves carefully as if unsure of sharing her space. Again, I don’t give her time to start doubting what’s here between us. I follow her into bed and settle in beside her. As she turns to face me, I draw the cover up and over us.
Her tension eases, if only a little.
I prop my head on my hand, watching her in the low light, close enough now to feel the warmth of her skin through the linen.
“What I take isn’t breath or blood,” I continue.
“It’s essence. The life that moves through things.
Growth. Yield. The quiet abundance the world offers when it’s treated as endless.
” I soften my tone, hoping that she will come to understand why I must do so.
“I draw it back not simply to destroy it—but so it may be used in other ways. To create new life from life that has had its chance to flourish.”
I pick up her small hand and study the shape of it against my own. “And nothing can follow if nothing is ever allowed to end.”
She remains silent, attentive, her gaze fixed on my face.
“What’s been given to this world was never meant to be owned,” I say. “It was borrowed. A gift. Gifts demand care. Respect. Reciprocity.” I pause. “When that is forgotten, there are consequences.”
Her mouth tightens at the corner. She looks away. I cup her cheek and bring her face back to mine.
“Desperation reveals truth,” I go on quietly.
“It shows what people value. What they protect. Whether they hoard or share. Whether they give back to the land what they’ve taken from it or strip it bare and call it survival.
” My gaze holds hers. “In times like these, scarcity isn’t only a correction.
It allows for accountability, for judgment. ”
She releases a slow, measured breath. I still see the defiance in her eyes, and I ache to quell it. For her to understand me and this truth.
“God cannot walk this world as He once did,” I say. “Not in these last days. But His creations are still a part of Him, and answer to Him… through me.”
I don’t soften that truth.