Priced to Move

catches his crooks, and he does a great Santa for the kids down at the police station.”

“I can’t see him being all that jolly. And Aunt Weeby says he was my dad’s best friend growing up. The guy even says he gets a letter from Dad every month. I can’t see how he could ever be my father’s friend. Dad’s a serious man, totally sold out to God and the ministry he feels called to. Plus he loves our family, and he’s not the kind to jump on an impulse. Dad wouldn’t have much patience for this good ol’ boy who jumps to conclusions like frogs hop across lily pads.”

Now Peggy hoots. “Can’t see Chief Clark on lily pads. Let’s just say he’s a little . . . um . . . hefty for that.”

I chuckle at the image, silly as it is.

Then, “There’s one thing, Andie. And I don’t want to upset you, but I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try.”

“What is it? You won’t upset me.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that . . . Max showed up at a very . . . interesting time?”

I suck in a breath. “He did, didn’t he?”

“The same day your vendor turned up dead.”

“But he was on-screen with me. He has the same alibi I do. If I couldn’t have done it because millions were watching me, they were watching him too.”

“Who’s to say he worked alone?”

It had occurred to me the minute she mentioned his name. “You’re right. He could have had a partner.”

“Has he done anything strange?”

My laugh has more than a little hysteria. “You don’t know the guy. There’s not much he does that isn’t strange.”

“But could it be suspicious?”

My brain channel surfs through the events of the past few weeks. “You know? Now that you mention it, it’s more than a little strange that he wants to stay on this show with me so much. Especially since he’s a big-time jock.”

“Maybe he’s keeping an eye on you. Mr. Pak did come to see you.”

“Swell. Another thing to worry about around him.”

Peggy doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “Have you prayed, Andie?”

“Practically nonstop.”

“Have you stopped to listen?”

I pause. “I think so.”

“You don’t sound all that sure.”

“Well, there’s been so much going on, and every time I pray lately, I wonder if God’s still out there listening to me. I’ve always thought he was, but I’m kinda getting my prayers bounced back by the ceiling here. At least, that’s how I feel. Can he hear me? In the middle of all the craziness going on? All this has happened, I’ve prayed and prayed, and I have no answers for any of it!”

“Don’t give up. Sometimes God’s answer is just to hang on. That the solution’s just around the next corner.”

“I’m hanging, but my nails are ripping off, if you know what I mean.”

“Duct tape! Do whatever it takes, but don’t let doubts steal your faith. Remember. Faith’s our spiritual duct tape. Tell you what. Let’s pray. Right now.”

We do, and then hang up. Pain creeps up my neck from my tense shoulders. My head hurts from thinking too hard, and the gas episode has left me with some crummy symptoms of its own. But there’s still one question I have to ask.

“Why, Lord?”

The heavenly silence is deafening.

But deep in my heart, I know that question is the one that needs answering. And I don’t know where to go dig up the answer. Or the answer to any of my other million questions.

Again, it comes down to God. And trust. Which leads to patience. Something I missed back when God was giving it out. Trust is the key.

Trust . . . a little word with a huge meaning. And prayer. It’s not as if Peggy’s the only one who’s prayed with me. Before she left, Aunt Weeby prayed with me. After our amens, she took my face between her hands, stared me in the eye, then dropped a kiss on my forehead, just as she has done since I was a little girl.

“Don’t wrassle your brains into a big ol’ tangle, sugarplum. You don’t have to do it all. You don’t even have to do any of it. God’s with you, and all he wants is for you to trust him to work it all out.”

“But—”

“No, Andie. No buts work here. Only trust in God. Faith, the real deal, girl. That’s what we’re talking about. And the next time you start wrassling thoughts again, pray. Toss it all over to God. He’s the man with the answers, and you know it. Oh! And forget all about that snooping thing. I . . . uh . . . was all wrong about that.”

I do know she’s right—in my head. It’s ironic how in this hospital room, after hours of prayer, self-examination, and too many thoughts, I come to such a huge epiphany. For years now I’ve been a Christian, since my teens, when I gave my life to my heavenly Father. But it’s only now, today, just weeks before my thirtieth birthday, that I realize I haven’t really sold myself all out to God.