Derailed by Jackson Neta, Dave Jackson

“Whadda you mean, there ain’t nothin’ to eat? What’s wrong with this leftover spaghetti?” She pulled out a big tub.“Serve yourselves what you want and nuke it. I’ll throw together a little salad.”
    While we ate, we filled DaShawn in the best we could on what had happened to his great-grandma. He was sobered, and I realized how deeply he loved her. We’d become a tight family.
    Later, as DaShawn watched TV, Estelle and I did the dishes and then sat back down at the table with fresh coffee. I hadn’t had time to think about the implications of Mom’s stroke, but it was starting to sink in. “If Mom’s gonna be in a nursing home for . . . for maybe months, what’s that mean about her living in our new place? We just bought ourselves a two-flat. Got a pretty hefty mortgage to meet!”
    Estelle slowly nodded her head. “And she’s likely to need full-time support even if she does recover. We knew this would come someday, but . . .”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œWell, don’t forget—before we got married, even before I started working at Manna House, I did in-home elder care. I’m a certified nurse assistant, ya know.”
    I’d totally forgotten Estelle was a CNA. “You sayin’ you’d take care of Mom? What about your job?”
    â€œIt’s not what I wanna do, Harry, but she’s family. We do what family needs, not just what we want.”
    My wife’s comments rocked me. I knew she loved my mom, but I hadn’t realized how deeply she’d made “my people her people,” or however Ruth had said that line in the Bible. I reached out and took Estelle’s hand, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Uh, yeah. That’d be great, babe, but that’s months in the future from what the doctor said. And not even certain then. Even if she did move in, I’m still not sure it’d crack our mortgage nut. I mean, we’d have Mom’s housing money—like we planned—but we’d lose your Manna House income.”
    â€œHa! It’s hardly worth countin’, Harry.”
    She was right about that, though every little bit helped. But something was troubling me. “I don’t get it, Estelle. We went into this thinkin’ God was leadin’ us. We prayed. We asked all our friends topray. Buying the two-flat so Mom could live independent but still be near us seemed like a solid plan. And there wasn’t one person who suggested it was the wrong thing to do! Now I’m feelin’ the whole plan’s been derailed.”
    She leaned back in her chair and used both hands to draw her long, black hair with the attractive silver streaks away from her face. “We’re not to follow our friends, Harry. We’re supposed to follow the Lord.”
    â€œI know! I know, but . . . but aren’t godly friends supposed to help us test whether we’re hearin’ him right?” She nodded, and I took a deep breath. “What else were we supposed to do? Maybe we didn’t hear God right. But . . .” I thought for a moment. “Everything seemed to work out so smoothly. I mean, it was almost like he was doing little miracles on our behalf to help us to buy that place, and then—
poof
!”
    â€œNow Harry, you know God ain’t brought us this far to leave us.” She began to hum, and then broke into the familiar chorus. “
I don’t feel no ways tired
 . . .” She hummed some more, and then sang the last line, “
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me
.”
    The song hung in the air.
    Well . . . maybe he hadn’t left me, but that gut-wrenching feeling of abandonment gripped me again like it had a couple years ago when I thought I was going blind. God had finally brought me through that awful experience, but somehow, what I knew in my head