Derailed by Jackson Neta, Dave Jackson Page B

about his kids irritating a couple neighbors, as though real enemies were about to drive him and Ruth from their home. When it was time to gather up prayer requests, I told the brothers about my mom’s stroke and asked prayer for her, but there wasn’t time to get into how confusing the whole event was for me. Ticked me off . . . but maybe my issue would sound as trivial as Ben’s. Stuff happens. Did God care about any of this stuff anyway?

    Had to face it. We’d still purchased a building that needed immediate attention, especially functioning furnaces if we were going to move in on Saturday. I spent most of my time the next few days working with a heating contractor. He brought in three men who worked twelve-hour days to finish installing both furnaces and rerouting all the ductwork. I snuck away for short visits with Mom when I could.
    They had moved her out of the critical-care unit and into a double room to begin her rehabilitation. The nurses said she was doing well, but I couldn’t see any improvement other than the fact that she seemed calmer. That allowed me to come and go more freely to oversee the work on the two-flat without feeling so guilty.
    At first Estelle had protested that we couldn’t possibly move Saturday, given the crisis with Mom. But we’d negotiated that move-out date with our very reluctant apartment landlord, and I was afraid he’d slap us with a penalty if we extended it.
    So Estelle put out a call to our church asking for volunteers. We’d both put in our time helping other people move, so we were hoping there’d be a generous turnout. She took the rest of that week off work and spent every minute she wasn’t at the hospital packing.
    It wasn’t long before Estelle had the living room piled high with stuff.
    â€œI put all the stuff on the top of your dresser into a box, but once we get moved, you’ve gotta sort through it. And I declare, HarryBentley, you had more stuff hiding in that basement locker of ours than would fit in one of those big containers they load on ships. What’re we gonna do with all this stuff?”
    I was inclined to tell her to throw it all out, but she had my fishing tackle piled on there—Hey! Maybe I should take DaShawn fishing this spring!—and there were my dumbbells. Couldn’t let those go. “What about these suitcases, Estelle? Why don’t we just pack clothes in ’em? And these garden tools. We’ll need them in our new place.” I opened an old cardboard box. “Hey, my college yearbooks! Haven’t looked at these for years.”
    Estelle snorted. “And this ain’t the time. Don’t you sit down, Harry Bentley. Just put ’em back in the box. You can dig ’em out this summer.”
    DaShawn packed his stuff in one evening, but then he didn’t have to deal with sheets and blankets, dishes and canned goods. Seemed like the list would never end.
    But . . . the furnaces were installed and functioning by Friday as promised, and by midnight we were more or less packed.

    A whole crew of volunteers from SouledOut Community Church turned out on Saturday to give us a hand. In spite of gray clouds that spit snow off and on all day, by three in the afternoon, we were unloading the third and—thankfully—last load from the U-Haul, mostly stuff from the locker that was getting stored in our new garage. But I was pretty bushed, so the ring of my cell phone was a welcome interruption.
    I flipped over a plastic bucket in the corner of the garage and sat down. “Yeah, Bentley.”
    â€œI’m here.”
    I froze.
Rodney
. What did he mean,
“I’m here”
? But just then young Josh Baxter came up right in front of me. “Where should we put this, Mr. Bentley?” He and another young man were carrying the box springs from my old single bed before Estelle and I got married.
    I pushed the mute button on my phone.