PART 2: There was a fence with a hedge

He awoke early, anxious, wondering if his prayers would be answered, hoping they would, thinking they wouldn’t. He sorted out the girls in the morning, got them to their dance classes and then dropped them at their Mother’s, he didn’t leave the car though, he never did, his pain and failure still seared his heart. He stopped to buy some paint supplies, in case God answered his prayer, and grabbed a late lunch before getting home and getting to his fence. He stood in silence for 15 minutes, ladder and shears in hand, listening. He could only hear birds, his and hers. Nothing else. He started to get angry with God, why weren’t his prayers worth being answered, why had God created him in the first place to only mess up his life, why? He turned back to the house and there was a stray cat on his doorstep, he hated cats. He focused on the cat in his anger and was about to throw the shears at it in the silence, but he was stopped by the sound of a door opening and then closing. He froze. God, did You? Could you? Is she? Could she? He turned back and walked to the fence listening, even the birds went quiet. Yes! There was someone there! Yippeeeeee! Calm down man, he told himself, calm down, men in their 30s do not behave like this! He breathed and listened. She went to the shed, got the ladder, he heard the ladder. Booo-Yeah! His soul leapt.

“Hello? Anyone there?” He called out and didn’t breathe as he waited.

“Hi, yes, just me,” came the voice of Mary, came the song in his heart and the feeling of being swell. ‘Just me’ he thought, there ain’t no such thing! Then his excitement hit the floor as she finished with: “Are you starting at the bottom again?”

No, not separate again, he moaned inside his head. He sighed in resignation, “Sure, I’ll do that.”

At the sound of his voice her soul skipped a beat, her body skipped a breath and her mind went into panic. All these months of little girls and ‘Johns’ and now the voice was there again. Please don’t let him speak Lord, please don’t let him speak. He tried a few times and she gave brief replies. He told her he was an artist and she was angry because she didn’t want any more information, she had too much already. She cut slowly, knowing she would have to reach him eventually; he cut fast, wanting to get to her. They met three quarters of the way up, he was grinning from ear to ear at how much he had cut and she wanted the earth to swallow her up so she wouldn’t have to face the man that made her melt and feel like an idiot.

The last branch, he looked so pleased with himself that she had to smile at him. He responded with a look that made her feel like an angel, like she was perfect. Her mind scoffed at the thought, her? Perfect? Next joke please. She snapped out of her self-degradation as he asked, “So how are you? Long time no shear,” he quipped. Well, he did have a brain, why did she have to love that? Why?

“Touché,” she replied, trying to think how to answer the question politely without sounding rude. “I’m fine thanks, how are you?”

“Fine hey? What does that mean exactly?” he asked with what she thought was a twinkle of mischief in his eye, why would a guy not interested in girls be looking at her like that, it was so disarming! Lord, why are you doing this to me? She caved into something that snapped inside her thinking: what do I have to lose?

“It means that I have far too much going on inside me right now to explain it in words, and quite frankly what’s going is none of your business, so I’m being polite, and letting you believe that everything is ok, which is all you need to know. Does that answer your question?” Where did that come from Mary? You never speak like that to anyone, what is going on with you? His smile faded into a look of simple awe, or was it embarrassment; she couldn’t quite make it out: oh why can’t I just keep my mouth shut and be polite like everyone else? I thought I was getting good at that.

Indeed, it was awe, she was right. He wanted to know with everything in his being what was going inside her mind that was none of his business, he wanted to help take away the clear frustration in her response, could she possibly be feeling as crazy inside as he was? Should he probe or let it be? He was speechless as to how to respond and his words weren’t forming a decent sentence in his brain. Maybe if he said…

Too late. She was running down her ladder again. “Thanks so much for helping with the hedge again John, I really do appreciate it. I’m expecting a call shortly, so I must be off.” At the bottom of her ladder, just her voice rose to him, “Keep well, God bless.” He watched her dash inside to a phone that never rang on the weekends. He shook his head; the awe not yet evaporated, and he quietly said to himself, “No sweetheart, everything about you is on…” Somewhere in the back of his mind the ‘God bless…’ echoed, his gran used to say that to him once upon a time, why couldn’t he ever say it?

The process repeated itself. Mary spent the next few months encountering “Johns”, “artists” and “girl guides”. John went on to create a whole new set of paintings. ‘Cats’, ‘Marys’ and ‘God’ symbols kept creeping into his work, one of which was an enlarged brain with abstract craziness unraveling inside. Mary kept herself sane with John 14 v 27: “Peace is what I leave with you; it is my own peace that I give you. I do not give it as the world does. Do not be worried and upset; do not be afraid.” Mary looked into finding a suitable garden services, but with her manic travel timetable it didn’t work and the weekend costs were exorbitant; she was not about to ask her neighbour to keep her keys. The ‘God’ symbols kept pestering John, and he kept pushing them aside, like an annoying fly, until his inspiration ran dry. Then his prayer repeated itself, a week in advance this time.

Mary was due to fly out on the Wednesday for a two week trip of training sessions away from home, but all her hard work caught up with her and she fell ill with gastro on the Tuesday night. Wednesday was spent finding a suitable and available replacement with pleasing results, so she was able to be sick in peace. On the Friday night she was up and walking around again. From her kitchen window she saw the fence hedge that she had been avoiding and knew it was time to get over herself. She negotiated the matter in her mind and decided she would change to cutting it on Sunday, until she got a call from her sister and nieces to join them for the day, a rare and wonderful opportunity. She changed her plans to early Saturday morning, depending on if she was well enough.

John’s daughters called him on Friday evening, the Saturday rehearsal for their dance show had been moved to the afternoon and please would he be there to discuss the backdrop he was painting for the director. John couldn’t turn them down, he’d promised. He spent the rest of the night swearing God and how much God didn’t care about him. He looked at his hedge and knew he needed to trim it first thing in the morning. He was annoyed and spent the evening painting blood scenes on canvas, maybe he could show them to the dance teacher he pondered and then imagined the scene. He laughed at how his mind showed the encounter with the teacher, her expression was priceless, John grinned himself off to sleep, even if he was still angry that he wouldn’t see Mary at the fence.

Mary was surprised at how well she felt the next morning and was thrilled that she could get to the fence before John might. John woke up tired and annoyed at everything because he had to trim the hedge this early. In his sleep he pitched his ladder at the top end where she pitched hers, and then the shears clashed in time as they cut simultaneously. John froze, his spirits lifted, could it be? No way? Lord, are You serious? Mary’s spirits dropped, Lord, NO! Lord, please no… not again…

“Mary?” Oh, that voice, Lord, why torture me like this? Why?

“Yes?” she barely managed to get out.

He had woken up, his brain was active, he wanted to know: “Are you still fine, going to be polite and have too much going on inside you?” He asked tentatively, instinctually praying she wouldn’t run down her ladder and leave him standing again.

Oh Lord, he remembered, I want to die. Lord, please take this cup away if it isn’t Your will, PLEASE. What do I reply? She was quiet; she didn’t know what to say.

“Mary? Shall I go to the bottom of the fence?” He asked in the kindest, most caring way anyone had ever spoken to her.

“Yes, please” she managed to get out.

“Is that ‘yes’ to fine, polite or move down?” he asked, without anger or judgment in his voice.

“All of the above.” He heard her say, and he knew in that moment that whatever she asked him, whenever she asked it, he would obey, he would help, there was nothing else he would rather do.

“As you wish”, she heard him through the brush. She heard him go down the ladder and move away. Then the cutting started. Why did she have to be such a cow? What was wrong with her? This poor guy was just being friendly and neighbourly and she was such a bitch. She could say it was because it was so early in the morning and she’d been sick and she wasn’t herself. Yes, she had some time to work out a way to get around her embarrassment and create a plausible excuse. She could to that. She started cutting, she’d have to face him one day or the next, may as well be today. They both cut slower than anyone passing by would have believed possible; neither wanting to know what the middle would bring and both longing to know everything that the middle would bring; one branch at a time.

They got there, one branch left, in silence John used his shears and as he cut two butterflies danced up together from the base of the branch. They fluttered around each other, then one around John and one around Mary, then they united again and flew off to another garden dancing on air. John and Mary followed them into the sky before turning to look at each other again. John’s gaze was so loving, so deep, so intoxicating she had to pull away and looked at her shears as she said, “Look John, I just want to apologise for snapping at you the other day. I was off sides, but I do have a whole lot going on, it’s just not something you go off and tell your neighbour. I didn’t mean to appear rude this morning, but it was early and I’ve been off sick, so sorry if I offended you in anyway,” she said with genuine humility, and then filled his silence with her appreciation as she managed to look back into his glistening eyes, “and I just want to say thank-you for being so kind, I really appreciate it.” She’d said what she needed to and he was silently staring at her, which made her feel awkward, so she started to climb down.

“Wait,” he said loudly enough for only her to hear. She climbed back up the two steps. Oh no, he was thinking, what now? What do I say now? Lord? “Please don’t worry about it; I like upfront and honest people. We all have bad days, believe me I know that.” Yeah, he thought, that sounded ok.

He saw a faint smile simmering on her lips and he longed to know what they tasted like. She nodded at him, a light of sincerity and honesty in her eyes that he believed were her truth, “Thanks John, I don’t feel like such a moron now.” She laughed, “I’m surprised you haven’t avoided me like the plague yet, most guys get petrified when I get honest.”

“Like I said, I like honesty.” He genuinely did, it was refreshing after all the fakeness his industry offered him every day. Arse-lickers and drips who were almost worshipping him because he was actually putting paint to canvas and not hanging around moaning and wallowing in alcohol, cigarettes and esoteric ‘out-there’ nonsense like they were. Well, he was like they were, before he met her, encountered her light, now everything had changed.

“Well John, then that makes you one of a kind. Pleased to meet you,” she offered her hand over the hedge, he automatically took it and his groin regretted it for the rest of the afternoon.

“Pleased to officially meet you too,” he responded in full worship of God for putting that fence right where it was and helping him stay balanced on the blimming ladder!

“So John, I didn’t ask you before, what kind of artist are you?”

He chuckled, knowing that if he said what he did then he’d get the ‘what a loser response’ or the ‘ahh, I wish I was able to be free like you response’, he really didn’t want to tell her, but they were talking honestly, still, he was certainly not going to tell her that he painted her! Thank the Lord he used a pseudonym. Here goes nothing, “I’m a painter.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly; man she had a gorgeous neckline, he made a mental note to paint that, “Interior decorating, oils, watercolours or graffiti?” she asked.

Hey! An intelligent response! He really loved this woman. “Wow, most people don’t respond like that. I’m impressed,” hey, did she just blush ever so slightly, no way, paint that too, “Mostly oils on canvas actually. I’m not quite the kind of guy who can listen to those women who don’t know which shade of blue to paint their toilet.” She laughed; his heart soared to the moon and back, what a wonderful sound!

“Fair enough,” she said. “What do you paint then, landscapes or portraits? Abstract or realistic?”

John stood there realizing that his mind body and soul were totally into this woman. It felt glorious! “A mix of everything, I’m not much into landscapes though, they bore me most of the time. Tried a rain forest once and that was incredible, so much colour and detail when I found the right spot, but in the end the mosquitoes killed me and I’m not keen to go back to that. Rain and humidity wasn’t so good for the paint either, so had to get a local to help me out with a few tricks. That part was fun,” he said, realizing that he would love to tell Mary every single story of his life, would love for her to know every detail.

“I’m jealous,” was the next honest phrase from her lips, “I’ve always wished I could travel the world and take photographs of those kinds of pictures.”

Before he could stop himself, “You’re welcome to join me if you like?”

Her eyes clouded over, his words had triggered something, he didn’t know what, he wanted to take the question back, but it was hanging there.

Her thoughts, a painter who is not interested in women, who I feel so much for with all my being, how could I possibly stay platonic? How could I possibly not implode having to keep my feelings locked away? Why did he have to ask that? Lord, You are so unfair sometimes, what have I done to deserve this? What? He was looking at her, the silence was heavy, she had to say something, what? How do you say ‘no’ when your soul is yelling ‘yes’… “Wow, thanks for the offer, that is very kind of you, but my schedule is so busy that I couldn’t possibly -”

“I’m sure we could make a plan -” he cut her off.

She did the same, “I couldn’t possibly, thank-you. I have to go now; I’m starting to feel woozy again. Sorry. Have a good day John, God Bless” and down the ladder she went, leaving behind his unheard: “Shit.”

He went on to become more than financially stable with his new painting collection of butterflies, the long-necked woman and blushing angels. She went on to work harder and received an incredible offer in another country to set up a new international educational training division for previously underprivileged teenagers through online interconnectivity and monthly contact sessions. The job was part of her calling; she knew it was part of her destiny and her purpose in serving God. She knew it would change lives and it was near her parent’s hometown too, so she would be near them as they aged. She prayed hard and God, that voice, told her to go. She fought God with all her might, the John connotations, the synchronicity, the awesomeness she felt in his presence, the unstoppable happiness thinking of him made her feel, the sense that he was with her all time, her obsession with thinking about him and now God was telling her to move away from him? Was God serious? She’d never known love like this, emotions like this, happiness like this, ever. She’d never had a guy on her mind or desired to be with anyone like she did with John. Was this some sick spiritual joke? Was this God telling her to choose God or John? Was this the twisted sense of humour of the universe? She cried her heart and soul out. She broke down in every way imaginable as she felt her life and joy being wretched from her.

She had a month to decide.