Read Sisterchicks Go Brit! Online
Authors: Robin Jones Gunn
Kellie laughed. “Then just go put on your most comfortable shoes, Rose. And grab your hat. Liz and I are taking you to Disney World. Right now.”
“Now? But—” Rose pressed her hand against her flushed cheek.
“We’ll rent a wheelchair,” Kellie said.
I whispered to Kellie, “We have a few legal issues here. Don’t you think we should—”
“Not yet. We’ll address all that soon enough. First things first. This Sisterchick of ours has a wish that needs fulfilling, and for better or worse, I would say you and I are her fairy godmothers.”
F
ive weeks after
Kellie and I pushed Rose in a wheelchair around Disney World, we were back on a plane bound for Heathrow. This time our husbands were with us, and Rose was wearing her own appropriately sized hot pink tennis shoes. Our entourage was headed for a wedding at the Olney parish church.
Martin and Roger had worked together to help straighten out the awkward predicament Kellie and I inadvertently had caused when we brought the wrong twin back to Florida. Arrangements were made for the four of us to escort the petite culprit back to her rosy cottage, where she agreed to spend the remainder of her days living under her true identity. Opal and Virgil were content to live in Virgil’s cottage, two hundred yards away from Rose’s home and through a garden gate.
After Rose’s joyful tour of Disney World, she had taken on a sweeter view toward her sister’s dream of spending her winter years with Virgil. Rose was willing to add her blessing to the union.
Her sweetness remained and was put to good use when we arrived in Olney at her cottage. Opal was waiting for her, standing on the “Go Away” mat with her arms outstretched. Rose trotted up the path, and the two sisters greeted each other the way they probably should have six weeks earlier when we first arrived with Opal.
The wedding was like a scene out of a Jane Austen novel. Virgil waited at the front of the spacious church, exuding complete sense and sensibility in his respectable brown suit and focusing his affectionate smile on his demure bride. The little Florida orange blossom sashayed down the long center aisle toward her Mr. Darcy, the reformed yak, in a floor-length ivory skirt and a simple ivory sweater adorned with an antique collar of Olney lace that had belonged to her grandmother. On her feet, spunky Opal wore her hot pink tennies that peeked out with each step like timid twins looking for mischief.
“Look how she’s holding the bouquet,” Kellie whispered with a giggle. “It’s the same way she held the frying pan in the pancake race. At least we can have no doubt that the right twin is marrying Virgil.”
My favorite part of the service was when the guests were invited to stand and join in singing “Amazing Grace.” I watched my dear husband choke up when he realized we were singing his favorite hymn inside the church where the song’s composer had preached for nearly forty years.
The reception was held in a charming local teahouse called
Tea Cups. I watched as Virgil invited Rose to stand beside Opal in the receiving line. The two sisters beamed in their regal way, greeting their public, finishing each other’s sentences, and glowing with equality.
Kellie commented on the transformation of the twins that evening as she, Martin, Roger, and I were on our way to our London hotel rooms. We were sneaking in a quick couples’ tour of London before returning home.
“I think the two sisters needed the drama and trauma of their escapade to reunite at this deeper level,” Kellie said. “I think that getting away from home and expanding your comfort zone causes you to see more clearly what matters most in your life.”
“You’re right,” Martin and Roger said in unison. Both of them were looking affectionately at us, their adventuresome wives. The trip benefited all of us in appreciating our spouses more.
It’s been two years since all this happened. We hear from Opal often, and it’s almost always good news. She continually invites us to come visit again, and we might one of these days. But we’ve been pretty busy with some happy adventures of our own.
Kellie and LeeAnne have experienced stunning success with their interior-design business. Last month they were hired to redesign a pancake house in Orlando. Fifteen design companies entered bids, and K & L won. The theme they chose was a William Morris–inspired English cottage design, complete with a doormat that read “Go Away” and overly floppy white chef’s hats. The owner thought the design was “original and brilliant.”
I started volunteering at the children’s hospital three days a week. I’m doing what makes me so happy I could burst. I sit beside ill children, and I read English classics to them. I take their frightened hearts and their waning imaginations and give them something to dream of. The dreams I instill in these children are not just dreams of pirate ships, street waifs, and nannies that can fly—although they have enjoyed all those stories. The dream I plant in them is a dream of heaven.
It all happened naturally the first time I read to a nine-year-old girl recovering from a car accident. I told her about my crush on Big Ben and how I at long last got my wish to see him face to face. She grinned when I recited my little poem to her.
Then I told her my truest dream: that one day I would see almighty God face to face because I had put my trust in Christ. His arms would always be open, and His face would always light up for any who came to Him.
Over the weeks and months that I returned to volunteer at the hospital, I repeated my story every time before reading from one of the classics. The nurses were thrilled with my visits. One of the mothers said her son told her I was an angel.
“What are you telling our son?” the mother asked me.
I looked her in the eye and said, “I’m telling him about two things of which I’m quite passionate, English literature and God, my heavenly Father.”
In the two years I’ve been doing this, no one has complained or asked me to curtail my passion. Every time I show up at the
hospital, I give myself permission to take a risk and tell a child about my growing love for God. And every time I step into that unknown chasm of untamed air, I watch my own fear fly away as I’m upheld by the everlasting arms.
So far, fourteen children have asked me to pray with them when they asked Christ to be the Lord of their young hearts. I smile my best smiles then, because I think of what it’s going to be like one day when every knee bows and every tongue confesses that Jesus Christ is Lord.
We’re just getting a head start here in the children’s ward.
Hello, dear Sisterchick!
One of my greatest delights in writing the Sisterchicks novels has been the journeys I’ve taken around the world while researching the location of each book. (I know, what a writer’s dream!) If I could take you with me on these adventures, oh what a time we would have! Since that’s not possible, I thought you might enjoy seeing a few snapshots and hearing a few of the stories behind the story for
Sisterchicks Go Brit!
No trip to England would be complete without a few proper teatimes. Our first was in Bedford, which just so happens to be
where the tradition of British afternoon tea was instituted by Anna, the Duchess of Bedford. Our hosting party was a group of enthusiastic readers who call themselves the Blessed Chicks. Since our visit, two of these God-loving women have moved—one to New Zealand, one to the U.S.—yet they’re staying connected through prayer and lots of e-mails. It’s clear that women around the world love to gather not only to giggle but to lovingly support each other. We felt right at home.