TREASURES IN CLAY VESSELS

heart warming love story that brings a message that all things are possible with God

 

 

 

Treasures in Clay Vessels

        By Angela T. Pisaturo

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2008 by Angela T. Pisaturo

Treasures in Clay Vessels by Angela T. Pisaturo

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-60647-821-9

All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are   original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of

the publisher. Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the

New King James Version of the Bible.

Copyright © 1990 by the American Bible Society.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright conventions.

www.xulonpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgements

 

Many thanks to my friends Mary Ellen Brower and

Phil Wahlberg for sharing their insights and experience

of the holy land and helping to shape the Jerusalem portion

 of this novel with vivid descriptions and awe-inspired facts.

May this novel pave the way for you into a true journey of faith

 and inspiration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet

And a light unto my path.

—Psalm 119:105

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

The Beginning of Sorrows

The nightmare has plagued me since my youth. Over and over again, I taste the wet snow in my mouth and hear the screeching tires before snapping back to reality in a cold, shivering sweat. I asked God for mercy and healing, but neither came. Yet, with each passing day, I learned to live with my life circumstances. My reaction to traumatic experiences, such as the one I had, may not be on the same level as that of most ordinary people, but then I have never been considered ordinary. You see, from an early age, I taught myself to disconnect from my experience in order to survive.

Perhaps you may handle a situation like this one in a different fashion, but what a boring world it would be if we went through our lives reacting to every situation in the same manner as everyone else.

For me, it was the only way I could keep on living without going insane, but when I did allow myself to think of my family, and dear, sweet Aunt Nellie and all the good times we shared, my heart soared with hope. At those times, I did not feel quite so alone. Let me share her story with you, for it is the beginning of my story as well and the reason I am who I am today.

“Oh my, I forgot this slide was ever taken.” Aunt Nellie’s face turned red.

Father’s face contorted into a look of horror.

“Nellie, what in the world are you doing?”

“Relax, Albert. It’s not a mating ritual. A local just showed me how to do a welcome dance.” Aunt Nellie then proceeded to demonstrate the dance, motioning for Mother and me to follow her. Right in the middle of our dance lesson, she had one of her “bursts of imagination,” as she was fond of calling her sudden impulses, and with a flash, she dashed out of the room leaving us alone.

 A minute later, she came rushing back carrying two extra large silk scarves. In her hurry, she knocked over the fertility god she had brought back from her trip to Africa the year before.

“Here, these are for the two of you,” she said, handing the scarves to Mother and me. “Tie them around your waists.”

We fitted our makeshift silk dresses around our waists while Aunt Nellie re-arranged the furniture to secure a larger dance floor. She took up the Indian woven rug she had purchased in Nepal, and then moved the oriental, ivory-inlaid coffee table, which was from Singapore, to the other side of the room, setting it beneath a painting she had bought in Paris. Visiting Aunt Nellie was truly an education in world cultures.

“Okay, ladies, follow me.”

Aunt Nellie clapped her hands while singing some Amazon jungle tune, swaying to a rhythm of her own.

“You are really nuts, you know that?” Father said with an air of annoyance.

“Do you know what your problem is, Albert?”

“No, but you’ll tell me I’m sure.”

“You have no imagination.”

“At least I live in this century. Look at this place, Nellie—I feel like I’m in a time warp or something.”

“Oh, Albert,” Mother said, patting Aunt Nellie on the back for moral support. “I think your sister is altogether refreshing after those stuffy friends of ours. I like all the artifacts and period pieces. It makes me feel like we’re on vacation.”

Then Aunt Nellie pulled my father into the circle, together with my little brother, Avery, and we all began to dance. Even Dad was laughing as he swayed back and forth holding my one-year-old sister, Elsie, in his arms.

“Well, Albert, I do believe you’ve come over to the dark side.” Aunt Nellie winked at Mother and me as if sharing a private joke.

“Aw, Nellie, what am I going to do with you?”Father blushed.

 “Well, nothing right now because dinner is ready, and it’s a real Brazilian treat!”

We followed Aunt Nellie into the dining room, licking our lips in anticipation of the exotic meal we were about to experience.

Truth be told, Father loved Aunt Nellie’s wanderlust spirit as much as we did. She had a way of making the most ordinary things seem exciting. Being in Aunt Nellie’s company made me feel like royalty, and I suspect Mother felt the same way because I had never seen her laugh as much as when she was with her sister-in-law.

After we ate our Brazilian fare of barbeque beef and smashed potatoes, as the natives called them, Father rose from the table and turned on the radio to hear the weather update. The experts had been predicting a monumental blizzard heading straight toward us, but it was not supposed to hit the area until midnight. Father must have had a premonition that something may have changed, and the radio update confirmed that. A blizzard warning had been put into effect and people were advised to stay put as the storm was approaching much quicker than expected.

 

Mother and Aunt Nellie tried to convince Father that the roads were too dangerous to travel, particularly in the dark. We should spend the night, they said, and make a fresh start for home early the next morning.

Father would not be swayed. He gave us his famous cold stare and issued the decree that we would be leaving as planned.

As expected, his family filed into the station wagon like the good little soldiers he had trained us to be.

Our home in Bangor, Maine, was a two and a half hour ride on a clear night. It would take twice as long in a blizzard.

As I entered the station wagon, I suddenly had the urge to run back and hug Aunt Nellie one more time. In response to my affection, she convinced Father to let me stay the night, with the promise to take me home in the morning if the roads cleared.

I had always been Aunt Nellie’s favorite, and her namesake. Like her, I also loved to imagine traveling to faraway destinations. I believe it was this attitude that bonded my aunt closer to me than with the other members of my family.

That night, while I slept peacefully on my aunt’s sofa bed, my father’s car slid off the road and into a tree. In a heartbeat, my entire family was gone forever.

The next morning, Aunt Nellie told me they had been just fifteen minutes away from home when the accident occurred.

As I sobbed into her chest, my aunt comforted me and told me not to worry. I belonged to her now; I was loved and cherished. That was the last time I shed a tear for many years. I deeply missed my family—in particular, Mother’s sweet perfume filling the air and Avery’s ridiculous magic tricks. I often awoke in the middle of the night expecting to see him in his black cape, dancing at the foot of my bed, putting some silly “spell” on me.

But somehow, Aunt Nellie made everything right and happy, as she taught me about the world and encouraged my keen imagination. I still clearly remember the day, two years later, when everything changed. Aunt Nellie had prepared her usual breakfast of homemade blueberry scones and tea. I loved those mouthwatering biscuits, dripping with fresh berries. To enhance the experience, she always slapped on a healthy serving of whipped cream. According to my aunt, scones and hot tea were the staples of English nobility.

Eating like nobility appealed to me, and I always looked forward to this special bonding time with my aunt each day.

Looking back on this one particular morning, Auntie had seemed especially affectionate, even for her. I can still recall the conversation as I left for school.

“Bundle up, Nellie. It’s cold outside,” she said as she fastened the buttons on my coat.

But I’m taking the bus.”

“I know, but you catch cold so easily.”

“All right,” I sighed.

Kneeling down so she was eye level with me, Auntie hugged me until I could hardly breathe. “Remember, my darling, I love you so much.

Nothing will ever break that love, no matter what happens.”

      Her eyes showed sadness I had never seen before. “Auntie, are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine, my good girl. God go with you.”

I waved goodbye as I left the house, but something told me I would never see her again.

That afternoon I was called to the Principal’s office, where he told me the news that my beloved aunt had died. In an instant, my joy was replaced with sadness.

I spent the next few years in and out of the orphanage and had several foster families; most did not work out, for one reason or another. I did not want to open my heart, knowing my time with these families would be short-lived, as it always was, for reasons never quite explained to my satisfaction. Finally, at the age of fifteen, I was placed in a foster home where the family managed to break down some of my walls and work their way into my heart. For the first time in many years, I felt content. I actually had a social life, thanks to the family’s teenage daughter, Jenna, who took me under her wing. Everything was going beautifully, until her boyfriend took a fancy to me and told her, in so many words.

Jenna was enraged and came rushing into the kitchen where I had just poured myself a steamy cup of tea. She accused me of stealing her boyfriend and told me what he had said. The news hit me broadside as I had never given him a second thought. I told her I had not done such a thing, but she would not listen. Instead, she ripped the cup of hot tea from my hand and threw it in my face.

The scars left on my cheek that day were only the tip of the iceberg. I suffered emotional scars as well, and lost the only stability I had known since Aunt Nellie’s death.

When I finally reached the age to live on my own I immediately set out for Old Port. I purchased a bus ticket to Portland, packed all my belongings, and never looked back again.

It had always been my dream to open an antiques shop because of my childhood fascination with the many artifacts and antiques in my aunt’s home. It seemed an impossible dream until, at the age of twenty-one, I discovered a wonderful surprise. Father had left Aunt Nellie in care of a financial inheritance for his children. Since I was the only surviving family member, I received the full monetary gift when I came of age. This amount was enough to get my business underway, but not quite enough to run it at full capacity.

The first two years were tough ones, working as a waitress until I saved enough to purchase the right amount of inventory for the shop. Eventually, using the remainder of the inheritance, I rented a shop in a prime location on Commercial Street.

I had been living at a boarding house since arriving at Old Port, so when the apartment over my shop became available, I rented it immediately, moving in a mere seven days before the grand opening of my boutique.

On that day, I realized I owed everything to my dear aunt. Without her inspiration and guidance, I would never have had the courage to undertake such an enormous challenge. As I watched my first customers enter the shop for the grand opening celebration, I whispered a quick thank you to Aunt Nellie for helping me to believe dreams can and do come true.

 

Chapter 1

The Mysterious Stranger

The years passed quickly, and my life became absorbed with the daily operation of Aunt Nell’s Antique Boutique. With each day came new problems, as well as new pleasures.

Another new day beckoned on the horizon, and I rolled over in my four-poster bed as the first hint of morning light floated through the window.

I walked to the bay window to greet the sunrise as it peeked out from behind the fishing trawlers and over the old lobster shack, casting an orange glow over the sparkling bay. It was breathtaking. Morning in Maine was one of the things I cherished most, aside from my prized antique collection.

Stretching, I shook off the old, familiar nightmare from the night before, while soaking in the sun’s rays. It warmed my face and gave me a sense of being one with God’s creation—a sense of belonging to something greater than I.

After I had my fill of the sun’s warmth, I jumped into the shower and awakened my mind and body, allowing the smooth, calming sensation of steamy water to relax my aching bones.

Once showered, I walked back to my bedroom and stood in front of my wardrobe. After a moment, I decided to wear my favorite outfit. Dressing old style always made me feel important.

I took the Victorian crème-colored lace blouse from the closet, matched it with a blue lace, ankle length skirt, and topped off the ensemble with Aunt Nellie’s cameo pin. I braided my reddish-brown, waist-length hair, being careful to hide the budding gray hairs that seemed to be showing up regularly. When all was complete, I put on my black leather, high top button boots and headed for the corner bakery.

You may be puzzled as to why I wear clothes from centuries past. It is the same reason I like antiques. You can be anybody you want to be in someone else’s clothes or when sipping tea from century-old cups. Doing these things made me feel like English nobility and helped keep Aunt Nellie’s spirit alive. Ever since she told me she would always be with me, I have never missed a tea and scone morning. At times, while sipping tea and eating a blueberry scone, I have actually felt her presence.

Apart from that, wearing these outfits also seemed romantic to me, in an odd kind of way. Like being Scarlett O’Hara or one of the sisters from Little Women.

In any case, I quickly realized people paid less attention to my facial scars when I dressed in this fashion, not to mention that I prefer it to ordinary, boring, “everybody wears it” clothing.

As I walked to the bakery, a cool breeze blew in from the bay, and I was grateful to be wearing Aunt Nellie’s warm, woven poncho. She had brought it back from a trip to Mexico shortly after Avery was born. I remember being enthralled by the colorful patterns in the fabric and secretly praying that the poncho would, someday, be mine.

After her death, that poncho was like a rare treasure to me. I think it was my way of keeping her memory alive and giving me a sense of still belonging to her.

Crossing the street, I entered Tanner’s Bakery for my morning chamomile tea and blueberry scone, then continued my trek to Lenny’s Newsstand to purchase the morning paper before circling back to Aunt Nell’s Antique Boutique.

Since I had so much inventory work left to do, I ate my breakfast quickly so I could get a little more work done before tourists started pouring into the shop, as they always did at this time of year.

Autumn in New England, especially at Old Port, comes alive like a caterpillar transformed into a graceful butterfly. Tourists flutter about in their merriment, trying to pollinate their own little worlds with every new treasure they come across.

While waiting for the first customer, I looked through the stack of junk mail from the day before and noticed the new issue of Antiques Magazine was covering ancient artifacts from the Joan of Arc era. I set the magazine aside with a smile, knowing that later that night I would be thinking of the Middle Ages and the heroism of Joan of Arc, dreaming of castles and kings, and being brave. Once again, I knew I would pray for the strength to get through another day, continuing to hope for a miracle in my own life.

It was quite busy for a Monday morning, even for the time of year, with customers buzzing in and out, although most only to browse.

The constant influx of people wore me out, so I decided to walk down to the Crab Shack for lunch and buy a steaming bowl of New England clam chowder, instead of eating my usual cottage cheese and fruit. The wind was blowing off the coast, creating a kaleidoscope of colorful leaves that caressed my body as they made their descent to the ground. I continued down the cobblestone pathways of Commercial Street, enjoying the sight of the19th Century Federal-style clapboard buildings that housed such establishments as Madame Marie’s Scent Emporium, The Maine Art Gallery and, my favorite, The Clothes Closet, which stocked the vintage clothing I loved. As I walked, the aroma of whoopie pies and steamy hot clam chowder danced around my nostrils.

Venturing further toward the docks, I heard a commotion of mega proportion for a town the size of Old Port. A crowd of local shop owners had gathered in the area near the lobster and fish houses, and they seemed enthralled by the sight of a man, probably an angler from another town, docking his red and white candy-striped fishing trawler. Judging from the amount of baggage and cooking items on deck, the boat appeared to double as a cruising vessel. In any case, the boat’s net sported the heavy rubber wheels that allowed it to crawl over the rough ocean bottom without tearing on the rocks, which usually indicated commercial use. If this angler was not a professional, he was, at the very least, a serious hobbyist.

Author's Note

what did you think of the dialogue? Do you want to hear more about nellie's life?