Welcome to Story Lane: The Story of a Neighborhood of Fables

Welcome to Story Lane, my friend!

A place where fiction and real-life blend. 

You might meet Cinderella on the corner,

And then cross the street to Little Jack Horner.

Little Red Riding Hood might give you desserts.

If a wolf is with her, beware of his hurts.

At the backyard picnic, you might meet Beauty, 

Who thought loving the Beast was more than duty. 

If Tarzan swings from the tallest trees,

He thinks it’s the jungle with a calm breeze.

Snow White likes to eat crispy apples, 

But has a hard time with the wedding chapels.

Alice in Wonderland has a rabbit as a pet. 

How she fell down a hole, she might forget!

If the neighbors have gold from Treasure Island,

It might be hidden in a rustic highland. 

If Sleeping Beauty naps throughout the day, 

It’s only because she keeps wrinkles at bay.

Rapunzel might let her hair down behind her,

And it’s the only way that you’re sure to find her.

Goldilocks sure likes to eat her porridge!

Standing up to the Three Bears took some courage. 

Peter Pan always wants to be young,

And fairies with him have a song that’s sung.

The Ugly Duckling might waddle around, 

But the pond on the bank is the place he’s found.

Three Little Pigs should be cautious with fire, 

And their building skills leave lots to be desired.

Pinocchio has been known to tell some lies. 

If you look closely, you can see truth in his eyes.

There’s always a story about to be written. 

Once in a while, someone new is smitten.

If you want adventure, make it your home. 

Change your name and become a gnome!

 

Copyright 2021 Jennifer Waters

My Family History: The Story of Jennifer Lynn Waters

Jennifer Waters
Geography 219 - Honors
Professor Western
September 30, 1996

My Family History

Before I started to write this paper, I thought I knew a lot about my family's history, but this paper gave me the opportunity to discover even more about the people who are responsible for so much of how I am today.

My parents, Norman John Waters and Darlene Marie Moyer Waters, were married November 18, 1972, in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. My father was born on June 6, 1949, in Oakland, California, and my mother was born on May 7, 1948, in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. They currently live in Hershey, Pennsylvania, with my sixteen-year-old brother Andy. When my father was younger, he lived in Norfolk, Virginia; Springfield, Ohio; Oakland, California; and Long Beach, California, because his father was in the United States Navy. On the other hand, my mother has lived her entire life in Pennsylvania, in such places as Schuylkill Haven, Auburn, and Harrisburg.

My father now works as the Vice President of Corporate Development at Reading and Blue Mountain Railroad in Hamburg, Pennsylvania. Before that, he spent many years working with the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. Just as a side note, my father loves basketball with a passion. He got a scholarship to play basketball at Lehigh University in Pennsylvania. If not for basketball, he would have never gone to college. My mother never went to college, and I know she regrets this. Her family just did not have enough money to send her. Currently, she does some part-time office work, but she has devoted most of her life to raising my brother and me. She enjoys gardening and cooking.

Although I know my father took one or two courses in Spanish between his undergraduate years at Lehigh University and graduate years at Penn State University, I have never heard anything but English from his mouth. My mother is a different story. Since her side of the family is basically German, she was raised speaking both English and Pennsylvania Dutch. When my brother and I were growing up, we would hear her speak to my relatives in Pennsylvania Dutch when she did not want us to know what she was saying.

Because of poor relations between the members of my father's side of the family, I do not know a lot about them. I never even met my father's father, Norman Harold Waters. He was born in Memphis, Tennessee, on November 6, 1915. He died of cancer sometime in 1956 when my dad was still in college. He worked as Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy. I know he moved a lot because of his job. His last residence before death was Reading, Pennsylvania. As far as I know, he only spoke English. I get my Welsh background from his side of the family.

He married my grandmother, Augusta Renner Graf, in 1948, in Philadelphia. Although they never got divorced, my grandparents were separated from the time my father was a little boy. My father's mother was born on October 16, 1913, in Philadelphia. She studied at St. Joseph's Hospital to become a nurse and spent most of her life working in that medical profession. Although I did not know my grandfather, I did know her, and affectionally called her "Nana." Right before she died, she spent a couple years living in an apartment in Hershey that was five minutes from my house. I remember she used to smoke cigarettes all the time. Whenever I would visit her apartment in Hershey, I would secretly raid her kitchen drawers and throw the cigarettes in the trash. I never knew if she realized I did that. Before that, we would visit her in her house in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. During the summer after my sixth-grade year of middle school, she died on July 28, 1989, two days after my birthday.

My father's father's parents were Norman John Waters and Etta Mae Evans Waters. My great-grandfather gave me my Welsh background. He was born in 1892 in Mississippi, and my great-grandmother was born in 1897 in Arkansas. As far as I know, they only spoke English. That is all I know about them.

I know a little more about my father's mother's parents. John Adam Graf was born April 19, 1884, in South Wabash, Pennsylvania. He worked for a railroad as a conductor and fireman. He died October 23, 1960. His wife, Margaret E. Renner, was born December 15, 1876, in St. Clair, Pennsylvania. She was a housewife. She died December 16, 1956. Although both had German ancestors, they only spoke English. I do not know when or where they were married.

Since relations are better on my mother's side of the family, I know a lot more about them. In a nutshell, they are basically Lutheran, Pennsylvania Dutch speaking people, originating from Germany. My mother's mother, Dorothea Mildred Mengel, otherwise known as "Mam," was born January 15, 1919, in Rock, Pennsylvania. She married on June 22, 1946, in Summit Station, Pennsylvania, and worked as a housewife. She makes very good food, especially her potato filling which we always eat at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

She currently lives in Auburn, Pennsylvania, with her husband of fifty years. She married Wilson Henry Moyer, my grandfather otherwise known as "Pap," on June 22, 1946, in Summit Station, Pennsylvania, He was also born there on October 9, 1916. Now he is retired, but when he was younger he worked at the car shop for the Reading Railroad, and he also worked at Alcoa Aluminum Company. Although he is not an "educated man," he can fix or build practically anything. Both my grandparents speak both English and Pennsylvania Dutch. Growing up, they spoke mostly Pennsylvania Dutch at home. Today, I hear them speak when they get into arguments.

I do not know in what year my grandmother's parents, Howard Mengel and Emma Kraus Mengel, were married. But I do know that Howard Mengel was born March 5, 1892, in Auburn, Pennsylvania. He was a carpenter who worked for the Reading Railroad. He spoke Pennsylvania Dutch. He died February 10, 1924, of pneumonia. His parents were George Franklin Mengel and Rebecca Schullenberger Mengel. George Mengel's mother, Ellen Moser, was a Native American. She is buried at Red Church Cemetery in Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania.

Emma Krause was born March 23, 1894, in Rock, Pennsylvania. She was a housewife, and she spoke Pennsylvania Dutch. Also, Howard Mengel was her second husband. Her first husband died in a mine explosion. My great Aunt Helen is a product of that marriage. After Howard Mengel died of pneumonia around age 32, she remarried for the third time. That husband died of natural causes around 1950. My great Aunt Marie was a product of their marriage. Emma Krause died February 8, 1943, of a heart attack.

My grandfather's parents, Carrie A. Werner Moyer, and Robert D. Moyer, were married in 1914. Born March 11, 1891, in Jefferson, Pennsylvania, Carrier Werner was a farmer's wife. Like the rest of my mother's side of the family, she spoke Pennsylvania Dutch. She died sometime in 1965. Robert Moyer was born March 18, 1866, in Wayne Township, Pennsylvania. He was a farmer. I don't know when he died. His parents were Lewis Moyer and Mary Hain Moyer. Again, they spoke Pennsylvania Dutch at home instead of English.

Lewis Meyer was the twelfth child of Christian Meyer. Christian Meyer was born in Blsass Kovigreich, Frankreich, on February 2, 1803. This is just after Napoleon Bonaparte conquered the armies in that part of Europe and annexed 17 states of Germany to France. Christian Meyer was educated in excellent schools in his homeland. At age 18, he got passage on a sailing vessel to America.

In 1829, he came to Black Horse, Wayne Township, Pennsylvania. He became a schoolteacher at the request of Valentine Brown. Brown offered him board and lodging in his own house so that he would stay and teach. Consequently, Meyer became the first schoolteacher in the first school in Wayne Township. He taught there for 41 years. He was also the "Singing Meister" and organist at St. Paul's Summer Hill Church for seven years. In addition, he was a farmer and tombstone cutter. He married Miss Catherine Fide and had thirteen children by her.

It is amazing to me that I am a product of a schoolteacher who came from Germany in the 1800's, a Native American woman, a railroad worker, a farmer's wife, and so on. I am intrigued with each person who makes up my family's history. I wish I could have known them and seen their lives. If not for them, I would not be alive today. I wonder what they would think of me if they could see my life today.

Copyright 2021 Jennifer Lynn Waters

Happy Mother's Day, Darlene Marie Moyer Waters. 
Happy Father's Day, Norman John Waters.

Larkspur: The Story of the Delphinium

Long ago, in a wide blue sea, there lived a dolphin with a gentle smile and a voice that shimmered through the waves like music. When she sang, the water seemed to glow, and even the smallest fish paused to listen.
            She loved the sea.
            She loved how it carried her swiftly through the currents and rocked her safely at night. The ocean was her home, and her song was her joy.
            But the sharks did not listen.
            They circled.
            They followed her day and night—through rolling swells and quiet depths, through sunlight and shadow. They did not have her sleek nose or her joyful voice, and they did not understand her kindness. Wherever she swam, she felt their dark shapes moving closer.
            The dolphin was afraid.
            She swam faster than she ever had before, her heart pounding beneath her smooth skin. She feared her song would be silenced—that one day she would be carried by the tide and left upon the shore, still and broken, her voice lost forever.
            She did not know that Neptune, god of the sea, was watching.
            Neptune had always loved the dolphin—her open heart, her sweet spirit, her laughter that danced through the water like light. He saw her fear and heard her song grow quieter with every chase. And when he could no longer bear the cruelty of the sharks, he made a choice to protect her forever.
            As the sharks closed in once more, the sea suddenly grew calm. The dolphin felt warmth surround her, gentle and bright, as if the ocean itself were holding her close. Her fear softened. Her song faded into silence.
            And then—she changed. The dolphin felt the sea grow still around her. Her sleek body softened, her fear melted away, and something warm and hopeful took its place.
            Neptune transformed her into something new. She bloomed into a flower upon an oceanside overlook and was given a new name: Larkspur.
            Now her graceful nose rises as one of the most beautiful blossoms in the spring garden, reaching toward the sun. Each petal carries the memory of her song. Every tear she once cried in the deep became something magnificent.
            Though she no longer swims the sea, her beauty still tells her story—of gentleness, of courage, and of a voice that could never truly be lost.

 

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Author’s Note: The flower called delphinium, also known as larkspur, gets its name from the Greek word delphis, meaning dolphin, because the flower bud resembles a dolphin’s nose. Inspired by Roman mythology, this story imagines how a dolphin’s song might have been transformed into the beautiful blossom that blooms each spring.

 

LOGLINE

When a gentle, music-loving dolphin is relentlessly chased by jealous sharks, the god of the sea transforms her into a flowering larkspur, turning fear into beauty and loss into lasting grace.

 

PITCH

Larkspur is a kindhearted dolphin whose joyful song and gentle spirit make her a target in the ocean she loves. As the sharks’ pursuit grows more dangerous, her fear threatens to silence her forever—until Neptune, god of the sea, intervenes. In an act of mercy and protection, he transforms the dolphin into a larkspur flower overlooking the ocean, where her beauty continues to bloom long after her swimming days have ended. 

Holly Wreath: The Story of a Very Merry Front Door

Holly berries,

Holly wreath

Make a lovely 

Bed beneath

Mistletoe boughs

Or garlands strands. 

A very merry

Holiday at hand!

Swing it wide, 

Swing it long,

The front door;

A brand new song. 

A crown of thorns,

With drops of blood.

Glisten in light,

Glow with love. 

Copyright 2020 Jennifer Waters

Happy Coloring Zone: The Story of a Box of Crayons

Once there was a crayon box that knew it was lucky.
      It lived on a low table by a sunny window, right in the middle of the Happy Coloring Zone—a little place with paper, crayons, and room for big ideas. From where it sat, the box could see everything that mattered: small hands reaching, big ideas forming, and blank pages waiting to become something new.
      The box didn’t talk—not out loud—but it noticed things. Children opened its cardboard lid carefully at first, as if greeting old friends. They searched for just the right color, their fingers hovering before choosing. And every time, something good seemed to begin.
      Inside the box, the crayons rested side by side. Red felt brave. Blue felt calm. Yellow hummed with warmth. Green believed in growing things. And black held the space where all the other colors could shine. Even the quiet colors—gray, brown, soft peach—had feelings of their own, steady and kind.
      The box didn’t decide what the children would draw. It only held the colors and waited.
      And the children drew everything.
      They drew houses with crooked roofs and families holding hands. They drew suns that smiled and dogs that flew. They drew wishes they didn’t yet know how to say out loud. When a picture was finished, it was taped to the wall, and the box watched the walls disappear beneath layers of hope.
      Sometimes, the crayons grew short. The box felt them wiggle as they tried to do a little more. Their paper wrappers peeled and cracked, and the box worried—until loving hands wrapped them again, smoothing new covers into place.
      “Still useful,” those hands seemed to say. “Still needed.”
      The box liked that.
      Over time, the Happy Coloring Zone grew crowded with pictures. There were so many that the walls ran out of room. So, the pictures moved to another wall. Then, another room. Then, another home.
      The box traveled, too.
      It rode in backpacks and cardboard boxes and sat on kitchen tables and classroom shelves. Wherever it went, children opened it, and the same quiet magic happened again. Colors met paper. Feelings found shapes. The world felt lighter.
      The box began to notice something strange.
      No matter where it landed, children opened the box, paper appeared, colors were chosen, and the Happy Coloring Zone followed. It stretched beyond one house, then one street, then one town. It crossed oceans in suitcases and backpacks. It slipped into hospitals, libraries, and places where people felt lonely—where pictures of home, bright suns, and familiar faces began to appear.
      Everywhere the box went, coloring began—and with it, healing.
      The box didn’t know how big the world was, but it sensed that the Happy Coloring Zone now reached across time zones and seasons, appearing whenever someone needed it most.
      Sometimes, when no one was around, the box rested quietly. It listened to the faint hum of all the pictures it had helped bring into being. It felt proud—not because it was special, but because it was shared.
      And if you were feeling sad—very sad—the box hoped you might find one.
      A place with paper.
      A place with colors.
      A place where your hands could remember how to make something good.
      Because the Happy Coloring Zone is always waiting.
      And so is the box.

 

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters

 

LOGLINE

When a humble crayon box travels from home to home, it discovers that wherever children color, hope and healing quietly begin.

 

PITCH

A well-traveled box of crayons witnesses children transform blank pages into expressions of courage, comfort, and joy. As the crayons wear down and are lovingly restored, the box observes how drawings fill walls, homes, and eventually spaces all over the world—carrying creativity into classrooms, hospitals, and quiet places where it’s needed most. The story celebrates art as a universal language of healing and reminds readers that a Happy Coloring Zone can exist anywhere a child is given colors, paper, and care.

Camel Train: The Story of Getting Over a Hump

Once there was a camel who could not get over his hump. He woke each morning, stretched his long legs, and sighed at the big bump on his back. It wobbled when he walked and bobbed when he ran.  

The camel lived in a wide, golden desert where the sun rose like a glowing coin. Sand dunes rolled on forever, and the wind sang softly across the land. Everywhere he looked, there were camels.  

Every camel had a hump. Some had one. Some had two. Big humps, small humps, crooked humps, and proud humps. The camel knew he was not the only one, but he still wished his hump were gone.  

Each morning, a camel train passed through the desert. One hundred camels marched in a long, bumpy line. One hundred hooves. One hundred shadows. And yes—one hundred humps.  

The camel counted them as they passed. One hump, two humps, three humps. By the time he reached one hundred, his head drooped. The problem was not how many humps there were. The problem was that he hated his own.  

He tried to make the best of it. He offered rides to desert mice and birds, who climbed up happily and waved from the top. But the extra weight made him tip and tumble, and soon everyone was covered in sand.  

During the hottest days, the camel tried filling his hump with extra water, just in case a drought came. But the water sloshed with every step, and he swayed from side to side while the other camels walked on smoothly. 

At night, under a sky filled with stars, the camel lay on the cool sand and thought hard thoughts. “What if life would be easier without you?” he whispered to his hump. The hump did not answer.  

One morning, when the sun felt too hot and the road felt too long, the camel reached his lowest point. He stopped walking. He stopped thinking. Then, an idea popped into his head.  

What if he left his hump behind? The thought felt wild and scary, but also exciting. Before he could change his mind, the camel shook and shimmied. With one great wiggle—plop!—his hump slid right off his back and landed in the middle of the road.  

The camel froze. He felt lighter. Straighter. Taller. He took one careful step, then another. He did not wobble. He did not tip. He laughed out loud and trotted away without looking back.  

Soon travelers came along. “Watch out!” someone called. “There’s a bump in the road!” They stepped carefully over the strange, lumpy shape and continued on their way.  

If you ever come across a bump in the road, you might have found that camel’s hump. The camel would hope you take your time, step safely, and keep going.  

Far ahead, the camel walked with ease. The desert was still hot and the road still long, but his steps felt steady beneath him.  

When he saw the camel train again—one hundred camels marching past with one hundred humps—he smiled. He understood something new. Every camel carries something.  

And so, the camel traveled on, lighter and wiser, knowing that a bump in the road is only a bump, and smooth journeys often begin after we learn how to move forward.

 

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters

LOGLINE

A camel who hates his hump sets out to rid himself of it, only to discover that life’s bumps are easier to face when you learn how to move forward.

 

PITCH

In a wide, golden desert, a camel struggles with the hump on his back, convinced it’s the one thing holding him back from a smooth journey. As a long camel train passes each day, reminding him that everyone carries a hump of their own, he tries to make the best of his—offering rides to friends and even filling it with water—until nothing seems to help. At his lowest point, the camel makes a bold decision and leaves his hump behind, discovering newfound balance and freedom along the road ahead. 

Touchdown: The Story of the Beautiful Game

Jenna Lake didn’t know anything about football. She was aware of this fact the moment she sat down at the long table in the football wing of Syracuse College’s tutoring department and realized she was supposed to help the starting quarterback pass a midterm exam in Christianity. The hallway outside smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp wool coats, and framed photographs of past seasons lined the walls—broad shoulders, lifted helmets, frozen victories. None of it felt like her world.
      Kevin Smith arrived five minutes late and looked entirely unconcerned about it. He dropped into the chair across from her, stretching his legs out with the casual confidence of someone used to being waited for. Jenna tried not to let that bother her.
      “I don’t know one thing about football,” she said, clasping her hands together to keep them still. “I’m an English major and a music minor, not an athlete, but I’m willing to help you pass your midterm.”
      Kevin smiled as if she’d said something charming instead of responsible.
      “Coach said this class would be an easy A,” he said.
      Jenna glanced at her watch. Fifteen dollars an hour. Fifty minutes left. Not nearly enough time to cover early church history, theological terms, and biblical authorship—especially not for someone who clearly hadn’t opened the syllabus.
      “The first thing you probably need,” she said carefully, thinking aloud, “is a Bible.”
      Kevin let out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a complaint.
      “I’ve got a game on Saturday, and this is a lot to think about right now. You know I’m not really a Christian, right?” he asked.
      She studied his face, trying to decide whether he was deflecting or being honest.
      “What do you mean?” she asked.
      “I grew up going to church with my grandma,” Kevin said. “African American church. I still go when I’m home. I just… don’t think about it too much.”
      Jenna nodded. She could respect that more than pretending.
      “You don’t have to know exactly what you believe yet,” she said. “But you do have to know the material if you want to pass.”
      Without quite meaning to, she slid a folded newspaper clipping across the table. Kevin, mid-stride. Kevin, celebrated. She’d cut it out while studying in the library, telling herself it was just because it was there.
      “You’re going to have to start reading the Bible,” she added.
      Kevin unfolded the clipping and laughed softly.
      “My grandmother would love you already,” he admitted.
      During her freshman year, Jenna had enrolled in Christianity because she genuinely loved reading the Bible. She’d been surprised to discover the football team made up nearly half the class. Every year, the coach tried to guide players toward courses that sounded easy on paper. Christianity never was.
      “In February A.D. 313,” Professor Mark Johnson had lectured, pacing slowly, “Emperor Constantine issued the Edict of Milan, ending the persecution of Christians in the Roman Empire.”
      Jenna remembered the quiet thrill of learning—how history and faith intersected, how belief shaped civilizations. She’d studied harder than necessary because it mattered to her. When she earned a perfect score on the final, Professor Johnson had asked her to tutor struggling athletes during her sophomore year.
      Now, every Tuesday night, Jenna rode the campus bus to the football fieldhouse. Rain, sleet, snow—it didn’t matter. She told herself she was earning money and helping people, but some nights she wondered if she was simply trying to prove she belonged. Sitting alone in the waiting room one evening, she caught her reflection in the glass.
      I’m the tiny white girl who plays piano, she thought. I know the rules of tennis, not football.
      Kevin burst through the door fifteen minutes late.
      “Did you see the touchdown I got on Saturday?” Kevin asked.
      “There were women running circles around you too,” Jenna said dryly as she followed him into the study room. “I think they’re called cheerleaders.”
      He laughed as he unpacked his books.
      “I broke up with my girlfriend,” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
      The question caught her off guard. Jenna straightened her long dirty-blond hair and adjusted her glasses. Although she didn’t wear a lot of makeup or trendy clothes, underneath her simple appearance, she was what her mother called a classic beauty.
      “You just need me to help you pass your class,” she replied.
      “I’m flirting,” he said easily. “You’re beautiful.”
      “That doesn’t change your grade,” she replied, though her heart betrayed her by beating a little faster.
      They met twice a week after that. Sometimes Kevin arrived prepared, sometimes not. Jenna explained authorship theories, memorization tricks, and historical timelines. She told herself she was only doing her job, but she found herself looking forward to the sessions more than she should.
      One evening, Kevin leaned back in his chair and studied her.
      “You ever do anything fun?” he asked.
      “I study,” she said.
      “I mean really fun.”
      After a long pause, he said, “What if we studied over dinner?”
      Jenna hesitated. Boundaries mattered. But so did his grades.
      “Only if we’re actually studying,” she said.
      The next evening, she packed two Bibles and her textbook into her bag. She climbed into Kevin’s Range Rover and immediately launched into a lecture about Genesis, Hebrew texts, and early church councils. Kevin promised he was listening.
      They ended up at a pizza place instead.
      For the first time in weeks, Jenna forgot about responsibility. She laughed, danced by the jukebox, and stayed out far later than she should have.
      Outside her dorm, Kevin asked if he could kiss her.
      “Only if you study,” she said.
      “I promise,” he said, kissing her cheek.

The week of the midterm arrived faster than Jenna expected. She tried to convince herself she had done everything she could. Kevin had shown flashes of effort—enough questions asked, enough half-filled pages of notes—but she’d learned not to confuse charm with preparation. Still, she found herself praying for him, not just that he’d pass, but that something would stick beyond the test.
      On the morning of the exam, she saw him in the hallway outside the lecture room. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
      “I’ve got this,” he said.
      She wanted to believe him.
      Two days later, Jenna was gathering her things in the tutoring wing when Kevin burst through the door, breathless and glowing. He waved a paper over his head.
      “A plus,” he said. “I got an A plus.”
      Relief flooded her before she could stop it. She laughed and hugged him, forgetting for a moment about professionalism, about lines she’d drawn and redrawn in her mind.
      “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You must have studied more than I realized.”
      “Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly.
      As they pulled apart, one of Kevin’s teammates passed by, slowing just long enough to glance at the paper.
      “Same test as last year,” he said with a laugh. “Lucky break, man.”
      The hallway seemed to tilt. Jenna felt the warmth drain from her chest.
      “What does he mean?” she asked once they were alone.
      Kevin shifted his weight. “It’s not like that.”
      “Did you cheat?” Her voice sounded too loud, too sharp.
      “I just… had access to last year’s test,” he said. “It was the same questions. I still had to know the answers.”
      Jenna stared at him. Trust, once cracked, made a different sound when it broke completely.
      “You lied to me,” she said. “I trusted you—with your grade, with my job.”
      “I wanted you to think I was smart,” he said. “There’s a lot of pressure on me. Football comes first.”
      Her hands shook as she gathered her books.
      “I don’t have time for this,” she said quietly. “Or for you.”
      That night, she took the bus back to her dorm in the snow, the windows fogged with cold. She replayed the conversation over and over, anger tangling with disappointment. It wasn’t just about the cheating. It was about what it revealed—how easily integrity could be traded for convenience.
      For two weeks, Jenna didn’t return to tutoring. She threw herself into classes, into piano practice, into anything that kept her from thinking about Kevin. She prayed too, though her prayers felt tangled and uncertain. Forgiveness wasn’t something she could reach for lightly.
      One evening, a knock came at her dorm door. She almost ignored it.
      Kevin stood in the hallway, eyes rimmed red, shoulders slumped. He looked smaller somehow, stripped of the easy confidence she’d grown used to.
      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I messed up.”
      She crossed her arms.
      “You did,” she said.
      “I prayed with my grandmother,” he said. “I told her everything. I don’t want to be that guy.”
      He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a small cross tattoo and a line of scripture beneath it. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
      Jenna felt her resolve soften, not all at once, but enough to breathe again. Forgiveness didn’t erase consequences, but it opened a door.
      “I forgive you,” she said quietly.
      Kevin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks.
      “I don’t want you to tutor me anymore,” he said. “I’ll find someone else. I just want to take you to dinner again. The right way.”
      She hesitated, then smiled.
      “Next time, give me some warning,” she said.
      After Kevin left, Jenna sat on the edge of her bed for a long time without turning on the lamp. The hallway noise faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the building settling for the night. Forgiveness felt lighter than anger, but heavier than she’d expected. It asked something of her—trust, patience, courage—that didn’t come naturally.
      She reached for her Bible, the spine worn from years of use, and opened it without looking for a specific passage. The words felt familiar and steady, reminding her that faith wasn’t about perfection but direction. People stumbled. People learned. Sometimes slowly.
      The next week passed in small moments. Jenna caught herself watching the clock during piano practice, wondering how Kevin was doing. She resisted the urge to text him reminders or encouragement. Letting go of responsibility was harder than taking it on.
      On Sunday morning, she slipped into the back pew of the small campus chapel and let the music wash over her. She prayed quietly—not for answers, but for clarity. She wanted to be kind without being careless, open without losing herself.
      By midweek, Kevin sent a short text message. Studying on my own. Going to office hours. Just wanted you to know.
      Jenna smiled at her phone, relief loosening something tight in her chest. Maybe growth really did happen in unseen ways.
      She saw him once in passing near the library. He waved but didn’t stop. She appreciated that. Respect, she realized, wasn’t loud. It showed itself in restraint.
      As Saturday approached, she debated whether to go to the game at all. The stands were loud and unfamiliar, and part of her worried she’d read too much meaning into one apology, one tattoo, one promise. But another part of her—the braver part—knew showing up mattered.

On Saturday morning, she pulled on her coat and scarf and headed toward the stadium. The air was sharp with cold, and the campus buzzed with anticipation. She still didn’t know the rules of football, but she knew this: faith wasn’t proven by avoiding risk. It was shaped by choosing hope anyway.
      Jenna stood in the bleachers, wrapped in her coat, the roar of the crowd rising and falling around her. When Kevin ran onto the field, she felt a quiet pride. Not because he was the quarterback, but because she knew how much pressure he carried and how hard it was to choose differently.
      Each time he scored, the crowd erupted. Jenna shouted too, her voice blending with thousands of others.
      “Touchdown!” Jenna yelled. 
      At the end of the game, Kevin found her near the rail. He kissed her in front of the coach, the stadium lights blazing overhead, and for once she didn’t worry about who was watching.
      As she walked home through the cold night, Jenna smiled to herself. She still didn’t know much about football. But she finally knew exactly what it meant to score a touchdown. It was a beautiful game. 

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters