Echoes of Faith: The Healing Hands of Rosa Mae| Short Fiction

The Healing Hands of Rosa Mae

When a panicked knock pulls retired midwife Rosa Mae Sutton back into service, she steps into more than a childbirth—she walks into a broken family's silence. In the hush that follows new life, God’s grace speaks louder than shame ever could. —scroll down to begin.

Rosa Mae Sutton had hands that once caught near every baby born in Calvary County—brown, calloused hands with fingers steady as prayer. These days, they mostly stayed busy in her garden or folded in her lap during Sunday service at Mount Olive Missionary Baptist, third pew from the back. Folks called her "retired," but Rosa Mae never saw it that way. You don’t retire from being a servant. You just get quieter at it.

Since her husband Calvert passed last spring, the house had been too quiet. Some mornings she still reached across the bed before remembering he wasn’t there. But grief, like rain, came and went in its own season—and Rosa Mae had learned to let the Lord carry what she couldn’t.

So when whispers about young Lena Johnson started circling—sixteen, belly round, no ring, and no name for the father—Rosa Mae didn’t join the chatter. She passed the offering plate on Sunday and the potato salad on Wednesday—and kept her mouth shut in between. Folks said it was “a family matter.” Rosa Mae knew better than to poke at sealed-up wounds. Truth came when it was ready.

The rain started around suppertime, soft and steady on the tin roof. Rosa Mae stood at her stove, turning catfish fillets, the smell of cornmeal and cayenne in the air. The Mississippi Mass Choir hummed low from the radio.

She had just set the cornbread in the oven when she heard the knock—sharp and hurried. She paused, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and made her way to the front door.

She opened the door to Evelyn Johnson standing on the porch, soaked near through. Her white blouse clung to her shoulders, hair frizzed at the edges, and her breath came fast like she’d run the whole way. Rainwater dripped from her elbows.

"Evenin’, Evelyn,” Rosa Mae said.

Evelyn hesitated, chest rising and falling. “It’s Lena,” she said. “The baby’s comin’. Early.”

"How far apart are the pains?"

"I don’t know. She’s screamin’ and cryin’. Doctor Mays is in Jackson. We tried callin’ twice. Chester’s out of town, but on the way back."

"And the ambulance?"

"Too far. Weather’s slowed everything."

Rosa Mae nodded. "Come in out the rain. I’ll get my bag."

Evelyn hesitated, then stepped inside, shoulders slumping. Rosa Mae reached for her old satchel, folded a towel, and grabbed the little jar of anointing oil beside the salt.

"Lord," she murmured, "guide my hands like You always do."

The rain hadn’t let up by the time they pulled into the Johnsons’ gravel drive. Rosa Mae climbed the front steps with careful steps, her bag in one hand, her Bible tucked inside. The porch light flickered above them, casting soft halos in the mist.

Inside, the house was filled with the sharp, high-pitched sounds of a girl in pain.

"Mama!" Lena’s voice came from the back room, raw and afraid.

Evelyn winced. "She’s been like that for near an hour. I tried to help, but she don’t want me near her."

Rosa Mae gave her a long, knowing look. "That baby’s comin’ whether y’all are ready or not."

She stepped into the bedroom where Lena lay twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, face red, curls stuck to her forehead. The girl’s eyes met Rosa Mae’s—and panic softened.

"Miss Rosa Mae..."

"I’m here, baby,” she said, setting her bag down. “Ain’t no need to be afraid now."

Lena groaned as a contraction stole her breath.

Evelyn lingered in the doorway.

"You gonna help or hover?" Rosa Mae said.

Evelyn blinked, then stepped forward, grabbing a towel.

"Good," Rosa Mae said. "Let’s bring this child into the world."

Thirty minutes later, Lena cried out, bore down, and with Rosa Mae’s steady hands guiding the way, a baby boy entered the world—red-faced and squalling, lungs full of life.

Rosa Mae wrapped him in a towel and handed him to Lena, who sobbed as she cradled him against her chest.

Evelyn stood frozen, her breath hitching, tears caught behind her eyes. Her whole body trembled—but she didn’t move.

The baby had quieted now, swaddled and sleeping in Lena’s arms, his breath soft as rain against her chest. The storm outside had eased to a drizzle, tapping the windows like a lullaby. The room, once filled with cries and chaos, settled into a hush—the kind that followed holy things.

Evelyn stood at the edge of the bed, hands trembling, eyes fixed on her grandson like she didn’t know whether to reach or retreat.

Rosa Mae packed away her instruments. Without turning, she said softly, “I reckon the paperwork’s already filled out.”

Lena’s head snapped up. “What?”

Evelyn stiffened.

Rosa Mae turned to face them. “For the adoption.”

Silence.

“We were tryin’ to do what’s best,” Evelyn said, her voice tight.

Lena’s eyes welled. “You never asked what I wanted.”

Rosa Mae folded her hands. “I ain’t here to tell y’all what to do. But I’ll say this—every baby I ever caught came into this world carryin’ purpose, planned or not.”

She looked at Lena. “You love him?”

Lena glanced at her newborn son and grinned. “With everything I got.”

“Then the Lord’s already given you what you need to start.”

Evelyn’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“You think I’m hard,” she said suddenly. “But I was you.”

Lena frowned. “What do you mean?”

Evelyn sat down. “I was sixteen. Pregnant.  Your grandmother made me marry a man I barely knew. I lost that baby.”

She looked at her daughter. “I wasn’t mad at you. I was scared. Scared you'd go through what I did.”

“You could’ve told me,” Lena whispered.

“I’m tellin’ you now.”

Rosa Mae stepped forward, placed a hand on both their shoulders.

“The enemy loves secrets. But the Lord? He works in the light.”

She glanced at the baby. “He ain’t just a burden. He’s a blessing. Proof that even after we mess up, God still sends new life.”

Evelyn reached for the baby. Lena let her. Evelyn kissed his forehead and closed her eyes.

Rosa Mae picked up her bag.

“You leavin’?” Lena asked.

“Mmhmm,” she said with a smile. “Y’all don’t need me now.”

At the door, she paused.

“Don’t let fear raise that child. Let love do it. Let the Lord do it.”

She stepped into the clearing night, stars breaking through the clouds. Behind her, the soft sounds of a family being made echoed like an old spiritual hymn.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

When secrets stayed hidden, grace brought them to light.

Echoes of Scripture: Five Loaves, Two Fish and a Lesson of Faith| Matthew 14:13-21 (KJV)

Five Loaves, Two Fishes

The hillside was alive with hunger and hope. I was only a boy with a small basket, yet what I saw that day has never left me. My name is Eli, and this is what I witnessed.

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The morning sun spilled over our village when my mother placed the basket in my hands. Five barley loaves, two small fish, wrapped in cloth still warm from the hearth. “Take this, Eli,” she said softly. “You’ll need strength for the day. Stay close to me.” Her voice carried both caution and eagerness, for word had spread quickly: the Teacher was near. They said He healed the sick, that demons fled at His command, that His words carried the weight of heaven.

We joined the stream of people walking the dusty road, mothers with children slung across their hips, men helping the frail along, others carrying mats for the sick. The air buzzed with expectancy. Some whispered Messiah. Others muttered doubt. But all of us walked. My mother’s hand was firm on my shoulder as the crowd thickened, urging me forward with her.

By the time we reached the hillside, the sea of people seemed endless. We found a place to sit, the basket heavy in my lap. Then I heard Him. Jesus. His voice rose over the hum of the crowd, steady and sure, yet gentle as if meant for each of us alone. He spoke of God’s kingdom — not distant, not unreachable, but near, breaking in among us. The sick leaned forward, children grew quiet, even the wind seemed to still. My mother’s eyes shone as though she had been waiting her whole life for words like these.

_

Hours slipped by, yet no one moved. His words filled us in ways food could not. But as the sun climbed, hunger began to gnaw at us. A baby cried, then another. Men shifted uneasily. Even my mother grew pale, and I felt the heaviness of my basket. Five loaves. Two fish. Enough for the two of us, but what was that against a multitude? I pressed it closer to me, ashamed for even thinking of it.

The disciples moved through the crowd, their voices low, concern etched across their faces. I caught fragments. “Send them away.” “There is no food.” “Where shall we buy bread?” But Jesus only shook His head. “You give them something to eat.”

It seemed impossible.

I looked at my mother. She had noticed my grip on the basket. Her brow furrowed, but then her face softened. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “it is not as little as you think.” I did not understand her, but her words stayed with me.

That was when Andrew’s eyes found me. His gaze dropped to the basket in my lap. “What’s that you’ve got, lad?” My throat went dry. “Five loaves. Two fish. My mother packed them.”

He smiled kindly, then turned to Jesus. “Here is a boy with five barley loaves and two fish… but what are they among so many?”

Heat rushed into my face. I wanted to hide, to pull my mother away into the press of the crowd. Why bring me forward? Why offer so little when the need was so great?

But then Jesus looked at me.

His eyes met mine — not hurried, not dismissive, but steady, searching, as if He saw more than the bread, more than the fish, more than me even. There was no ridicule there, no impatience. Only love, and something deeper still: invitation. My chest tightened. Somehow, I knew what I must do.

My mother gave me the slightest nod, and I placed the basket into His hands. My fingers trembled as He took it.

_

He lifted His eyes to heaven, gave thanks, and began to break the bread. Piece after piece, again and again. At first, I thought the food would vanish quickly, crumbs scattered in the wind. But it didn’t. With every break, there was more. The loaves did not shrink. The fish did not lessen. His hands moved with calm certainty, as though this had always been the plan.

The disciples came forward with empty baskets, and Jesus filled them. They carried the food into the crowd. Families tore off hunks of bread, eyes wide in disbelief. Children ate until their bellies were round. The frail grew strong again. Laughter rose across the hillside, mingling with the smell of bread and fish filling the air.

I watched, unable to move, the wonder swelling inside me. My mother pressed her hand to her mouth, tears streaking her cheeks.

The baskets kept coming, and Jesus kept breaking. There was no end to it. It was as if creation itself flowed from His hands, the same voice that spoke light now speaking bread into being.

By the time everyone had eaten their fill — not a taste, not a morsel, but full, satisfied — Jesus told the disciples to gather the leftovers. They moved through the crowd, filling basket after basket. Twelve in all. Each brimming. More than I had started with.

I sat stunned, staring at what had once been mine. My meager offering, my poor loaves, my two small fish — abundance now.

_

The crowd buzzed with awe, some whispering prophet, others saying surely the Messiah. I heard none of it. I only heard the pounding of my own heart and the quiet echo of His gaze on me.

That night, as my mother and I walked back to the village, she touched my shoulder. “You see, Eli,” she said, her voice trembling with wonder, “nothing is small in His hands.”

Even now, years later, I remember it clearly — the hillside, the hunger, the breaking of bread that never ran out. I was only a boy, my gift so small. Yet when I placed it in His hands, it became more than enough.

And whenever I am tempted to think my life too little, my faith too weak, my offering too meager, I whisper the truth I learned that day:

Give Him what you have. He will make it more than enough.

                                                          🕊️ An Echoes of Scripture Story