Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Finished: Completed, or ended or destroyed (10/23/25)
-
TITLE: Done in the Breaking | Previous Challenge Entry
By Corinne Smelker
10/30/25 -
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES
She rose before dawn Friday, the kitchen light pooling like a halo on the hardwood floor. The menu was ambitious: rosemary-roasted lamb, herbed potatoes, a towering apple crostata. “It has to be finished proper,” she murmured to the empty room, echoing her mother’s old refrain. The lamb needed marinating overnight; the dough, blind-baked to flaky gold. She chopped onions until her eyes watered, kneaded until her knuckles ached. By noon, the counters brimmed with prepped bounty, each dish a small victory. Completed, she thought, wiping flour from her apron. The potluck would be memorable; Pastor Hale had even asked her to lead the blessing.
Saturday blurred into a frenzy. A phone call from her daughter, Sarah, interrupted the glazing: “Mom, we’re running late. Traffic’s a nightmare.” Eleanor paused, knife mid-slice on the carrots. “That’s fine, dear. Just get here safe. I’ve nearly finished everything.” But the words hung heavy. Sarah’s voice cracked, another fight with her husband, the one about money, about dreams deferred. Eleanor offered platitudes, her free hand clutching her Bible. “Pray on it. He’ll provide.” She hung up, the interruption a snag in her tapestry. Back to the stove.
By Sunday morning, the spread was a masterpiece. She loaded the car with foil-wrapped wonders, the scent of sage and cinnamon clinging to her sweater like incense. The fellowship hall buzzed with chatter, folding tables groaning under casseroles and Jell-O salads. Eleanor arranged her dishes with care, stepping back to admire the symmetry. “Looks finished to me,” she said to Mrs. Hargrove, who nodded absently while texting her grandkids.
The blessing came, words tumbling from Eleanor’s lips: grace, provision, the bread of life. Forks clattered as plates filled. Compliments flowed, ”Eleanor, this lamb is divine!” and she beamed, the warmth of completion settling in her chest. But midway through, Sarah slipped in, eyes red-rimmed, alone. No husband, no apologies. She pulled Eleanor aside by the dessert table. “Mom, I... we finished it last night. The marriage. It’s over.”
The crostata slipped from Eleanor’s grasp, shattering on the tile in a spray of crust and caramel. Gasps rippled through the hall. She stared at the wreckage, apples bleeding into the grout. Finished. The word echoed, dual-edged as the knife she’d wielded all weekend. Her careful labors, so triumphantly whole, now mirrored the fracture in her daughter’s voice; the end of vows, the destruction of a home built brick by weary brick.
Kneeling amid the shards, Eleanor gathered what she could, fingers sticky with ruin. Pastor Hale knelt beside her, murmuring about broken vessels mended by unseen hands. She nodded, but inside, the creed cracked. All her finishing, her relentless push to complete the table, the meal, the day, and for what? A feast untouched by the ache that shadowed them all.
Later, driving home with empty carriers rattling in the trunk, Eleanor gripped the wheel. The potluck was done, the weekend sealed. But as dusk bruised the sky, she wondered if true finishing lay not in the doing, but in the sitting still, letting the unfinished linger, like a prayer half-spoken in the quiet.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.
These last lines of your story really spoke to me:
But as dusk bruised the sky, she wondered if true finishing lay not in the doing, but in the sitting still, letting the unfinished linger, like a prayer half-spoken in the quiet.
Nicely done.