River of Fire

by Darrell Case

  Chapter 4

 

  Adam Wakefield knelt down at the front pew, his Bible open before him. He read the passage again: 'Trust in the Lord with all thy heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' He bowed his head, a peaceful assurance washing over him.

  "Lord," he prayed, "you never send your people to a new ministry without going before them to prepare the way. Thank you for the opportunity to minister in Chicago. The congregation of Market Street Church needs your guidance just as much as the brothers and sisters in the hills of Arkansas. Please help me to be worthy of the task. Amen."

  Adam pulled himself to his feet using the back of the pew for support. He was careful where he held the old wooden bench. This pew was coming apart in three places. And it was one of the better ones He hoped to work on it this week, but with several of the congregation down sick, well, maybe later.

  Then the thought struck him. God had shown him he was to leave Apple Valley. To leave the people he loved. Like Abraham, he was to go to a new territory. Somehow, Chicago didn't seem like the promised land. A new shepherd would pastor his people. This building cared for by another. The people he called his own for the last five years were no longer his.

  When his father died Adam was ten, and Pastor Ashmore became like a father to him. He took Adam fishing or gathering wild fruit and nuts. Sometimes he invited Adam just to be around the church while he prepared his Sunday sermon. As Adam grew older, he accompanied Pastor Ashmore on sick calls. Some days they rode, riding their mules' way back in the hills, visiting the unchurched and the unsaved. On summer days, they stopped by wooded streams. Here they would catch and eat their dinner.

  At sixteen, he preached his first sermon from the pulpit behind which he now stood. Adam smiled; it had lasted all of three minutes. When he was done, he had gone back over the points he had made, making it last a couple minutes longer.

  Then he sat down, his head hung in shame. Pastor Ashmore stood up and praised his young protégé. As Pastor Ashmore spoke of Adam's work with the sick and elderly, Adam's cheeks grew redder. Sitting halfway back, his mother beamed.

  One afternoon in July he walked across the valley to Pastor Ashmore's small cabin. Something felt strange. He knew the elderly man was home. His mules were in the corral behind the house. Receiving no answer to his knock, he looked in the window. Pastor Ashmore lay on the kitchen floor. They buried him in the cemetery behind the church he loved.

  At nineteen, Adam became pastor of Lighthouse Church. He remained single in spite of the attempts of all the matchmakers in the congregation. His dark hair and eyes gave him a severe appearance. His tall, muscular frame made many men step aside when they saw him coming. He grew a mustache to soften his appearance but wasn't sure it helped.

  "It makes you look very handsome, son," Edna Wakefield said.

  "But mother, I want to look like a gentle, caring pastor, not an avenging angel," Adam protested.

  Banking the fire in the pot-bellied stove, Adam's eyes swept the one-room church.

  "I'm going to miss you, old friend," he said, his eyes misting.

  Donning his coat and the old leather hat left to him by Pastor Ashmore, he stepped into the cold, December afternoon. Apple Valley spread out before him. The setting sun sent a golden glow over the small village. Behind the bridge spanning the creek, several boys and girls skated.

  Walking through the tall pines, he breathed deeply of the crisp air mingled with wood smoke. The happy voices of the children rang across the valley. The fresh, fallen snow blanketed the tree-covered hills. Next spring the valley would be white again with apple blossoms.

  Adam's mind suddenly darted to the stone-coldness of Chicago. The city seemed to him like a distant planet. He shivered. All his life he had walked these hills. Only through the grace of God could he gave up this beloved country.

  The small village of Rutherford Gap lay below him. The town was named for Blake Rutherford, an early settler from England. Blake had picked the spot to build a mill. It was now operated by his grandson, Cal. Walking down the trail, Adam passed the mill at the edge of town. His heart was light and heavy at the same time.

  The new ministry would be exciting but no matter which way he turned, he saw another member of his flock.

  Ben Hastings was coming out of the telegraph office, getting ready to lock the door as Adam reached for the knob.

  "Sorry, Ben, I didn't know I was so late," Adam said, pulling out his pocket watch.

  "No, you're not late, preacher. Wife's got a birthday party planned for Sarah Ann. She'll be four tomorrow," Ben announced.

  "That's wonderful, Ben," Adam said, slapping the man on the back. "I won't delay you."

  "You sure it's nothing urgent?" Ben asked.

  "It'll keep. I'll be by first thing tomorrow morning. You give Opal my best."

  "I'll sure do that, pastor. See you tomorrow morning," Ben said.

  He strolled down the street whistling.

  "Now there's a happy man," Adam said to himself, remembering the day he had married Ben and Opal. It was his first wedding. He grinned, remembering that he had been more nervous than the bridegroom."

  A pang of sadness touched him. Ben now had a wife, daughter, and newborn son. Suddenly, Adam felt very lonely.

  Returning from the War Between the States, Drew Wakefield moved his family and small son into the cabin he had built overlooking the Gap. One day, a month after Adam's tenth birthday, he went into the woods to fell trees for a new barn. On that unfortunate day, a neighbor passing by found his broken body lying underneath a tree. He spread the alarm, bringing all the men of the valley on the run.

  Drew lived three days; long enough for Pastor Ashmore to make sure of his home in heaven. They buried him on the ridge above the cabin. After Drew's death, many urged Edna Wakefield to move off the farm. She sternly refused. They would never be rich, but with a few cows, pigs, chickens and her garden, they would make do. In the last few years, Edna also took in sewing for the townspeople.

  Stopping at the edge of the clearing, Adam surveyed the homestead with a critical eye. The porch ran the length of the cabin. There was a new roof on the barn. The words seemed to echo in his mind, "I'll take care of her."

  Sensing his eyes on her, Edna laid down her sewing and looked out the window at her son. She saw the peace on his face.

  "He's made his decision," she thought.

  Ever since he received the letter, she had prayed the Lord would guide him. Secretly she wished he would stay in the valley. She had grown comfortable and had persuaded herself her son would always be here in the valley. It would be hard to let him go. If not for The Lord, she would find it impossible. Tears misted her eyes; she wiped them away quickly lest he see them.

  Adam came in carrying an armload of wood. Dumping the chunks in the wood box, he brushed the chips that clung to his coat and closed the lid.

  He leaned over and kissed his mother.

  "You've made your decision," Edna said. It was more a statement than a question.

  "Yes. I feel the Lord would have me pastor the church in Chicago," Adam said, fighting back tears. Edna nodded a lump in her throat. Trying to cover up her disappointment, she held up the dress she was working on.

  "What do you think?" she asked.

  "I think you should go with me to Chicago," Adam said. Taking the dress from his mother, he carefully laid it on the sewing table.

  Hugging her, he looked
down. It seemed to him there was more gray streaking through his mother's black hair than ever. Pushing back, Edna held him at arm's length as she had when he was a child.

  "Now wouldn't that be a sight? Hire a new pastor and get his mother in the bargain!"

  "I'm sure they wouldn't mind. The parsonage is huge."

  "No," said Edna with conviction. "My home is here. But you must go. God has a wonderful ministry for you in Chicago."

  "Pastor Wakefield! Pastor Wakefield!" a child's voice called, interrupted by sobs. The porch floor pounded under running feet. Adam threw open the door. Ten-year-old Violet Higgins, her hair in disarray and clothes soaked in water, collapsed in his arms.

  "What is it, Violet?" Adam asked, his eyes sweeping the clearing, "Is someone chasing you?"

  Violet labored for breath.

  "Yo...your house is... clo...closest."

  "To wh........." Edna started to ask, then gasped. Her face turned white. This afternoon she had watched the children skating on the ice by the bridge.

  "Violet," Edna said, fighting for composure. "Listen to me. Did someone fall through the ice in the creek?"

  "Be...Becky," the little girl sobbed, "un...under the bridge."

  Releasing the child, Adam sprinted across the clearing, vaulting fences, leaping over logs, praying. "Dear Lord, don't let me be too late."

 

 

  RIVER OF FIRE