Yeah.
But it never helped in the end. It never answered the cry that burned in Sarah’s bosom, no matter how tight-lipped she kept her face: Why, God? Why did you place me in such misery? And why, oh, why am I so alone?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“So… I thought you’d like to know.”
Grace met Paulie’s grin the next evening with a smile. He’d arrived at the Kinners’ house before her, but he’d waited outside, despite the freezing temperatures.
Well, he is dressed for the weather, unlike me, thought Grace as she quickened her steps. No thick woolen coat for her; instead, she’d donned a jacket that Ben had left behind, thin as frost and not much cozier. But she was glad about one thing: She’d discovered a way to make her floppy shoes a lot warmer. When Mama had taken home their box of groceries that week, Grace thought of an idea. She’d taken her shoes, traced the outline on the triple-thick cardboard, and cut out the shoe-shapes with Mama’s sewing shears. My, but it had been difficult to cut through that cardboard! Grace’s fingers had ached when she was three-quarters of the way through the job, but she pressed on, certain that her reward would be great.
And the result proved Grace correct. After cutting out the shapes, she’d fitted them into her shoes and snapped the rubber bands on as usual. Her feet fairly sighed in relief at the cushioning and warmth that cardboard provided.
True, she’d have to replace the inserts as the cardboard flattened and became wet from the snow. But Grace figured that she would have a fresh supply of cardboard each week from Mama’s grocery shopping. She only wondered that she’d not thought of this before now!
“What would I want to know?” Grace asked, stopping at the Kinners’ gate. She looked up at Paulie, dimly lit by the few streetlights.
Paulie’s breath came out in frosty puffs. “Cold tonight, isn’t it?” He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his wool coat. Bet that isn’t second-hand, Grace marveled. She always marveled at Paulie’s attire.
“Hey, you must be freezing!” he exclaimed, jolting Grace from her state of icy admiration. “Here,” he said, starting to unbutton his coat.
Grace knew what he would do next, and she rushed through the gate, calling behind her, “What did you say I would want to know?”
She’d made it halfway up the snow-dusted porch steps by the time Paulie caught up with her. He brushed past her to get the door. He’s mad that I didn’t let him give me his coat.
But the face that showed under the porch light held no malice. “I was going to say,” Paulie replied, opening the door and holding it for her, “that you would like to see this.” He stepped into the toasty house behind her and withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket. He offered it to her, and she took it, slowly banging the snow from her shoes on the doormat.
Opening it, she saw a red “A+” circled at the top of the paper. “You got a perfect score on this week’s math test,” she smiled, glancing up at him. “Good work.”
“Thanks, but I know I wouldn’t have gotten it without your help, Grace. You know, you should become a teacher,” Paulie encouraged.
Embarrassed but happy at the praise, Grace shrugged and turned her attention to unbuttoning her coat.
“I’ve got some cocoa on the stove, kids,” Grace heard Mr. Kinner announce from the room beyond the kitchen. Her heart lifted to hear that friendly, masculine voice hold a frank welcome for her.
“Okay, thanks, Mr. K.,” Paulie called back, wiping his feet on the mat. “Where’s Mrs. K. tonight?”
Mr. Kinner appeared in the doorway that joined the kitchen and parlor, spectacles on the end of his nose, book in hand. “Went to a women’s prayer meeting at church,” he explained, “but she should be home before you two leave. She said that you should help yourself to the cookie jar,” he added with a smile.
“Thanks, Mr. K.,” grinned Paulie. “That’s awfully kind of her. We sure will, won’t we, Grace?”
Blushing, Grace shook her head. Would Paulie ever stop teasing her?
“Well,” said Mr. Kinner, “I’ll let you two get to work. I have some lesson plans to do, but I’ll be right in the parlor if you need me.”
Grace shook her head once again as Paulie dashed for the cookie jar, pulled off the lid, and bit right into a thick oatmeal cookie. “Didn’t you eat dinner?” she asked.
“Sure, but that was an hour ago, Grace,” he replied, munching happily away on his third bite.
“Come on,” she urged, putting her little stack of schoolbooks down on the freshly-scrubbed table. “We have work to do, you know.” She frowned at him to prevent herself from giving him a liberal grin instead. “Just because you got one A+ doesn’t mean you should slack.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Paulie obediently answered, placing the cookie jar in the center of the table, “but couldn’t we have some cocoa first?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She still had some supper dishes to wash up, but Sarah remembered that the radio program to which she’d been listening – that Protestant one – came on around eight o’clock. So she turned on the radio to that station while she washed up the rest of the forks and plates.
The program seemed to mix in some preaching – a lot of it full of fire and brimstone – with the singing some nights. When the preaching came on, Sarah felt tingles up her spine when the minister talked about the fate of the wicked. Funny, he never mentioned Purgatory. Sarah figured that he must not be as well-educated as Father Frederick was. But that radio preacher sure could pack a powerful punch with his words when he wanted to!
Tonight, however, he’d quieted his tone down. Sarah let the water fill the sink, added some soap, and plunged her rag into the warm bubbly mixture, listening all the while.
“I want to talk to you tonight, dear people, about the birthday we are about to celebrate. Whose birthday, you ask? The birthday of the Christ Child, whose advent into this world heralded the peace on earth and good will toward men of which the Scripture speaks,” the crackly voice spoke, filling the dim kitchen. Only the soft splash of the dishwater accompanied it.
“And what peace do we see? Certainly not peace in the world. Wars and rumors of wars we hear of almost daily, almost hourly, friends. Hourly! Then, perhaps it is peace in our homes, in our families?”
No, thought Sarah, her mind drifting to the busted-up family which she and Charlie had tried to create. She shook her head as she picked up another chipped plate wiped it clean of grease.
“No, my friends. Almost daily, I receive letters from listeners to this little radio program, detailing the heartbreak wreaked upon your homes by wild youth, by adulterous hearts, by reckless behavior. No, this peace cannot be found in our families. Where, then, is this peace?”
Where? Sarah perked up her ears. She hoped he’d give the answer and not just segue into the musical portion, like he sometimes seemed to do.
“It is found in the manger in Bethlehem, where the little Child lies asleep. It is found in the carpenter’s shop, where the Lad learns at the hand of Joseph. It is found in the temple, where the Youth answers the questions of the religious leaders of His day. It is found at the well in Samaria, where the Teacher asks a woman for a drink. It is found in Gethsemane where the Supplicant begs His Father to let the cup of suffering pass by Him and yet resigns His will to His Father’s. It is found at Golgotha, where the King refuses to call on His army of angels to rescue Him. It is found in the empty tomb, where the Prince of Life shook off the bonds of death… forever!”
The preacher’s words drew Sarah like no words of any religious man had ever done. She felt hungry and thirsty, but she didn’t know for what. It wasn’t a physical hunger, but a spiritual and emotional one. As he’d spoken on and on, her mind pictured that Jesus. Not Jesus as He hung week after week on the wall at church, but as a Man who really lived and died and… rose again!
“This is where peace is found, this peace of which the angels sang,” the preacher continued. “Every man, every woman, eve
ry child can only find true peace in Him!”
Finished with the dishes, Sarah blotted her wet hands on her skirt and went to the stove to set the kettle on to brew her tea. Peace in Him, peace in Him, peace in Him swirled around in her mind. She shook her head, feeling muddled. How could she have peace in the Lord Christ? The minister seemed to be saying that peace from God was the result of an individual choice, a decision.
But that didn’t make sense, did it? After all, Sarah knew the rules of the Church. She’d been baptized into it as an infant, celebrated her First Communion, and received the Holy Spirit during her Confirmation. She and Charlie had married in the Church, of course, and while Sarah had a lot of catching up to do – she’d been terribly careless of late with prayer and Confession – she knew that she remained a good Catholic.
Yet this radio religious man seemed to believe that everyone – Sarah included – could have a relationship with God’s Son…
“Receive Him, then, dear friends,” the radio man continued. “Receive Him not as the innkeepers of Bethlehem, too busy making money to give Him room. Receive Him not as Herod, too greedy for power to welcome the kingly Babe. Receive Him not as the teachers of the Law, too fond of their own ideas to let Him overturn them. Receive Him not as Pontius Pilate, too concerned with his own safety to stand with the Savior. How, then, how shall we receive this King of Peace, you ask?”
How? Sarah’s own heart wondered as she poured her tea.
“Repent, my friends. Turn from your sins and turn your face to Christ. ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,’ the Lord Jesus tells us. Believe that He suffered, that He died for you… for you, my friends. Believe that He lives, yes, lives in Heaven for you, pleading on your behalf before the Father.”
The voice continued, but Sarah stood, not listening. What did he mean? The radio minister couldn’t be preaching for Catholics, too; after all, Sarah already knew all of that and had no peace. Peace for Catholics must come in a different way, she finally settled as she took her seat in the rocking chair. Tonight, the radio choir sang a lovely Christmas hymn. Feet on the floor, Sarah rocked back-and-forth, back-and-forth, letting her mind rest in the crackling music coming from the radio.
Grace tiptoed up the back steps. Oh, Mama, please don’t get mad, she begged silently as she eased the screen door open and slowly turned the wooden door’s brass knob. Maybe it wouldn’t squeak this time, and Grace could creep up the stairs unnoticed, especially if Mama had already gone to bed.
She’d seen the twinkle of lights in the cottage down at the property line. Papa’s probably with Gertrude, she concluded. If he was home, Papa was almost always down at Gertrude’s cottage; which made Mama more irritable than ever.
The door squeaked, of course.
“That you, Grace?” Mama’s question came from the dim kitchen.
Cringing, Grace stepped inside, much as she wished she could stay out in the barn tonight and avoid a big blowout with Mama. “Yeah, Mama,” she answered, pulling the door closed behind her. She saw Mama sitting in her old rocking chair, moving back-and-forth, back-and-forth as she usually did after she’d done the evening chores.
“Make sure that door’s shut tight. It’s cold tonight,” Mama advised without opening her eyes.
“Yes, Mama,” Grace replied, shuffling her shoes a little to remove some of the snow. Mama’s not upset, she realized, in her surprise stealing more than one glance over at her mother. “Sorry I’m late,” she offered hesitantly. “I had to take it slow through the woods because of the snow and ice.”
But Mama still didn’t rebuke her. Keeping her eyes shut, leaning against the rocking chair’s back, she only shook her head slightly, evidently dismissing Grace’s tardiness. “You got homework?” she asked.
“No,” Grace answered, shocked that Mama wasn’t boiling over. Maybe the advancing pregnancy just tired her out too much? “Today’s the start of Christmas vacation.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mama murmured. “I forgot.”
Grace stared at her for a good long moment, but she couldn’t figure out the reason for Mama’s forbearance. Finally, she just turned toward the stairway. It was late, and she was tired. It’d be nice to get a few hours of good sleep before waking up with the chickens.
As she passed Mama, Grace’s ear caught the strains of a song. It was peaceful, clear, and sweet. Odd, because Mama usually turned on a loud comedic show when she wanted to relax. Turned her mind off, she said. Grace paused and listened:
Come, Thou long-expected Jesus,
Born to set Thy people free,
From our fears and sins release us,
Let us find our rest in Thee…
The sound of the choir filled Grace with longing – the wish that Mr. Kinner’s choir could have continued; that her own voice, and not that soprano’s, could sing a high note and receive applause; that she could use music to drown out the drab bitterness of her life…
And yet, hidden beneath all of that, behind all those open doors of desire, Grace sensed a pull, a drawing toward the words of the song itself. She had the uncanny feeling that something – Someone? – looked into her soul… or perhaps that she peered into the windows of Someone Else’s heart.
A mist rose in her eyes, unbidden and incomprehensible. Shifting the schoolbooks tucked into the crook of her arms, Grace tried to shake off this strange, new emotion. It was a more intimate drawing than the affectionate attraction she felt toward Paulie. But a pull toward what? Or toward Whom?
She did not know. “Goodnight, Mama,” she said softly. She turned to the staircase and made her way up the long, dark flight.
The pencil twirled, spun, and fell for the twelfth time in less than five minutes.
Come on, Grace. Concentrate!
She’d spoken the truth to Mama; she had no real homework, except for this literature essay, not due for a few weeks. But Grace had already read the required book, and since she had tossed and turned sleeplessly for well over an hour, she figured that she might as well sit up and accomplish something.
But, despite her best efforts, she found her mind pitching back and forth between two different trains of thought, neither of which had anything to do with her literature essay.
Can I really be considering this? Grace wondered as she pondered afresh Paulie’s – oh, and Mrs. Kinner’s – suggestion that she join them for the Christmas service at First Baptist Church.
She almost laughed out loud in her nervousness. What would Mama say if she knew? What would Father Fredrick say if he ever found out that one of his flock had strayed so far as to be caught sitting in a Protestant church? And only two days before Christmas, too!
Yet, I want to go…
Stiffening at her own boldness, Grace turned to the other thought that seemed to have instigated her sleeplessness: that song – hymn? – that the radio had played. Mama had long since turned off the music and gone to bed; sitting at her desk, all alone in the bedroom she’d once shared with three sisters, Grace had heard the cessation of the crackling sound and Mama’s slow shuffle toward her bedroom.
But the memory of the song remained with Grace. And with it, the desire, the longing toward… what?
Certainly not for the “long-expected Jesus,” sung by the choir. Grace knew this Jesus; He dangled, cold and lifeless at the end of Mama’s rosary. He hung, eternally grief-stricken, behind the altar at church. His aloof stone countenance had peered down at her from Grace’s grandmother’s elaborate gravemarker. Grace worshipped that Jesus, yes, just as Mama and Papa worshipped Him: with fear and gratitude. She knew that He’d carried the sins of the world, and she was part of that world. Grace understood that, somehow, God forgave her and that Jesus’ death on the Cross had something to do with it – some kind of holy swap. But to long for this Jesus?
No, I don’t long for Him.
She half-shuddered, thinking of the morose statue on her grandmother’s grave. Actually, a thrill of relief coursed through
her heart, a terrible gladness that she could recognize that that Jesus had no place in her desires. No connection to her hunger.
What, then? Why did I have that feeling of such yearning with the song? A feeling of intense craving that had come and fled and left her coveting more. Again, Grace shook her head to break the cobwebby thoughts. She pursed her lips and forced herself by sheer willpower to concentrate on her essay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As usual, that Saturday morning, Grace dropped her week’s pay on the kitchen counter. The five shiny dimes jangled lightly as they settled there on the nicked surface. She knew Mama would add the money to whatever funds Papa felt disposed to provide that week.
Lou or Nancy would’ve made a fuss, she realized for the hundredth time. When they lived at home, the twins usually had kept any money they’d earned. They would have squawked fiercely if Mama had asked for their paycheck. But Grace knew the price of her freedom: Ten cents a day – fifty cents a week – bought her every evening at Mr. and Mrs. Kinner’s kitchen table, studying with Paulie.
Every cent is worth it, thought Grace as she opened the bread box and cut herself a narrow slice of Mama’s bread. Opening the cupboard quietly so that Cliff wouldn’t hear, she took down the jar of homemade blackberry jam and spread a thin layer on the slightly-stale slice.
Crossing herself quickly, Grace sank her teeth into the sweet breakfast. Just then, she heard the mattress groan in Mama’s bedroom. I thought Mama was up already. Ever since Grace could remember, Mama had been first to rise, often in the kitchen before the sun had fully risen.
This baby is really hard on her, Grace realized, pity dawning in her heart. Setting her own breakfast down on the counter, she cut another slice of bread and slathered it with a generous glob of jam. Pouring a small cup of coffee for herself and one for Mama as well, she set Mama’s cup and slice at the table just as her mother trundled into the kitchen.
The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) Page 17