Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.
Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.
Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?
She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.”
Strange, Sarah had been brought up in the Church but hadn’t paid much attention to this story ever before – except perhaps as a proof that God could work miracles if He chose. That He could even raise the dead.
“Jesus asked Martha, Believest thou this?” the radio minister stated. “Believest thou that Jesus is the resurrection and the life? And I ask you, my friend: Do you believe? Believest thou? Not that Jesus will raise your dead son, your dead wife, your dead father back to this life. No, my friend, believest thou in Him? Believest thou?”
In Him? Of course Sarah believed that He was real; that He was God! Who didn’t believe that? But how did that have anything to do with real life, with the bitter tang of daily living with Charlie?
Didn’t the story have more to do with why Jesus had waited to come to Lazarus’ aid? Martha made a good point: If thou hadst been here, my brother would not have died.
And Jesus had not denied it. He could have come… if He wanted to. He could have given her a happily-ever-after… if He’d wanted to.
“And Martha believes,” the radio preacher continued. “She believes that He is the Resurrection and the Life. That the one who believes in Him will not perish but have life forevermore. She believes in Him. That He is the Christ – the Coming One – who will weep with her – who will wipe all the tears from her eyes.”
The clock ticked. Wipe all the tears from her eyes… How good that sounded. Sarah rocked slowly, intent on the voice emerging from the radio’s speaker.
“There is a larger story here, friends,” the minister stated. “A bigger story than the death of one of Jesus’ friends. Jesus doesn’t take His friend’s death lightly; later, we read that He wept. Yet, Jesus knows that there is a bigger story – a great life – beyond the grave. And that sometimes, deep sorrows are permitted by a loving Friend so that the most beautiful story – that of resurrection – can be told.”
He paused. “Do you have sorrow, friend? Is there a prayer Jesus seems to have not answered with a yes? Do you weep?”
Sarah nodded, feeling the tears bubble up again, spilling down her cheeks.
“Run like Martha, then. Run to the Savior of the world. Fall at His feet, and reveal to Him your broken heart. He is the Resurrection and the Life. Believe in Him as the One who has taken all your sins, all your griefs upon Himself… and who will exchange them for the crown of life, which He has purchased for you.”
Slowly, the notion began to grow within Sarah. Perhaps – perhaps – her current life with Charlie was just a small part of the bigger story – perhaps if this God was good – that if He permitted destruction and bitter disappointment as Sarah’d known in her own life, as Martha had experienced in Lazarus’ death – it was only so that He might have the glory of Resurrecting Life – and that she might, in some strange and unfathomable way, share in that life. A life beyond the grave.
“I believe,” she whispered into the quiet kitchen. “You and I both know, dear God, that I’m a sinner. And there’s no help for me in this life or the next except through You. I… trust You. I believe, like Martha, that You are the Resurrection and the Life. I put my faith in You.”
And Sarah knew that, though He’d tarried, Jesus the Christ had come to Chetham, Rhode Island, that day and given new life.
“No matter what happens with Charlie, God,” she said tentatively – and anything could happen, after all. “I’m putting my bets on You. You’ve got me, no matter what comes.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The rain gave way to an opulent early May sunrise. Waking before Geoff, Emmeline took an enjoyable amble around her gardens before strolling up the pathway to her front door. The sunshine poured over the porch railings, making the wood shine even whiter. Geoff must have given it a fresh coat of paint this week.
She climbed the steps slowly, taking her time, enjoying the feeling of being home for good again. But she wasn’t sorry for the time spent with the Picolettis, either. So much good had come out of that. For Sarah and Grace, yes, but also for Emmeline herself.
Winter has passed. There would not be another frost… not until next year, at least. Letting the washed spring air fill her lungs, Emmeline recognized that the time had come.
An hour later, she hooked the last basket onto the porch beam. The plants had not flowered yet – she would have to wait for summer for that – but Emmeline knew that they would. In His time.
Like His promises. Though she didn’t carry a child in her arms, though her womb could never bear again, God would not fail her. He would give good to her, His child.
Lightly, she ran a finger through a ruffle of green leaves. The spicy fragrance, unique to geraniums, wafted on the breeze, and the old hymn rose in Emmeline’s mind: The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.
“He never knew what hit him, ma’am.” Grace entered the kitchen, skirt full of eggs, just in time to hear the man say it to Mama.
Mama’s floury hands hung limp by her side. She must have been kneading the lump of dough that sat lonely on the wide table when this visitor arrived with evidently disturbing news. Near the counter, Cliff stood motionless, a soda cracker half-way to his mouth.
Grace stepped over to Cliff as she peered at the man. It was Mick Nelson, one of the town’s volunteer firemen. A nice enough man. He used to give Grace and Cliff pennies if they’d carry his love notes to their sister Lou. Now, his fingers twiddled with his cap nervously, and he wouldn’t meet Mama’s eyes.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Grace heard herself asking, as if from far away.
Mick glanced up at Mama, who nodded. “Your papa… He was hit by a truck last night on his way home from…” The man trailed off, obviously feeling awkward.
The blood rushed through her ears, yet Grace felt curiously detached, as if hearing about someone she barely knew. “Is he going to be alright?”
Mick paused. Grace licked her lips.
“Your father’s dead, Grace.”
She stared blankly at Mick. Papa was dead. Yet, somehow, that knowledge only carved more emptiness into her heart.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Papa will be buried tomorrow. The numb thought paraded through Grace’s mind as she passed by the cemetery. The loud lilt of the wren accentuated the loneliness of the place, and she hurried on her way, the scarf tied over her hair blowing a little in the wind.
The stone steps of the church rose before her, and she wondered again why she felt drawn to come, when she would be here tomorrow for Papa’s mass. Yet Grace had sensed the constraint tugging at her all day. At last, after supper, she’d given in.
She sat in one of the back rows. Other parishioners had come as well, praying for sick or sinning loved ones or for their heart’s desire, no doubt. A man wept in the aisle before the altar; Grace saw Father Frederick move to speak with him.
Why am I here? The question darted into her mind again, and she turned her eyes to the statue of the crucified Christ, that image that had always repelled her with its aloofness.
I’m afraid. There, she had admitted it. But afraid of what? She met the Lord Christ’s stony, dolorous gaze, seeking, begging. Paulie talks as if You are the answer to all of my problems. But then in the same breath, he tells me that You placed me here!
“That you would seek Him and find Him, even though He’s never far from you…”
The tears sprang up as she remembered Paulie’s words: “He is a good God, Grace!”
How could she believe in this good God, how could sh
e trust Him, when Papa – the man upon whom she should have been able to rely – had failed her? When she had to fight for herself against the whims of her earthly father, how could she begin to trust this Man’s Father? This Heavenly Father who had given her so much suffering in life?
“He suffered for me. For you.”
“You ask too much,” she whispered aloud to the statue. Dashing away the moisture on her cheeks, Grace rose to her feet and slipped from the sanctuary.
But her feet took her home the long way, past First Baptist. It looked dark and empty, unlike the church she’d just left. It figured. These people had no worries, nothing for which to beseech God on their knees.
So intent on her acidic thoughts, Grace almost bumped into a waist-high statue near First Baptist’s steps. The setting sun gleamed on the three-or-four-foot-high white stone, and she squinted to see it clearly.
It was a portrayal of the Good Shepherd, with a lamb clasped in one arm, his staff gripped in his hand. A full-grown sheep peeked from behind him, closely at his heels. There was writing on the statue’s base. Grace leaned close to read it in the fading light.
“Take My yoke upon you, and I will give you rest.”
Her thoughts returned to the statue in her own church: the suffering Christ.
Bleeding, dying on a tree. For me.
Like the slow dawning of a vernal morning, Grace connected the dots Paulie had pointed out. He took our sin… He identified with our suffering.
Grace looked from the words to the Shepherd and back to the words again. He understands because He underwent the same things that I have.
She stared at the gentle Shepherd. But even worse. For me. And yet He has rest…
Was it really so simple? Her shoulders had felt heavily burdened for so long. So very long. Would the Shepherd – that same Man dying on the cross back at her own church – give her His rest?
Is it really so easy?
And yet… so very hard, too. For in this moment, Grace realized that this Jesus was not just part of a phrase in her catechism. He was a real Person; more real than any other person. Though she could not see Him, Grace knew He was present; she heard His knocking at the door of her heart. And she knew that He would demand her loyalty, that there would be no going back to her own way of struggling free.
Was it safe?
Grace knew in a moment that it was not.
But she knew that she would say yes, anyway.
Because she believed that Paulie was right: Despite all the difficulties, all the trouble, all the heartache she had endured, He was a good God. One who had suffered as she had.
And whose plan for her was good.
Paying no mind to anyone who might pass by her, Grace knelt there on the rough pavement.
And she entrusted herself to the Everlasting Arms.
EPILOGUE
Worn from the events of the past few days, yet knowing a deep sense of peace, Sarah took Emmeline aside at the funeral reception. Good thing Sarah’s sister Mary had volunteered to arrange everything; Sarah wasn’t sure she would have had the energy. As it was, Mary certainly had provided a good spread of food.
Sarah led Emmeline over to two chairs in the corner of the community hall. “I got something I need to tell you,” she began, speaking quickly since so many relatives would want to grieve with her today.
Emmeline nodded, that sweet smile gracing her lips. “Alright.”
Sarah paused but didn’t falter. I know it’s a fitting sacrifice; my thank-offering… “I want to know if you would take David. As your own, I mean.” Her eyes glanced down at the baby cradled in her arms, then back up at her friend.
She’d stunned Emmeline, poor thing. “What?” the younger woman stammered.
“Will you? Take David as your own?”
“You mean, adopt him?” Emmeline shook her head. “Sarah, you can’t…”
“Yeah, I can. I… want to,” Sarah added quietly, knowing a deep pain coupled with a more triumphant joy.
Emmeline began to weep.
Across the room, Sam Giorgi sipped his black coffee and tried to pay attention to the conversation of one of the Picoletti relatives. But he had to admit it: His eyes kept roving through this crowded hall that smelled of salami and meatballs and lots and lots of cheese. Ah. There she was.
She sat, talking to Emmeline, cradling her newest baby. Despite the years, regardless of the gray that streaked her hair, Sarah still held the power to captivate Sam. Utterly captivate him.
He had dropped her once, to his shame and bitter regret. And she had spurned him by marrying another man.
But Charlie Picoletti was dead now, God rest his soul.
And Sam Giorgi wasn’t a man to give up easily. Not this time around.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Grace looked up from her uneaten sandwich. Paulie stood quietly before her, hat in his hands.
She opened her mouth to apologize for her harsh words toward him, but he smiled, his dark eyes warm and – she believed – full of forgiveness. “You’re wearing the earrings,” he commented, and there was pleasure in his voice.
“Yes,” she said, glad he’d noticed. She’d taken them out of the desk drawer last night.
“They’re beautiful on you, Grace,” he said, and, because she knew he really meant it, she blushed.
“Thanks,” she said again.
Paulie sat down next to her, and they talked long and deeply. And Grace knew that it was perhaps just the first in many similar conversations she would have with Paulie.
After a time, her thoughts drifted back to the geranium that still sat on her bedroom windowsill, nearly ready to bloom scarlet. She remembered how it had appeared stubby and lifeless during the wintertime, without any buds, its stems cut back. As good as dead, it seemed.
Yet the springtime had come and made it new. God had given it new life, as He had her. And as He was doing in her friendship with Paulie, once almost dead.
She thought of the Good Shepherd with His sheep. Of the Man hanging upon the cross. And the understanding bubbled up in her soul: He makes all things new.
All Our Empty Places – the sequel to The Fragrance of Geraniums – releases September 29, 2015. It’s available for pre-order HERE.
Historical Note
For those of you familiar with Rhode Island, you’ll know that the town of Chetham has no place in its landscape. Instead, Chetham is based on various 1930s-era Rhode Island towns and finds its location north of the state capitol, Providence.
The Great Depression stretched from 1929 through the mid-thirties. (Some place its end only at the beginning of World War II.) It devastated the United States’ – and the world’s – economy. Social programs established by Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s government, as well as aid given by churches and other organizations, did help to decrease the misery, but the Depression inflicted serious wounds across the nation. Rhode Islanders suffered badly.
In the 1930s, being Italian in Rhode Island was nearly synonymous with being Roman Catholic. (In other words, the Giorgis’ identification with Protestantism is unusual, though not unknown.) My own family’s heritage lies in Roman Catholicism, though my relationship with Christ finds its expression of worship in the Protestant church. My great-grandmother’s beliefs (as related by her children) serve as the basis for Sarah’s half-Protestant, half-Catholic faith that eventually finds its root in Christ Jesus, the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world.
Thanks for Reading!
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t [email protected].
Thank you for reading!
Until we meet again,
Grace and peace,
Alicia G. Ruggieri
2 Corinthians 4:7
About the Author
Alicia G. Ruggieri writes Christ-centered fiction that proclaims redemption. She obtained her B.A. in Communications and History from Rhode Island College and lives with her husband and their emotionally-disturbed pug on the New England coast. Receive her latest news and book release dates through her e-mail newsletter.
The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) Page 27