by Angela Hunt
On Wednesday afternoon, Winslow took a half-dozen boxes of Ritz crackers to the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, owned and operated by Mike and Dana Klackenbush. While they had no children of their own, Mike and Dana seemed to love caring for others’. Georgie Graham was a permanent student at the Kid Kare Center, as were assorted children dropped off by visiting parents who would rather let their children play in a supervised environment than run wild along the docks and in the art gallery.
On Thursday morning Winslow visited the Grahams. For two hours he sat and listened as Babette explained how difficult it was to make a living in the field of creative arts. To show how deeply he was moved by her plight, Winslow pulled out his checkbook and emptied his account to purchase a painting of puffins playing beside the lighthouse at Puffin Cove.
He didn’t try to bargain, and he didn’t complain about the high price. He didn’t even whimper when Georgie, advancing like a demon on two wheels, ran over his foot with his bicycle.
Edith might complain about his extravagance, he realized as he carried the painting home, but if they found themselves unemployed and back on the mainland in a couple of months, at least they’d have a nice memento of Heavenly Daze.
On Thursday afternoon he visited Vernie Bidderman at the mercantile and used his credit card to buy twenty pounds of saltwater taffy—which he personally despised— and stooped to pet the monstrous MaGoo, who had always treated him with personal disdain.
By Friday morning, there remained only one residence he hadn’t visited, and Winslow thought the odds of winning Salt Gribbon’s loyalty were about as long as a Lenten sermon. He took a bag of saltwater taffy, though, and when the old curmudgeon wouldn’t come down from the top of the lighthouse to greet his visitor, Winslow left it on Salt’s doorstep with a note that said, “Hope to see you in church Sunday.”
Then Winslow walked home, certain that he had done all that was humanly possible to reach out and touch the families of his church. He had begun to work on himself, and he had done his part to work on them.
Now he would enter the next phase of his program: He would work on his sermons.
On Saturday evening, while the dancing fire lit the living room with a cozy golden light, Edith sat on the sofa and idly patted the empty cushion beside her. She and Winslow used to cuddle on this couch on chilly autumn nights like this one, but tonight Winslow sat in the wing chair before the television. She didn’t think he had heard her come into the room, so intent was he upon some show on the history channel.
But it was time for a real heart-to-heart. The entire town was buzzing about his new toupee, and more than one person had asked her if he was visiting every house on the island just to show it off.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she had sputtered to Dana Klackenbush, whom Winslow had visited on Wednesday. “He’s not a vain man.”
He wasn’t vain, but he had been thrown off-balance, and she couldn’t blame him. With a new preacher coming to town—a younger and more handsome minister, by all accounts—she could understand why Winslow was rattled. But he had nothing to fear. If all these people cared about was youth and good looks, well, they were welcome to Reverend Rex Hartwell, whoever he was. They might not realize what a treasure they had in Winslow Wickam, but Edith knew, and it was her job to keep him happy and confident.
“Winslow,” she began, making an effort to keep her voice light and soothing, “I’m feeling a little lonely over here by myself. Want to sit with me and watch the fire?”
Winslow cut her a quick glance. “Um, nothing much. It’s just a special on the Holy Land.”
Edith felt one corner of her mouth twist. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said, but at least his brain had registered the sound of her voice.
“Honey,” she crooned, leaning toward him. “That show looks as dry as dust. Turn it off. Come stretch out on the couch—I’ll rub your back if you want me to.”
“Visuals,” Winslow said, with a significant lifting of his brows. “That’s it. This show is interesting because it has visuals! I have visuals, a whole box of ’em.”
Before Edith could utter another word, Winslow sprang from his chair and moved toward the bookshelf along the wall. “Where’d we put those slides we bought in the Holy Land?” he asked, tossing the question over his shoulder as he knelt to examine the bottom shelves. “Palestine, Masada, Jerusalem—you know the ones I mean.”
Edith sighed. “They’re on that shelf, dear. Right next to the box of family shots.”
“And the projector—oh, here it is. A little dusty, but it’ll work. I can have Floyd Lansdown operate it—no, that’ll distract. I’ll use the clicker myself, and preach from . . . the center of the aisle.”
He turned toward her, his face shining as though someone had just lit a flame inside him. “That’ll be different! Floyd won’t be able to sleep through a multimedia slide sermon with me breathing right down his neck!”
Edith drew a breath, about to agree, but then Winslow turned and crouched on all fours, tossing books and shoving boxes aside as he rummaged through years of family memories. As he picked up a shoebox filled with priceless Christmas memories, Edith leaped from the couch and dove across the floor, catching it just as Winslow sent it scooting over the polished hardwood.
“Honey,” she whimpered, drawing the box to the safety of her bosom, “be a little careful with the other things. They’re irreplaceable.”
Winslow seemed not to hear. He had turned again and was sitting cross-legged beside the bookshelves, a small yellow box in his hand. She recognized it immediately— rather than take pictures in the Holy Land, he had insisted on purchasing a box of professional slides that depicted all the major tourist sites and a few that lay beyond the reach of the ordinary tour group.
“Eureka!” he breathed, holding the box to eye level. “I have found it! Now, where’s that little thingamajig?”
Wordlessly, Edith fished the plastic viewer out of her box, then planted it on his palm.
“Thanks, hon,” he said, without a backward glance. He struggled to pull himself up, then returned to his wing chair, slide box and viewer in hand. “This is gonna be great. I can accent the text on Habakkuk’s second complaint with pictures of ancient Jerusalem and the desert while I talk about the Chaldeans . . .”
While the television droned in the background, Winslow began pulling slides from the yellow box, popping them into the handheld viewer, and peering at them as intently as any jeweler ever studied a diamond under his loupe. Images that met with his approval were tossed into the center ring of the projector; others were returned to the yellow box.
Resigned to Winslow’s burst of enthusiasm, Edith settled back onto the couch and lifted the lid of the family shoebox. Scattered photographs littered the bottom—shots taken on family vacations in Vermont, Florida, and at the Grand Canyon—and several plastic bags bulged with slides.
She smiled as she opened one of them. They hadn’t taken slides in years; but right after Winslow bought the projector, that was all he’d let her take. “Photographs fade over time,” he’d said, “but a slide is smaller and can be stored in a dark place. With the new technology, honey, we can revisit our memories every night.”
They’d used the projector a total of five times, so eventually Winslow had allowed her to buy print film again. But at least a year of their lives lay stacked like cards in this bag.
She pulled out a handful of slides and picked up the first one, then held it toward the lamp and squinted at the image. The shot showed Francis standing before a Christmas tree in his long pajamas . . . cute red jammies with feet. As the image focused in her memory, she could see Francis again, a four-year-old boy with a red fire truck, as excited as any child at Christmas. The year was 1980, Ronald Reagan had just been elected president, and she and Winslow were pastoring their first church, the congregation in North Carolina . . .
She dropped that slide into her lap and pulled out the next one. An image wavered in the firelight—Winslow with his
new set of Old Testament commentaries. She’d had to grocery shop with double coupons for six months to save enough to buy the set, but the scrimping had been worth it when Win smiled.
“Honey,” she said, shifting her gaze to the wing chair, “do you still have the set of Easton Bible Commentaries?”
“Of course,” he answered, slipping another slide into the viewer, “great stuff on Habakkuk.”
Edith rolled her eyes and lifted another slide to the light. For a moment her eyes widened, then she grinned. By clipping a small moment out of time, the slide had inadvertently preserved a part of her husband she hadn’t seen in a long time . . .
The slide was a picture of her, taken in a moment when a camera-toting husband was the least thing she had expected to encounter. The occasion was that same Christmas morning in ’80, and she’d been in the kitchen, still wearing her short red nightie and a Santa Claus cap. She’d been standing at the stove, a pancake turner in hand, when Winslow and Francis crept around the corner and yelled, “Boo!” As Edith sprang back from the counter, her eyes and mouth opening wide, Winslow had snapped the picture.
The memory was like a film rolling in her mind, and Edith closed her eyes to savor the replay. Winslow had been fun in those days, much more spontaneous and relaxed. That first church was as small as the Heavenly Daze congregation, and Winslow had been pleased to consider himself a shepherd of a flock. His trust in God had been unshakable, and as they lay in bed at night he had often told Edith that the size of the task didn’t matter nearly as much as faithfulness to one’s calling. “I may be only a little tree in God’s forest,” he had whispered in her ear, “but I’m going to be the best little tree I can be.”
Edith opened her eyes to the steady sound of Winslow’s slides clacking against the projector’s plastic ring. Girding herself with resolve, she stood and walked to his chair.
“I found something that might interest you,” she said, handing him the slide in her hand. “Take a look at this.”
“Something good?” He popped the slide into the viewer, then he blinked, his features twisted in an expression of annoyance. “I thought you were giving me the Holy Land.”
Edith stepped away. “I was giving you a memory,” she whispered, an odd twinge of disappointment striking at her heart. “I was giving you me. ”
Her words hung in the silence for a moment, and when he looked at her again, she knew she’d made her point.
“Honey,” he said, twisting in his chair to see her better, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just that I’m trying to do some new things, and I don’t have much time to waste. If I’m going to get Habakkuk’s second complaint ready by tomorrow morning, I don’t have time to go tripping down memory lane.”
Edith bit her lower lip, thinking thoughts she dared not voice aloud. So . . . time spent with her would be wasted?
She drew a deep breath and moved back a step further. If she were a newlywed, such a remark would have cut deeply, but she was older now, and wise enough to know that Winslow didn’t exactly mean what he said. He loved her, and he loved spending time with her.
But sometimes the man didn’t have a lick of sense. He may have graduated in the top ten percent of his class, but when it came to handling people, there were times when Winslow Wickam had a lot to learn . . .
But it wasn’t her place to teach him such things. Some lessons a man had to learn in God’s classroom.
“Go on with your work, then,” she said lightly, moving back toward the couch. “I’ll just clean up these things, then I’m going to bed. By all means, take all the time you need for Habakkuk’s second complaint.”
And just ignore the fact that your wife has a few complaints of her own.
Chapter Eighteen
Gavriel brushed a cobweb out of his hair as he descended the steps, then turned the corner of the church’s basement fellowship hall. The other angels were already gathered around the table, their heads bowed in prayer over a large round pizza.
“Amen,” Micah said, and every head lifted. In unison, the angels reached for slices of the pizza, then gingerly lifted them toward gaping mouths.
“Just once,” Elezar said, scraping a clump of cheese from the cardboard box, “I would like to enjoy a pizza right out of the oven. It’s always cold by the time it comes over on the ferry.”
“You’ll have to bake it yourself,” Caleb interrupted, grinning. “And I don’t think I want to sample anything you attempt to bake.”
“Abner could bake it.” This observation came from Zuriel, who was gingerly plucking slices of pepperoni from his pizza pie. “After all, he’s mastered cakes and pies and doughnuts.”
“I don’t think the Wester sisters would appreciate me bringing the scents of sausage and tomato sauce into the bakery,” Abner answered, grinning. “Just yesterday Birdie fussed at me for leaving my sweat socks by the door. She said the customers would find them odorous and unappetizing.”
The group chuckled, then fell silent as Gavriel’s shadow loomed across the table. He took advantage of the quiet. “I’m glad you’re all here,” he said, letting his gaze fall upon the pizza in curiosity. Because he materialized so rarely, he did not often eat . . . and he had to admit that the circular pastry in the center of the table did emit a tantalizing aroma.
With an effort, he lifted his gaze back to the faces of his colaborers. “I’ll be going to the Lord soon. Any special requests?”
Abner lifted his hand and waved it slightly. “Birdie fell down the back steps this afternoon. She wasn’t badly hurt, but she twisted her ankle. I need to know how the Lord wants me to assist her.”
“I would imagine that he wants you to lift as much of the work load as possible,” Gavriel answered, “but I’ll be sure to ask if there is any more specific direction.” He turned toward Caleb. “Anything new with Annie and Olympia?”
“They’re making great progress,” Caleb answered. “Edmund is being protected by the Spirit, of course, and the Spirit is granting Olympia the strength and grace she needs.” The angel looked pleased. “Annie has returned to Portland, but she promises to return every weekend to look after her tomatoes. I have great hopes that the two women will come together according to the Lord’s plan.”
Gavriel looked to Micah, who worked as the gardener/ handyman at the bed and breakfast. “All quiet in your part of town?”
“All is well, but it could be better,” Micah answered. “The pastor stopped by to see Russell Higgs, but Russ was out on the boat. I’m doing all I can to convince him to return to church, but right now his mind is closed. I’m hoping the Spirit will help him learn to open his heart.”
Gavriel nodded, then looked to Zuriel. The reclusive angel did not often have much to say, but he had formed an intimate bond with his youngest charge, Georgie Graham. “Is all in order in the Graham household, Zuriel?”
The angel pushed a wisp of brown bang out of his eyes and squinted through his glasses. “Georgie is learning to take the promises in the Word to heart, and his injured toe is healing nicely.” He sighed. “Can’t wait for the next crisis.”
Gavriel smiled in approval. “Very good. And Elezar—’’ he turned to the angel who lived in Vernie Bidderman’s spare room. “How is your assignment faring? Do you need guidance from the Lord?”
Elezar flashed a broad smile. “Always, but we seem to be on course for now. Vernie is as independent as ever, but she has no idea we are protecting her from harm. Yesterday I was able to prevent a stack of boxes from falling on her.” He winked at the others. “She’s a tough old bird. I can’t help but love her.”
“We love all those the Lord loves.” Gavriel smiled as he looked at his comrades.
“What about you, Gavriel?” This came from Abner, who had resumed eating his cold pizza. “How goes things with the pastor?”
Gavriel lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “He’s . . . confused. I think he’
s feeling threatened, and he can’t seem to trust that God has his best interest at heart. The Lord has a good plan for him, a plan of hope and peace, but Winslow apparently doesn’t see it.”
“Will you have to intervene?” Abner asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ll ask the Lord tonight.” Gavriel looked around the circle. “Anything else?” When no one answered, he drew his wings in close to his side and nodded soberly. “I’ll be off, then.”
But before he left, he reached out and plucked a clump of cheese from the pizza box and dropped it in his mouth.
Odd, that mingling of cheese and tomatoes. Why did humans find it so appealing?
Flying through celestial space faster than the speed of sound, Gavriel zipped through the second heaven and entered the bright realm of the third. Angels saluted him as he passed, and the bright light of the throne room gleamed from on high.
After passing through the majestic portals of pure white stone, Gavriel entered the Holy Place. There he saw the Lord sitting on a lofty throne, with the glory of his presence filling the temple. Hovering around the Master of the universe were mighty seraphim, each with six wings. With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with the remaining two they flew, hovering in midair. In a great chorus they sang, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty! The whole earth is filled with his glory!”
Gavriel had entered the throne room on many occasions, but the music of the seraphim never failed to move him. The glorious singing shook the temple to its foundations, and the entire sanctuary filled with white smoke that billowed over the floor in a near-steady stream.
Approaching the majestic throne, Gavriel bowed his head. “Almighty Lord, I have returned from Earth, where you sent me to perform your will.”
He waited, his heart still, for an answer. Human ears could not have picked up the answer when it came, but a willing angel’s heart hears what human ears cannot.
“Pastor Wickam?” Gavriel looked toward the glorious presence on the holy throne. “I know he is struggling, but his heart is open. I will do whatever you command.”