by BJ Hoff
It was even more satisfying to see their father sober on a Friday night.
He also had the comforting awareness that, although Mrs. Hunnicutt wasn’t strong enough to attend tonight, she was recovering nicely by now in her own home. Her pantry had been stocked, her coal supply replenished, and she was being cared for by another widow from town, Mildred Ramsay.
As the evening wore on, he felt himself almost overcome with a kind of paternal pride and pleasure. To see his students exercising such an impressive display of talent, and to realize that they were offering it all to him as a gift, made his heart swell nearly to bursting. Truly, tonight was the finest gift he had ever received, no doubt the finest gift any man could ever receive. He could not imagine that anything would ever surpass it.
The event wasn’t without its plaintive moments, however. Whenever he happened to glance at Maggie MacAuley, her somewhat drawn, unusually sober countenance grieved him deeply. The girl stood near the front, watchful and heartbreakingly solemn, holding her precious package—for surely it must be very precious to the child, judging from the way she continued to guard it—and looking as if at any moment she might run from the room weeping.
Without the usual light in her eyes and the slightly tilted smile, she looked too old and dejected for her years. He still worried about what she and Kenny Tallman had gone through, what sort of long-term effect it might have on them. Yet, there was a strength in those two that Jonathan believed would eventually prevail over any emotional damage, and he prayed to that effect daily.
Knowing Maggie as he did, Jonathan suspected that she had been the instigator of this entire event. He also believed that, more than the horrible experience she’d just come through, something else was responsible for the sadness in her eyes tonight. He thought it likely that she would find it difficult for some time to come to enjoy any occasion because Summer was no longer a part of things.
With all his heart, he wished he could give Maggie a gift tonight—one that would somehow return the light to her eyes and the smile to her face. But he knew only time and God’s comfort could accomplish that.
A stirring in the crowd brought him back to his surroundings. As Jonathan watched, the students—every one of them—stepped up to form two rows directly in front of him. At the same time, Dr. Woodbridge came forward and, after a quick nod and a quirk of a smile, turned and began to direct this unique choir in Foster’s “Hard Times,” followed by Jonathan’s favorite hymn, “Amazing Grace.”
Jonathan felt dangerously close to choking on the emotion that welled up in him. Those same feelings very nearly overpowered him as Herb Rankin, Summer’s father—who had been standing directly behind the children—plucked his harmonica from his shirt pocket and began to accompany the hymn.
Jonathan had been surprised, and exceedingly moved, when he realized that Summer’s entire family was in attendance tonight. Now, as he watched the children and Herb, whose grief was still so sharply etched on his gaunt face, the pain of his loss still so achingly apparent in the lonely wail of the harmonica, it was all he could do to maintain his last shred of composure.
Yet in the midst of his convulsive emotions, he was acutely aware of the words of the stirring old hymn as the children’s sweet, albeit imperfect, voices filled the schoolroom:
The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
Jonathan sat there, the words and music penetrating to his very soul as he looked out upon the unlikely group of adults and young people who had come together to give him gifts on this evening of his birthday. And in that moment, he was moved with such love and gratitude he simply could not contain it. Despite his best efforts, he could no longer control his tears, and while such an unrestrained display of emotion would have humiliated him at any other time, tonight he was only vaguely aware of it.
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
When the last stanza had ended, the children stood quietly as Herb Rankin went on playing the melody through once again. This time, the harmonica no longer keened but seemed to soar in a solitary affirmation of faith and hope and a kind of triumph.
At last the music ended. The children and Herb dispersed, melding with the others in the crowd. Jonathan drew a deep, unsteady breath, and, sensing the end of the evening at hand and knowing he would be expected to say something—as he certainly should—he stood, waiting.
But instead of Lily moving to close the program, Maggie MacAuley walked up. The girl’s eyes were red and shadowed, her smile uncertain, and she still hugged the brown-paper package to her heart. For a moment she stood staring up at Jonathan. Then, in a gesture as protective as if she were handing him a valuable family heirloom, she extended the parcel to him.
“This is for you, Mr. Stuart,” she said, her voice pitched low. “It’s from…Summer and me, the two of us. I’m not one bit musical, as you know, and since Summer couldn’t be here…”
Her face threatened to crumple, and Jonathan reached out a hand to steady her. But after a moment the sharp little chin lifted, and she went on. “It was all Summer’s idea…the gift, I mean. I just wanted to make sure you knew that it’s from both of us—but mostly from Summer.”
She practically shoved the package into Jonathan’s hands but made no move to leave; instead, she stood watching him with unnerving intensity. Jonathan looked from Maggie to the parcel. His hands were shaking badly as he loosened the string and carefully removed the paper wrapping. His throat threatened to close, and he was trembling so that he had to place the box on top of the desk before he could go on.
He glanced at Maggie. Her gaze was locked on his hands as he opened the lid of the box and examined the contents.
Maggie drew a long sigh of relief and satisfaction to finally see the birthday gift safely in Mr. Stuart’s possession.
Her mother had helped her wrap it, had even used a scrap of silk from her precious stash at the bottom of her sewing box. Maggie knew Summer would have approved of their efforts.
She watched Mr. Stuart closely, trying to gauge his response. But his expression was hard to read, as if his feelings might be made of more questions than answers.
It suddenly occurred to Maggie that she had forgotten something. “Mr. Stuart?”
He straightened and looked at her in a most peculiar way. Maggie saw that his eyes were damp, and it shocked her for an instant. But then she realized that those tears in his eyes weren’t unhappy tears because his face seemed to be shining.
“I just thought you should know,” she said, “that Ezra Tyree—Junior’s daddy—made it from a picture Summer drew. He worked real hard to get it exactly the way she sketched it.”
Mr. Stuart gave her a long look and then turned back to the open box. He lifted a hand, wiped it across his eyes, gave a small nod, and bent his head over the gift.
Jonathan’s heart threatened to explode as he finally managed to take in what had to be the most unusual gift he could have possibly envisioned. Cradled on what appeared to be a small doll’s pillow that had been covered in shiny green silk was a bright new tin whistle—a penny whistle. In some inexplicable, wonderful way the primitive instrument resembled his missing flute.
He studied the piece of scarlet ribbon gracefully threaded over and around the tin whistle. After a long moment in which he struggled to get his breath, he removed the penny whistle from the box, complete with its emerald green pillow and scarlet ribbon, and carefully extended it toward the parents and students.
“This…is a gift from Maggie MacAuley…and Summer Rankin,” he choked out.
There was a collective intake of breath among the students and their families, followed by some speculative murmurs. Then a hush fell over the entire schoolroom as everyone watched Jonathan…and waited.
>
Had he ever played a penny whistle before tonight?
Jonathan couldn’t remember. Perhaps, when he was a boy. He thought he could manage. The technique shouldn’t be all that different from playing the flute, after all.
More to the point, did he have the breath or the strength to play it?
He must. He must do this, at least once. For the little girl with the wounded, watchful eyes…for Maggie. And for the one who was very much with them tonight, in their thoughts and in their hearts. He must do it for Summer. Indeed, he wanted to play for all of them—his children, his people, his family.
And for Me…play for Me, Jonathan…
Give me the strength, Lord.
I am your strength…I am your strength and your song…
With painstaking care, Jonathan lifted the penny whistle from its pillow, and, after removing the scarlet ribbon from it, brought the instrument to his lips.
One long, steadying breath. And then he began to play. Tentatively, at first, then with mounting confidence. For a moment, he didn’t realize that his breath was coming in a pure, fresh rush, or that his strength was increasing, new and flowing, as if a well had been uncapped from which he was free to draw all he needed. He was conscious only of the music trilling from the penny whistle.
And yet it wasn’t coming from the penny whistle, not really, for surely the narrow little instrument was pitifully inadequate for the pure, golden notes cascading from it, sweeping and soaring over the room. No, the music seemed to be coming from his heart…from his soul.
It was new—a new song—each note bubbling up and spilling out from him, only to be caught by the penny whistle and flung out to all those in the room. Even as he played, God’s love for him—and his love for God and every person in the schoolroom—was somehow transposed into the music.
What had begun as a gift to him—to Jonathan—now became a gift from him—to his students and their families. A gift poured out with indescribable love and turned to something of glory by the Giver of all gifts.
Jonathan closed his eyes and played on, lost now in this glorious music he knew had little to do with the instrument or with himself, but everything to do with the One for whom he played.
He has put a new song in my mouth…
The LORD is my strength and song…
“And you will sing that new song and play the music I give you for as long as it is My will that you do so. I was with you at the beginning of your journey, and I will be with you until your journey’s end. Your days, your times, are in My hands.”
Jonathan went on playing, his eyes open now. He saw the stares of wonder and astonishment, mingled with love, fixed upon him. He felt the wonder and amazement inside himself, and at the same time received the love of the people and offered them his love…and the music.
“Play on, Jonathan. Play your music. My music. Sing your new song. For I am your hope, your strength, your song. I, the Lord, am your music.”
Maggie had slipped back into the crowd the minute she saw that Mr. Stuart meant to play the penny whistle. Watching him, she thought he might be praying, for his eyes were closed as he played a kind of music she had never heard before. It was the most beautiful, rare, and glorious music! Indeed, the penny whistle didn’t sound as if it had been made from a sheet of junkyard tin at all, but more as if it had been crafted from the finest silver, fashioned by the very hands of God’s angels.
Summer, can you hear? Mr. Stuart is playing the penny whistle! You knew he would, didn’t you? You knew! He’s playing it, Summer, and the music is a glory, a wondrous thing entirely! He’s playing for us, Summer, and the music is more grand than anything he ever played on his expensive silver flute! Oh, Summer, I hope you can hear it, all the way up into heaven. I hope you can hear it!
Maggie could not think how such a small and simple thing as the homemade penny whistle could give forth such sound—like a pure crystal sea of heavenly music!
And then Mr. Stuart opened his eyes and looked directly at her as he went on playing. Maggie suddenly realized that she was weeping, but at the same time smiling, smiling through her tears…smiling and almost laughing out loud at the new joy and strength…and hope she could see shining in Mr. Stuart’s eyes as he played—a hope that seemed to reach out and draw her in, along with her family and all the families in the schoolroom. It was as if God was putting His arms around them all.
The penny whistle itself looked to be aglow. It had caught the light from all the lamps in the schoolroom, and now it blazed and shimmered like pure silver as it dipped and swayed in Mr. Stuart’s hands. And for the first time in what had seemed like an endless age, Maggie could feel the music washing away the coal dust and grime from Skingle Creek. The town…and her heart…were being washed clean of their dust and pain and sorrow—cleansed and made new by the music from Mr. Stuart’s penny whistle…the penny whistle and God’s love.
In that moment, Maggie MacAuley knew that the music had come back to Mr. Stuart…and to Skingle Creek…this time to stay.
Epilogue
Homecoming
Memory is a pilgrimage that takes me home.
From the diary of Jonathan Stuart
June 17, 1904
It was June in Kentucky. The air was warm and sweet-scented with wildflowers and the rich, pungent fragrance of newly mown grass and freshly turned earth.
With classes now dismissed for the summer, the school yard was empty and unnervingly quiet. The building looked much as Maggie remembered it, except that a new wing had been added. But the siding was the original white clapboard, which looked to have been recently painted, and the bell still hung suspended from the iron frame near the steps. The old rusting gate had also been replaced. The new one was wider, with hinges that didn’t creak and groan when she opened it.
Because of the travel expense and her lack of free time, Maggie’s visits home had been few and far between over the years. Once before she had come to the school, only to find it empty. There had been flood damage, and the children were being transported by wagon to the school in Fletcher. Years later, she came again, but that time he had been away in Lexington, visiting his parents.
Over the years, he had written to her, as had her mother, of the additions to the school and the moderate growth of the town. Somehow she had expected a more drastic change. But other than the new wing, the building appeared the same plain but sturdy structure she remembered from her childhood.
As she followed the path up the school yard, she could almost hear her own childish voice mingling with others from the past. Without warning, memories came rushing in on her like a summer storm, long-forgotten images of an earlier, simpler time she had foolishly thought would go on forever.
Where are the others now? she wondered.
Some she had kept in touch with, at least during the first few years away from home. Later, her mother’s letters had brought her occasional news. Kenny Tallman, to everyone’s surprise and no doubt his father’s despair, had gone to the mission field. They had lost touch over the past year, but the last she’d heard from him, he was somewhere in South America. His father, Judson Tallman, was still superintendent at the mines.
Junior Tyree, in partnership with his father, had started a lumber mill outside of town and, last she’d heard, had become relatively prosperous. Poor Lester Monk had died in the worst mine accident in the history of the county—the same accident that had lamed her father. Lester had died a hero, though, saving the life of Orrin Gaffney, who had left school and gone into the mines upon his release from the wayward boys’ farm. The thought of Orrin brought back another dark memory, that of Billy Macken, who, after spending a year at the same institution, had returned to Skingle Creek only long enough to collect his belongings and leave town. As far as Maggie knew, he hadn’t been heard from since.
As for Lily Woodbridge—and now Maggie could only smile—Lily had decided early on, before they ever graduated from high school, that she would become a nurse and marry a doctor,
in that order. True to form, she had accomplished both goals.
By now Maggie had reached the front doors of the schoolhouse, which stood open in invitation to the balmy weather. She entered, and as if the sound of her footsteps might somehow intrude upon the past, found herself walking on tiptoes.
She saw him immediately. He was sitting at his desk—the same desk he’d used a dozen years ago, she was certain—writing something, perhaps grading papers. She remembered the fine hand that had graded her papers so carefully, the precise script, the slight, unexpected flourish with which he always crossed the final t of his name.
Even though she had hoped he would be here today, she was completely unprepared for the emotion that welled up in her at the sight of him. The head bent over the desk was still flaxen, though she caught a glimpse of a few strands of silver here and there as it caught the light. As always, he was wearing glasses, and he appeared to be deep in thought as his pen scraped the paper.
She heard him sigh, and she couldn’t help but smile. He had often sighed back then too, most usually when faced with a particularly inadequate test paper.
She was about to knock on the door frame when he looked up. His expression was questioning but pleasant, a smile quickly forming.
For a moment she found herself unable to speak. Only now did she realize how very young he must have been all those years ago. Why, he was still a young man. He hadn’t been old at all back then, but merely ill—terribly ill.
Obviously, that was no longer the case, had not been the case, as she recalled, for many years now. The lean face glowed with good health, and the dark eyes behind the glasses were warm with intelligence and kindness—and the same glint of humor she still remembered.
Ever the gentleman, he got to his feet. “May I help you?”
For some ridiculous reason, Maggie’s eyes started to fill, and she felt suddenly shy. She blinked, and then blinked again as she slowly walked the rest of the way into the room. “Hello, Mr. Stuart,” she managed to say.