Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “I am no longer able to serve a pastorate where my parishioners are intent on defying the wisdom of God. I have done my best by you all, and now I wash my hands of you. If lies are spread about me after I am gone, I trust God will punish the offenders.

  Longbourne

  “That’s it. He packed up what little he had in the parsonage and left. Last night, as best we can tell.”

  “Maybe we oughta fetch him back,” Steve said. “Don’t seem likely we’ll find a new preacher, things like they are around here.”

  “No one knows where he went,” Robert said. “He’s got no family since his wife passed, and I couldn’t even make a guess at where he might be headed.”

  Casewell shifted his feet and spoke. “It just might be we’re better off with him gone.”

  “Ah, you just don’t like him ’cause he was so rough on that woman you’re sweet on,” Steve said.” I thought he was on to something, what with the drought and all. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” He nodded his head and looked pensive. Casewell thought the look didn’t suit the fiddle player.

  “Regardless,” Robert said, “what we need to do is figure out how to fill that pulpit”—he pointed to the front of the church—“until we can hire a new pastor.”

  The men looked at one another and then at their hands and finally at their shoes.

  Robert cleared his throat. “Seems to me we’re in line to preach for the time being,” he said. “We’re all ordained as elders, and that means we’re qualified to give the message.”

  Steve laughed. “There’s qualified and there’s able. If it’s a fiddle concert you’re after, I’m the man. For preaching, you’d best look elsewhere.”

  The other men nodded their heads. They were farmers, carpenters, and store owners, unaccustomed to the spotlight.

  Robert nodded his head. “I thought you’d feel that way. I guess I can take a stab at it, but I’ll admit I was hoping Casewell here might be willing to step up.”

  Casewell jerked his head up. “Me? You want me to preach?”

  “Well, of all of us, I’d guess you know the Bible best, and I’d be surprised to hear you were nervous about talking in front of a crowd. So yes, I think you should preach.”

  Casewell shifted, as though the hard pew had just gotten harder. He was surprised but also flattered. More than once he’d thought of good topics for a sermon and even imagined how he would go about delivering his message. Of course, at the moment he couldn’t think what any of those topics were.

  “Well, I’ll confess that I might even enjoy delivering a talk or two from up front,” he said at last. “Of course, I’ll expect you all to stay awake.”

  Steve slapped Casewell on the back. “Now you’re talking. Can’t wait to hear your first sermon.”

  Although Casewell had initially felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of filling the pulpit, by Tuesday evening he was having second thoughts. He wasn’t qualified to teach, preach, or anything else. Sure, he’d read the Bible—several times. He’d listened to countless sermons and had some interesting discussions with friends about interpretation and meaning. But he had no training—no formal education—no authority. What was he thinking?

  Casewell had hardly spoken to Perla since her run-in with Longbourne. She was still cooking at the Thorntons’ store, and Casewell continued to help, but he was trying to keep a little distance between them. He hadn’t realized that so many folks in the community were beginning to pair them up. He admired Perla and he enjoyed her company. He even accepted her fatherless child, but he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea about his intentions. He only meant to be friendly.

  As Casewell cleaned up the kitchen area after the communal meal Thursday evening, he was oblivious to the people around him. He was too busy tormenting himself over a sermon topic and his unworthiness to deliver anything he could think of to realize that Perla had slipped in and worked by his side.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

  Casewell jumped and looked at her like he’d just woken up. “Oh, I guess I was pondering what I could talk about from the pulpit come Sunday.”

  “Seems like there’d be no shortage. The Bible’s a long book.” Perla smiled. “Too long, some have said when they got to the begats.”

  “Well, it’s not that I can’t come up with something. It’s more like I can’t come up with the right something. This is the first time I’ve had the chance to speak from the pulpit. I want to do it right.”

  “Have you asked God for guidance? “she asked. “Seems to me He could put something on your heart, and if you speak from the heart . . .” She paused and her eyes softened. “You can’t go wrong.”

  Casewell looked at Perla as though for the first time. “That’s wise counsel. I think I’ll take it. Suppose you can get along without me tomorrow?”

  “I think we’ll be fine,” she said. “You go write that sermon.”

  Friday morning Casewell got up early, made a pot of coffee, and got down on his knees to discuss his sermon with God. He prayed pretty steadily for fifteen minutes or so and then sat, Bible in hand, waiting for inspiration. He flipped through the Old Testament, read snatches of the Gospels, and dipped into Revelation. Nothing seemed right. He got out a pad of paper and started writing about the Sermon on the Mount. That was chock-full of food for thought. But after several paragraphs, Casewell realized there was too much. He was going to have to narrow his topic down.

  Around noon, Casewell slung his notebook into the corner of the room and strode outside. Though September, it was still hot, without a hint of a breeze. He gazed across the barren landscape. The drought had taken such a toll. He thought of pictures he’d seen in National Geographic of the Midwest Dust Bowl during the Great Depression. Not so long ago, he thought. Looked like they were headed for another one.

  If it weren’t for Perla feeding people, they would be in an even harder place. Casewell knew the crops were lost, and by the end of the month he feared most of the livestock would be beyond saving, too. Some folks had gone ahead and butchered what they could spare. It was the wrong time of year for it, but Perla had used the meat as it was killed.

  Killed. Casewell felt the weight of death hanging over the landscape. In a way, he had avoided thinking about how desperate their situation was. He’d kept busy with the unfolding tale of the Talbot sisters and their lost love, with his father’s illness, and with Perla. Casewell realized that the more he tried to put distance and space between himself and Perla, the more he seemed to think about her.

  Even now, he thought about how she was daily giving all she could to a suspicious group of people who scorned her. He thought about how she seemed to have no animosity for the father of her child. He remembered how she had boldly shared her story with him and how he had turned away, only to be drawn back to her again. He thought about how she loved her child. The same child who many would say was a source of pain and disgrace. Words began to form in Casewell’s mind, then sentences, then paragraphs.

  He ran inside and snatched up his pad and pencil and made notes for a full hour, flipping back and forth through the pages of the Bible, talking to himself and smiling. Sweat bloomed on Casewell’s shirt and streaked his forehead. When he stopped writing, he fell to his knees again, and this time offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. So much had become clear to him. His path was suddenly straight and true.

  The lending library at the Thorntons’ store turned out to be a hit with the local community. Delilah was only too delighted to take over as librarian and even created her own little catalog and offered recommendations to nearly everyone who came into the store, whether they wanted them or not.

  On Saturday she cornered Casewell as he was heading home and insisted that he take a book for himself and several for his father.

  “He’ll welcome a good book to keep his mind occupied while he’s laid up in bed,” she said.

  “Dad never was much of a reader.” Casewell tried to get away without having to p
ick out any books. “I wouldn’t know what to take him.”

  “I imagine he didn’t read much simply because he didn’t have time for it,” Delilah said. “And don’t worry about what to take him—I have some books right here.” She picked up three volumes lying on the counter and handed them over. Two were Westerns by someone named Louis L’Amour, and the third was a book of poems by Robert Frost.

  “I don’t know that poetry is quite right for Dad these days,” Casewell said.

  Delilah harrumphed. “There’s a poem in there about mending fences. I put in a marker.” She pointed at a slip of paper sticking out. “I think he’ll like that one in particular.”

  Casewell smiled his thanks and stowed the books, along with a pot containing beefsteaks stewed in tomato sauce, on the floorboard of his truck. He’d been planning on going by his parents’ house all along.

  He mulled over his sermon as he drove the short distance. He very much wanted his parents to be in attendance on Sunday, if his father was well enough, but he also felt a little nervous. His father may have finally begun to soften, but Casewell still feared his judgment. What if his father didn’t like what he had to say? What if no one did? What if Casewell made a fool of himself in front of the whole town? It was enough to wear a man out.

  Casewell carried the food and books from his truck, and as he walked up the dusty path to the door, he felt a coolness caress the back of his neck. If he didn’t know better, he would have said it was the kind of breeze that brings rain. Scanning the sky he noted that it was that cloudless, blue-white of a late-summer day. It looked as if it had been bleached by the unrelenting sun, and he turned his eyes to the house, somehow wishing he hadn’t taken notice of the desolate sky.

  “Ma, I’ve got dinner,” he called, pushing into the kitchen. He heard laughter in the bedroom, so he put the pot down on the table and carried the books back to his father’s room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his mother where she sat on the edge of the bed, leaning toward his father. She spoke in a low voice and smiled. She kissed his father, and he reached an arm up to pull her closer. Casewell felt a lump form in his throat and wished he could live in that moment forever. He would never preach, his mother would always smile, it would never rain, and his father would live forever. Yes, he could accept that.

  “Come on in, son.” His father’s voice sounded weaker than Casewell remembered. “I was just telling your mother that I’d go ahead and die if it didn’t mean leaving her.”

  Casewell was almost shocked by the love he could hear in his father’s voice. It was palpable. “And you, too, son. It’ll mean leaving you, and I swear I thought I’d get more time to . . .” He seemed unable to catch his next breath, as if something stopped up his throat. “To love you.”

  Casewell stumbled on the doorsill and dropped the books he was holding. Emily smiled and leaned down to scoop them up. “I know,” she said and patted Casewell’s arm. “I’ve always known who your father really is. I’m just glad you get to meet him this side of heaven.”

  “Heaven,” Dad laughed. “I will say I’m mighty relieved to know we’ll get back together there before we know it. I can’t say I was so sure of it a month ago. Can’t wait to thank the Lord in person for sending that little’un to show me the way.” Dad coughed with a violence that made the roses carved on the headboard look like they were swaying in a spring breeze. The fit passed and Casewell glanced at the carving again—he could have sworn that the flowers continued to flutter for a moment. He rubbed his eyes and moved toward his father.

  “Dad, I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “I reckon not, son. I’ve been an ornery, ill-tempered fool most of your life. And for a while there after that dang doctor told me I was dying, I determined to prove I could be even meaner than anyone thought. And I reckon I did prove it. But that little tyke of Perla’s has found the soft center of me. I meant to hate her, too, being that she’s a woods colt. But I somehow couldn’t do it. I began to see something in that child that reminded me . . . well, of the good I’ve seen in this life. Innocence, purity, wonder. She’s as fresh as a January snowfall, and some way or another, just being around her made me feel clean, light, maybe even hopeful. Though it took me a while to figure out what it was I was hoping for.”

  Mom sat on the far side of the bed and laced her fingers through Dad’s. “Don’t wear yourself out talking,” she said. “We can talk later if you need to.”

  Dad glanced at his wife and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, but I reckon I’d best go ahead and get this out. I want Casewell to know before he preaches on Sunday.” He turned to look at his only child, a grown man, standing beside his bed.

  “Son, I thought I was a Christian most of my life, though I didn’t see as that guaranteed me a spot in heaven. I figured that dunking I got when I was a boy made me good enough for church, but maybe not good enough for God himself. Well, I ain’t good enough. Never have been, never will be. But God’s been talking at me through that child, and I finally paid Him heed. I still ain’t good enough, but I reckon so long as I walk through the pearly gates on Jesus’ coattails, I don’t hafta be. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, son. I’m sure of heaven for the first time in my life. And if you’re as sure as I think you are, then we’ll be getting together again real soon.”

  Casewell was crying now. He hadn’t cried in front of his father since he was a boy and had been whipped for lying. Even then he’d struggled not to let his father see how weak he was. But now weakness washed over him and made him strong enough to cry for the years of wishing and for the joy of knowing his father was saved. And loved his only son.

  “I’m going to go dish up that supper while you two have a minute alone.” Mom stood and shook out her apron.

  As she started out of the room, Dad called to her. “Emily,” he said, stretching out his hand. She stepped back, gave his fingers a squeeze, and turned to go, but Dad held on and pulled her toward him. “Emily, listen to me. Everything is all right.” Casewell thought he saw a tear in his father’s eye. “It always has been,” he said. “But now I know it.”

  “As do I.” Emily squeezed her husband’s hand in her own one more time before going into the kitchen.

  Sunday morning Casewell woke refreshed and eager to get to church. He hummed as he dressed and polished his boots. He didn’t know why he bothered—they would get dusty again as soon as he set foot outside. He thought back to that Sunday morning when he first laid eyes on Perla Long. He’d been hungry that morning, embarrassed by his stomach’s growl. Now he knew a man could be hungry for a great deal more than food. He could be hungry for God, hungry for love, and hungry for forgiveness. Yes, thought Casewell, there were worse things than an empty belly.

  The lightness Casewell woke with left him as soon as he set foot inside the church. The crowd seemed larger than usual. Of course, people would come just to hear him. Some curious, some wishing him well, and some hoping to see him make a fool of himself. Casewell set his jaw. They just might get that satisfaction, the way he felt right then.

  Robert served as liturgist, calling out the hymns, praying, and asking for the collection to be taken up. Not that anyone had much to drop into the plate, but it went round just the same. Finally it came time to read the Scriptures.

  “Matthew, chapter six, verses fourteen and fifteen. ‘For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your father forgive your trespasses.’” Casewell only stumbled a little as he read. “Let us pray,” he said and bowed his head.

  Casewell had never been entirely comfortable praying aloud, and now he felt a moment of panic as a bead of sweat rolled down and dripped off his nose. The words would not come.

  And then he felt a gust of wind from an open window curl around the back of his neck. It gave him the same feeling as the breeze the day before—that rain was in the offing. Casewell knew it was wishful thinking, but the distra
ction unstuck his brain.

  “Father, thank you for the opportunity to gather in your house to hear your Word. We thank you for the blessings of fellowship, especially in difficult times. Open your Word to us this morning, Father, and speak to our hearts and minds through your Spirit. In the name of Jesus Christ we pray, amen.”

  The breeze cooled Casewell’s sweaty neck and brought a sense of calm. As he raised his head his eyes found his father’s in the front pew. What a blessing, he thought. And he began to speak.

  “A little further on in Matthew, Jesus told the story of the unmerciful servant after Peter came and asked Him how many times he should forgive his brother. Peter seemed to think seven times ought to be plenty, but Jesus said to forgive a man seventy-seven times. By that I guess He meant to just keep on forgiving as long as it’s needed.

  “Well, the unmerciful servant owed his king ten thousand bags of gold, and he didn’t have it. So the king planned to sell the servant and his whole family to make up the debt. But the servant begged the king not to do it and said he’d pay him back soon enough. The king felt sorry for the servant and canceled the debt.” Casewell felt like he was moving along nicely now.

  “Later on, that same servant ran into another servant who owed him a hundred silver coins. Well, the servant whose debt had been forgiven grabbed hold of the second servant and started to choke him, demanding he pay up.” Casewell made a strangling motion in the air and then dropped his hands down to brace against the pulpit.

  “That second servant went down on his knees and begged for more time to pay. And what did the forgiven servant do? Why, he had that other fellow thrown into prison. Some of that second servant’s friends went to the king and told him what had happened. The king was so mad that the servant whose huge debt had been forgiven wouldn’t forgive a little debt that he threw him in jail to be tortured until he paid every penny back.” Casewell paused and looked out over the congregation.