As though in answer to his wish, Perla appeared outside the car window. She was holding tight to Sadie’s hand, and the light from the church caught in her blond hair, seeming to form a halo around her face. Casewell felt enchanted for a moment, as though he had the power to make his own dreams come true. Perla smiled when Casewell stepped out of Robert’s car, and Sadie threw her arms around his right knee.
“Dad died today,” Casewell blurted. “Delilah’s with Mom.”
“Oh, Casewell, I’m so sorry,” Perla’s face softened and her eyes seemed to plumb the depths of his. He felt she understood the mixture of sadness and joy he was experiencing, that she knew what it was to be glad a thing had happened and sorry at the same time. The urge to take her in his arms and cry with her almost overwhelmed him, but some other folks came by, and the spell was broken. She squeezed his arm and smiled through tears.
“And on the day the rain finally came,” she said. “All too often sorrow and joy come skipping into your life holding hands.”
Casewell nodded mutely. Robert beckoned them on to the church, and they walked into the spill of light coming through the open door.
George and Steve were at the front with their instruments, and Casewell felt somehow naked without his mandolin. Robert made his way to the front of the jam-packed church and waved his arms for quiet. Casewell and Perla slipped into the outside of a middle pew.
“Before we begin offering praise tonight, I have some important news to share,” Robert said. “Casewell Phillips has joined us this evening, even though his father, John, passed earlier today.”
Casewell felt grateful to Robert for solving his dilemma about how to tell folks, although he was also embarrassed to have attention drawn his way. Perla placed slender fingers on his arm and squeezed gently before folding her hands in her lap once more. He felt her warmth linger on his skin as someone in the pew behind patted him on the shoulder and those in front turned to nod or offer up sad smiles.
“We’ll gather back here tomorrow for the viewing and the burial. But like it says in Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything. ‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’ This whole summer has felt like a mourning time, with the world withering and dying all around us. Now it’s time to rejoice in God’s grace in sending the rain.”
As Robert finished speaking George and Steve began playing “Shall We Gather at the River?” The congregation rose to their feet and sang as though they wanted heaven to hear.
“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”
As he sang, Casewell glanced down at the top of Perla’s golden head. He could see that she was smiling and tapping her foot in rhythm to the music. Little Sadie had taken her mother’s hand and was swinging it to the beat. They both looked happy and peaceful. Casewell marveled, thinking of all Perla had gone through to keep this child with her. He had judged her sinful at one time, now he judged her brave and bold . . . and beautiful. Casewell felt joy and sorrow twine together in his heart and form something he had never experienced before. He thought it might be love. He thought it might be the feeling a man had when he looked at his beloved family. All he knew was that he wanted to go on feeling it.
“Soon we’ll reach the silver river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace.”
That night Casewell enjoyed a deeper and more peaceful sleep than he had in months. Maybe ever.
But when he woke in his parents’ house the next morning, he realized he still needed to think of what to say at his father’s funeral.
As Perla washed the dishes that evening, she remembered how good it felt to imagine, if only for a moment, that she offered comfort to Casewell. When she squeezed his arm, it felt like her fingers belonged there, touching his skin. Like she had a right to touch him, which, of course, she didn’t. But for those few moments when circumstance placed them side by side in the pew while they celebrated the rain and Casewell mourned his father, Perla had felt a kinship, a closeness that she allowed to linger, even though she knew it was just her imagination.
As they walked out into the rain-fresh evening, she’d seen Melody Simmons laughing with some other young women. Casewell had glanced at her, and Perla thought it had been an admiring look. Why wouldn’t it be? Melody was lovely, though she’d never impressed Perla as being especially quick-witted. But maybe that would suit Casewell—a simple wife who didn’t fill his life with complications. She sighed and walked to the back door to throw out the dirty dishwater. Sadie and Delilah were there, examining a praying mantis.
“Don’t touch it,” Delilah admonished. “Just look.”
“Mommy, it’s a praying bug.” Sadie ran to pull Perla closer to see. “What is he praying for?”
“He’s probably giving thanks for the rain.” Perla caught Delilah’s eye over Sadie’s bent head. “Maybe he’s giving thanks for such a nice place to live.”
And maybe she should say her thanks—at least to the people who had been kind—and then move on. The people of Wise probably wouldn’t need her anymore now that the rain had come. Maybe it was time to go home. She missed her mother, and she hoped her father would be ready to forgive her by now. She’d seen the miracle of forgiveness between Casewell and John, so she knew it was possible. She kissed the top of Sadie’s head. Yes, going home was a good idea. It would save her having to see Casewell make a match. Closing her eyes, Perla tried to ignore the stone that was her heart.
18
CASEWELL FACED THE DAY with a mixture of dread, sorrow, and inexplicable joy. He wanted to honor his father with just the right words, but he didn’t know what they were. Casewell took a deep breath, like a man surfacing after being underwater. He could taste the air. It seemed cleaner, richer somehow. He supposed it was from the rain. Casewell headed for the kitchen where he smelled coffee. He trusted he would think better after a stout cup.
As he passed through the front room with its windows thrown open to the rain-freshened air, Casewell tried to put his finger on what was different about the morning. It was more than just rain and his father’s passing. A wren landed on the windowsill and sang with all her might.
Birdsong. The morning rang with birdsong. The drought had driven the birds away, hopefully to someplace greener, but overnight they had returned and seemed determined to celebrate. Casewell smiled and stopped to admire the wren’s soft brown feathers and watch her tilt her head back to warble. He thought the birds might be rushing things a bit—it would take a while for the landscape to green back up, but he was glad just the same.
He stepped out onto the porch. The landscape was still desolate, but it looked somehow hopeful this morning. He looked more closely at a sugar maple growing off the corner of the porch and saw leaf buds swelling along the branches. Even as he watched it seemed like a burgeoning bud pushed a dead, shriveled leaf off the tip of a branch. It fluttered to the ground like a sigh at the end of a long, hard day. Casewell looked around the corner of the house at his parents’ garden patch—he didn’t much enjoy gardening—but the once parched rows called to him now. He had that spring feeling that it was time to get seed in the ground, time for a new season to unfold.
Casewell headed inside for a cup of coffee with his mother. He thought he might have an idea of what he wanted to say at the funeral.
That afternoon they held the viewing for John Phillips. Of course, the primary topic of discussion was the recent rain. Casewell had never seen a happier group gather for a funeral. Even his mother smiled as she placed a handkerchief embroidered with her initials in the casket beside his father. She leaned in and whispered something, then smoothed the hair back from his forehead. She turned and came to stand next to Casewell so the long line of mourners could clasp their hands and say well-meaning things.
&nb
sp; The typical exchange ran along the lines of “I’m so sorry about John, but he’d been sick for a long time. What d’you reckon he’d make of this weather? He’d surely have something to say about it.”
Casewell and his mother nodded and agreed and marveled over the miracle that had watered the land. They were grateful when well-wishers moved along quickly and tried to be patient when they wanted to linger and talk. Time for the service grew near, and the line dwindled. Casewell took the opportunity to step outside for a breath of air. Perla appeared with Sadie just as he was about to go back in.
“We’re late.” Perla wrinkled her brow.
“No. I suppose you’re right on time.” Casewell was rewarded with a smile.
“We’ve been picking violets along the creek—I guess they never quite died back all the way, and with the rain . . . Well, I’ve never seen so many, and Sadie was having such a nice time.”
Casewell looked down at the child and noticed she was wearing a wreath of the flowers in her hair. He’d never noticed that violets had much smell to them, but there was the loveliest aroma in the air. He knelt down and admired Sadie’s halo.
“Aren’t they nice?” The child tilted her head this way and that to give Casewell a better look. “Can I give them to Mr. John to say good-bye?”
Casewell raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I don’t see why not. Let’s take them in.”
Sadie wrapped her tiny hand around Casewell’s third and fourth fingers, which was all she could manage. They approached the casket, and Casewell worried that seeing a dead man might disturb the child.
“Do you want me to put them in for you?” he asked.
“No. I can do it.”
Casewell saw that she couldn’t, so he lifted Sadie as she removed the wreath from her hair. She laid it on his father’s chest and gave it a little pat. “Good-bye, Mr. John,” she said. “I love you.”
Casewell knew it was only his imagination, but he heard his father’s voice whisper, “I love you, too.” Casewell knew who his father was talking to.
Setting Sadie back on the ground, Casewell turned to Perla and took her hand. He kneaded her fingers between his own. “I,” he began. But Marvin walked in and said they’d better get on in there and start the service.
“We’ll talk later,” Casewell said to Perla and followed Marvin into the chapel.
Robert opened the service with “Sweet By and By.” Casewell listened to the words, confident that God was even now holding his father’s hand.
“There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
“In the sweet by an by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.”
Casewell watched his mother cry as she sang, but in spite of the tears she somehow looked happy. She smiled and seemed to be looking up at something that pleased her. Seeing her like that made Casewell glad.
Steve came up and read the Twenty-third Psalm. Then Robert called Casewell to the front. He stood and felt unsteady for a moment. He had been so sure of what he wanted to say that he hadn’t felt the need for notes. Now his mind was a blank. Then the image of his father asking for Casewell’s forgiveness just the previous Sunday came to mind. That was it. Casewell stepped up to the pulpit, pausing to lay a hand on his father’s now-closed casket.
Casewell gazed across the crowd. Everyone was there. Frank sat between Liza and Angie, the trio looking pleased just to be in one another’s company. Delilah sat with Perla and Sadie. Casewell thought he’d never seen three prettier girls lined up in a row. His mother sat on the other side of Delilah, and in spite of the sorrow she carried, there was a softness to her face that had been missing for a long time. Casewell supposed it was the absence of worry.
The rest of the crowd looked more like they had gathered for a tent meeting than for a funeral. Casewell credited it to the drought ending and the land beginning to heal. The rain had eased fears people didn’t even know they carried. Casewell became aware of the wind rustling the branches of a dogwood outside the open window to his left. It was a relaxing sound, and he closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy it better. Then he opened his eyes and began speaking.
“I reckon most of you were as glad as me when that rain came. Seemed like Dad could hear it coming before anybody. Maybe that’s because he was on his way home.” People shifted and a few sat up a bit straighter.
“Last Sunday those of you who were here saw my father stand up in that pew right there.” Casewell pointed to where a family of four now sat. They looked a little uncomfortable, as though they shouldn’t have taken the dead man’s seat. “He stood up and asked me to forgive him for being less of a father than he thought I deserved.” Casewell bowed his head and gripped the sides of the pulpit. “He was wrong. He was more of a father than I deserved. Who among us”—Casewell’s head swung up and his eyes shone—“really and truly deserves a father who would . . .” He paused, feeling the tears rise in his throat, and he cleared it before trying again. “My father was not one to show much emotion. I don’t think he told me he loved me until just a few days ago. But I knew he did.” Casewell looked at the congregation and let the silence stretch a moment. “He showed me every day of his life. He showed me in the hard work he did, the sacrifices he made, the way he treasured my mother.” She beamed through her tears. “He showed me in a thousand ways, and while I will always be glad he told me he loved me, I did not doubt it.”
“Look out there.” Casewell gestured to the windows. “A week ago it seemed like the end of the world. If it hadn’t been for the food dished out at the store, some of us might have starved. We likely would have been forced to leave this place just to find enough to eat and water to drink. A week ago, it looked like God hated us. It looked like He was finally giving us what we most likely deserve—the hard back side of His hand.
“My own father gave me that a time or two over the years. I don’t blame him a bit.” Casewell smiled at his mother. “I reckon I was a handful coming up.” She smiled back and gave her head a little shake.
“I guess I needed to be kept in check by a firm hand. A hand like John Phillips’s. I deserved to be taken down a notch when I was a boy full of mischief. Just like maybe we all deserved a season of drought. But my father showed us what God requires when he stood up here last week. We have to ask for forgiveness, and what’s more, we have to give it.” Casewell hesitated, then looked out and met Perla’s gaze. She smiled and he felt a surge of energy enter the general area of his heart. He smiled back.
“A few days ago, my father asked for my forgiveness, and then he died. I don’t know that I said the words out loud, but I want you all to hear it. I forgive my father. The rain ushered him into heaven. And now it’s like spring out there—trees budding, grass coming up, birds singing—God’s gift to all of us.” Casewell kneaded his hands. “John Phillips was not perfect. He was a father and a husband, and I loved him. John Phillips is sitting at the feet of God, forgiven. Hallelujah.” The last word came out a hoarse whisper. Casewell bowed his head and dropped his shaking hands to the pulpit. Silence reigned.
19
THE CONGREGATION SAT as though holding its collective breath. And then Robert leapt to his feet and clapped Casewell on the back.
“George, Steve, get on up here and let’s have a song. What’ll it be, Casewell?” He turned to his friend.
“Are You Washed in the Blood,” Casewell said without having to think. Someone handed him his mandolin, and George started them off.
“Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
The song swirled around Casewell. He played it with
scarcely a thought for the tune. The congregation began clapping their hands in time to the lively music. Casewell felt washed cleaner than he had ever been in his life. Guilt, shame, anger—all sluiced out through his fingertips as he plucked the strings.
When the song ended, George whispered, “Trust and Obey.” And Casewell knew that this song was also the right one.
By the time they finished the second song, most of the congregants had risen to their feet and were singing with arms raised and throats tilted heavenward. The last note died away along with the upraised voices, and the congregation sat without being asked. Robert stepped back up to the pulpit.
“Friends, we came today to bury a man many of us have known for a long time. But I think what we’ve done is resurrect our own spirits in the assurance of a forgiveness that brings life everlasting. John Phillips may have left this world, but we’ll be seeing him again. ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a more joyful funeral. I thank you all for coming to honor a good man’s life. Now please join us in the cemetery for the burial.”
Casewell, Robert, George, Steve, Frank, and Marvin stepped forward to carry the casket out to the cemetery. They moved slowly over the uneven ground until they reached the gaping hole that Casewell and other men had dug the day before. The job would have been nearly impossible in the midst of the drought with the sunbaked dirt. But thanks to the rain, their shovels slid through the dirt and clay like a child digging in sand. Even now, there was a little water puddled in the bottom of the grave, and Casewell imagined it would be like a baptism, dropping the casket into that water.
Everyone gathered around the grave site. It was customary to say a few words, but Casewell felt his had run out. The men placed the casket over ropes arranged on the ground. He looked at the other pallbearers and nodded. They seemed to understand that he wanted them to go ahead and lower the casket.
Miracle in a Dry Season Page 17