by Leisha Kelly
It was a portly neighbor I’d only seen once before. She seemed disappointed that Sam and Thelma weren’t with me. “Do you think they’d mind if I look around?” she asked. “We just found out that my niece Charlotte and her family’s going to be looking for a house down here.”
“They wouldn’t mind. They’s wantin’ a buyer.”
“You wasn’t makin’ plans for the place yourself then?”
I wondered if Sam had mentioned that notion around. “No, ma’am. I got no such plans.”
“All right.” She nodded, and then went traipsing all over the house, looking everywhere it’s possible to look. Even under sinks and on closet shelves. She found two toys and an old glove, and I threw them in one of the boxes. We’d been thorough enough that there was nothing left in the whole house after that. Made for a strange feel, when it’d been so full before.
“Are you the brother that’s good with wood?” she suddenly asked.
“Folks say I do all right.”
“I got something I want you to see. My husband’s at home, and he’d be thrilled if you could fix it. Been in his family for years.”
She motioned me to follow her next door, but I hesitated.
“Come on. We won’t bite. We just wanna know if Grandma’s china hutch can be restored.”
I followed. Surely wouldn’t hurt to offer an opinion. And that hutch was the prettiest I’d ever seen. Old. With beautiful wood and hand-carved cupboard doors that must’ve taken a lot of hours and some real inspiration. But one door was cracked, missing a handle, and chipped at one corner.
“We want it to look good as it did new and original. Can it be done?”
“Yeah. But it ain’t simple. Have to replace the whole cupboard door and that means matchin’ the wood and duplicatin’ the fancy detail work.”
“Could you do it?” the husband asked.
I almost told him no. Didn’t make sense to add a extra job when I was hoping to leave soon as I got done with Sam and Thelma’s house. They could find another woodworker. But despite all logic, I didn’t feel like turning ’em down. I ran my hand over the fine workmanship and caught myself wanting to see if I could copy the beautiful designs, though that didn’t make sense at all. I had enough to think about.
“What do you say?” the man prodded me. “Our daughter’s getting married, and I’d love to pass this on to her completely restored. We can pay you well.”
I almost managed to say no, but when I turned and saw them both looking at me, I went ahead and made an agreement. They were excited. It was an heirloom worth a lot of money, and they were willing to pay me well for my work. But what would Sarah think about a delay?
Surely it wouldn’t take long, I reasoned with myself. And I could use a little money coming in while I did Sam’s work. He wasn’t paying me nothing but board.
The lady wrote down Sam’s new address to give to her niece, and then I took the damaged hutch door with me back to my truck. The loading had gone quickly. I was ready to go back. But instead of starting the truck, I just sat for a minute thinking everything through. Sam might have a buyer for his house now. I could have told the lady no, that I was interested in the place myself. But because I didn’t, it might sell to that niece of hers. I’d closed one door on myself, and then opened another by agreeing to linger long enough to fix the hutch. I guess I wasn’t sorry for either thing, but I did wonder at myself a little.
Strangely, I wasn’t sure I felt like going back to Jacksonville with the load yet. But what was there to stick around for? I heard a train whistle and pictured a big old engine and its string of cars cutting through the middle of Railroad Park with the businesses all standing at attention on either side. Maybe the windowpanes in Mr. Pratt’s building would rattle when the train whistle blew again. And I would never know what it might feel like to watch the train go by from inside that old store.
I wanted to see the place again, I didn’t know why. I didn’t want Mr. Pratt for a landlord over me, nor Sam thinking he had to help me get a business off the ground. Whatever I decided to do, I needed to do it without either of them trying to run things for me. But instead of starting off east for Jacksonville, I drove up slow to Camp Point’s business district, wondering why I would even want to.
There were some nice old buildings. The bank. The dry goods. The big grand building called the Bailey Opera House.
What am I wanting, Lord? What are you wanting? What am I hanging around here for?
I parked in front of Pratt’s store. It wasn’t the right place for me. There was no yard beside it where I could work outside in good weather and stack wood when I needed to. The door in back wasn’t big enough to be able to load and unload very easily. They must have squeezed every one of those stoves in the front, and it would have been a tight fit.
With a sigh, I started the truck again, but I still didn’t feel like heading back. Instead I drove to the entrance of that big park at the north end of town. I stopped as close as I could, thinking about the pond Sam had told me about. I couldn’t drive to it because nobody’d done any shoveling here, but I got out and started walking. Maybe being in a park with the winter-barren trees swaying would remind me of the timber back home. I’d always liked to walk there and pray. Maybe that’s what I needed now.
I found the big boulder and a shelter house but kept walking, not content with that. In a circle of trees I found the pond. It wasn’t very big and it was frozen, with a dusting of snow over the ice. I wished I’d brought a stool, so I could sit and look out over the quiet for a while.
What should I do, Lord? I don’t wanna cause Sarah no heartache, but I’m not ready to go back home. No time soon. I want something new. Something I’ll have to face up to, just you and me. Is there something wrong with me about that?
The wind picked up, and again I missed havin’ Sarah’s scarf with me. I lifted my coat collar to thwart the wind and realized that I’d left my hat and gloves in the truck. Sarah’d shake her head at me. She’d think I needed her here to remind me of things like that. And she’d be right.
Despite the cold breeze, I stood looking out over that frozen little pond. Though I was more than two hundred miles from the timber where my folks were buried, I thought of them and it almost felt like I was there again. In a way, it would be sad to live far away from those graves. But it could be a good thing too. I’d felt such heaviness there sometimes, like I was carryin’ extra weight.
I thought I’d have the same heaviness in Mr. Pratt’s store or in Sam and Thelma’s house. Maybe it was just because they knew so much about me. I liked workin’ with strangers ’cause they weren’t as likely to see me as different and think I needed their help or sympathy. Sam loved me. He was always good to me. But he treated me like an oddity. Maybe he still believed what Willy used to say, that my head don’t run in the same direction as other folks.
Back home I could tell how much my customers had heard about my peculiar thinking or trouble in school by how much hovering they did over their order and how careful they were to repeat things two or three times to make sure I got everything. Some of the people that knew me best treated me the most like a kid, that’s what it was. And I didn’t want it to bother me. I’d tried not to let it, but I’d grown to resent it anyway.
Father in heaven, help me forgive if there’s need a’ that. I don’t wanna be bothered by nobody.
I thought I should get going, but no one had said any particular time they were expecting me back. So I lingered on, picturing Sarah Jean standing beside me with her hand in mine. She’d like this spot in the spring, even though it might not be so quiet if neighborhood boys come running through.
I walked back to the boulder and leaned against it. Wasn’t no surprise that kids’d like to climb such a big old stone. If I was a kid, I’d have tried it. The thing stood most of my height and more than five times my width. I would a’ liked to have seen the effort it musta took to get it here.
Smiling a little at my foolish excursion, I
turned to walk back to the truck. I oughta be carving the rest a’ those pieces for the stair rail and get that job finished. And now I had another job waiting. Sarah wouldn’t care for me obligating myself even that much here.
I took to wonderin’ what it’d be like if she was with me. Maybe we’d go see if the Bailey Opera House had real opera, or find something else we could do together that we never done before. But it was crazy thinkin’ like that. I wanted a change, but she’d only want to go home. How were we gonna reconcile such opposite feelings?
On my way back through town in the truck, I tried to pray some more. But I hadn’t gone two blocks when I noticed an old gent in his driveway, struggling under the hood of his car. I stopped to help him ’cause he looked so bent and tired that I wasn’t sure he’d manage very well on his own.
“What’s your name, young fella?” he asked when I’d got started checking things under the hood for him.
“Frank Hammond.”
“Frank. Fine name. I knew a preacher once by that name.”
Don’t know why I felt like talking to him, but I did. Maybe just for the diversion. “I mighta been named for Benjamin Franklin,” I told him without any reason at all. “One of my sisters told me that.”
“Would’ve been a fine choice. Did your folks like history?”
“I don’t really know, sir.”
“Do you?”
“Well, yeah. Dependin’ on the sort.”
He looked a little puzzled. “What sort, then?”
I hesitated a little, knowing from experience that if I answered that question honest I’d be entering an area where at least some folks’d find me peculiar. But I took a breath and forged ahead, figuring I’d never see this old man again anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. “I’m partial to the history of Bible lands,” I told him. “And European history where it leads to understanding of the events of the modern day.”
He stared for a moment. “I’ve met up with a scholar.”
I laughed. “No, sir. I’m just a farm boy.”
“From what farm? If you were local, I’m sure I’d have seen your face around here before.”
“I’m not local. ’Bout 230 miles from home. I’m just up here to help my brother with some things.”
He glanced at the load on my truck. “But you took the time to stop and help me?”
I didn’t wanna tell him that he’d looked like he sorely needed it. Maybe that would bother him, even though he was really old. “I figured it was the thing to do.”
He nodded and smiled a little. “Are you are a Christian man, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A true servant of the Lord is a servant to his people.” He seemed to be quoting from something. I wasn’t sure his source.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “Like it says in the fifth chapter of Galatians to serve one another.”
Didn’t take me long to find out that the trouble he was having was in the points. I got my tools to grind them out for him, and then his car seemed to be running all right. But he was in no hurry to leave for wherever he’d been going. “Have you been to the Bible lands?” he wanted to know.
“Oh no,” I answered with surprise. “I never been outta the country. But I’ve enjoyed learnin’ such things from books. The history adds a little to the understanding a’ Scriptures sometimes, just to be able to picture the way things was at the times the words were written.”
“Have you studied the subject extensively then?” he was asking with real interest.
“No, sir,” I answered quick, feeling suddenly ashamed. “Not near so much as I’d like to.” Had it been dishonest to mention books to this man? He’d surely think I meant that I’d read them myself. Listening to Sarah reading to me was surely not what he’d call “studying.”
I wiped my hands on my old coat for want of a grease rag. Once again, I’d forgotten to put on my gloves.
“A pleasure to meet a Bible scholar and historian,” the old man said. “Would you like a cup of tea for your trouble?”
“No, sir, I’ve got to get going. Got to drive to Jacksonville by this evening.”
“Do you speak?” he asked abruptly. “At churches?”
“Well . . .” I stammered, flabbergasted at the question. “I did one time, but—”
“How long will you be in the area?”
“Don’t know,” I said, still feeling shook, he’d surprised me so much. “Another week. Maybe more.”
“We would love to have you visit our church. I’ll write the directions for you. If you’re needed in Jacksonville tonight, you’ll surely miss our midweek service, but if you’re free on Sunday, we’d love to have you.” He pulled a pad of paper and a short pencil from an inner pocket and started scribbling the address.
I just watched in silence. Had it been my imagination, or had this complete stranger almost asked me to preach?
He handed me the paper, and I shoved it in a pocket without even looking at it. He offered me his hand. “A pleasure to meet a young man of God.”
“Pleasure to meet a godly elder.” I tried to return the compliment with a steady handshake.
We parted ways then, me heading out of town, and him driving only so far as a local bank. I wondered at that encounter something immense, and the oddest thing about it was the stirring inside at what he’d called me. “Young man of God.” I really wanted to be that. I wanted to go and visit his church. I even wanted to get up and share a word or two. And then I thought I was crazy for it. What in the world was I thinking?
13
Sarah
I’d written to Frank more than once already, and I was very glad to get a letter from him, in Thelma’s hand, telling me what they’d been doing. It made me smile that he’d had Thelma repeat three times that he missed me.
But the same day I got a third letter from Donald Mueller. I threw it away unread like the last one and began to hope there would be another community function soon and Frank would be home to take me for everyone to see. Maybe then Donald would give up his foolishness.
I thought a lot about the things Frank had told me in our last conversation, about his need to make a life somewhere else. I still wished I could get his family to think differently, or Frank to not care. But he had to be his own man, as Mom had said, and I had promised the Lord that I’d trust him. I prayed for the trusting to get easier, but as the time neared for our next appointed phone call, I felt just as anxious as before. Surely Frank would tell me he was almost ready to come home. Deciding where we’d go from here would be so much easier face to face.
I rode with Dad to the service station, and when it came time for the call, Frank sounded different. He didn’t talk about moving this time. He told me he was hoping Sam and Thelma would start going to church. And there was a church he wanted to visit back over in Camp Point; I’m not sure why. He was working on his reading again, making what he hoped was progress, and I told him I was proud of him for that.
“I wish you were here.” The sudden sadness in his voice stopped me to silence. “Sarah Jean,” he went on, “I wanna share every minute with you. It don’t seem right to have to miss each other right now, but I guess there’s some things I gotta work out, me and the Lord.”
A strange feeling came over me when he said those words. “Like what?”
“Like what I’m s’posed to be doin’ next. Pray for me, Sarah. I have a funny notion the Lord’s gonna surprise us.”
“I can’t wait till you get home,” I answered. But the words sounded empty, and the strange feeling only got worse for the rest of our conversation. I was practically shaking when I hung up the telephone receiver.
“What’s wrong, Sarah?” Dad asked right away.
“Nothing.” I tried to smile. “Just missing Frank, that’s all.”
But that wasn’t all, and I shouldn’t have lied. I couldn’t get Frank’s words out of my head. Pray for me. The Lord’s gonna surprise us.
Where would we go from here? What would Frank choose
to do? He wasn’t asking for my input, only my prayers as he worked things out between himself and the Lord. But it was my life too. How did other women handle such uncertainty? My brother’s wife hadn’t complained when he announced that he was called to the mission field. And I didn’t remember my mother questioning Dad about our move to Illinois. Why was I the only one so selfish?
“Perfect submission, all is at rest . . .” The words to that hymn entered my mind unbidden. And for a moment it just didn’t seem right. How could submission be fair? Why couldn’t I just make the decisions I wanted to make and have what I wanted?
But I caught myself quickly. Jesus had said to his Father, “Not my will, but thine be done.” If he yielded his own will, who was I to think I ought to hang on to mine? Frank wasn’t seeking his own heart but God’s in the matter. So it all came down to whether or not I was really willing to keep my promise.
We’d said nothing about Frank’s birthday, only days away now, except to agree on another telephone call then. By that time, Sam and Thelma might already have a telephone installed at their house. I’d mailed Frank the embroidered handkerchiefs and a card two days ago. But I decided to write him another letter too.
Sitting at the service station desk, I almost started the letter in my usual cursive hand but then changed my mind and started to print, neatly and carefully, in case Frank wanted to try to read the letter for himself. Kirk would probably have laughed at his efforts. Rorey too. But I really was proud he would keep trying.
I was in the middle of the letter when Donald Mueller drove up to the gasoline pumps, much to my dismay. He had a fine-looking car and a proud smile when he saw me inside. He started into the station immediately and left Dad outside pumping his gas.
When he came bursting in, he was grinning ear to ear. “Sarah Wortham, how’s life treating you? Are you still engaged?”
I had no patience for his stupid intrusion. “Of course I am! And that is the rudest question I have heard in a long time.”
He just laughed. “Understandable, don’t you think? You’re the prettiest girl in Dearing, and the smartest too. Wish I knew what you want with Franky Hammond.”