Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She advanced slowly up the brick-paved walkway, and as she neared, she realized he held something behind his hip, something she couldn’t identify. She paused, perturbed with herself  for being apprehensive. She was letting Grace’s imagination and Viola’s worries affect her.

  “Reverend Dille, I have a barn around back where your horse will be comfortable. Shall we get her settled in a stall before we go in?” She stared at the dark splotch where he continued to move his hand up and down, up and down in a rhythmic pattern.

  He angled his head, maintaining his position and the strange movement. “That’s a fine idea, but I reckon this fella might be sad to see me get up.”

  A white diamond-shaped patch popped up. Bess released a half sigh, half laugh of relief. The boarders must have released Sammy-Cat for his evening stroll. The friendly creature was cuddled up next to the preacher. The man’s dark coat and the cat’s dark fur blended so well she hadn’t realized the cat was there.

  She hurried forward, her heart so light she almost believed she could float. “I see you’ve met my mouser.”

  He chuckled, still petting the cat that now placed its front feet on the man’s thigh as if  holding him in place. “Yep. He’s sure a nice one—made me feel right at home.”

  Bess shook her head, pinching her lips against the giggle trying to escape. Any apprehensions she’d held fluttered away like a butterfly on a spring breeze. Rufus Dille might be young and even immature, but he had a good soul. Sammy-Cat saw it, and she did, too.

  Theo

  Theo plopped Rufus Dille’s valise on the end of the quilt-covered bed and then sat next to it. The mattress bounced on its springs. He spread his arms and flopped backward, making it bounce a few more times. He smiled. He’d sleep well tonight. Or would he? Mrs. Kirby’s final words after lighting the three —three!—lamps in the room and turning down the edge of the patchwork quilt blared through his mind.

  “I look forward to tomorrow morning’s sermon, Reverend Dille.”

  He had to come up with a sermon between now and ten o’clock in the morning. It just might take the whole night.

  He pushed himself upright and unbuckled the valise. He removed the articles of clothing and shook them to remove as many wrinkles as possible. Then he laid the shirt, pants, and jacket in one of the drawers in the bureau across from the bed. He wadded up the extra long johns and stockings and pushed them into the corner of another drawer. The string ties he stretched out along the bureau’s top between a framed picture of a woman cradling a kitten under her chin and one of the oil lamps.

  A wardrobe—tall, with a carved top piece and twin mirrors on the doors—lurked in the corner. He put his boots in the bottom of the wardrobe and started to toss the valise in, too. But he remembered the letters. He should put them in a drawer. He pulled them out, dropped the valise, and snapped the doors closed.

  He started toward the bureau, but then he changed course and scuffed across the fringed rug that covered a fair portion of the stained pine floor to a pair of matching chairs flanking a tall, slender window draped with lace panels. A round, marble-topped table between the chairs held the second of the oil lamps. He rested the stack of  letters against the brass base of the lamp and sank onto the fabric-covered seat of one of the chairs. Slowly he relaxed against the tufted backrest. He sighed. Soft but not too soft, with a back high enough to support his shoulders.

  Contentment washed through him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the realization that the room was really his. All his. He’d never expected to live in a place so clean and bright. A real mattress instead of a cloth sack stuffed with straw? Store-bought chairs that fit his tall frame and cradled his tired body? These were the things of dreams. Already he felt at home. He wanted to keep this new home, but he had to earn the privilege. By preaching.

  His eyes popped open. He had to preach in the morning. But what would he say?

  He forced his memory clear back to his days of  living with Granny Iva. They’d gone to church every Sunday, whether the day was sunny, cloudy, wet, or windy. He couldn’t remember much of what the preacher spoke from the raised platform at the front of the church, but he did recall the man making use of  his Bible. Usually held it open on his broad palm with the pages draped like the wings of a dove in flight. If  he looked through a Bible, he could probably find some words to share.

  He bolted out of the chair and shot halfway across the room, his heart pounding so hard and fast he feared it would burst. Granny Iva’s Bible! He’d put it in the bag with his other belongings, and the bag had disappeared along with Reverend Dille’s wagon. The loss struck with such force his legs collapsed.

  He dropped to the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. His chest ached as badly as the day they’d buried Granny Iva. Losing the Bible was like losing her all over again. Even though he hadn’t read it in years, having it reminded him of  her. Reminded him of  happy times. Comforted him. How could he have been so careless? He should’ve kept it close instead of  leaving it where thieves could steal it away.

  “I’m so sorry, Granny…” The words tore from his soul, leaving his throat dry and aching.

  Tomorrow he’d stand in front of a congregation. A congregation that expected to hear a sermon. A sermon that came from God’s book. A book Theo no longer possessed. All his fine plans to become someone new, to stay in this town and be accepted, crumbled like a cube of sugar under a careless man’s boot heel.

  With a deep sigh he rose and undressed. As he draped Rufus Dille’s suit over one of the chairs, he decided to enjoy sleeping in this wonderful room. Because, most likely, it would be the only night he’d get to stay here.

  Grace

  Uncle Philemon opened the Sunday morning service by leading the congregation in singing three hymns. Grace tried to sing, but nervousness tied her vocal cords in a knot.

  At the back of the preacher’s raised dais, Rufus sat with his hands clamped on his knees. His knuckles glowed white against the black of  his trousers. His face nearly matched the white collar of  his shirt. He looked terrified, and his fear stirred her sympathy. The man who penned bold, confident missives had disappeared inside the crisp black suit, and she longed for his return. For her sake, but mostly for his.

  The singing ended with a resounding “ ‘Ahhhmen…’ ” that seemed to linger even after the voices stilled. Uncle Philemon slipped the songbook on a small table next to the dais and turned toward Rufus. “Reverend Dille?”

  Rufus didn’t move. If  he hadn’t blinked, Grace would have wondered if he’d died of  fright.

  Uncle Philemon cleared his throat. “Reverend Dille? Are you ready to begin?”

  Rufus jerked to his feet so quickly it seemed someone had poked him with a branding iron. He staggered to the front edge of the dais and gripped the simple pulpit with both hands. “Y-yes. Let’s…begin.”

  Uncle Philemon squeezed Rufus’s forearm, crossed to Grace’s usual pew, and slid in beside her. She’d always liked this seat at the front and center of the sanctuary, where she could see and hear everything clearly. But at that moment, she was able to see a little too clearly. Beads of sweat popped up over Rufus’s forehead and upper lip. He held so tightly to the pulpit that the pine frame squeaked. His shaking knees vibrated the wooden dais.

  Grace whispered, “Uncle Philemon, do something. He’s going to faint.”

  Her uncle braced himself to stand, and suddenly Rufus spoke.

  “Good morning, everyone.” The words emerged shrill and sharp, more a plea than a greeting.

  Grace responded automatically. “Good morning, Reverend Dille.”

  Several titters and muffled guffaws erupted from the pews behind her. Grace set her jaw, resisting the urge to turn around and scowl at the offenders. When Uncle Philemon offered a greeting, dozens of people returned it with their own “Good morning.” Why were they all so silent today?

  “It’s g-good to…to…” Rufus licked his lips. His gaz
e dropped to the pulpit’s slanted top and stayed there. Seconds ticked by. Stilted, silent seconds. Followed by people shifting in the seats or whispering to their neighbors.

  Grace nudged her uncle, and once again he pressed his palms to the pew and started to rise.

  Rufus’s head bounced up, and his eyes met Uncle Philemon’s. “Is it all right if  I tell a story?”

  Uncle Philemon eased back into the pew. He nodded. “That’s fine, son. Go ahead.”

  To Grace’s relief, Rufus released his firm hold on the pulpit and stepped to the side of the wooden stand. “I’ll tell you about…the Samaritan who helped a wounded man.”

  Grace was very familiar with Jesus’s parable about the helpful Samaritan, told to a lawyer who questioned Jesus’s instruction to love his neighbors. She opened her Bible to the tenth chapter of  Luke.

  “You see, there was this fellow. He was travelin’. All by himself. An’ some robbers came along. They hurt him an’ took everything he owned. I think they even took his clothes.” Rufus locked his hands together, angled his gaze to the rafters overhead, and rocked on his heels as he spoke. “Then they left him, figurin’ he was dead. Some other fellas came along. Men that should’ve helped, but they just left the hurt man lyin’ there in the dust.”

  He whisked a look at Uncle Philemon as if to question whether he’d gotten the details correct. Her uncle offered a barely discernible nod. Rufus pulled in a full breath, blew it out, and examined the rafters again.

  “Then along came a Samaritan. And this Samaritan felt sorry for the hurt man. So he bandaged him up an’ took him to a place where folks would take care of  him. He even paid for it. He did all that even though he didn’t know this fellow at all.” He stopped rocking and stared at the ceiling, as still and silent as a statue.

  Grace found herself  holding her breath, waiting for him to finally share the moral of  his tale. Her breath released in a sigh of relief when he jerked to life and faced the congregation.

  He held his arms wide and shrugged. “That’s all I remember.” He started to step down from the dais.

  “That’s all?” Deacon Judd blasted the question.

  Rufus froze in place.

  Murmurs rolled across the sanctuary.

  Uncle Philemon shifted in his seat. “Leland…”

  Deacon Judd glared at him. “You’re not the preacher here anymore, so you can’t tell me not to speak.” He aimed the glower at Rufus. “What kind of a sermon was that?”

  Rufus hung his head. The defeated pose pierced Grace, but she also wondered why he’d delivered such a poor message. Hadn’t his years at the Bible college prepared him for leadership?

  Rufus muttered, “A pitiful one, I know. I…I don’t have a Bible.” He held out his hand and stared at his empty palm.

  “Well, of course he doesn’t.” Mrs. Kirby spoke from her spot near the back. “Remember? His wagon was stolen, along with everything in it.”

  More murmurs sounded, but these held a tone of sympathy rather than condemnation.

  “Study books and sermon notes were in that wagon, too, weren’t they, Reverend Dille?”

  Rufus nodded.

  Mrs. Kirby strode up the aisle, holding her Bible in front of  her like a shield. “Here, Reverend. Use mine for now. I opened to Luke ten as soon as you mentioned the Samaritan.” She plopped the open Bible on Rufus’s outstretched hand and stepped back. “Go ahead. Read the passage to us. It will help you recall what you wanted us to learn from the story.” She returned to her seat, her skirts flaring behind her.

  Rufus stepped behind the pulpit, his movements so slow it appeared his joints had rusted. He laid the Bible on the podium and licked his lips. He glanced at the congregation, swallowed, and angled his gaze at the Bible. He drew in a mighty breath that expanded his chest. And finally he began to read.

  “ ‘And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves…’ ” He read from verses thirty to thirty-five, and as he read, his tone lost its breathiness and grew in strength. He finished the passage with a note of wonder. “ ‘Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? And he said, He that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.’ ”

  He lifted his face from the text and faced the congregation. “Jesus didn’t tell him something easy. Because lovin’ others isn’t easy. Especially someone who’s a stranger. Most folks would rather spend their lovin’ on their own.”

  Deacon Judd harrumphed.

  Rufus winced, shook his head, and tapped his finger on the Bible’s crinkly page. “But right here Jesus tells us ‘do thou likewise.’ Do like the Samaritan. Be merciful…be lovin’ to other folks…even if they’re strangers.”

  He shrugged, his expression innocent. “If  Jesus said it, we oughtta do it. An’…”—he sent a slow look around the room—“that’s all.”

  Grace was certain she’d just heard the clumsiest sermon ever presented in the Fairland Gospel Church, yet something about the sincerity with which it was delivered touched her. “If  Jesus said it, we oughtta do it.” So childlike. So simplistic. Yet so very true.

  Apparently others found the unpretentious message touching, too, because a few people sniffled. Uncle Philemon leaned forward slightly and whispered, “If you’re finished, please close in prayer.”

  Rufus’s eyes widened. He slapped the Bible closed, hugged it to his heart, and gaped at the congregation. “I…you…” He bolted off the dais. “Let’s sing ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds.’ ”

  Sedalia, Missouri

  Earl

  Earl’s horse, its head hanging low, plodded between the brick-and-limestone buildings on Ohio Street. Earl sagged in the saddle, as weary as the beast carrying him. The horse’s hooves were almost soundless against the dirt road, and not a soul wandered the planked boardwalks. He shivered in spite of the warm spring sun beaming straight down on the street. He might have been the only living person in the whole town.

  He read the words on every storefront, proud that he could do it. When he found a café or restaurant, he’d stop, go inside, and treat himself to someone else’s cooking. He frowned at the dark windows. Would something be open? He hoped so. He’d had enough trail food over the past weeks to last him a lifetime.

  His horse clopped across an intersection, and the three-story buildings changed to single-story ones with false fronts. Midway up the block Earl finally spotted the word café painted in tall, square letters on a plate-glass window. “Whoa…” He drew his horse to a stop and slid down from the saddle, relieved to have his boots on the ground. He looped the reins over the hitching rail and stepped onto the boardwalk.

  No lights burned inside the café. Scowling, he cupped his hands beside his eyes and pressed close to the glass. Tall wooden booths lined the walls on both sides, and a few tables filled the middle of the floor. But no one sat waiting for a meal. He couldn’t spot any movement inside at all.

  With a muffled curse he turned from the window and nearly plowed into a stern-faced man wearing a leather vest over his shirt. A silver star gleamed on his left shoulder.

  “What’re you doin’?”

  Earl’s stomach quavered. How many times had one of the prison guards asked a question like that? Even if  he hadn’t been up to anything wrong, they’d made excuses to punish him by withholding meals or making him scrub the cement floors until his fingers bled. He’d developed a respect born of  fear for anyone in authority. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing now and risk retribution.

  “I was lookin’ to see if they were open for business. Wantin’ to buy a good dinner.” He forced a grin, hoping the man would relax his stance. “Guess you could say I’m missin’ my ma’s cookin’.”

  The man’s frown remained intact. “None of the businesses in town are open today. It’s Sunday, when folks go to service an’ then go home to be with their families.” He looked Earl up and down,
his lips curling. “Even if the café was open, they don’t let characters like you come inside.”

  Earl glanced at his reflection in the glass and gave a start. He hadn’t bathed, shaved, or changed his clothes in more than two weeks. He knew he was grubby, but he hadn’t realized how much it showed. He’d probably scare his own brothers with the way he looked.

  He took a sideways step toward his horse. “Reckon I’ll just clear out then.”

  “Reckon you should.”

  The lawman moved to the edge of the porch while Earl swung into the saddle, and he still sensed the man’s glare on his back a full block away. If  hurrying wouldn’t make him seem suspicious, he’d stir his horse into a full gallop and get out of town as quick as possible. He sat erect, face forward, and maintained a sedate clip-clop.

  From somewhere on his right, a sound—notes from an organ—captured Earl’s attention. Instinctively he pulled the reins, and the horse stopped with a snort of complaint. Earl tipped his ear toward the pleasant sound. As he listened, voices joined the organ, creating a beautiful harmony. Chills broke over his body—not chills of discomfort but ones of pleasure. He couldn’t make out the words, but the combination of voices and ringing notes touched his soul. There’d been so few things a fellow could think of as pleasant in prison. Ten years of ugliness were stored up and needed to be purged.

  He should get closer, maybe go inside, hear what the folks were singing. He tugged the reins, angling the horse’s head in the direction of the music. But as he prepared to tap his heels to the horse’s side, he remembered what he looked like. Dirty. Scruffy. With an overgrown beard and tangled hair so long it fell over his collar. He huffed. If  he wasn’t welcome in a café, why would he be welcome in a house of  God? Sadness sat as heavy as a boulder on his chest.

  “C’mon, horse, let’s go.”

  As the horse clip-clopped up the road and entered the open country, Earl discovered one good thing about his visit. He’d left his hunger behind in the town.