A Simple Change

by Judith Miller

  © 2013 by Judith A. Miller

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6143-4

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  Cover photography by Aimee Christensen

  Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.

  To Wendy Lawton

  Thank you for your godly wisdom,

  creative spirit, boundless encouragement,

  and unfailing friendship.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Special thanks to . . .

  About the Author

  Books by Judith Miller

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  A man’s heart deviseth his way:

  but the Lord directeth his steps.

  —Proverbs 16:9

  Chapter 1

  February 1881

  Kansas City, Missouri

  I lifted the lid of the gaily decorated story-day box sitting beside me and glanced about the semicircle of children surrounding my chair. Their eyes sparkled with anticipation as they looked at the box and then peered at me. When I didn’t immediately remove anything from the box, the youngsters—six boys and four girls, ranging in age from five to ten years—craned their necks forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of what might be inside. Before they could meet with any success, I placed the lid back on the box. Ten little chests deflated, and a unified moan escaped their lips.

  None of them had developed any patience, at least not when it pertained to the story-day box. For the orphans who lived and attended my classes in the Kansas City Charity Home, the weekly story-day event had become an enchanting time that rivaled even recess.

  Nettie stretched her arm and pointed her index finger toward the box. “What did you bring, Miss Jancey?”

  Matthew folded his body forward and turned his head to face Nettie. “Mr. Ludwig said we’re supposed to call her Miss Rhoder, not Miss Jancey. He said ‘Miss Jancey’ wasn’t proper for a schoolteacher, didn’t he, Miss Rhoder?” The nine-year-old sat up and brushed the dark strands of hair off his forehead.

  “He did, Matthew. I believe Nettie merely forgot the new rule.”

  The six-year-old towheaded girl tucked her chin against her chest. “I’m sorry, Miss Rhoder.”

  “It’s quite all right, Nettie. Now that we have a different director, we all must learn the new rules.”

  Although I thought this particular regulation a bit silly, I’d been silent about the change when Mr. Ludwig, the new director, made the announcement. My decision had been strategic. Except for insisting the children address teachers and other staff by surnames, Mr. Ludwig’s regulations were less strident than those of the previous director. This particular rule didn’t warrant making waves in the rather calm sea of change we’d experienced since his arrival. Besides, in the three years I’d been working at the orphanage, I’d learned that challenges were best saved for important issues—ones that most affected the children’s care and education.

  Matthew scooted to the edge of his chair and squared his shoulders. “I already know all of the rules.”

  Caroline lifted her arm and waved in my direction. Once I nodded for her to speak, Caroline turned toward Matthew. “You don’t know all the rules, Matthew Turner, or you would have raised your hand before speaking.” After directing a smirk at Matthew, Caroline patted Nettie’s arm and whispered in the girl’s ear.

  John raised his hand. “Are you going to tell us a story, Miss Rhoder?”

  “I am, but first we’re going to do something different. Instead of bringing a lot of my belongings from home, I thought it would be fun to make some of the things we need to help us act out our story today.”

  My idea met with mixed emotions. The girls appeared pleased by the idea of participating in the activity, while the boys wanted to begin the storytelling.

  Matthew folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the story and what do we have to make?”

  “Today we’re going to combine history with storytelling. We’re going to reenact George Washington crossing the Delaware with his troops.” I looked at Matthew and the other boys. Their frowns turned to smiles at the mention of George Washington and his troops.

  While reaching into the story-box, I looked around the group. “Who can think of something we might want to make for our journey across the river?”

  “I know. I know!” Charlie shouted. “We need boats.”

  Matthew jabbed the younger boy with his elbow. “We can’t build boats, Charlie.”

  I stood and motioned to Charlie. “I think we can form some pretend boats with chairs. Would you like to take charge of the boats for us, Charlie?”

  He bobbed his head and smiled. “Want to help, Matthew?”

  Though I hadn’t expected him to agree, Matthew jumped to his feet and pulled a chair to the far side of the room. “Let’s do it over here.”

  Once the boys were busy arranging chairs, I pulled a sheaf of newspapers from the story-box. “We can make tricorne hats out of the newspaper, and I brought some butcher paper we can paint blue for the water.” I tapped my chin. “I don’t know what we can use to create make-believe ice in the water. Any ideas?” I glanced around the room.

  Bertie waved toward the dining room. “We can lump up some of the towels and napkins.”

  The other girls applauded her suggestion, and soon the children were hard at work creating the mock scene. Once the scene was completed, I related the story of how General Washington had rallied his men, and how, in the freezing weather, they’d successfully crossed the frigid waters.

  When I finished explaining the history, I looked at the group of boys, all of them eager to participate in acting out the story. “Who would like to play George Washington?”

  To my surprise, Matthew motioned to Charlie. “I think it s
hould be Charlie. He’s the one who figured out how to make the chairs into boats.”

  My heart swelled at Matthew’s suggestion. He’d suggested Charlie instead of himself for the major role. Such a thing wouldn’t have happened a year ago, but throughout the past year, with a bit of coaching and encouragement, Matthew had made strides in the right direction.

  Moments later, I pulled him aside. “I’m proud of you, Matthew.”

  His cheeks flamed red from the praise, and he ducked his head. “He deserved it.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “Why don’t you take charge of the second boat?”

  Nodding, Matthew hurried forward and motioned for several of the children to join him. These slight modifications in the children’s behavior had become a measuring stick for me. When I saw changes for the good, it confirmed that this orphanage was where I was meant to teach.

  At the time I’d accepted the job, my parents had expressed concern. They’d anticipated that upon completion of my education, I would accept a position at a finishing school for a year or two and then marry. Instead, I’d returned home, accepted a post at the orphanage school, and remained single—at least for the present.

  If Nathan Woodward had his way, we’d already be married. Nathan had proved to be the persistent sort. My father said that was a good thing, but I wasn’t so sure. At times, I thought him too impatient, too eager, a bit too sure of himself, and a bit too sure of me, as well. He never seemed to doubt that we would one day marry, but I remained uncertain. I had yet to sense the stomach flips and heart flutters my girlfriends spoke of experiencing when they’d fallen in love.

  “How does this look, Miss Rhoder?” Bertie had scrunched frayed white napkins into clumps and placed them on the blue butcher paper. “Henry says they don’t look like ice, but I told him he’s supposed to use his imagination.” She inched closer to my side and peered at me with eyes nearly the same shade of blue as my own. “The chairs don’t look like boats, either. How come Henry didn’t say that to Charlie or Matthew?”

  “Let’s overlook what he said for today. I don’t think he meant to hurt your feelings.” Although Bertie didn’t appear convinced, she agreed. “Everyone put on your hats and gather at the shoreline.”

  Henry perched his small hands on his hips and shook his head. “There weren’t any girls on the boats, Miss Rhoder.”

  Bertie jutted her chin. “There weren’t any boys, either, so if we can’t get in the boats, neither can you, Henry.”

  After a few minutes of explanation and arbitration, the children gathered to listen while Charlie gave a speech and rallied the troops. The children rowed with brooms and mops, pushing aside the clumped-up napkins while pretending to shiver from the freezing temperatures.

  I pretended to wave from shore. “What month and year is it?”

  Matthew raised his hand and I nodded at him. “December 1776.”

  “Excellent! And what war are we fighting?”

  Bertie didn’t wait for me to signal. Instead she cupped her hands to her lips. “The Revolting War against the Bristish.”

  Henry shook his head. “It’s the Revolutionary War and it’s British not ‘Bristish.’”

  Bertie’s lip quivered, and I turned to Henry. “She may have mispronounced the words, Henry, but Bertie’s answers were correct.” I stepped through the make-believe water and stooped down beside Henry. “What is our rule about correcting other students?”

  “We let the teacher do it,” he mumbled.

  I nodded and returned to the imaginary shoreline. “I’m glad I didn’t sink and drown while I was out by the boats.”

  The children giggled, and I soon continued questioning them about their history lesson. I knew when these questions appeared on their next test, they would all remember the answers. Story time and play acting had become my most effective teaching method, a technique I enjoyed as much as the children. And while Miss Manchester, who taught the older children, thought my system a silly waste of time, she did admit my children retained much of what they’d been taught during these sessions.

  I hadn’t learned this method in college, but rather during my childhood, as my mother entertained me with stories on rainy days or on evenings when my father worked late. Those times remained some of my favorite memories. I hoped our story times in school would give these children many fond memories to carry throughout their lifetimes, for I was certain that my memories of these children would always be important to me.

  “We need to pick up all of our materials and put the chairs back in place. We have only a few more minutes until end of class.”

  The chorus of aws that filled the room caused me to smile. “You all did a wonderful job of learning today. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Can you bring the story-box again tomorrow, Miss Rhoder?” Charlie stood beside the row of chairs he’d helped carry across the room.

  “Tomorrow is reading and arithmetic, but perhaps if you do well with those subjects tomorrow, we can do a story the following day.” The children clapped their approval while I placed materials back inside the box. “Maybe you should help each other with your reading and math homework this evening just to be sure you do well tomorrow.”

  A ringing bell in the main hallway signaled the end of the school day. The children lined up in a snaky row and bid me good-bye before heading off to the dining room, where they would each be served a slice of buttered bread to curb their hunger until suppertime. Like most orphanages, this one operated on a meager budget. And though the children received three meals a day, the food was simple fare and the servings scant. Soon after I accepted the position at the orphanage, I found going home to a table laden with well-prepared food a mixed blessing.

  As I waited for the horse-drawn trolley, a chill whipped at my skirt and tugged strands of my ash-blond hair loose from the spiral bun I’d carefully pinned in place early this morning. Tucking the hair behind my ear, I watched in earnest as the horses plodded down the street at a slow yet steady pace. After waiting in the chill February wind, I looked forward to the warmth of a blazing fire and a hot meal.

  I boarded the trolley and rubbed my hands together. Even my gloves couldn’t ward off the surprising chill in the air. Tonight I wouldn’t feel a twinge of guilt that my father had employed a cook and a housekeeper to tend the preparation of meals and the household duties. I’d struggled with the idea when my mother had first taken ill, and I still wondered if my parents thought it would be better for me to quit my teaching position and help at home. Though they both professed otherwise, I knew Mother sometimes felt uncomfortable having Mrs. Oelwine prepare meals and clean the house, but with her failing health, there had been no choice. Either I quit my job or we hire a housekeeper. Understanding how important the children had become to me, Mother decided Mrs. Oelwine would be a fine choice. And she had proved to be a perfect fit. Not only could she cook and clean to perfection, but Mrs. Oelwine also enjoyed conversing in German and sharing stories of her family with my mother.

  Reaching my destination, I stepped off the trolley and walked the short distance to our home, a large house with a sweeping front porch and giant columns—a stark contrast to the small spaces allocated to the children in the orphanage. This house was far more magnificent than any home my parents had ever expected to own. God had been gracious to them—at least that was my father’s opinion. Even though I believed my father deserved some of the credit, he vehemently disagreed.

  When I attempted to argue, my father would always say the same thing: “Many men are industrious, but most have not been rewarded with so many blessings. God has blessed us: There is no other explanation.”

  Sometimes I wondered what he truly thought about Mother’s illness. If he considered his financial success a reward from God, did he believe her poor health a punishment? Only once did I broach the subject with him. He’d opened his Bible to John chapter sixteen, pointed to verses twenty through twenty-three, and told me to read the passage.

  When I fin
ished, he looked at me over his wire-rimmed spectacles. His words remain etched in my mind. “We are not promised a life without suffering. That verse reveals that we will suffer. But we can remain filled with joy because we have a Savior who has overcome the world. It is suffering that makes us grow and cling to the Lord. It reveals our need for Him. When life is easy, we tend to forget how much we need the Lord. Do you understand?”

  Although I’d nodded my head in agreement, I hadn’t totally understood. And I still don’t. My mother was a good and faithful woman who deserved good health and happiness. Surely God knew that. How could she be filled with joy when she experienced such pain? My father said I should simply accept the ways of the Lord, but late at night I continue to question Him.

  “Is that you, Jancey?” My father’s voice drifted toward me as I stepped into the hallway.

  “Yes, it’s me, Father.” My stomach tightened. Why was he home so early? His days never ended until six o’clock—sometimes later. “Is something wrong?” Quickly removing my brocaded velvet cloak, I rushed up the stairs and down the hallway toward the upstairs sitting room. Still feeling the winter chill, I rubbed my arms as I entered the room.

  My parents sat side by side, my mother’s dainty fingers secured between my father’s callused hands. She appeared to be doing well. I inhaled a deep breath and released the tenseness that pinched my muscles.

  “I was afraid your health had taken a downward turn.” I smiled at my mother and stepped closer to the fire burning in the heating stove. “What brings you home so early, Father?”

  Deep creases that I hadn’t initially noticed lined his forehead. “For a while now, your mother and I have been considering a change.” The two of them exchanged a quick glance, and I saw the worried look in my father’s blue eyes that were a clear match of my own. “Come and sit down, Jancey.”

  My earlier apprehension returned in an unexpected rush. I stepped forward and settled beside him. “What sort of change?”

  We’d already made a number of changes to the house in order to accommodate Mother’s declining health. The current sitting room had once been a guest bedroom, and we’d even moved the dining table to one end of the room in order to take our meals together when Mother couldn’t navigate the stairs. There didn’t seem to be any other changes we could make.