Little Shoes and Mistletoe

by Sally Laity

  Eliza suddenly thought of Micah Richmond, remembering she hadn’t seen him among the worshipers when she and her aunt made their way to their seats. Not that she was looking for him, especially, but his would have been the only other familiar face in this congregation of strangers.

  Returning a few polite smiles from people around her, she shifted her attention forward.

  Just then, the Reverend Thomas Norman rose from one of three large chairs on the platform and moved to the pulpit. He adjusted the sleeves of his charcoal suit as he surveyed his flock through gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “I bid you all good morning on this lovely Lord’s Day,” he said, his smile warm and welcoming. “I’m certain Wilf Perkins has chosen some stirring hymns to lead off our service, but first, let us open with prayer.” He bowed his graying head and spoke in a solemn voice. “Almighty God, Who sustains, guides, and protects us, we gather in Thy presence in humble thankfulness for Thy unfailing goodness and mercy to us all. Grant that we may worship Thee in spirit and in truth this day as we endeavor to glorify Thy Son, in whose name we pray. Amen.”

  Something about the pastor’s manner greatly encouraged Eliza, and as the closing bars of the last hymn before the sermon faded and the man once again stepped to the lectern, she eagerly anticipated his words.

  “Our text this morning is found in the fourth chapter of Philippians,” he announced, “a passage with which I’m certain many of you dear folk are acquainted.”

  Eliza turned to it during the ensuing shuffle of crisp pages throughout the room.

  “In this letter. . .” Pastor Norman’s voice took on a booming quality, reverberating through the sanctuary. “The apostle Paul testified, ‘I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.’ And in writing to Timothy, upon another occasion, he proclaimed that ‘godliness with contentment is great gain.’ But how could someone who had suffered the magnitude of adversity which Paul endured ever find contentment in such troubled circumstances? That’s what we are about to find out, dearly beloved, as we examine in depth the apostle’s own words.”

  Eliza, musing over her own recent adversity, somehow gave the minister her whole attention while he continued relating the great saint’s trials and suffering. She easily found the alternate passages used during the discourse. Many were already underlined in her Bible.

  “But even a man as great as this,” Pastor Norman continued, holding forth his large, frayed copy of the Scriptures, “was flesh and blood. He laughed, cried, got angry, became perplexed—and he was deeply conscious of his weaknesses. At times he openly acknowledged not only fear, but despair of life itself.

  “Yet through it all, one thing held true. From his very conversion and subsequent trials, Paul was being drawn closer to the Lord, to His love and His power. He was being made like Him. Small wonder he could write, ‘For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.’ ”

  The words sounded oddly discomfiting to Eliza as she compared them to her own situation. Perhaps she hadn’t shut herself off from God in this heartbreak, but she had yet to reach the point where she could forgive Weston for taking her love and throwing it back in her face. And Melanie’s betrayal had seemed doubly cruel. Those wounds were still so fresh, the pain so intense. Eliza knew it would be a very long while before she could say in truth that she was becoming more like Christ—if ever. She needed to give the matter serious contemplation.

  The minister paused and swept a glance around his congregation. “I’ll close with this thought. The more satisfied we are with Jesus, the more we draw our strength from Him, the more firmly we’ll stand up through all the bitter gales of adversity. Every believer can learn to find contentment in Him. It is, my friends, a matter of the heart. Let us pray. . . .”

  Engrossed in her own thoughts, Eliza scarcely noticed as Mr. Perkins again took charge for the closing hymn and benediction.

  Afterward, Aunt Phoebe took her hand and made the rounds, joyfully introducing her to the ladies of the church, a few deacons, and last of all, the pastor. But when her aunt became involved in a lengthy discussion with some friends from the Ladies’ Benevolent Society, Eliza felt suddenly out of place. She meandered to the front of the sanctuary where the young woman in burgundy stood collecting her music.

  “Excuse me,” Eliza said tentatively.

  The golden-haired girl turned, her gray-green eyes alight. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to express to you how much I appreciated the music you played during the service.”

  “Why, thank you.” A faint blush revealed a shy nature.

  “I hate to admit it,” Eliza continued, “but I was absolutely dreadful at my piano lessons, so I recognize a gift when I hear one.”

  The young woman smiled. “I’m Anabelle Dumont, and you’re. . .?”

  “Eliza Criswell, Phoebe Harper’s niece, from Harrisburg.”

  “Oh, of course.” An airy quality to her voice indicated a growing ease. “Micah told me about you. I believe you’ve already met him? Micah Richmond?” She scanned the departing crowd and frowned. “He was hoping to make the service this morning, but something else must have arisen.”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” Eliza replied. “He came by my aunt’s shop a few days ago.”

  “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Criswell.”

  “Eliza. Please.”

  “Eliza then. And you must call me Anabelle. I assume we’ll have many opportunities to get to know each other, now that you’re living here in New York.”

  “I would imagine. Well, thank you—for the music, and for letting me bother you and all.”

  Anabelle blushed again. “It was no bother. Welcome to Faith Community. I hope you’ll soon feel at home among us.”

  Eliza nodded and turned, rejoining her aunt, who was bidding the reverend good day. With a parting smile, she took the older woman’s arm and assisted her down the steps to their waiting hired carriage.

  “I see you met our fair Anabelle,” Aunt Phoebe remarked as they plodded homeward. “She. . .keeps company, shall we say, with young Micah Richmond.”

  “Oh?” For some odd reason, Eliza’s interest piqued, then flattened again in relief. Yet another reason she needn’t waste thoughts on that particular man.

  “Yes,” her aunt went on. “Seems their families have enjoyed a close, lifelong relationship, so Ana and Micah have grown up together. Their parents naturally assume they’ll wed one day.”

  “How nice.” Eliza paused, choosing her next words with care. “I felt drawn to Anabelle, somehow. Her music, her. . . spirit. Something I can’t name. Not that I’m seeking new friends, just now. But I couldn’t help but notice there were very few young people in your church.”

  Her aunt’s silver brows arched high. “Not seeking friends? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing—especially since one couldn’t find a sweeter companion than Anabelle Dumont. Most of her peers have married and moved elsewhere, so I would imagine she would appreciate a new friend herself.”

  The mild rebuff made Eliza smile with chagrin.

  “And you certainly don’t need to be cloistered for days on end with no one but an old woman for company. I’ll ask Ana over to tea,” Aunt Phoebe determined. “I don’t get out to many of the church functions or socials anymore, and I never go out at night in the winter. These old bones can’t seem to take the cold the way they used to. But I’m sure she will manage a visit. I’ll pass on the invitation through Micah when he stops by next.”

  Eliza gave a noncommittal nod and averted her attention to the passing scenery. This day, too, was clear and sunny, even though quite cold. Couples strolled arm in arm along the snowy path that ran alongside the Hudson River, happy and smiling as they exchanged adoring looks.

  The reminder of her own loss brought a sharp jab of pain. Was her former fiancО even now parading his new wife along some wintry park setting for all
the world to see? Anger rose up within her, stealing the pleasure of the day and, along with it, the joy she had derived from the music and the church service.

  After reaching home and enjoying a light repast, Aunt Phoebe took advantage of the shop closure to lie down.

  Eliza picked up the project she’d been working on and went upstairs to her room.

  Cheery and bright, and looking out upon a broad expanse of the river several dozen yards away, the boudoir’s entirely feminine decor displayed yet more of her aunt’s artistry. It was papered beautifully with pale blue and white stripes on the lower portion and miniature roses above, and a hand-painted rose vine trailed above and below the white wainscoting. Eliza had spent a good part of her first day at her aunt’s just admiring the perfectly rendered blooms.

  Lowering herself onto the blue velvet chaise positioned to take advantage of the window’s light, she set to work again on the tatted border around the edge of a handkerchief. It would be some time before she would feel adroit at this delicate skill, but eventually she hoped to produce the quality of work someone might buy. Determined to master the art as quickly as possible, she worked carefully.

  Mulling over the day’s events and conversations brought to mind her new acquaintances. So Anabelle Dumont and Micah Richmond were keeping company, as Aunt Phoebe put it. It was easy enough to deduce what he saw in the organist, but what about the reverse? For the life of her, Eliza could think only of Weston when recollections of the child placement worker crossed her mind. And those thoughts were far from pleasant.

  She frowned. She certainly wasn’t being fair to the gentleman from Aunt Phoebe’s church. After all, he’d been nothing but proper when they’d met. Perhaps she’d only imagined a resemblance between her former betrothed and this young man. Yes, that was it. She’d always been plagued by an overactive imagination, and in her present frame of mind, she might mistake anyone for the fiancО who had consumed all of her waking thoughts for the past few years.

  Well, she certainly didn’t need any reminders of Weston Elliot. She planned to erase him from her mind for good. She did not want to think about him—ever. For the rest of her life.

  three

  Ships and warehouses lined busy South Street along New York’s East River, where piers stretched for a distance of three miles, in what was termed “Packet Row.” The bustle of activity knew no season. Summer and winter, ocean vessels and packets of every size and purpose lay at anchor as passengers lined the quays and milled about, chattering to the small groups of individuals who had come to offer welcomes or bid farewells.

  The area teemed with the clamor of street traffic, seabirds, and ships’ whistles. Seamen of countless nationalities hollered to one another while hefting bulky ropes and moving cargo alternately aboard or ashore, according to their bills of lading. And not to be outdone, hawkers yelled above the melee, trying to entice customers to buy their wares.

  Used to the confusion of the wharves, Micah paid it scarcely any mind as he hastened along, intent on his errand. A dockworker had informed him of a little homeless girl who’d been appearing out of nowhere whenever a new ship arrived. Belonging to no one, and with no other means to support herself, she would stand on the quay and sing, depending on some kind soul for a few pennies or dimes with which to buy her next meal.

  This was not the first “singing girl” he’d heard of. The practice was heartbreakingly common among immigrant children orphaned by cholera or influenza. Such youngsters often sought meager shelter for the night in trash barrels or sometimes huddled against a closed door—anything to get out of the biting wind. Micah intended to find this little one a place to stay, even if only temporarily. Knowing the timid urchins feared the authorities, he kept a casual pace, his eyes darting about, searching likely hiding places.

  At last he caught a movement on the edge of his vision. He turned his head slowly, feigning interest in some goods a passing peddler had for sale. Sure enough, he spied a street child. Painfully thin and ragged, bare-legged and hatless even in the bitter cold, she was scavenging in a refuse container. Dear Father, she can’t be more than seven or eight. And she needs help. Please give me wisdom in how to handle this situation.

  Experience taught him to go slowly in these instances. He took up a position behind an object that would prevent her from noticing him, then forced himself to stand by and do nothing except keep watch.

  At that moment, the faraway blast from an incoming ship announced its approach.

  Her head snapped in that direction, a tiny smile appearing in her dirty face as she meandered toward the available dock.

  He smiled inwardly and followed. With her absorbed in performing for disembarking passengers, he just might manage to blend into the crowd. . .and have her sing for him. Thank You, Father.

  It seemed to take an interminable amount of time for the vessel to chug its way into the harbor, drop anchor, and be secured. But at last Micah saw the gangplank lower into place. Passengers started down the wooden walkway.

  As they neared the bottom, the little ragamuffin stepped out into plain view. Trembly at first, her thin, high voice broke forth in a hymn, gathering strength with each phrase.

  Most folks completely ignored her.

  Their callousness caught at Micah’s heart. Look at her! he wanted to shout. But for the grace of God, she could be your own little one! But the new arrivals had more important things on their minds. Precious few tossed even a single coin in her direction.

  Determined now, Micah merged into a group of descending folk and eased his way across to the other side of the gangplank, heading straight for the child.

  “A song for ye, mister?” she asked shyly as he came nearer.

  “Why, sure, young lady.” He grinned, stopping to give her his whole attention. “Happen to know ‘Abide with Me’?”

  She nodded, her stringy hair bobbing with the motion. Opening her rosebud mouth, she sang the words perfectly, her grimy face shining with hope.

  All the while he listened, Micah had to steel that portion of his heart that ached for each child such as this he encountered, willing the sorrow not to bring forth tears of anger, frustration, and grief.

  “What do you suppose that song means?” he asked when she finished.

  The thin shoulders beneath the threadbare coat shrugged.

  “Do you know about God?”

  Another shrug. “He lives up in heaven.”

  “Did you know He cares about you and wants to be your Friend?”

  At this, her wary brown eyes took on a dubious look. “Are ye gonna give me money?”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Micah withdrew a pair of silver coins and dropped them into her tiny hand. When she appeared about to bolt, he dug for another. “Say, I was just about to go have something to eat. I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

  She stared for a moment before giving a grudging nod.

  “Well, I know a place where there are lots of children, and they’re just about to sit down to some hot soup and fresh bread. And after awhile, they’ll be sleeping in warm, soft beds. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  Her gaze dropped to the money in her palm, and she averted her eyes to the ground.

  “And it doesn’t cost one copper penny,” Micah added quickly. Watching the play of emotions in her face, he took a risk. “You know, honey, God happens to be a friend of mine, and He told me you needed help. Would you let me help you? There’s another snowstorm coming.” His sober expression gave emphasis.

  Until he said that, she remained passive. But then her eyes swam with tears.

  It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to sweep her up into his arms. Instead, he offered a hand.

  Turning her watery gaze to his, she hesitated briefly before placing her fingers into his palm.

  Micah covered her tiny hand with his other one and smiled down at her. “My name is
Micah. What’s yours?”

  “Rachel,” she whispered, the gleam of hope in her eyes slowly overtaking the despair.

  ❧

  “My, but you’re quiet this evening.” Bringing a tray of tea and sliced nut bread into the parlor of her parents’ home on fashionable Lexington Avenue, Anabelle set it on the coffee table before taking a seat beside Micah on the indigo brocade sofa. Matching gas lamps had been turned down low, and the soft, dim light gave the room an intimate air.

  He smiled gently. “I had a rather long day.”

  “So I noticed,” she said pointedly as the grandfather clock in the hall of the comfortable brownstone house chimed eight times. She poured each of them some of the rich amber liquid, handing one cup to him before helping herself to the other.

  Micah reached for the cream pitcher and added a dollop as she stirred her usual two sugar cubes into hers. With the golden firelight as a backdrop, Anabelle’s hair shone like a halo, and when she settled back against the sofa, her perfect profile appeared outlined in molten light. As always he admired her flawless, fragile beauty.

  “What detained you?” she finally asked.

  “I came across a street child this afternoon, one who needed food and a place to stay. It took awhile to arrange things.”

  “You were successful, then.” Her words were more statement than question.

  He nodded.

  Anabelle sipped delicately from her cup, returning it to the saucer with an almost inaudible clink. “You know, Micah, I can’t understand why you feel compelled to make all the city’s orphans your personal responsibility.”

  He braced himself for the comments he knew would follow.

  “There will always be needy children. Even the Bible says that. But here in New York the problem is almost overwhelming. You should be able to put in a day’s work and then leave at a regular time, as does everyone else.”

  Her sentiments were not new. It seemed she’d said the same thing a thousand times before, in as many ways. Lacking energy to suppress his ragged sigh, he didn’t fight it. “You know I feel called by the Lord to do what I do. It’s not just a job; it’s my ministry.”