by Nancy Moser
What was she going to do in Steadfast, Kansas?
Claire was an organizer. She lived out of her day planner. She was used to having her time scheduled and certain. To go to a small town in southeastern Kansas without knowing who, what, when, or how she was going to live was…unsettling. Would she need suits? Jeans? Sackcloth?
Logic suggested because God was having her give up everything, He was probably directing her to a simplified life. Therefore, no need for designer clothes. Wistfully bidding her beautiful things good-bye before bringing them to the Women’s Career Center, she settled on a khaki skirt and pants, a few pairs of jeans, a denim dress, and an assortment of tops and blouses. One black blazer. At the last minute, she threw in a pair of black dress slacks. Her fifty-seven pairs of shoes had been pared to four: tennis shoes, black flats, sandals, and one pair of tan pumps. Two pairs of earrings: one gold and one silver. She sold her Rolexes and gave the money to the church’s mission project. It was pitiful how two watches could provide Bibles for 2,438 people. She bought herself an inexpensive Timex.
The one thing she’d kept was Grandma Morris’s necklace. It had sat in her jewelry box for years, appreciated but unworn. While cleaning out drawers, Claire put it on and discovered she liked the feel of the cross on her chest—and the way it was always handy to run a finger across if the need arose.
Claire touched that cross now as she stood in the doorway, ready to say good-bye. She felt small and vulnerable without the things that had shaped her identity. She was left with just herself—
And You, Lord. Stay close. I need You.
And so, with one last wistful look, Claire Adams closed the door on her old life.
Claire hadn’t ridden on a bus since a church ski trip in high school. That bus had been loud and crowded. This one was quiet and sparse.
People chose their seats carefully, keeping their distance. Claire understood. They may have been fellow travelers heading in the same direction, but by their symbolic choice to be separate, they indicated that was all they had in common. Leave me alone, and tell me when we get there.
Not that anyone was hostile or unfriendly. This was the Midwest. You looked at people when you walked down the aisle. You smiled. You said hello. But then you dissolved into your own little habitat, turning your head to the window to watch the rest of the world flash by.
An hour out of Kansas City, Claire checked the money in her billfold. That had been another hard decision: how much money to bring with her. Her lawyer suggested she keep a savings account—perhaps holding ten thousand dollars—in case of emergencies. But Claire rejected the suggestion. If she had a contingency plan—if she had a way out—she might take it. Everything meant EVERYTHING.
At first she’d felt guilty keeping any money, but then she realized she would need money to get to Steadfast, and some for motel and food until she got a job or—
Or what?
Had she left one profession only to be sent to Steadfast to fall into another? Just like that? Although she had no proof, Claire didn’t think this was the way it would work. God had plenty of people to work in normal jobs, and He wouldn’t have asked her to give up everything to work in a Burger King somewhere.
At least…she hoped not.
Surely her job would be more unconventional and would involve working with people on a one-on-one basis. Something…inspiring. Meaningful. Profound.
But she’d need a place to sleep and she’d need to eat. Hence, she needed money. The amount she’d settled on came about oddly; but in retrospect, seemed appropriate.
Claire had a habit of leaving money in odd places: purses, jars, dishes on the counter. Loose change. A few bills. Throwaway money. Yet when she began to gather it together…when she took it to the bank and cashed it in—earning the oddest look from the teller—she had $397.32.
Not a small sum to have lying around. Yet a miniscule sum with which to start a new life. She’d already had to spend $32 to get the bus ticket. But God would provide. Wouldn’t He?
So her total net worth was now $375.32. By the world’s standards she was a failure. But by God’s standards? Good thing His view of a person’s worth was different.
She looked at her watch. Within an hour she would arrive at her new home. But I don’t have a home. Her new town. Where I know no one. To start over. Doing what?
She sucked in a breath. Her chest tightened.
What have I done?
Steadfast.
The city sign was ordinary Even in the moonlight Claire could see the holes from kids taking target practice with their BB guns. And the final t was slightly obliterated by a glob of bird doo. But as the bus passed by with the Kansas wind making the sign vibrate on its post, she knew—she knew—this was the place her new life would begin.
There was no bus station in Steadfast, only a bus stop in front of the courthouse. The scene was surreal, the painting come to life. But the town square was dark. Steadfast was a passing-through point, and as such had a late arrival time. It was after 1 A.M.
The driver helped her with her suitcase, looking around the empty streets. “You got someone coming to meet you?”
She picked up her suitcase. “I’ll be fine.” She was tempted to add a line about a friend picking her up but didn’t want to start her new life with a lie.
The driver didn’t look convinced, but he went back to the driver’s seat. The doors closed. The bus drove off, leaving her.
Alone.
She made herself breathe. In. Out. In. Out. It’ll be all right. Please, God, make it be all right.
She looked around. She’d been dropped in the middle of a set for the Andy Griffith Show. Did the people fit the profile that ticker-taped through her head? Two-parent families with a dog that lived in its own house out back; a high school football team that rose above all odds to take state; bake sales and car washes to earn money for a new roof on the fire station; and the requisite town drunk, town gossip, and town floozy.
Steadfast, meet Claire Adams.
I’m here, Lord. Now what?
She yawned. Although she’d slept on the bus, a crying baby had prevented total rest, so the first order of business was finding a place to sleep. Although she wasn’t picky, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself Park benches were too public, and the filth of back alleys was beyond the scope of her tolerance. She may have given up everything she owned, but she had standards. She did a three-sixty A hardware store, café, antique store, bar, grocery.
No motel, hotel, bed-and-breakfast, or Room for Rent sign. Most little towns had a motel on the edge of town, but which edge? Claire didn’t feel like wandering the streets at one in the morning, no matter how safe they might be.
The courthouse loomed large, the tan stone of the region making it appear strong and impenetrable. A flag flapped to her right. She looked at it. There was the other building shown in the painting. The library.
Claire walked toward it. She had always liked books—or the idea of books. Yet as a mosaic artist, she hadn’t had much need for Chaucer or Dickens. When was the last time she’d read for pleasure? Her excuse had been lack of time. Ha. She had time now. Plenty of it.
She scanned the building. The sheer size of it brought back wonderful memories. As a child, she and her cousin used to go to the neighborhood library every Saturday morning. They’d loved the musty smell of old wood and books and had claimed a favorite corner to read in, giggle in, and, as they grew older, watch boys from.
She paced the library’s perimeter, sizing it up like a cowboy eyeing a horse he wanted to buy. It was one story tall, but set up high, with worn stone steps leading to a newer, glass front door. There was a small, attic-type window on the front and a—
Claire stopped. She backtracked a step. Was that a light shining in the attic? At one in the morning? She stared at it, then smiled and whispered into the darkness, “The Lord turns my darkness into light.”
The light drew her in, a beacon in the night. She did another three-sixt
y Yup. It was the only light in the buildings edging the square. This meant something. Either she trusted God to take care of her needs, or she didn’t. And her most immediate need was a place to sleep. What safer place than a library?
“Okay, Lord. Here goes.”
She walked to the door. It was predictably locked and for a moment her hope shut down. Then she thought: What about the back? She realized the chances were slim, but…
The back door opened when she turned the knob. Claire shoved it open a few inches, waiting for some alarm to sound. The only sound was the drone of the cicadas in the huge maple trees overhead.
She nudged the door farther open. It hit something. She peeked inside and found a stack of boxes partially blocking its swing. The moonlight revealed a storeroom with an overhead projector, shelves holding office supplies and books, and a few broken chairs.
She slipped inside. Although she would have loved to turn on a light, she didn’t dare. As harmless as she was, she was an intruder. She closed the door behind her and felt a button on the door knob. The door had a lock. Lucky for her the door wasn’t used often enough for someone to check whether it was locked or not.
Claire gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. She moved to a wide, swinging door straight ahead. She edged it open and peered at what had to be the main library. Although she was tempted to take a tour through the books she’d neglected, she had not been drawn to this library in the wee hours to read. She’d been drawn by a light. A light in the attic.
She turned back to the storeroom and found what she was looking for. To her right was a narrow stairway with a rickety railing. At the top landing was a door.
The door was ajar. But there was no light.
Her heart pounded. The absence of light when there had been light was disconcerting. Maybe someone’s up there. If so, they wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed in the middle of the night.
Yet it had been the only light in a dark night. And she was tired. God had led her this far. She had to trust Him. Besides, what were her options?
“Hello?”
The sound of her voice was like a slap in the silence.
No answer. She started up the stairs, jerking when she broke through an invisible cobweb. Obviously no one had been up here in a while.
Then who turned off the light?
Claire hesitated. She found it hard to swallow. Trust Him. It’s just a light. Go on. Quit acting like a child afraid of the boogeyman. She climbed the rest of the stairs with a new—if somewhat feigned—determination. At the landing, she hesitated, then peeked inside the room. Moonlight streamed through the window, coming to rest on the glass of a picture sitting on the floor, leaning against a crate. Could that have reflected like a light?
“Hello?”
No sounds.
She pushed the door open and walked in. Although there were more shadows than light, Claire could see that the walls of the attic were partially finished, as if someone had gotten a deal on a few sheets of wood paneling. Its bare beams were bound together by cobwebs. The dark corners revealed three dormers, each with a small window. The center dormer to her right had a makeshift window seat built within the grasp of its three walls. A faded rag rug marked the center of the room. Perhaps some librarian once used this place as a getaway?
Dusty crates, old card catalogs, a trunk, a few tables and chairs. What? No freshly made bed waiting for her? She smiled.
Claire dropped her suitcase on the rug, opened it, removed some of the clothes, and rolled them into a pillow. She unbuttoned her denim dress and used it as a blanket. Her shoulder and hip objected to the solidity of the floor. Her mind flitted to her king-size four-poster with the padded pillow-top mattress. Maybe if she thought soft thoughts?
After a short time, her body forgot the fact that it was uncomfortable and eased itself to sleep.
Welcome to Steadfast.
Six
“But as for you, be strong and do not give up,
for your work will be rewarded.”
2 CHRONICLES 15:7
CLAIRE WOKE WITH A SORE BACK. It feels like I’ve been sleeping on the—
She opened her eyes and remembered. She was sleeping on a floor. She sat up, and her denim-dress blanket fell off her shoulder. The library attic was friendlier by day, with sunlight streaming in the three windows. With a groan, she pushed herself to her feet, looked around, and felt her eyes widen and her heart lift.
In one of the dormers was a single bed, complete with metal headboard. It reminded her of a hospital bed. She dragged it out and placed it perpendicular to the window closest to the stairs. She bounced on the mattress. It was only three inches thick, and the metal webbing beneath it squeaked and squealed at her movement, but it was better than the floor. A real bed. Civilization. To think she’d been this close to a cushioned sleep.
She looked inside the crates, one by one. Most contained books and papers, though she did find a few candles and a book of matches. As there was no electricity, candles would have to suffice.
In the trunk she found a stash of old blankets, two small pillows, and a couple of ratty terry towels. She put them to her face and inhaled. Musty, but they seemed clean—and better than nothing.
She rearranged a few crates, creating a bedside table. She blew the dust off a bookshelf and unpacked her clothes. There. All moved in. All ready.
But for what?
Claire still had no clue as to why she’d been brought here. Yet once she allowed herself to be still, she realized something new had been added while she slept: an antsy feeling, as if an important event was on the verge. Her insides pulled with anticipation.
What’s going on, Lord?
He gave her no immediate answer.
She stretched, her muscles complaining about the hard night. Never again. Now she had a bed. And who was she to complain? Free lodging was free lodging.
The first order of business was a bathroom. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock. The library wouldn’t open until nine or ten. It was safe to venture downstairs.
She grabbed a towel from the trunk, her toiletry bag and a change of clothes, and found the restrooms through the swinging door, to the right, off the main room. It felt wonderful to wash her face and brush her teeth. After making quick work of minimal makeup, she assessed her appearance. She adjusted Grandma Morris’s necklace, letting her fingers linger on the cross. Her eyes strayed to her hair. Perhaps there was good reason she’d gotten it cut short and permed a few weeks ago. Traveling hair. Attic hair. But how she would love a shower.
She shrugged to her reflection. “Deal with it.” At least her reflection didn’t argue.
She ventured into the main library. In the half-light of dawn she saw it was a large rectangle. A librarian’s desk and checkout area were between her and the front door. To the left, computers stood at attention, guarding the book stacks. Much remained in shadow.
Claire’s stomach rumbled. Sleep, bathroom, food. The necessities of life were raising their hands, vying for attention. Actually, they’d been very patient. Yet Claire didn’t want to leave the sanctuary of the library until she had a plan. And in order to get a plan, she had to ask the Planner.
She noticed a Mr. Coffee. A half-full pot of yesterday’s brew beckoned. She didn’t want to risk filling the library with the luscious smell of fresh-brewed, so a cup of cold would be better than nothing. Caffeine was caffeine.
She poured herself a cup, gulped half of it, and took a seat at the librarian’s desk. Then she bowed her head, supporting it with her clasped hands. “Lord, I’m here. Thank you for the place to sleep last night and the coffee this morning. But tomorrow, if you can conjure up a donut, I’d be grateful. As for today… “She peeked over her hands, her mind swimming. “What am I supposed to do? Why have you brought me—”
A car door slammed. Her heart attempted to climb back from her toes. Claire moved to the window behind the desk, being careful to stay hidden. A young woman wearing floral gardening gloves re
moved flats of flowers from the back of a minivan, placing them near the flowerbeds at the foot of the flagpole.
Help her.
The impulse was so clear it was nearly an order.
Claire looked heavenward and saluted. “Yes, Sir.”
Merry Cavanaugh got the last of the flower flats from her van and stood over them, leaning on a spade. She mentally planned their placement in the two symmetrical beds edging the corners where the street sidewalk met the sidewalk leading up to the front door. The existing plantings were pitiful. Four gangly rosebushes that would never produce a rose, and two yews that had never met a garden shear. The yews could be trimmed, but the roses would have to go. In their place Merry would plant red begonias, white impatiens, and blue lobelia. If a library couldn’t be patriotic, what could?
Jered Manson, a teenage friend of hers, had offered to help, but if he showed up it would be a miracle worthy of fireworks. Jered was big on good intentions and short on follow-through, and yet she continued to give him chances to help, recognizing his need to be needed. The boy’s problem with tardiness (if he showed up at all) was directly related to his drinking with two no-goods every evening. She was trying to pull him under her wing. If she didn’t… he’d be swept away. Lost.
She knew what that was like.
A woman strolled up the sidewalk at her left. Merry didn’t recognize her, but due to the early hour she pegged her as an exercise walker. Merry nodded a greeting, then placed the spade in the dirt beside a rose bush. She stepped down hard and was relieved the ground did not resist.
“Need help?”
The woman had stopped nearby. “No, I’m fine.” Merry moved the spade a few inches to the right and made another cut into the earth. Then another.
“What did that rose bush ever do to you?”
Merry looked up. “What?”
The woman pointed to the bush. “You seem intent on doing it in.”