The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4)

by Vikki Kestell

  Pastor Jamison continued to nod, but his brows pulled together in serious contemplation. “Mrs. Thoresen, please do not fret yourself; I perfectly understand your concerns. I wish I had better tidings regarding our church—but perhaps I am getting somewhat ahead of myself.

  “You see, I had a sense that you might approach me on this very topic, and I brought you something I read but lately. Read and wept over, I am afraid. Have you heard of the Soiled Dove Plea?”

  Rose and Emily both shook their heads.

  “May I be permitted to read a portion of it to you? Sadly, I believe it sums up perfectly the decidedly unwelcome culture we find in many of our churches.”

  This time Rose and Emily nodded. Both were curious.

  “Before I read this passage I will tell you that it is the true closing argument of an attorney who represented a young woman accused of prostitution.” He paused and looked earnestly at Rose and Emily.

  “I pray you do not fault me for using such a word? I must be so careful not to offend the sensibilities of many, even in my own church!” He huffed a little. “How we speak of bringing the gospel to the lost but cannot abide speaking of the lost is beyond me!”

  He stopped again. “Dear me. Off on a tangent. Please do forgive me. I will read but several lines and leave the copy with you to read in full later.”

  He read quietly,

  “Gentlemen of the jury: You heard with what cold cruelty the prosecution referred to the sins of this woman, as if her condition were of her own preference. The evidence has painted you a picture of her life and surroundings.

  Do you think that they were embraced of her own choosing? Do you think that she willingly embraced a life so revolting and horrible? Ah, no! Gentlemen, one of our own sex was the author of her ruin, more to blame than she.

  Then let us judge her gently. What could be more pathetic than the spectacle she presents? An immortal soul in ruin! Where the star of purity once glittered on her girlish brow, burning shame has set its seal and forever.

  And only a moment ago, they reproached her for the depths to which she had sunk, the company she kept, the life she led. Now, what else is left her? Where can she go and her sin not pursue her?

  Gentlemen, the very promises of God are denied her. He said: "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest." She has indeed labored, and is heavily laden, but if, at this instant she were to kneel before us all and confess to her Redeemer and beseech His tender mercies, where is the church that would receive her?

  And even if they accepted her, when she passed the portals to worship and to claim her rest, scorn and mockery would greet her; those she met would gather around them their spirits the more closely to avoid the pollution of her touch.”

  His voice trembled at the last. Rose and Emily had clasped hands as he read, their eyes filling with tears.

  “You see, dear Mrs. Thoresen, I am in a quandary, for this reading so aptly describes many of my own congregation—and I, their shepherd, am so deeply grieved to tell you so.”

  Rose murmured quietly. “Thank you. Thank you for being candid. I appreciate you coming to visit today.”

  “I hope I did not discourage you too severely,” he said, straightening. “For while your girls would likely receive a cold welcome from my congregation, I can direct you to where they will be warmly received.”

  Rose looked up. “Indeed? Please do tell where, Pastor Jamison.”

  “Near to the infamous houses of Denver, a fine young man has begun a good work. He reaches out to the lost—those bound in chains of alcohol and opium, as well as those described in this reading.” Pastor Jamison took a card from his breast pocket and scrawled on it.

  Smiling again, he handed the card to Rose. “This pastor’s church is young but thriving. He will welcome you and your young ladies. I have heard him speak the truth of the Gospel in love and with hope for the lost. You need not fear receiving a cold hand of fellowship from him.”

  Rose grasped the card eagerly. “Thank you! I thank you truly, Pastor.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 11

  (Journal Entry, July 26, 1909)

  Lord, thank you! Yesterday Joy and Grant visited the little church, Calvary Temple, recommended so highly by Pastor Jamison. They shared their report at dinner last evening. How pleased and enthused they were!

  Grant, in particular, spoke highly of the young minister. His name is Mr. Isaac Carmichael. As he described Pastor Carmichael’s ministry he certainly had the attention of all of us. The pastor preached from Luke 19:10, “For the Son of man is come to seek and save that which was lost,” and had a good crowd of lost souls who came to listen.

  During the service a man gave his testimony, sharing how the Lord had set him free from drink after 13 years of bondage. An older woman, too, shared how Jesus forgave her shameful past and removed her guilt. Grant described her so clearly, and I believe I saw hope flicker in the eyes of some of our lost girls! Thank you, Father, for giving us these young women to love and to share Jesus with.

  I posed the question after Joy and Grant finished their report, should we attend this church on Sunday? Of course a few, Tabitha being the most vocal, do not wish to go at all; however, I reminded everyone that we will attend church as a family—we have only to decide in which church the Lord wishes us to plant us.

  And so we will attend Calvary Temple this Sunday! I am eager to see this work in action. And although we have some hard, hurt hearts in our family, I am trusting you, Lord, to heal those hearts! I believe you have led us this far and will guide us forward.

  —

  The remainder of the week passed slowly for Rose. She was impatient for Sunday to arrive so the household could attend this new church. She was eager to see this work with her own eyes.

  During the week the Lord reminded Rose of her early days in RiverBend, how he had called her and won her heart, and how important her church had been to her. After she had surrendered to Jesus, Rose had longed to share her new faith with other women in their little town—women who were as hungry for the Savior as she had been.

  She and Vera Medford had started a home Bible study that led many of these women into a relationship with the Lord. Recalling this time, Rose was again fired with seeing “her girls,” as she now thought of the young women in Palmer House, find Jesus in the same powerful way she had so many years ago.

  When Sunday at last arrived, nerves were taut, particularly in the girls who had never attended church before. Several had preconceptions of the expected fashion standards and worried their clothing would not measure up.

  Rose and Joy downplayed dressing “up” for church and set an example by appearing at breakfast in good quality but moderately trimmed outfits.

  “We may all feel a bit of trepidation this morning,” Rose suggested gently. “I don’t know, any more than you, what to expect. As this is a new church located near the, ah, red light area of town, I have a sense that it will be different from what I am accustomed to.”

  She added, “And, since it is located in that area of town, I do wish our mode of dress to distinguish us from the ‘working girls,’ so that none of you risk being, ah, approached as such.”

  She colored a little. “To be clear, we must be careful for each other’s safety. Please, let us keep together at all times. Agreed?”

  She received a chorus of ‘yeses’ and nods in response.

  The church was housed in a brick warehouse, high and cavernous, but already filled near capacity. The seating was the most eclectic hodge-podge of seats Rose, Joy, or Grant had ever seen in a church. Whatever could be sat upon was put to use including dining chairs, sofas, boxes, benches, and cast-off church pews.

  An usher wearing a checkered shirt and suspenders found them seating in three rows, five to six of their group in each row, so that they were seated together. Crowded around them, all standing and singing, was a crowd comprised of every segment of society: Caucasian, Negro, Chinese, Mexican, p
oor, middle-class, wealthy.

  And the singing! The singing struck them all. A large organ on a platform at the front of the room played song after song and the voices raised with it were loud, filled with unrestrained joy and uninhibited praise.

  No one led the singing; the organ played and the congregants sang, and sang with all their being. Rose could hardly bear the sweetness of the worship. Her thirsty soul opened wide to receive as the presence of God came down in that hall.

  Praise ye the Lord,

  the Almighty, the King of creation!

  O my soul, praise Him,

  for He is thy health and salvation!

  All ye who hear,

  Now to His temple draw near

  Join me in glad adoration!

  and

  Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!

  Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!

  Heir of salvation, purchase of God

  Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood!

  This is my story, this is my song

  Praising my Saviour, all the day long

  This is my story, this is my song

  Praising my Saviour, all the day long

  and

  What a fellowship, what a joy Divine

  Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

  What a blessedness, what a peace is mine

  Leaning on the Everlasting Arms!

  After thirty minutes or so, a young man walked onto the stage. He was ordinary looking, slender but not tall, with light brown hair and a strong chin. The singing tapered off and the crowd hushed and settled in their seats as he prepared to speak. The man’s voice, unaided, carried to every corner of the lofty warehouse.

  “And, behold, a woman in the city,

  which was a sinner,

  when she knew that Jesus sat at meat

  in the Pharisee's house,

  brought an alabaster box of ointment,

  And stood at his feet behind him weeping,

  and began to wash his feet with tears,

  and did wipe them with the hairs of her head,

  and kissed his feet,

  and anointed them with the ointment.

  Now when the Pharisee

  which had bidden him saw it,

  he spake within himself, saying,

  This man, if he were a prophet,

  would have known who and

  what manner of woman this is

  that toucheth him: for she is a sinner.”

  He laid his Bible down. “The Pharisee of Jesus’ day is like unto a religious man of today. He was willing to welcome Jesus into his house, but he did not understand Jesus or his calling,” the preacher said. “In his private thoughts, the religious man wondered why Jesus would allow a sinful woman to touch him.”

  Isaac Carmichael looked earnestly at the congregation. “Friends, let us be clear. The sinful woman of this passage was what we call a soiled dove, a prostitute. And the religious man truly believed that Jesus should have known better than to let a fallen woman touch his holy feet.”

  He strode across the platform and gazed out at the crowd again. “Are any of you here today willing to say, ‘I am like that woman. I am a sinful, fallen woman?’”

  A murmur rippled across the room, and Rose saw some of her girls go quiet and still with shock.

  Pastor Carmichael continued. “I have good news for you. Jesus heard the religious man’s thoughts. He turned to the man, whose name was Simon, and answered his question!” In a clear voice he read,

  “And Jesus answering said unto him,

  Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.

  And he saith, Master, say on.

  “And Jesus told Simon this parable:

  “There was a certain creditor

  which had two debtors:

  the one owed five hundred pence,

  and the other fifty.

  And when they had nothing to pay,

  he frankly forgave them both.

  Tell me therefore,

  which of them will love him most?

  “Simon answered and said,

  I suppose that he,

  to whom he forgave most.

  And he said unto him,

  Thou hast rightly judged.

  “And he turned to the woman,

  and said unto Simon,

  Seest thou this woman?

  I entered into thine house,

  thou gavest me no water for my feet:

  but she hath washed my feet with tears,

  and wiped them with the hairs of her head.

  “Thou gavest me no kiss:

  but this woman since the time I came in

  hath not ceased to kiss my feet.

  My head with oil thou didst not anoint:

  but this woman hath anointed

  my feet with ointment.”

  His voice softened. “You see, Simon, the religious man, did not see himself as a debtor to God, a sinner. He did not feel he owed God anything! Because he had led a respectable life, he did not feel sinful! And because ‘he owed little,’ he had never experienced the strength and power of forgiveness. You see, he had never acknowledged his own need to be forgiven! Dear ones, to not recognize one’s own sinfulness is a dangerous place to be.”

  The preacher paused. “But the sinful woman? She knew. Oh, yes, she knew she was a sinner. And she loved Jesus because he knew her for what she was and still he forgave her.

  “Are you a sinner? Do you know how far you have fallen from God and what you owe him? Be sure of this: You cannot repay what you owe. No effort on your part can repay the debt you owe. No effort on my part can repay the debt I owe! Only Jesus can pay the debts we owe. And here is good news, dear friends. Jesus said,

  “Wherefore I say unto thee,

  ‘Her sins, which are many, are forgiven;

  for she loved much:

  but to whom little is forgiven,

  the same loveth little.’

  And he said unto her,

  ‘Thy sins are forgiven.’

  “Your sins are forgiven! Do you want to be like this woman, forgiven and received by Jesus? Do not wait another day. No matter what your sins, no matter what you owe, come to Jesus today. Come right now.”

  Repentant souls, wealthy and poor, streamed to the altar to confess their sins and receive forgiveness. The power of that moment was beyond anything Rose had ever experienced, beyond what Joy or Grant or any of Palmer House had ever witnessed. Around them, people fell to their knees to pray. Rose joined them and poured out her heart to God.

  The organ played softly and gentle singing accompanied it. No one closed the service. Pastor Carmichael and others prayed with those at the altar and eventually the congregation began to disperse.

  The walk back to Palmer House was quiet. Rose could not speak; her heart was still too overwhelmed by what she had seen, had experienced.

  —

  The shop was modest in size but the location was all Joy could have hoped for. She and Grant paused before following the landlord inside. The narrow brick building faced a bustling street. Quality shops of many types lined the avenue, and motor car and foot traffic were plenteous.

  Inside the shop it was plain to Joy and Grant that the previous tenant had been a dressmaker and that her taste in interior design had run to the decidedly feminine—overly fussy and froufrou in Joy’s opinion, but that could be remedied.

  They followed the landlord through the shop, which included a small showroom in the front, two fitting rooms in the rear, a tiny parlor, and an office. A sewing room ran the length of the side of the building.

  “The folks as live upstairs are gone during the day,” the gentleman explained, “and I never heard no complaints of disturbances from the last folks as let this place.”

  Joy and Grant nodded, both engrossed in envisioning how—or if—the shop would fit their needs. Grant pointed out that the fitting room walls were new additions and could be removed. However, even if they knocked the walls out and joined the fit
ting rooms with the showroom it would not be as large as what they had discussed and determined they needed.

  Their warehouse in Omaha still held a large amount of fine household articles and furnishings. Grant did not remember selecting and purchasing them during his fateful trip to Boston. He did not recall having them shipped to Omaha, just before he boarded the Richmond on his way to England. He was obliged to take Joy’s word for it.

  “Mr. Benson, I’m afraid we need a larger showroom than what this shop affords,” Joy admitted, considerably disappointed.

  She sighed and walked to the front windows. It was such a perfect location. Across the way and down the street she glimpsed a park, its lawn beckoning with a pleasant emerald glint. Couples strolled by and knots of shoppers chattered as they paused to stare into neighboring windows. Fine carriages and motor cars passed back and forth in front of the store.

  “Joy,” Grant offered hesitantly, “What if we were to also open up the sewing studio? Not knock down the walls, of course,” he hastened to assure the owner, “but perhaps construct two graceful arches where the existing doors are.”

  He gestured with his arms where he had the locations of the archways in mind “By doing so, our customers would feel invited into the room and could pass through and out the other archway into the rear of the showroom.”

  He rubbed his face, something Joy noticed he did when thinking hard, as though the effort tired him. “Perhaps . . . Joy, could you envision the front of the shop as parlor furnishings, the rear as dining, and the side area through the arches as bedroom suites?”

  Joy walked into the long sewing room and immediately grasped his idea. “Yes. Yes!” She turned to the owner. “Would you have any objections to us opening up the doorways as my husband described?”

  An hour later Joy and Grant left the building with a signed lease and a set of keys. Joy stopped on the sidewalk and turned to stare at the shop windows. They were tall, wide, and framed the door on either side. She was already planning how to dress the windows.

  “It’s not at all like our store in Omaha,” she mused. “Do you remember it even a bit? Rough planked floors that creaked and ‘clunked’ with a lovely hollow sound; long, wooden counters that gleamed with the wax Mr. Wheatley rubbed into them?