Mrs. Gregory set her cup back on the saucer. “Oh dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that about teachers, but I certainly wasn’t speaking of you. All of us here in Springfield know we can count on you to not lead our children down any wrong roads.”
“That’s nice to know.” Ruth had learned long ago to keep smiling no matter what Mrs. Gregory might say.
“But children do go off on their own in spite of anything we might do. As the good Lord intended, I suppose. Even so, it might have been nice if one of my boys had settled here in town to supply me with grandchildren close enough to run in and out of my house.” She peered over her cup at Ruth. “You may be more fortunate in that with your dear Adria. I hear Carlton Damon is interested in making her his bride.”
“They’ve been friends for a long time.” Ruth avoided confirming or denying Carlton’s courtship of Adria, but it was little use. Mrs. Gregory already had facts in hand.
“True enough, but will that friendship lead to a happy marriage? I’ve been told Adria is not exactly encouraging the young man.”
“Young people have to set their own courses.” Ruth set down her cup. “Thank you so much for the tea, but I really must finish my deliveries.”
“Yes, of course. I noted that you had yet another pie in your basket.” Mrs. Gregory stood up and fished several coins out of her pocket to hand to Ruth. “You keep the extra for delivering your goodies to me. I appreciate your kindness to this old lady. Perhaps a custard pie next week or even better, some of those delectable meringues you make.”
“The meringues do cost a bit more than a pie,” Ruth warned as she took the money.
“And worth every penny, my dear. Worth every penny. Those children of mine are going to have to become much more attentive if they expect me to give up my desserts to save their inheritance.” Mrs. Gregory laughed, a tinkling sound that Ruth wondered if she had once practiced.
Ruth scooted the remaining pie to the middle of her basket before she picked it up.
“And who is the fortunate person getting your other pie?” Mrs. Gregory led the way through her hallway to open the door for Ruth. She turned with a sly smile. “I’m guessing it’s for our new preacher. And what a nice thing for you to do.”
Ruth was surprised by her accurate guess. “A welcome gift. That’s all.”
“Excellent. It’s so good to have a new preacher and one so young. We can only hope he’ll bring new enthusiasm to our church.” The old woman peered up at Ruth. “What do you think? That he might be about your age? I certainly wouldn’t be so bold to ask, but one can’t help being curious, can one?”
“No, I suppose not, but I have no guess as to his age.”
“A good-looking man for a preacher.” Mrs. Gregory laughed and covered her mouth for a second. “Shame on me. That wasn’t a very kind thing to say, but it does seem that many of the preachers in our pulpit have been old, with ears too big or noses too long.”
“We only have the looks the Lord gives us.”
“So true, my dear. I was once quite blessed in the looks department myself.” Mrs. Gregory ran her fingers over her cheek.
“You’re still beautiful.” Ruth smiled.
“What a sweet liar you are.” Again the tinkling laugh. “I don’t have to tell a falsehood to say you are still every bit as lovely as the day I met you. Our young Pastor Robertson will surely note that fact too.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Gregory. I’m only taking him a pie.”
“And I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to get it. Poor man. They tell me his wife died in childbirth a couple of years ago and that’s why he changed churches. Too many memories, I suppose, in his old church. Somewhere up toward Danville.”
“Did the baby die too?” Ruth’s heart lurched, unable to keep from remembering losing Peter and then her hope of a baby.
“No, the baby lived. A little girl. But what could a man alone do with a baby? He gave the child to his sister to raise, or so I’ve been told.”
“How very sad,” Ruth murmured.
“Sad, but I suppose sensible. It does seem strange that he would be so eager to move away from where he could see the child now and again.”
“Perhaps he thought it would be confusing for them all,” Ruth suggested as she waited for Mrs. Gregory to open the door. She would have opened it herself to escape the conversation, but the old woman had her hand on the doorknob.
“Nonsense. Children adjust to situations such as that with ease. What the man should have done was find a new wife to be the child’s mother. Then all would have been well.”
“He could have been too brokenhearted.”
“You young people are such romantics. I only suggest a marriage of convenience. A woman needing a husband. A man needing a mother for his child. Need can often trump love. Such arrangements abound in our world.” Finally Mrs. Gregory turned the knob to pull open the door. “You made such an arrangement yourself with your dear Adria, did you not? One encouraged by George Sanderson’s servant, I’ve heard.”
“But that wasn’t marriage. I merely stepped in to give a child a home.”
“The same could have happened for our young preacher. A willing woman stepping in to give a child a place with her natural father.”
Ruth pretended she didn’t know the thought behind Mrs. Gregory’s words. “I suppose that could have happened.” She stepped out the door. “Thank you so much for the tea and I’ll see you next week. Meringues, right?”
“Oh yes. Meringues. And do tell Pastor Robertson if he needs anything, anything at all, to not hesitate to call upon me.”
“Anything at all?” Ruth smiled over her shoulder at the old woman before she started down the porch steps. “Even a marriage of convenience?”
“If only I were a few years younger.”
Mrs. Gregory laughed and closed the door, but Ruth had no doubt she watched out the window to see which way Ruth turned at the end of the walkway. She considered forgetting her generosity and heading back to her house. She could find another customer for the pie. But no, she wasn’t doing anything wrong and the gossips were going to talk at any rate.
She’d made a pie for their new preacher. She’d have done the same if he was an old man with those big ears and a long nose Mrs. Gregory mentioned. His looks and age had nothing to do with her taking him a pie. She was definitely not looking for a marriage of convenience.
Ten
Will Robertson stared at his Bible, open to Psalm 71 in front of him. He’d read the chapter five times over, but the words weren’t sinking into his spirit this day. He looked at the first verse again. In thee, O LORD, do I put my trust; let me never be put to confusion.
If only he could make that true. He did trust the Lord. Hadn’t he given his life to preaching his Word? But the confusion was there. He couldn’t deny it. His eyes slid down through the verses. O God, be not far from me.
He shut his eyes, unable to bear reading the truth in front of him. Words written by a man, King David perhaps, who had leaned on the Lord. Who had been tested. Who had been through great and sore trials and yet continued to rejoice in the Lord.
Will stood up and paced across the room and back again. The truth followed him that if he felt far from God, it wasn’t God who had stepped back. It was Will.
He had hoped coming to a different town, another church, would help him make a new start and shed at least some of the sorrow that had been his since Mary had died giving him a child. They had such hopes for a family. And then through the first ten years of their marriage, one disappointment followed another as Mary was unable to carry a child past the first few months of pregnancy. And then she had. Borne him a beautiful girl child. A week later Mary was dead of puerperal fever.
He had trusted God, put his hope continually in him, served him through every disappointment, but losing Mary sent him into a downward spiral. He kept up appearances. He preached. He spoke words of prayer. He said the things everyone expected him to say. God’s will. The Lord givet
h and the Lord taketh away. She’s gone on to a better place. But inside, his heart was shriveling.
His sister came and got the baby. She had a baby of her own six months older, but she claimed no difficulty also nursing little Willeena. What choice did he have? He had no way to care for a baby. Hazel understood that, but she also knew his sorrow. “I won’t keep her forever, Will. Just until she’s older or you find another wife.”
“Wives aren’t something you go looking for under rocks.” Her words had made him angry. Watching her hold his baby had been painful when he so wanted it to be Mary rocking their child.
“No, of course not.” Hazel had kept her voice calm. She had never liked arguing and had always given in to whatever he wanted to do while they were children. But she didn’t give in this time. “I’ll love her for you, and you can come see her as often as you are able. So she will know her father.”
He had tried. The Lord knew he had tried. Will looked up at the ceiling as though for some sign that was true. But here he was miles from Hazel’s house. Miles from his daughter. The baby’s eyes had been so blue at first, but now that she was over two, they had turned a hazel green. Just like Mary’s. Taffy-colored hair like Mary’s. A chin that quivered like Mary’s when she was unhappy.
He rubbed his hand across his own chin to still its tremble. “When will the sorrow end?” He spoke the words aloud into the air, but the same as in all the months since Mary died, no answer came. Only silence in his ears and in his heart.
The truth was, he had run away from his daughter. A shameful thought. A shameful act. But every time he looked in the child’s face he saw Mary and his heart crumbled inside him. There were only so many times a man could gather up the pieces and put on a brave face for the world.
He should give the pieces of his broken heart to God. What man cannot do, God can. How many times had he glibly told those very words to his parishioners? Give it to the Lord. He can mend your heart. He will never send you more than you can handle. That promise is in the Scripture. And yet. Now the words bounced off his own ears.
Hazel hadn’t understood, although he tried to explain when he went to tell her he was moving to Springfield. “I can’t bear seeing Mary’s smile every time I look at Willeena.”
“You should be glad she looks like your Mary. This child is abiding proof of your love.”
They had been standing in the middle of Hazel’s yard while Willeena ran about, chasing after first one wonder and then another. She tripped on a rock and fell, but instead of crying, the child jumped up, brushed her hands against her dress, and ran off toward another flower or whatever caught her eye. Determined to enjoy life, like her mother.
After several miscarriages, Will had wanted to quit trying for a child. He was willing to live a celibate life to keep Mary from experiencing the pain of hoping for a child and then being devastated when she was unable to carry the baby more than a few months. Mary wouldn’t hear of it. She was determined to share his bed, to continue to pray for the Lord’s favor.
“If the Lord granted barren Hannah a baby and Sarah a son in her old age, then he might still answer our fervent prayers for a child,” Mary had told him.
He wanted to believe her, wanted to continue to hold Mary in his arms, and then their prayer had been answered, but at what cost? That was what Hazel couldn’t understand. The price he paid every time he looked at his and Mary’s child. Hazel was angry with him. She tried to hide it, but she was his sister. He knew her too well. But he couldn’t walk the path she thought he should.
“I won’t forget her.” When he said that to Hazel, he wasn’t sure whether he spoke of Mary or Willeena. Hazel must have felt the same, because deep lines furrowed her brow as he went on. “I’ll send money and I’ll be back to visit. Springfield is only a few hours away.”
“A child her age forgets quickly.” Hazel spoke the words very softly as she let her gaze drift over to the little girl.
“You know I must follow wherever the Lord leads me.” He tried to say the words stoutly as if they were true. As if the Lord had said to “get thee up and go hither to a new place.”
Hazel stared back at him, not believing his words. That was the trouble with sisters. They accepted no lies. After a moment, she said, “My Andrew may replace you in her heart.”
“Then that will be as the Lord intends.” And this time he knew the words to be true. He was giving up his child. For the good of them both. But it hadn’t felt good when he picked up the little girl, his daughter, and breathed in her earthy smell as he held her close. She giggled in his ear and he swallowed back tears and told himself it was right what he was doing. Whatever the reason.
He told himself the same now. The Lord could take a man’s feeblest efforts and turn it into good. Will believed that. Or at one time he had believed that. Now he wasn’t sure what he believed. He wanted to trust. He had to trust. To keep sending up prayers even when his heart felt empty. To keep believing the Lord would once again fill his heart.
The church here in Springfield deserved a preacher who did more than mouth the proper words. The people who had sat in the pews and welcomed him with smiles deserved his best. No, they deserved the Lord’s best through him. Perhaps if he kept walking the walk, kept reading the Word, kept bending his knees to pray, the Lord would renew his spirit. Renew his calling. For without his calling, he had nothing left.
Will sat down at his desk and read the psalm through yet again. He would study and find a sermon for the people. He could continue to preach each Sunday. His heart feeling empty didn’t change the truths he could share from the Bible. He would blow on the embers of his faith and surely come up with enough fire to share the gospel. Whatever else he doubted, he did not doubt that every man, woman, and child needed to hear the gospel. Perhaps those who were walking through a despairing, empty valley the most of all.
A knock on the door disturbed his study. He wasn’t expecting visitors, but then a preacher could not keep a locked door to his people. He ran his hand through his light brown hair to try to put it back in some semblance of order before he stood up and went to see who had come to call. He pushed a smile across his face and opened the door.
A lovely, blonde woman with a small straw hat perched on her head stood on his porch, a large basket draped over her arm. He’d seen her in the congregation on Sunday and had shaken her hand as she went out, but her name escaped him now. So many names to remember. He did remember she sat next to a dark-haired younger woman who didn’t favor her at all, but they seemed to belong together. The young woman was nearly a head taller than this woman, who surely stood barely five foot.
Now she gave him a tentative smile. “I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you, Pastor Robertson.” Her light blue eyes showed obvious intelligence, and that made him recall the person following her out last Sunday telling him she was a local teacher.
“No problem at all, madam, but you will have to forgive me, for I have let your name slip out of my memory.”
Her smile looked easier. “That’s understandable. You can’t be expected to remember all your members’ names after only one week. I’m Ruth Harmon.”
“Of course, Mrs. Harmon. I do remember meeting you last Sunday even if I failed to properly remember your name. It is Mrs., isn’t it?” No husband had been with her on the pew, but not every couple was equally yoked with regard to spiritual belief.
“Yes, I was married.” Sadness flashed through her eyes, but she kept her smile firmly in place.
He didn’t inquire about her use of past tense. Such information could wait. He did hope she hadn’t come calling in hopes of changing that to a present tense. In spite of Hazel continually saying he needed to find a wife, he had no plans to do so. Not and open up his heart to pain again.
“How may I be of service to you today?” he asked. “Have you a prayer need?”
“Oh no.” A bit of color stained her pale cheeks as she rushed out her words. “I brought you a pie. To welcome you to ou
r town. Our church.” She sat her basket down and lifted out the pie. “I hope you like cherries.”
“Who doesn’t like cherry pie? How very kind of you.” He took it from her. “It looks delicious.”
“Thank you,” she murmured while picking up her basket.
He berated himself for his lack of hospitality. “Would you like to come in and have a piece with me?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. We are a small town with many eyes that watch. I would not want to be the cause of gossip about the new pastor in town. Or about me.” She looked straight at him and didn’t shy away from the directness of her words. “However, I do make pies each week should you need to satisfy your sweet tooth in the weeks to come.”
“Someone told me you were a teacher.”
“Teachers can bake.” Laughter lit up her eyes. “The school term is short and a teacher has to find ways to supplement her income. Fortunately for you, church goes on year around.”
His answering laugh sounded a bit strange in his ears. He had rarely found reason to laugh in the last few months. “You are correct, madam. And I will keep you in mind should I need another pie.”
“Oh dear, that sounded as if I was drumming up business.” Her cheeks were scarlet now, but the color made her even more attractive. “I truly wasn’t, Reverend.”
“Worry not, Mrs. Harmon.” He balanced the pie in one hand and touched her arm. “I am grateful for your kind thoughts and generosity.”
She stepped back, perhaps as surprised by his touch as he was surprised to have laid his hand on her. He should have simply smiled to reassure her.
“You’re welcome,” she stammered as she turned and started down the porch steps.
To try to dispel the awkwardness his touch had caused, he called after her. “I hope to see you Sunday morning. And your daughter.”
River to Redemption Page 8