“And now he’s in trouble and in need of prayer himself?” Pastor Robertson leaned toward Adria. “Can you share his need? Whatever you share with me will not be repeated without your permission.”
Adria looked at Ruth, seeking permission to speak of Louis. What could Ruth do but nod? She didn’t know if the preacher could help Louis in any way, but Adria needed to ask. Needed the prayers said.
“It’s Louis Sanderson. He’s a member of your church.”
“Louis Sanderson.” The preacher thought a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve met him. Is he a relation of the George Sanderson who died? I understood the family was of the Catholic faith.”
“He’s a slave, but he shouldn’t be. No person should be a slave.” Adria’s voice was harsh.
Ruth tightened her hold on Adria’s hand. “Don’t get distracted, dear. Tell the pastor about Louis and why you’re so upset. Why we’re all upset.” Ruth hadn’t really let herself think about Louis, but now her heart sank as she knew what it might mean if he were sold.
Adria moistened her lips. “Louis stayed in Springfield when the cholera epidemic came in 1833. Mr. Sanderson gave him the keys to his hotel and told him to take care of things. Other shopkeepers also gave Louis their keys. Then all with the means to do so left town to escape the cholera. My parents didn’t get away from the bad air soon enough. Neither did Aunt Ruth’s husband. Over fifty people died. Louis dug their graves and buried them all. He found me here beside this couch where my mother and little brother died. I was sick too, and he carried me to the hotel, where he and another slave named Matilda nursed me back to health. Then they found me a home with Aunt Ruth after the epidemic ended.”
Pastor Robertson’s face saddened. “I’m so sorry. For both of your losses. It is difficult to lose those you love.” It was evident he spoke from his own sorrow.
“Yes, well.” Adria swallowed and then sat up stiff and straight on the couch. “The town owes much to Louis. It’s wrong to let the Sanderson family sell him down the river as though they owe him nothing. Sinfully wrong.”
“I can see why you believe that.”
“Believe.” Adria echoed his word. “When I talked to Louis today, he said that Jesus told his followers that if they prayed believing, they could make a mountain pick up and move to a different place.” She stared at the preacher. “What I want to know is how to pray like that. Believing. I don’t want to move a mountain. I just want to find a way to give Louis his freedom.”
Pastor Robertson stood up and came over to kneel on one knee beside the couch. Not directly in front of Ruth and Adria but to the side. He reached for Adria’s other hand. After a slight hesitation, she surrendered it to him.
“There are many verses in the Bible that speak of prayer. Here’s one that might be of help to you from Philippians. ‘Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your request be made known unto God.’ The Lord wants to hear our prayers. He asks for our prayers.”
“But does he answer them?” Adria asked.
“God always answers, but we must remember there are many answers.” The pastor’s voice deepened as though he were beginning a sermon.
“But Louis needs the right answer.”
“We can only look to the Lord for that right answer.” His eyes were intent on Adria.
“But—”
“Shh, Adria. Let Pastor Robertson speak his prayer.” Ruth squeezed Adria’s hand. “Answers to prayers can’t come if those prayers are merely examined and not offered in faith.”
“Your aunt is right.” The pastor looked up toward the ceiling instead of bowing his head. “Lord, we come to you with a burden upon our hearts for this man, your child, Louis. Please help him, and if you have work for us to do in order to bring an answer that will touch hearts and further your kingdom, reveal such to us. Amen.”
“Amen,” Ruth whispered the word after his. His voice had wrapped around her and made her feel the presence of the Lord as she hadn’t since Peter died. Since then, she had gone to church and said many prayers. Dutiful prayers for Adria and for her students. Bless this child. Bless that family. But she hadn’t asked the Lord to show her work to do since she’d taken in Adria.
Even then she had merely said a passing prayer that the Lord would lead Adria to someone else for care, but Louis, who surely did let the Lord guide his footsteps, had brought Adria to her. Perhaps she feared another challenge she didn’t want to face. Yet, now she felt the preacher’s prayer waking something inside her. If there was a way to help Louis and in so doing, help Adria, she was ready to surrender to the Lord’s will and step out in faith. Louis deserved that from her. Adria deserved that from her.
Adria kept her head bowed an extra moment, obviously intently trying to pray a believing prayer that would free Louis. But hadn’t Ruth prayed such prayers over Peter to no avail? She pushed that thought aside. She must pray as Adria said. Believing with faith in the Lord’s providence.
When she looked at the preacher, the sad memory of his own loss was evident on his face. Somehow she sensed he had prayed the same sort of desperate prayers for his wife as she had for Peter. What had he said moments ago? That there were many answers. Neither of them had received the answers they sought. Would the same be true this time?
But she had no reason to anticipate an answer that would bring sadness. Not yet. Adria was right. Louis was a righteous man. If the Lord showed them a way, they needed to be ready.
Adria opened her eyes and looked first at Ruth, then settled her gaze on Pastor Robertson. “We’ve prayed. Now what do we do?”
The preacher looked a little taken aback by her direct question. Perhaps praying was all he had expected to do, but it was evident Adria wasn’t ready to sit back and await miracles from heaven.
Pastor Robertson released Adria’s hand and stood up without answering. Ruth wondered if he might be saying another prayer for guidance. Adria’s gaze didn’t waver. Her face radiated belief, a look that made Ruth remember that day on her doorstep when Adria, as a child, had laid down her rag doll and reached for Ruth’s hand. Trusting. Believing Ruth would help. Ruth felt a new prayer rise up inside her that the preacher wouldn’t say something to disappoint. Not only Adria. But Ruth too.
He pulled in a deep breath. “You are right, Miss Starr. We have prayed. Believing. But very few prayers are answered with a lightning bolt. Let us continue to pray and be open to the Spirit throughout the day and even in our sleep this night. I have found it is often after sleeping that we awaken with ideas we can pursue with appropriate fervor. The Lord will inspire our thoughts if we will be still and await his guidance. Do you see the wisdom in that?”
Adria looked ready to reject the preacher’s logic, so Ruth spoke up. “Pastor Robertson is right, dear. We don’t have to have an answer today. Mr. Sanderson’s funeral isn’t until tomorrow, and then it will take his family some time to prepare a sale of any property. Nothing is going to happen to Louis overnight.”
Tears filled Adria’s eyes as she looked down at her lap where Ruth still held her hand. “I suppose you’re right.”
A tear dropped on Ruth’s hand. Adria sometimes shed tears of anger, but rarely did she allow anyone to see her sadness. Even when she first came to live with Ruth and so missed her mother and father, she hid her tears from Ruth. So this tear burned into Ruth’s skin.
“We will find a way,” Ruth said quietly.
“Yes,” the preacher added. “I shall come to call again tomorrow after the funeral. I won’t be leading the service but feel I should make an appearance there.”
“The whole town will be there. Mr. Sanderson was a leading citizen here in Springfield.” Ruth looked up at the pastor. She hoped he was sincere about wanting to help Louis.
Adria pulled her hand free from Ruth’s, dashed her tears away, and stood up. “Thank you, Pastor, for listening and for your prayers. But if you will excuse me, I have cakes to bake.”
> Ruth stood up too. She watched Adria out of the room and up the narrow stairs before she said, “Thank you for coming to call, Pastor. I hope you will find your pastorate at Mount Moriah fulfilling. And I do apologize for burdening you with our worries for Louis.”
“He is one of my sheep too. Jesus is the shepherd, but I am the under-shepherd of the church. I want to help every member.”
“But many of your members are slaveholders. We would not want to embroil you in a situation that would cause division in the church. Adria is strong in her abolitionist views and I can’t say she’s wrong. Slavery does seem to be an unsightly stain on our hands.”
“Don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Harmon. I will let the Lord lead me.” The preacher smiled again and clasped Ruth’s hands between his. “I trust he will not lead me astray.”
She liked the strength of his hands around hers. Her cheeks warmed again as she struggled to remember he was her pastor and not simply a man come to call. She slipped her hands from his and cast about for something to say. Her gaze fell on the cake. “Would you like to take some of the cake home for your supper?”
“I couldn’t.” He waved his hand. “I quite made a pig of myself already enjoying too much of your delicious cake.”
“Nonsense. Wait a moment and I’ll wrap up a few pieces for you.” Ruth picked up the cake and went out to the kitchen. Slicing and wrapping up the cake steadied her.
By the time she carried it back to Pastor Robertson, she was in control of her emotions again. She smiled and saw him on his way. It was only after she closed the door that the color rose in her cheeks again as she thought about him promising to return on the morrow.
Nineteen
Pray believing. The words circled through Will’s head as he drove his buggy home to get ready for the evening services. Had he prayed believing with Mrs. Harmon and her niece? Sometimes he worried he was merely playing at being a preacher these days. Saying the words with no faith that his prayers would reach the Lord.
No, he couldn’t think that. He was girded about by the Word of the Lord. He knew the Bible. The Lord had blessed him with a good memory to allow him to hide many Scripture verses in his heart where he could call them up in answer to whatever need was presented to him by one of his congregants. He had done that today with the passage about prayer.
And yet he had felt something of a hypocrite. Not that he hadn’t prayed with great sincerity. He had. He understood Adria Starr’s worries. Such concern was valid for this man, Louis. A slave was considered no more than property in this state. Valuable property in most cases. When money was involved in right and wrong, often those judging let money sway their decisions and their actions.
Will even agreed with Miss Starr’s anger over the injustices of slavery. By choice, his family had not been slaveholders, but at the same time they had never publicly protested the lack of freedom for men and women loved by God the same as he and his family.
In the pulpit, Will had preached that one should always treat servants with kindness. Such was plainly spoken of in the Bible. Plus it was not to be forgotten that one was advised to be a servant for God. Hadn’t Jesus himself taken the basin and towel in order to wash his disciples’ feet and demonstrate the need to have a servant’s heart? Will wanted that heart. But then his very human heart had been wounded until he felt as though he merely limped along helping others.
He unhitched and brushed down his horse. That was necessary whatever day it was. Then he put the mare out in the small lot behind the house. He hoped the grass there would last through the summer. Else he would have to pay to have the horse kept at the livery stable. Each penny mattered for a man in his position. He might need to find some way to add to his income. After all, he promised to send money to Hazel for Willeena.
His heart constricted when he thought about Willie. He had done the right thing leaving her with Hazel, but had he done the right thing to run away to another town? He could claim the Lord’s leadership. He did claim the Lord’s leadership. The Lord could use him wherever he was sent, and perhaps he was here in Springfield just for the purpose of helping this righteous man, Louis. On the morrow, he would seek out Louis to assess the situation and need.
He went back out to the shed where he kept his buggy to fetch Mrs. Harmon’s delicious cake. Whoever married that woman would soon be round as a barrel. But the fact she had been a widow since the cholera epidemic in 1833 indicated she had little interest in marrying again. The same as he. Still, should he ever consider a new wife, a woman such as Ruth Harmon would certainly be a fine choice.
He turned from the thought. He had no desire to remarry. Instead he needed to focus his energy on getting deep into the Word in order to find his way back to the confident faith he had once possessed. A preacher trembling on the edge of faith was little help to his church. But then had not David often cried out to the Lord when he obviously felt as low as a worm?
Will pushed it all aside. He had an evening sermon to deliver. Perhaps he would preach about that righteous man’s prayer this night. Let each person who heard determine in their own mind which righteous man had inspired his message.
But first he’d have a piece of Mrs. Harmon’s cake. As he sat at his table, his Bible unopened in front of him, and enjoyed the spicy taste of the cake, he thought of how pleasant it had been to converse with her. He smiled when he thought of her eyes, the color of a summer sky. A lovely woman not only in looks but also in spirit. Taking in an orphaned child with no husband to help her had required an abundance of both courage and faith. The thought of returning to see Mrs. Harmon the next day was not in the least distressing.
Ruth Harmon was right about George Sanderson’s funeral. When Will arrived at the hotel where the family had elected to have the final service, there was hardly room to squeeze into the spacious lobby. Chairs were set up in every available spot, and men stood two deep against the walls. Several black people gathered outside at one of the open windows, while a cluster of white men stood at one of the others. The town had indeed turned out to say goodbye to one of their own.
Will stopped inside the door to survey the gathering. He wondered if Ruth Harmon and Adria Starr were in the group or still baking the promised cakes for the Sanderson family. From the back, many of the women looked the same in their black dresses and hats. Everything in the room was dark as the gloom of death shrouded the room. Black crepe hung across the windows and around the coffin. Even the large bouquets of roses situated around the casket looked faded, as though the black in the room cast a pall over them.
Such was how funerals were to be. Serious. Dark. Final.
Here and there, Will picked out a member of his church. Leoda Gregory sat on the second row, directly behind the family members. She must have staked her claim to that chair hours ago. Mr. Manderly stood on the other side of the room, casting his eyes about, perhaps for an organ to offer his services. Just as well, no such instrument was in sight. Father Jeffers had taken up a position beside the casket with the daughter, who was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. One son sat on the front row with a woman and several restless children. The other man paced in the small area between the casket and the chairs.
The air was stifling with so many crammed into the space. It would hardly be surprising if some of the less hardy women wilted and perhaps fell from their chairs in a faint. At last Will picked out Ruth Harmon by the tilt of her head and her blonde hair that contrasted so dramatically with the mourning black. Adria Starr sat beside her but without the calm demeanor of Mrs. Harmon. The younger woman kept peering over her shoulder, perhaps trying to see this man, Louis, she wanted so desperately to help.
Will stepped back out the door to surrender his bit of space to those who knew George Sanderson as neighbor and friend. After a deep breath of the outside air, Will felt better in spite of the way the sun was hot on his back. Thank goodness the family was sensible enough to schedule an early service. No amount of roses or any kind of flower would mask the body’s
odor with the kind of heat the day was promising.
Without trying to edge near a window, he found a place in the shade of the building to wait with respectful silence for the service to be done. It hardly mattered if he heard what Father Jeffers might say. Prayers sent heavenward would be of more use than his attention to words about a man he didn’t know. He did hope the service would be a comfort to the grieving daughter.
A deceased person should have at least one person who sincerely grieved his or her passing. George Sanderson’s daughter seemed to fill that role today. Would his own daughter someday grieve his passing or had he relinquished any hope of that when he left her behind?
To keep from thinking about Willeena, he looked out at the multitude of buggies waiting in the road. Will had not brought his buggy. The walk through town was not that far, and if he should decide to go to the cemetery to see Mr. Sanderson to his final resting place, that too could be accomplished on foot. The funeral procession would proceed slowly, and Will was certain many would walk behind. Especially the blacks gathered around the far window. They would be expected to show their owner respect. Perhaps they were ordered to do so.
He couldn’t read their faces to know what they might have honestly thought of the man who kept them in servitude. One man stood apart, head bent in an attitude of prayer. He was a strong-looking man in the prime of life. If a slave, one of value.
As Will watched, several of the black men and women left their places near the window to come stand around the man, as if drawn by his strength. Could this be the man, Louis, who so concerned Miss Starr? He did not appear to be agitated but instead seemed to possess that peace spoken of in Philippians that passed understanding. Will had prayed for such peace many times in the last months, but it eluded him. Now he watched the man, the perfect picture of that peace, and wondered if his impression was true.
River to Redemption Page 15