Another Homecoming (24 page)

As Kenneth pulled up in front of her dormitory and cut off the motor, he said, “You’re not going to wait and write Joel, are you?”

His ability to understand her thoughts and direction were another precious gift, especially now. “I can’t.”

“It won’t be possible for me to take another day from work this week,” he said apologetically. “I have to meet with the lawyers first thing tomorrow. The best way to halt Randolf and Abigail is to be there first. I must—”

“I understand,” she said quickly. No matter how urgent those matters were, she did not want to discuss them. Not now. “I can take the train.”

Kenneth did not object. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, without hesitation.
A brother
.

“Perhaps it would be best after all,” he said slowly, “for you to go up there alone.”

She tried to echo what her awakening heart was feeling. “You will be there with me,” she said quietly. “In my heart, where it counts most.”

His gaze into her eyes offered her a glimpse to the depths of his spirit. “With all that you’ve gone through, what a wonderful thing to say,” he said. “Thank you.”

And she knew she had been able to offer a small gift of her own. “It’s a lesson you taught me.” She reached across and took his hand, felt the strength and the warmth and the spirit. Here was a truly good man. “Would you pray with me now?”

22
 

“It’s very kind of you
to invite me in like this,” Kyle said. She was seated at the Millers’ kitchen table, feeling out of place but very welcomed.

“Choel’s sister,” Mr. Miller repeated and shook his head once more. “Never did I think such a shock could be such a happiness.”

Mrs. Miller rose and reached for Kyle’s plate. “Here, let me some more pie bring.”

“No, really, I couldn’t.” Kyle glanced around, taking in the big, bare-walled kitchen with its finely crafted table and chairs, and the people with their curious dress and speech. Despite the strangeness of the setting, Kyle could not help but feel the peace that permeated the room. And something more. The same light shone from their faces as had from Martha and Harry Grimes.

She had taken a train up to Philadelphia, then to Lansdale, not sorry that pressing issues in the company had forced Kenneth to stay in Washington. It was good to be alone for this journey of discovery. The time of travel and solitude gave her an opportunity to sort through her thoughts and emotions. So much was happening and so fast.

As the train had clattered on, Kyle had found herself praying. It had come with the quiet naturalness of a thought about Kenneth, seeing his smile and his strength and his concern for her, feeling the closeness even when every minute of her journey took her farther away. She had closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the train window, and heard the words drift into her mind.
Help me, Father
, she had prayed, and this time she had felt the words fill her being, running into those that she had earlier pushed away, yet which now stood out as if written in light before her mind’s eye.
Help me to come to know you. Help me to understand. Help me to know the life and the joy and the light that I see in other believers’ eyes. Help me to understand what salvation truly means
.

The lingering peace had stayed with her, through the remainder of the journey and the long taxi ride out to the Miller farm. She could not call ahead since they did not have a telephone. But it had not mattered, for they had accepted her with hugs and cries of delight, and drawn her into the kitchen for coffee and fresh pie and talk and smiles. They had explained that Joel was not there right then but was doing mission work in town.

The young man named Simon rose to his feet. “Perhaps you would like to walk the farm now.”

“Yes, thank you.” She returned their openhearted smiles; only the young woman called Ruthie remained quietly sad at the table’s other end, watching her with an unreadable expression. “You’ve all been so kind.”

Simon walked with her toward the paddock. “I stayed home from the mission church to help with the chores this day,” he said to her unasked question. “Papa, he has good days and bad days. Today is not so good.”

The late autumn sun turned the pasture a glistening gold. The horses spotted their approach and came trotting over to the fence. The most persistent was a chestnut mare whose nose was flecked with the gray of age. “This is Missy. My father bought her the year before I was born. She is old now. We let her be lazy. She no longer works on the farm.”

The mare seemed to realize they were talking about her, for she tossed her mane and snorted before walking up and resting her chest on the top post. She muzzled into Simon’s open hand, then turned her attention toward Kyle.

Kyle lifted both hands to the great head and stroked the neck. The horse nuzzled gently against her shoulder. “She’s wonderful.”

Simon watched in mild surprise. “She looks for sugar. It is a game we play. Never did I see her do this with a stranger. Can you ride?”

“I used to. I haven’t in years.”

“Sometimes I think horses, they understand things better than people. Dogs too. They have such a simple way of living, as though we could look at them and remember things we have forgotten. Or maybe never really learned.”

“You have held to a lot of the simple things in life.”

“Yes.” He watched as she lay her cheek against the horse and was rewarded with a soft whinny. “You share your brother’s way with animals. They must see a good heart in you.”

She turned to face Simon. The horse, disappointed by her movement, shoved at her gently. She reached out again to stroke her and asked, “Where is my brother, Simon? I must see him.”

“He went to the mission church in Lansdale without me today.” He nodded slowly. “I think it is very good that he sees you. Joel needs us all to help him at this time. He is very brave—but he hurts within, more than from the heart that does not beat right.”

He stared out to where the fields joined with low-slung hills. Kyle shifted from one foot to the other. She had the feeling that Simon wanted to say more about her brother, but she didn’t feel she could press him.

At length he sighed. With a nod back toward the house he went on. “Our Ruthie—she loves your Joel. It is no secret. She cannot hide it. And Joel, he returns the love. Only Joel asks me, what can one give with so few days left? ‘Love,’ I say. ‘For as long as God allows.’ But that is not good enough answer for him. So Joel, he has not only a bad heart—but a broken one.”

Kyle felt the tears rise in her eyes. Tears for the brother she did not know. “I wish I could do something for him,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“That sounds just like what our Joel would say.” Simon smiled with surprising sweetness for such a hearty-looking face. “He is quite the man, your brother. He can say more in silence than most folk can with a year of words.” He turned to stare out over the paddock. “He understands these people, the wanderers. He knows their distrust of voices. But still he speaks to them. Heart speaks to heart. And their own hearts, they listen.”

Kyle felt as though she were reaching through the mists of lost time, struggling to understand a man she had never met. Her brother. “Why do you think he can do this?”

Simon was a long time in answering. “Because,” he finally replied, “Joel is an orphan of the storm—the storm of this life—just like them. It has left him alone too much and too long. He understands their sadness, and he speaks to their need.”

“I—” Kyle stopped as she saw Ruthie approaching. She had a new appreciation, a new empathy, for the young girl. She wished she could reach out to her, ease the pain of the heart that loved—and sorrowed.

The young woman walked over, stopped in front of Kyle, and in her lilting English asked, “You go to Joel?”

“Yes,” replied Kyle with a slight nod.

“Would you give him a message for me?”

“Of course,” Kyle responded, but she heard her voice crack on the simple words.

Sadness turned her smile crooked. “Tell him, don’t leave now, leave next time.”

Kyle wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “But he’s already in town.”

“He’ll understand.” Abruptly Ruthie reached out, hugged Kyle fiercely, then released her and turned away, but not before Kyle caught sight of the tears. “And give that for him from me yet.”

Kyle stood and watched Ruthie return to the house, saw her hand reach up to brush at her cheeks. Kyle could not stop her own tears from flowing.

Late that afternoon, Joel braved the brisk wind to help with what the church folk had come to call the street patrol. In the early morning and again just before dark, they searched out new faces huddled under blankets or sleeping inside the limping vehicles that had brought them to town.

Lansdale was often called the gateway to the Pennsylvania Dutch country. It was a picturesque place of Revolutionary War-era buildings and grand, tree-lined avenues. Young people headed into New York, Boston, or Washington—or just moving—often stopped here. A few days or weeks—or months. “Beatniks” had for years been the word to describe such young people. Joel shared the feeling of the other church folk that something needed to be done for these lost ones.

Shadows were lengthening and the night was drawing its cold cover over the town when Joel’s eye was caught by a lumpy form huddled in a doorway. He crossed the street and identified three bodies shivering under a shared blanket.

He made as much noise as he could in approaching. One of the heads popped into sight, then another. A trio of young girls, the oldest no more than sixteen, stared at him with sleepy eyes. Fear seemed to have been etched permanently into their young faces, a sign he had come to know well. It meant they had been on the road long enough to sample the harshness of life alone.

“Good evening,” he said, giving them a gentle word and a wave, but no smile. By now they would have learned that smiles could mask danger and deception. People often lied as easily with a smile as their voices.

The girls watched him with eyes that were swiftly clearing of sleep. Their bodies tensed, ready to flee if he made a sudden move. “My name is Joel. Have any of you heard of the Lansdale Mennonite Church?”

There was a long pause before the middle girl gave a little shiver of a headshake.

“We run a local mission outreach. There’s hot soup there. Have you eaten recently?”

The hollowness of their cheeks told him everything. Joel did not wait for them to respond. “Everything’s cool,” he said, using the language of the street, but knowing it was more important they feel his concern than hear his words. “You can stay as long as you like, have a shower and a bed for a while if you need it. Hot food, there’s a doctor, too. If you want, we’ll let your folks know you’re okay, but we won’t say where you are unless you want us to.”

Joel waited a moment, long enough to give a silent, open-eyed prayer that the Lord would speak to their hearts. Then he offered them his hand. “It’s so cold this evening the streets are white. Feels like it might even snow later. Wouldn’t you like to come in and get warm?”

Joel set up rows of chairs, preparing for their evening service. The church was on the outskirts of town, and the mission occupied the ground floor of a neighboring building. They had left the floor open and set the worship area in one corner. They had discovered early on that few of these wary young people would accept the word of God outright. These kids first needed to observe from a distance. They could sit in the lounge area, or help in the kitchen, or talk among themselves. It never ceased to give Joel a thrill of pleasure the first time one of the newcomers would hesitantly walk over, after a few days of careful observing, and sit down and listen to the Word.

A flicker of movement caught Joel’s eye, and he stopped to turn and stare with the rest of the room.

Not that the girl was beautiful. No, the features were too definite, the shoulders too square, the bearing too erect. But this was certainly not a person who had come looking for shelter.

She stood there and searched the faces turned her way. Joel walked toward her. The young lady was definitely not a social worker, not the way she was dressed. She wore a winter suit of palest yellow, with matching pumps and purse. Her hair was brushed to a warm glow, and her skin was smooth as peaches and cream.

Obviously she was looking for a runaway. It happened from time to time, but usually the searcher was someone older. As he approached, he wondered if there wasn’t something about her. Something oddly familiar. Something that raised the hair on his arms and brought a shiver up his spine.