Grace in Autumn (34 page)

Birdie lifted a brow, wondering what it was.

She was a little surprised to see Olympia and Annie in church, but there they were, in the center of the de Cuvier pew just ahead of her. As the music swelled, Olympia reached out to hold Annie's hand, and something in the gesture twisted at Birdie's heart. And something seemed odd—as a rule, Caleb sat with the island's other single men at the back of the church, but this morning Zuriel, Yakov, Abner, and Elezar sat on the de Cuvier pew, almost as if forming a protective shield around the mourning women. “Thank you,” Birdie whispered, knowing they couldn't hear, but feeling grateful all the same.

She felt Edmund's presence as surely as if he sat in the pew next to Olympia. How wonderful to know that for those in Christ, partings like these were but brief absences.

Buddy Maxwell, wearing his usual muddy boots, sat toward the front, and that was a miracle in itself. Dana must have bribed him into attending. The Lansdowns and the Higgs sat next to Edith Wickam, while Dr. Marc sat at the end of the pew. Captain Stroble had even come to church this morning.

Oh dear! Birdie slid lower in her seat as the significance of his presence hit her. Surely he hadn't come to deliver more mail—not on Thanksgiving!

She lowered her gaze, then felt herself flushing even more deeply, rattled by a sudden self-awareness. She'd been scanning the audience and taking a mental roll call because . . . she was looking for Salt!

Thank the Lord, he hadn't come. She'd die if he caught her looking for him.

When the last amen died away, Pastor Wickam rose from his chair and walked to the pulpit. The middle-aged minister wore fall colors—a handsome brown tweed coat with a buttercup yellow shirt set off with a cinnamon and yellow striped tie. Birdie made a mental note to congratulate Edith on her splendid job of dressing him for the occasion.

After reaching up to smooth his mostly nonexistent hair, he opened his sermon notes, glancing up only briefly when Micah quietly moved to sit on the de Cuvier pew.

Birdie had to smile when she saw the pastor's automatic head patting gesture. Winslow had come a long way since his fascination with hair. These days he wore his bald spot like a badge of honor, openly declaring that vanity and preoccupation with shedding follicles was a waste of good time. A couple of weeks ago when Birdie caught him in the mercantile, he flashed a grin and told her he'd discovered certain advantages to going bald: one, he could comb his hair with a washrag, and two, with just a little more hair loss, he would look like he had a continual halo 'round his head.

And that, Winslow had humbly confessed, was exactly the effect he wanted.

Pastor Wickam stood silently for a moment, gazing out at his flock. Then slowly he closed his Bible and opened his eyes. “For a moment, we're going to talk about the life of Edmund Shots de Cuvier. Saturday we'll gather once again and ask the question, ‘Death, where is thy sting?' Olympia has lost a mate of forty years; Annie, a beloved uncle. All of us have lost a friend; the world, a great benefactor. Edmund will be missed.”

Olympia sniffed audibly, and from the other side of the room Birdie saw the flutter of tissues being pulled from pockets and purses. She lifted her own handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“Which brings me to my topic for this special Thanksgiving service. We all suffer from emotions, whether from irritation or grouchiness or depression. The events of the past few days have shown me how quick we are to show emotion, but how reluctant we are to show true compassion and love.

“Some of us here this morning,” Winslow continued, “have been blessed beyond our wildest expectations. And some of us are hurting.”

The congregation shifted and shuffled. Birdie felt a collective movement of heads turning to look toward Olympia and Annie.

Winslow paused, apparently sorting his thoughts. Birdie tightened her grip on her handkerchief. Long pauses weren't Pastor Wickam's style; he usually plunged headlong into his message, well aware that pies were cooling and potatoes waiting to be mashed for the holiday dinner.

After a long moment, he lifted his gaze and looked directly at Birdie. “Some people here today are hurting, and, may God forgive us, we are the source of that pain.”

Voices whispered, eyes lowered. Birdie could have heard a pin drop as the meaning of Pastor's words penetrated hearts and souls.

Next to Birdie, Vernie shifted, then a rough hand reached out to cover hers. Without a word, she gave Birdie's hand a gentle squeeze.

The pastor's gaze remained on Birdie. “Birdie, we are your family, too, and I fear we have lost sight of that fact. What you did last week by helping that little girl was a Christlike thing to do. I've thought about it often, and I've been ashamed of my own response.” A blush ran like a shadow over his cheeks. “In our selfishness, we tend to cling to what we think is ours—the island, the budget, the wonderful peace and privacy we enjoy here in Heavenly Daze. Often we don't want to share. We want to be God's people, but we want to be left alone—”

“Preacher?”

Every eye swung to the front pew, where Floyd Lansdown had just stood.

Birdie stirred uneasily in her seat. No one ever interrupted the message, not even if the sermon stepped on a few toes.

Pastor Wickam's face went blank with shock. “Is there something you wanted to add, Floyd?”

“Not add,” Floyd said. “Maybe correct.”

Winslow smiled. “Why not? This is the day for sharing.”

Floyd turned slightly to face the congregation. “It's not that we didn't want to help that family,” he said, casting a quick look at Cleta. “All of us saw the need, but what about the furnace? That old thing's about to go. If we took money from the furnace fund to help the Akermans, then when the furnace died we wouldn't have one red cent to fix it.”

From the piano bench, Bea piped up. “The money for that family came from me and Birdie. For heaven's sake, why is everyone making such a big deal out of one letter? This is Thanksgiving. Let's forgive and forget and get on with the service.” She turned to her hymnal, flipping heatedly through the pages. “The way some of you have been treating Birdie is a crime. She did what she felt was right, and that's the end of it.” She paused, snapping the hymnal closed, then dropped it to her lap and crossed her arms.

Vernie waved her hand. “What about the grant money we received from Rex Hartwell? Have we spent all of that?”

Floyd shrugged. “Not all of it—we put that new roof on and made some foundation repairs. There's a little left, but we haven't bought a dishwasher for the parsonage yet.”

Edith Wickam timidly lifted her hand. “I don't need a dishwasher,” she said, looking at her husband. Emboldened by his smile, she shifted and looked out at the congregation. “I've been doing dishes by hand for years and it hasn't hurt me a bit.”

Floyd shoved at his glasses. “The point is, we've stretched what we have until it's screaming for mercy. Most of us don't like saying no any more than Birdie, but we don't have the means to help others. Apart from the Gettys and Gates of the world, who does?”

Words bubbled in Birdie's throat, but pain stopped them short. She grinned, suddenly grateful for the laryngitis. God was allowing her to listen for a change.

“Money is always a concern with a small congregation,” Winslow admitted. “But how we treat each other shouldn't be.”

“Money may not be a pleasant subject, but it is a necessity,” Vernie pointed out.

“That's the truth!” Cleta stood. “We don't mean to be callous, Pastor, but the Lord expects us to plan ahead and save for a rainy day. Too many folks spend without thinking, then suddenly they're down and out looking for help.”

Several in the congregation amen'd the sentiment.

Cleta lifted a warning finger. “What if another emergency comes up—maybe someone gets sick and can't take care of himself, or they raise the church insurance premium? What'll we do then? We'll have no emergency funds whatsoever if we start trying to answer all those angel letters. Don't we need to think of our welfare first? We can't take care of everyone. We're not God.”

“That's right, preacher!” Floyd nodded with such force his glasses slipped from his nose.

“May I speak?” Dr. Marc stood up and folded his hands. “Speaking for myself, I know that in a case of unforeseen illness I would care for the patient without any regard for compensation.”

Cleta wagged her finger at him. “You do that anyway, Dr. Marc, and we're beholden, but what about medicine and special treatment? You can't cover it all. Medical expenses these days can run into the millions.”

“Then we couldn't help, regardless,” Dr. Marc gently pointed out. “My point is that I'd do what I could. We should all do what we can.”

As Abner rose to his feet, heads rotated to watch him. Pastor Wickam inclined his head toward the baker. “You have something to add, Abner?”

“Thank you, Pastor.” Abner's gaze moved over the congregation. “Brothers and sisters, I urge you to think. When has God ever failed to meet even one of our urgent needs?”

Silence fell over the room. Pointed looks were exchanged, then eyes lowered.

“Really,” Abner pressed. “Who among us has been deserted by God when we most needed him?”

Silence reigned in the sanctuary. No one offered a rebuke.

Closing his eyes, Abner softly recited: “Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don't need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are more valuable to him than they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not. . . . Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don't work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are.” He opened his eyes, focusing on Floyd. “And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won't he more surely care for you?”

Clearing his throat, Floyd dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. “It's not the same,” he mumbled.

“Ah, but it is. We must trust God to care for our needs. Anything less is a lack of faith, and those who come to God must believe, for without faith it is impossible to please him.”

As Abner sat down, Birdie saw Yakov lean close. “Thank you, brother,” he said, his whisper reaching her ear. “That was a most appropriate response.”

Grinning shyly, Abner dropped his head. “Wish I had thought of it first.”

Pastor Wickam cleared his throat in the microphone, redirecting the congregation's attention to the front. “Many of you know that I like to take long walks along the shore,” he said, a smile ruffling his mouth. “Yesterday morning, while I gazed out at the sea, God spoke to me. Oh, he didn't adopt a booming voice and literally say, ‘Winslow, I want you to take this message to my people.' But I felt his presence. I heard his voice in the soft wind, and I heard him speak to my heart. He said, ‘Everything I permit has a purpose.'”

Winslow looked out at his people, the light of conviction in his eyes. “And then it came to me—perhaps our loving, personal God has singled out Heavenly Daze to give help and hope to a dark world.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch. “I know about the e-mail chain letter going around,” he said. “At first I was like most of you, annoyed to think that such a silly thing would inconvenience us, then I applied the Lord's word to my heart and remembered what he told me: Everything he permits has a purpose. And then I asked myself, ‘What if God has decided to allow us to serve him in a way most Christians only dream about?' How often do we say, ‘Oh Lord, here I am, use me,' but we never expect him to actually take us up on our offer? Oh, we might volunteer to usher, serve communion, or teach Sunday school, and those are all valuable services to God. But what if he wants more from us who live in Heavenly Daze?”

Annie Cuvier raised her hand. “What do you mean, more? Are you suggesting God has singled out Heavenly Daze to deal with all the world's problems? With all due respect, Pastor, that's impossible.”

Winslow gave her a patient nod. “I was thinking that perhaps God has singled us out to care.”

“Care?” Vernie echoed.

“To be a voice of encouragement where there is none, to offer hope to those who have reached the end of their rope.”

That sobering thought lingered with Birdie long after Winslow finished his sermon and the worshipers filed past Olympia and Annie to offer hugs and heartfelt condolences.

And as she walked home with Bea, she asked herself if it could be true: Had God actually anointed Heavenly Daze to be a beacon of hope? The idea seemed ludicrous; that sort of thing didn't happen in today's world.

Or did it?

As Birdie took the golden brown turkey out of the oven, she considered the challenge the pastor had given them. God worked in mysterious ways, so could the angel letters be part of his plan for the town?

One thing was certain—Pastor Wickam's challenge to care had been immediately answered.

Bea raised her voice above the whirl of the mixer. “I caught everyone, I think. They'll all be at Olympia's house by one o'clock.

“Good,” Birdie said absently. “Good for all of us to pitch in and care.”

Today, at least, Heavenly Daze would live up to its reputation.