Light From Heaven (12 page)

“A thurible.”

“I don’t know what they’d think of that. We were always low church here.”

“One less item to round up! As for getting our services under way, I believe the first Sunday in May would be realistic. That gives us time to collect ourselves.”

Agnes appeared thoughtful.

“Where will they come from, Agnes?”

“I can’t honestly say. Only three remain in these parts who know anything of the Anglican form of worship. Two are elderly, but wise and sweet, and still get about. They’ll be so happy. And perhaps we’ll get some of the Baptist flock from below the creek. Their church burned to the ground last Christmas, a terrible thing. Clarence will take ’round a note from me, and we shall see whom the Lord appoints to grace this nave.”

Why did he suddenly feel like a child who had been rescued? Tears welled in his eyes.

“I feel very moved. Very . . . amazed.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “And very grateful.”

“Perhaps God has asked you to do something smaller than you’re accustomed to doing. Or perhaps He’s asked you to do something greater ...”

He nodded.

“. . . and thereby your wonder has been stirred.”

Yes! His wonder.

“Let’s walk over to the schoolhouse,” she said. “I’ll refill our thermos and find us a bite to eat.”

“Agnes,” he said, on impulse, “do you know anything about . . .” How could he possibly ask this?

“About what, Father?”

“Cutting hair?”

His wife leaned forward and squinted at him.

“Timothy! You’ve done it, at last! And I must say, it looks terrific!”

He sat beside her on the window seat, and put his arm around her and kissed her cheek.

“What is it, darling? You’re grinning like the Cheshire cat.”

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

He was interested to see they’d driven out from Mitford in the Jeep.

“I think she wanted to,” Dooley told him, “because, you know, because of you all.”

He saw her point. Lace Harper had her own sterling character traits.

He had stepped out to the front porch with Dooley, who was headed to the vet clinic to see Blake Eddistoe. Only yards away from their front steps, the lights of the clinic burned against the gathering dusk.

“No word from Sammy?”

“No, and I’m really worried. But I don’t want to go down there; I don’t want to see him.”

It was his father, Clyde Barlowe, whom Dooley didn’t wish to see.

“I’ll drive down next week, maybe Buck and I could make the trip together. Don’t worry. Keep praying the prayer that never fails.”

Dooley shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and gazed at the porch floor. “About what you said at Christmas . . .”

“What was that?”

“I said I’d like to take your name, and you told me to think about it. I’ve thought about it.”

Dooley raised his head and looked steadily at Father Tim.

“I want to take your name.”

Father Tim was quiet for a time, moved by the reality of this proposal. “Have you spoken to your mother? Would we have her blessing?”

“Buck wants to adopt Poo and Jessie, so they’ll be Leepers. I don’t see why it would matter for me to be a ... Kavanagh.”

“Would you like Cynthia and me to adopt you? Or do you just want the name change?” He hadn’t really wanted to ask this—what if he didn’t like the answer?

Dooley spoke at once. “Adopt.”

Wordless, Father Tim embraced the tall, intense young man who’d been given him so long ago, and held him close for a moment.

“Consider it done. I’ll call Walter, and we’ll go from there.”

Dooley’s voice was hoarse with feeling when he spoke at last. “One of our rams is down.”

“What is it?”

“Rams can get stones and crystals in their urinary tract, and it’s hard to pass a catheter in. I think Blake should treat it medically with antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and probably a change of diet, and the stones will dissolve and pass.”

“What does Blake think?”

“I’m going down to find out.”

“Son . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“Give him our regards; we’ll see him up here for supper on Monday.”

Mind your temper,
he wanted to say.

They heard the front door slam, and Dooley coming along the hall to the kitchen.

Father Tim saw the seething anger in his face.

“Blake’s going to create a stoma bladder hole; it’ll go directly through the stomach, which means the ram will urinate through the stomach like a ewe.”

“What’s the problem with that?” asked Father Tim.

“He’ll dribble urine, he’ll get a bad urine scald around that spot, and nobody will have time to take care of it.You have to wash the hole every day; nobody has time to do that . . .”

“Dinner is served,” said Cynthia.

Dooley yanked Lace’s chair away from the table, and held it for her.

“Let’s take a deep breath, sit down, and enjoy our meal together,” said Father Tim. “Then we can talk about the ram.”

Cynthia passed the prayer book to Lace. “Lace, dear, will you read this Lenten prayer for us?”

A faint blush of color came to Lace’s cheeks as she read in a firm, clear voice.

“Assist us mercifully with Thy help, O Lord God of our salvation; that we may enter with joy upon the meditation of those mighty acts, whereby Thou hast given unto us life and immortality, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

“Amen!” they exclaimed together.

Father Tim extended his left hand to Cynthia, and his right to Lace. They bowed their heads.

“Lord, we thank You for the great power of Your grace in all our lives. Thank You for Lace and Dooley whom we love and cherish, and for the bright futures You’ve set before them. Thank You for the gifts You’ve so generously given Lace, which assisted her in winning this fine scholarship. Thank You for Your gift to Dooley of a heart concerned for all Your creatures, great and small.

“Thank You for Cynthia, who lightens and enriches the spirits of everyone who knows her. And now, Lord, thank You for this bounteous meal of the things Dooley enjoys most, and which we enjoy with him.You are good, O God, and You are faithful. Tenderize and soften our Lenten hearts, we pray, lest they grow brittle and break.

“In the name our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, Amen.”

“Amen!”

Steak, oven fries, and arugula dressed with a hint of orange and walnuts. He had checked his sugar, and not only would he have some of everything, he would also have a hot roll. What’s more, he would butter it, hallelujah.

As the steak platter passed from Lace to Dooley, he felt Dooley’s mood brighten. His own spirits brightened, as well.

“Man!”
said Dooley, forking the steak he’d earlier chosen as it came from the butcher’s paper.

Cynthia passed the potatoes, arrayed on a blue and white platter. “I’ve slaved over these fries,” she confessed, “and I think, I hope, I pray I got it.”

“Lace,” said Father Tim, “give Dooley a run for his money, and have a few more.” He was struck, as ever, by Lace’s extraordinary beauty, and the soulful depths of her amber eyes.

He recalled their first meeting several years ago. Instead of taking the road to Miss Sadie’s house, he’d cut through the massive grove of wild cinnamon ferns on the bank. Near the big oak, he’d come upon someone in a hat, digging ferns by their root balls and rustling them into a burlap sack.

He thought it a boy or young man until the culprit turned around in surprise. It was his first sight of Lace Harper, then Lacey Turner. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, and the fury, as he walked toward her.

“I’ll knock you in th’ head,” she’d said, “if you lay hands on my sack. I don’t care if you are a preacher.”

He’d asked her to consider replanting what she had dug, but she stood her ground. Cinnamon ferns had a strong dollar value on the local digging market.

She had grabbed her sack and mattock and fled, bareheaded and barefoot, down the embankment.

But God had greater plans for Lace Turner than digging ferns.

This harshly abused and largely self-educated young woman had surrendered her life to Christ at a revival meeting conducted by Absalom Greer. Then, following the death of her mother, she’d been adopted by the town doctor and his wife, and was excelling in her studies at the University of Virginia.

Most people, he supposed, didn’t believe that miracles still happen. Those people were wrong.

“I think you got it,” said Dooley, hammering down on the fries.

“Crispier on the outside?” asked Cynthia.

“Yep.”

“Softer on the inside? More golden in color?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dooley Barlowe! I can’t believe you called me ma am.

Lace laughed. “That’s really good.”

“I know I’m a Yankee, and such things aren’t supposed to matter, but would you continue to call me ma’am? I love the sound of it.”

Dooley laughed the cackling laugh that Father Tim loved to hear.

“How did you do it?” Lace asked the cook.

“Bottom line, it’s the pan. I’ve been using a lightweight pan, which caused the fries to look very pale and boring. So Avis suggested I use a heavy pan, and there you have it—the heavier pan conducts heat more evenly, and gives this lovely golden crust into the bargain.”

“Well done!” exclaimed Father Tim.

He decided not to be discouraged by what he occasionally saw in Lace’s eyes when she looked at Dooley. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was anger. Sometimes it was love.

If they chose to spend their lives together, it wouldn’t be easy. Each had been required to survive violence, rejection, and the cancer of bitterness. To claim their survival, they had built walls that couldn’t easily be taken down.

And yet, while all this pertained, he would choose to trust what he saw right now, at this moment—a flush of genuine happiness in his boy, and in the bright and beautiful girl who had come so profoundly into their lives.

“Let me share a thought with you,” said the vicar. “George Macdonald wrote this: ‘Man finds it hard to get what he wants, because he does not want the best. God finds it hard to give, because He would give the best and man will not take it.’

“God is giving us the best tonight, and we’re taking it. Thanks be to God.”

Dooley looked at him intently for a moment, then at Lace. “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly.