Sanctuary (12 page)

“The clip-clopping of horses’ hooves awakened me just after dawn.” Melissa’s face was drawn and serious, though she seemed a bit more rested than before. “I didn’t count them, but there were far more than yesterday.”

“Ah yes, I know just what you mean.” She reached for her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair. Glancing up at the ivy vines encircling her windows, she explained, “It’s Sunday-go-to-meetin’ in Lancaster County, which means many of my Amish neighbors are heading out to house church.”

“You mean they attend church at someone’s house?” Melissa seemed altogether surprised at this revelation.

“Two hundred and more in some cases.” She explained how the Old Order folk removed various partitions in their living rooms, making it possible to accommodate that many church members. “Same with Amish weddings and funerals. They make room for their people. The Plain folk are a closeknit bunch.”

Melissa nodded, but there was a faraway look in her eyes.

“The horses and carriages were hurrying off to worship services all over this area,” she added. “‘Tis a common sight every other Sunday morning, round here.” She went on to say that the Old Order Amish have what they call “off Sundays,” when they don’t gather for preaching but spend the day reading their German and English Bibles, visiting and resting.

“Do your sister and husband ever have house church?” asked Melissa, gaze intent.

“Sometimes. With so many folk per church district, a family doesn’t have preaching service too often. But I think they’re due to have a meeting at their place here pretty soon.” She rose, went to the pantry, and looked on the back of the door at the calendar. “Yes, next month. September ninth, in fact.”

Melissa was quiet for the longest time, then—“I really liked your sister.”

“Elizabeth?”

“She reminds me of someone from my childhood.”
Mrs. Browning’s housekeeper,
she thought.

“Elizabeth’s a sweet girl, and she loves her family, as anybody can see.”

“She must have a little store back behind the house,” Melissa remarked.

Chuckling, Lela replied, “Oh my, does she ever. Suppose you saw the sign.”

“I couldn’t help but be curious.”

“Well, if you stay on another day or so, I’ll be happy to take you over, give you a look around the country store.” Lela sighed, thinking she ought to stop talking so awful much and eat her breakfast. She didn’t want to be late for church. “Elizabeth and I keep the store well stocked with all sorts of handmade items.”

“So, you work for Elizabeth—making things?”

She nodded. “Quite a lot of crocheting and sewing, and sometimes I make quilted pillow shams and bed coverings to match.”

“Then, you’re an artist,” Melissa said.

She felt her cheeks get warm. “Well, now I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you
are!
” insisted Melissa. “I love to paint flowers, the sea. I like to think of myself as an artist, too.”

“What else do you like to do—for hobbies, I mean?”

Melissa sighed, getting that distant look in her eyes. “Making scrapbooks is one of my big interests, but it’s been a long time since I worked on anything new.”

Noting her wedding band, Lela wondered how much she should ask. Wouldn’t want to pry where she ought not to.

“My husband enjoys our vacation scrapbooks,” Melissa said, opening up the subject Lela was curious about.

“Where do you like to go together … on vacation?”

“Vermont and New Hampshire, especially. We get off the main roads and stay in small towns. Go exploring, I guess you could say.”

She might’ve posed another question, but just then, the phone rang. Melissa let out a startled sound, locking eyes with her, but Lela put her guest at ease. “I’ll get that,” she said, rising up from the table.

Turned out the call wasn’t for Melissa, but for Lela. “Do you want a ride for church?” asked Sadie Nan, her church friend. “My brother’s in town from Indiana. I thought the three of us could go out to eat after, if you don’t have other plans.”

Paul Martin …

She’d heard through the community grapevine that Paul’s wife had passed away, leaving him a widower with a young son.

“Well, I don’t … know, uh, really.” She disliked stumbling around like this. Not with Melissa sitting across the room, no doubt wondering what had her so flustered all of a sudden.

“Oh, please say you’ll come, Lela. We’ll have the
best
time. Besides, my brother’s been asking ’bout you.”

She would’ve said, “What’s he asking?” but held her tongue. No, it would never do for Paul and Sadie Nan to show up at her door, what with Melissa here. Still, she was more than curious about Paul. Just why was he in town anyway?

Looking out the window, she could see the sun shining nice and bright. Looked to be a pretty day. “I believe I’ll ride my bike to service,” she managed. “Maybe another time.”

“Okay, but I’ll hold you to it,” Sadie said.

“I’ll see you at church.”

Melissa tried to ignore the phone conversation going on uncomfortably near. She stared out the wide windows that comprised a good portion of the west wall in the dining area of the kitchen. Today, while Lela was at church, might be a good time to do some exploring. At least, she might venture out past the patio courtyard directly behind the windows, near the low stone walls where pink and purple clematis spilled over native stone, to the perennial borders and herb gardens and tall hedges so characteristic of English gardens. A rose-covered pergola reminded her of the years spent with Mrs. Browning, the gardener extraordinaire who’d mothered her well into college.

Turning back to her coffee and the delicious “sticky buns,” she glanced up to see Lela’s face turning a bright pink, brown eyes glistening. She was sputtering like a schoolgirl. Well, what was this? Did Lela have a boyfriend?

She continued to observe as the phone conversation ensued. From what she could gather, someone was inviting Lela somewhere, and now she was declining. Why Melissa cared at all about any of this, she didn’t know. Sure beat racing around on the highway, though, trying to ditch the contemptible man who’d tried to bump her off the road. He probably would have killed her—if he had gotten close enough.

The area behind the house beckoned her, and she found herself gazing with longing, eager to stroll around the grounds. She spied what she thought was a sundial centered in a bed of snow-white and rose-colored alyssum. Leaning forward, then getting up, she moved to the window and peered out. Yes, it
was
a sundial! She favored the sundial above all the garden trappings in her own backyard retreat.

She knew well the rewards, the pleasures reaped from spending time in one’s garden. Of all her hobbies, frittering away the hours doing the quiet, contemplative work of pruning, digging, weeding, planting, watering—all the necessary tending required—gardening was her thing. She often wondered if her years with Mrs. Browning had fostered such a love, wondered if her own mother, long deceased, might not have had a green thumb, as well. From her own enthusiasm for lovely plants, flowers, and shrubs had come her passion for painting. Daddy hadn’t seemed all that fond of her childish sketches, but as she grew and her interest changed, he’d shown considerable amazement for her watercolor renderings, especially of roses.

“If you’ll excuse me, I better see to cleaning up the kitchen,” Lela said when the phone conversation ended.

“Let me help,” Melissa said, remembering her manners. “In fact, why don’t you go and dress for church. I’ll finish up here.”

For a fleeting moment she thought Lela was going to reject her offer, but then the big brown eyes softened. “That’s thoughtful of you. Thank you, Melissa.”

“Please … call me Mellie,” she said all of a sudden.

Lela nodded, all smiles. “Well, sure I will. How nice of you to say so.”

Going to the sink, Melissa turned on the hot water. “Have a good day,” she said softly.

“You too.” Lela turned to go, then paused. “If for any reason your phone call is delayed, feel free to stay on, all right?”

She was taken aback by the woman’s generosity. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

Mutual admiration society
, she thought. All this gratitude exchanged. Well, it
was
a lovely reprieve from the nightmare she’d experienced two days ago. To think she may have found a trustworthy friend in this Plain woman….

In no time the kitchen was spotless, the place mats shaken over the sink and replaced at the table. With one purpose in mind—she would give herself permission to relax all day—Melissa hurried to the back of the house, to the four-season porch overlooking Lela’s backyard garden. Sure, it was the Lord’s Day, as Lela had so aptly put it, but the day was also Mellie’s. She would guard the notion, see to it that nothing marred the next carefree hours.

  
Chapter Fifteen
  

WHEN RYAN PULLED INTO the Village Church parking lot, the area was so crowded he had to back out and park across the street. The church building itself was a white colonial—classic New England architecture—complete with columns and a tall steeple.

They entered through the large double doors to the sound of hymn singing. A young woman greeted them with a smile and offered each of them a bulletin. Denny told her they were visiting.

“Welcome—and make yourself at home,” she said. “I think you’ll like it here.”

“I’m sure we will,” Denny replied quickly, with a sidelong glance at Ryan.

Heading into the sanctuary, Ryan wondered how he would survive an hour of dull religiosity. He was only doing this for Denny, who seemed thrilled to have his company.

He sat through a few hymns and some brief announcements. Then the pastor told a story about Jesus meeting a woman at a well, adding humorous anecdotes and personal illustrations. To Ryan’s surprise, he found the sermon rather interesting. No protracted conjecture on theology, no demands for money, not even a hint of condemnation.

After the service, while driving back to Mystic, Ryan said little. The minister’s words echoed in his mind:
Drink the living water … and never thirst again
. He wondered what Mellie would have thought of the sermon, knowing the answer instinctively. She would have enjoyed it.

Yet in the past few years, he’d given little encouragement to her religious preference. Hadn’t she purchased the picture of Christ, so out of place in their living room? She’d also painted the cross in Denny’s painting—this, very recently. Yes, she was definitely inclined in that direction.

“How’d you like the sermon?” Denny asked, interrupting Ryan’s reverie.

“Short and sweet.”

“You’re hopeless,” Denny moaned. “Did you hear him recite Melissa’s favorite quote?”

Ryan nodded, remembering her framed poster of homeless people standing in a soup kitchen line. Under the picture was the caption
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation
. Last year Mellie had decided to read the book
Walden
, sometimes even reading aloud to him.

“So you must think religion is the answer to man’s feelings of desperation,” he replied, glancing over at Denny.

“Not religion—”

“And not
everyone
feels desperate, right?”

Denny paused. “Listen, I didn’t come here to pound away at you—not this weekend. I mean … what with Melissa … and everything, maybe this just isn’t the right time.”

“I’m a big boy,” Ryan said. “Answer the question.”

“About desperation? Okay. I disagree with you. I think
everyone
feels some degree of underlying despair. We just call it by different names. I mean, not everyone’s thrashing around in a miserable state. But most of us do seem to be dissatisfied, discontented. And another thing … we’re all
addicted
.”

“Addicted,” Ryan echoed flatly.

“Yeah. It goes hand in hand with discontent. We’re addicted to having
more
. Getting more. More with a capital
M
. But
more
is never enough. We’re like rats on a treadmill. We never catch up with the cheese, but we keep chasing it anyway. We spend our whole lives running after something—anything—to give us fulfillment, to satisfy our longing, our insatiable desire. We think more money, new loves, more notoriety will finally make the difference.”

He stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “More of anything
never
satisfies, because ultimately we’re looking in the wrong place. Most of us grow old thinking that feeling lost and lonely is simply a part of being human … but it isn’t.”

“
Some
people seem pretty happy,” Ryan objected.

“Are they?
Really
happy?” Denny’s voice trailed off. “The rich and famous often come to the end of their lives still feeling lost and unfulfilled. It’s not money or fame that satisfies, Ryan. It’s Christ who offers the
more
we’re all seeking—the water that quenches our spiritual thirst.”

Ryan shook his head. “But most Christians don’t act like they’re drinking living water.”

Denny shrugged. “We only get little sips, here and there. Brief glimpses of eternity. Not the full deal—yet. But, ah … those glimpses.”

“So how is any of this proof of Christianity?”

“Well … think about it. As human beings, we have complex physical and emotional needs. All those needs have a corresponding fulfillment. You might say that experience has proven to us that if we
need
something, fulfillment of that need exists somewhere, somehow. For example, our bodies need nourishment to survive, which proves the existence of food and water. We need oxygen to breathe, which proves the existence of air. We need light and warmth, which proves the sun exists. We desire to procreate, which proves the existence of sex. We get lonely simply because friendship and community exists. But even with all these physical and emotional needs satisfied, we
still
feel unfulfilled. Why? Because we have a deeper spiritual need—a need for God. And that, my friend, proves the existence of a Creator.”

“Now you’re sounding like Socrates,” Ryan said.

“Would our spiritual need be the single exception—our one need that
doesn’t
have a corresponding fulfillment?” Denny asked. “That seems unlikely. Let me put it another way: If it’s proof you want, proof is in the pudding—in the
tasting
. Come to Christ and you’ll find the evidence.”

“But people need the evidence
first
, don’t they?” Ryan said, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

“Most people don’t need proof per se. They need to be
willing
to repent. The demand for evidence is often a smoke screen for hanging on to sin. For every reason I give you, you can find another objection. If you
want
to believe, you’ll find my reasons are sufficient—even
compelling
. If you
don’t
want to believe, no amount of logic will convince you.”

“Back up a sec. That’s where you lose me, Den. The
sin
part. Remember our college philosophy class?”

“Sure, I spent years recovering.”

“We were taught that sin is a myth,” Ryan said.

Denny grimaced. “So you’re saying that evil is simply—”

“Ignorance,” Ryan interrupted.

“Most skeptics argue that evil and suffering disproves the existence of God. But you’re telling me evil doesn’t even exist?”

“Of course it exists. But as a human race we can do
better
. Better psychology. Better treatment centers. Better schools. The worst evil we commit is telling our kids how bad they are. If we loved our children unconditionally, imparting genuine self-esteem, our so-called sinful behavior disappears.”

“I agree with you, but only to a point,” Denny said. “Sin goes much deeper into the human psyche, far beyond superficial behavior. As a human race we’re sunk in moral depravity. We’re bad to the bone. And that’s
why
we experience such desperation and insatiable longing. Because our sin separates us from God. We need
divine
redemption, not better schools or psychological Band-Aids.”

Steering the car into the restaurant parking lot, Ryan replied, “I’m sorry, Denny. It’s just not working for me.”

“Which part?”

“The whole thing.”

Green fields, dotted with black-and-white cows, widened out to meet the sky to the north. Silhouettes of windmills and silos punctuated the landscape, and flocks of crows flew overhead, like great dark clouds.

Melissa paused at the screen door, a slight shiver running down her back in spite of the warm day. Set against the gray slate floor and white clapboard walls, the cozy porch tempted her to remain in the confines of its protection. She
was
safe here. How ridiculous to think otherwise.

Opening the screen door, she ventured out. She wished she had her palette and a canvas. Her eyes embraced a myriad of colors and textures—Cleome spider flowers, their slender stems rising four feet high, topped with a deep pink crown. Amassed in a bold grouping that ran along the stone walkway from the house, the tender annuals withstood the sun’s strongest rays during summer. This she knew from her growing-up years at Mrs. Browning’s house.

Stepping down into the garden area, she felt as if she were wandering back to that familiar place in faraway Colorado….

“Come here and look at this, Mellie dear,” Mrs. Browning called, motioning her to the rows of golden yarrow growing near the birdbath.

She scurried across the yard, blades of grass cool beneath her bare feet. Always, she was interested in seeing what Mrs. Browning was up to, what new bud or blossom she’d discovered. The woman was a master gardener, and everyone in the small town of Palmer Lake knew it. People would stop by or call for gardening advice, sometimes bringing a feeble vine or distressed cutting to her for help. Melissa had seen Mrs. Browning work miracles with her green thumb.

This woman her father had chosen to raise her, as designated in his will, was vivacious and full of energy when she worked in her garden. But housework didn’t thrill her, and Mr. Browning, at one point, decided to hire a housekeeper, who made short order of the dusting and vacuuming, much to Mrs. Browning’s delight. “All the more time to talk to my flowers,” she said, going about her business in the yard.

“What’d you want to show me?” Mellie squatted down near the yarrow.

Mrs. Browning’s eyes shone. “Just imagine what fun we could have drying these naturally.”

“What for?”

“Oh, we can use them for crafts, you know, for presents.” She liked the idea and followed the woman to her rose gardens, where twenty different varieties bloomed, a difficult task in such a dry climate. Yet Mrs. Browning persevered, adding mulch and fertilizer, installing a drip hose, and as always, whispering her sweet talk.

Mr. Browning stopped to listen when his wife spoke of another “very special rose garden” in the southernmost section of the yard.

“That one’s in memory of your father,” Mrs. Browning said, pointing to the garden plot, reminding Melissa once again. “How your daddy loved his pure white roses,” she said, leaning down to breathe in the sweet fragrance of dozens of ivory-colored blossoms.

“White roses stand for silence and innocence,” Mellie said, remembering all that her father had taught her of the language of flowers.

“And secrecy, too, don’t forget,” Mrs. Browning said. “White roses have more than just a few meanings.”

Mr. Browning was nodding his head as if to reinforce the importance of it all.

“More than any of that, always remember how much your father loved
you
, dear.” Mrs. Browning gave her a little hug, then went about her work.

Always remember …

Lela was ever so glad for partly cloudy skies, a reprieve from the typical dog days of August, as she pedaled her bicycle to the meetinghouse down the road. Less than a mile away, the church was accessible either by foot or her favorite mode of transportation, her old ten-speed bicycle. The exercise was good for her, and besides that she liked to talk to God as she rode.