The List (23 page)

“I don't know, except that she wanted you to know about your birth and name.”

“But couldn't she have told me?”

“I suppose, but that gets back to the question of timin'. I suspect you're more able to appreciate this information now than when you were a teenager.”

“I guess so. Still, I don't…” Renny folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

Mama A continued, “You'll need to read the story of King Josiah yourself, but he was a boy king who rediscovered the Book of the Law and brought the nation of Israel back to the Lord. He also fulfilled a prophecy by destroyin' a pagan altar at a place called Bethel.”

“Well, things get more complicated every time you hope they are going to get simpler,” Renny said.

Mama A nodded. “But if we walk with the Lord, most things get worked out in the end.”

“I hope so.”

Mama A picked up her plate. “Do you want another piece of cake?”

“No thanks.”

“I'll wrap up a piece for you to have later.”

While Mama A was in the kitchen, Renny picked up the other envelope and started to break the seal, but stopped, deciding to wait until he was alone.

Mama A handed him the cake.

“I'll read the papers from my grandfather later. Thanks for . . . for everything,” Renny didn't know where to start thanking her. “I need to get on the road to Charlotte. I'll call you soon.”

“You call or come anytime, day or night.”

Renny picked up the Bible and the two envelopes.

“Bye, Mama A.”

“The Lord bless you. Thanks for comin' by.”

Agnes chuckled to herself as the screen door slammed behind Renny. She watched through the front window as he backed his car into the street and drove away. The chuckle blossomed into a laugh as she threw back her head and let the joy flow through her. It was the joy of the Spirit bubbling up from within, a joy known only by those who have the opportunity to participate with heaven in the unfolding of the divine plan for a precious life. No, God wasn't up there anxiously wringing his hands, hoping everything was going to be all right. He was a confident Father who enjoyed watching the adventure of life. “Yes,” she said aloud, “he knows the end from the beginning, the Alpha from the Omega.”

Agnes wasn't surprised by Renny's visit. She had seen him in the night; whether in a dream or vision, it didn't really matter to her. He appeared to her, walking into a woodland clearing in the moonless darkness before sunrise. But he was not alone. Clarence was with him. The two men stopped, talked a moment, and Clarence pointed toward a path on the other side of the opening. Renny hesitated. There were other paths out of the clearing, and the young man was not sure which one he wanted to take. She left him there, not knowing his choice. Half-awake, she looked at her clock. It was 3:21
A.M
., but to her blurred vision it looked like 30:21. Shaking herself fully awake, a familiar verse dropped into her consciousness, “This is the way, walk ye in it.” Flicking on the table lamp she found it. It was Isaiah 30:21. Then she knew; Renny was searching for direction and needed to hear from God.

Whenever Clarence appeared to her, Agnes knew the call to prayer was serious. Shortly after Clarence died, a five-year-old girl from the neighborhood was abducted from a local playground. Agnes learned about the kidnapping through a phone call from a lady in her church. Filled with concern, Mama A went to her back porch to rock and seek the Lord's mercy for the child. Her head bowed as she prayed, she heard a noise and looked up. It was Clarence standing on the back step. He looked steadily into her eyes and said, “Pray Matthew 16:19, Agnes,” and was gone. Grabbing her Bible, she read, “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”

Holding up her Bible, she shouted, “Thank you, Lord!” Then she prayed aloud, binding the evil and releasing the good. On the evening news that night, a TV reporter described how the little girl escaped when the kidnapper's car stalled at a traffic light in front of a convenience store. The child hopped out of the car and ran into the store. Driving away at a high speed, her abductor hit a telephone pole and was captured.

Mama A kept the back porch encounter to herself, and, after studying the Scriptures, decided she probably saw an angel appearing in a form familiar and friendly to her. On two subsequent occasions, one involving a friend with throat cancer and another involving a marriage with potential for serious domestic violence, Clarence appeared in dreams and gave her instructions for intercessory prayer on behalf of others. She prayed: the woman was healed, the marriage restored.

Mama A knew the battle for Renny had been long—it took time to bring forth a statue from a block of marble. Thinking back, she calculated the years since Renny's birth. His grandfather had a vision. Katharine had a hope. Now it was Mama A's turn to help bring the promise to fulfillment. Picking up her Bible, she decided to go out on the back porch and rock awhile.

12

“Some have entertained angels unawares.”

H
EBREWS 13:2, KJV

I
f Renny retraced his route through Moncks Corner, he could still be back in Charlotte by supper. A quiet spot in Moncks Corner would be an appropriate place to open the envelope containing his grandfather's papers. It seemed right to read the words in the town where they were written.

Little was stirring in downtown Moncks Corner on a hot Sunday afternoon. Renny drove through the town square and turned onto a side street that passed in front of his grandfather's former home. Two stories tall with a broad wraparound porch and a trio of enormous oak trees shading the front yard, the white frame house peacefully surveyed the street. There were no cars in the driveway, and Renny parked in the shade alongside the curb.

Breaking the seal on the envelope, he slid out several sheets of crinkled onionskin paper covered with neat blue handwriting.

There were three poems, a sheet with Bible verses on it, a genealogy of the Candler family, and a page entitled “The Promise—Josiah,” dated January in the year of his birth:

I have been praying for ten years that Katharine would be able to conceive and deliver a child. There has been tremendous resistance. She called this morning with the news that she is once again pregnant. After spending some time waiting on the Lord, I was impressed to turn to 1 Kings 13—the promise of Josiah. I believe she will have a successful pregnancy and deliver a boy with a Josiah call on his life. I claim this promise in advance for this tiny life today. Lord, bless my grandson. It will be so. Amen!

Tears welled in Renny's eyes, forcing their way through blinking eyelids. A soft, tender spot deep inside, a place he didn't know existed, was touched by the thought of a man rejoicing over his life, calling him “my grandson,” and blessing his future before Renny drew his first breath. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked up at the house and felt a link with his grandfather in the stillness of the quiet afternoon; a connection with the past that in some way held importance for the days and years to come.

Carefully placing the papers back in the envelope, he started the car and drove slowly down the street. At the corner, he saw a small sign pointing the way toward the Methodist church where the Candler family worshiped and the cemetery where several of his relatives, including his grandfather, were buried.

Located one block from the town square, Moncks Corner Free Methodist Church was established in 1756. The original sanctuary, made from red-clay bricks molded by slaves on nearby plantations, had a slender spirelike steeple and steeply pitched slate roof. Narrow stained-glass windows with pointed tops lined each side of the building like sentinels. Today, a large, modern sanctuary obscured from view the older structure, which was used primarily for weddings and more intimate church functions.

It was midafternoon, so the Sunday-morning crowd had gone home to dinner and a nap. The main church parking lot was empty as Renny pulled up to the entrance of the older building.
It's probably locked, but worth a try,
he thought.

To his surprise, the dark wooden door opened smoothly when he pulled the brass handle. The interior of the church was cool and dark, and he paused to let his eyes adjust. It had the smell of old wood, well oiled and polished. The stained-glass windows, six on each side, were magnificent, each depicting one of the twelve apostles with his name across the bottom. St. Paul took the place of the fallen Judas Iscariot. Renny walked slowly down the center aisle, admiring the wide variety of light and color that only expertly crafted stained glass could produce. Remembering how dull the windows looked from the outside, Renny marveled at the beauty and detailed artistry revealed within the sanctuary. Hearing a creaking board, he turned and saw an old man with a cane come in from a side door to the left of the first pew.

“Hello, sir,” Renny said, hoping the elderly gentleman wouldn't be startled by his presence.

The man squinted through rimless glasses and smiled. “Good afternoon. I hope I didn't disturb you.”

“I was admiring the windows.”

“They're beautiful, aren't they? They were made in Charleston and patterned after larger versions in a cathedral in France. Pretty fancy for small-town Methodists.”

“They're magnificent.” Renny covered the distance between them in a few strides and extended his hand. “I'm Renny Jacobson.”

“Michael Harriston,” he responded with a firm handshake.

“Are you the church historian?”

“Some might say so. I've been in this church for many years, and you pick up a lot by osmosis if you stay around a place long enough.”

“Then you would probably remember my mother and her father, Katharine and Nathaniel Candler.”

“Sure do. Is your mother still in Charleston?”

“No, she died several years ago. I'm on my way back to Charlotte and decided to visit my grandfather's grave.”

“Have you been to the graveyard?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you know where he's buried?”

“Not really. He died when I was a little boy, and I haven't been here in years. All I know is that he attended this church and his grave is in the cemetery.”

“Come with me. I can take you right to it.”

Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Harriston walked across the front of the sanctuary. A narrow door opened into a small hallway which led to a tiny study containing a single wooden chair and a small writing table.

He stopped. “In the old days, this was where the ministers always prayed before going in to begin the service. It was a way to remind them of their continuous need to rely on God.”

Renny peered into the plainly furnished little room before following the old man again.

“What can you tell me about my grandfather?” he asked as they stepped into the blinding sunlight.

Mr. Harriston put on a white cloth garden hat as they walked toward the cemetery. “He was a generous man. Easy to meet and friendly. Much like you, I would suppose.”

No one had ever compared Renny to his grandfather.

Mr. Harriston continued, “It's obvious you have some of his physical gestures; the way you walk and move reminds me of him.”

The cemetery was open without a surrounding fence or definite boundary line. Within a few steps of the first marker, tombstones of various sizes and designs surrounded them. The older graves were close to the church, the ancient markers thin and streaked in black. Mr. Harriston zigzagged his way along paths obviously familiar to him.

Then he stopped, removed his hat, and wiped his forehead with a red bandanna he had pulled from his pocket. “Here is the Candler plot.”

There were several simple markers, the oldest a small, black-streaked slab. Renny leaned over to read the inscription:

Amos Candler
June 5, 1800–April 12, 1875
Though dead, he speaks.

“I left the Candler genealogy in the car. Is he a direct ancestor?”

“Let's see.” Mr. Harriston counted on his fingers. “Amos Candler was your great-great-grandfather, the first Candler to settle in this area.”

Nearby was a more modern marker: Nathaniel Candler, January 20, 1905–August 26, 1982. Next to him was his wife: Marie Candler, October 15, 1904–April 24, 1971. A sprig of fresh-cut flowers in a small glass vase balanced on top of the marker. This was the resting place of Renny's grandparents.

“Did the church put the flowers on the grave?” Renny asked.

“I did,” Harriston said with a small smile. “Today is August 26, the anniversary of Nathaniel Candler's death.”

Renny's mouth dropped open. “Thank you. I didn't know that. I've been living more day-to-day than paying attention to the date.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“So, were you good friends?”

“We were close for a number of years.” Mr. Harriston stepped next to Renny and shaded his pale blue eyes from the sun's glare with his left hand. “I do a little something every year. Your grandfather is where he belongs. He was as fit for heaven as anyone who ever set foot in Moncks Corner. He lived life to the fullest by giving of himself to the fullest.”