Whispers of the Heart (9 page)

“Sure thing. Sorry to leave you here on your own, but I have to leave again. The door will lock behind me and my new part-time secretary will come in around nine, if you need her. My wife, Wendy, might be in later. She'd like to meet you.”

“I'll be just fine, Reverend Collier. And I'm used
to working on my own. But as I explained, I'll work better in the early mornings.”

“That's fine with me. I'll be back about the time you leave, I think. And call me David. I never stand on any titles except for the Lord.”

He started down the hall, then added over his shoulder, “Brent said he might be by later,” before he disappeared.

Autumn stood quietly for long moments as the pastor's footsteps faded, gazing at the empty wall as the morning sunlight slanted against it. David Collier was an unusual clergyman, she decided.

Then she opened the sketch folder and lined up the five sketches she'd offered as her first choices from the dozen she'd submitted for approval.

They'd approved all five.

The list of instructions said they wanted the scenes to unfold in an arch as an observer walked down the hall. The first showed a boy offering his open, empty basket, while the disciples passed fish and bread to the crowd.

The second scene caught the excitement of the healing of lepers, the third reflected the woman caught in adultery, with the mixture of disbelief, anger, and wonder on the faces surrounding Jesus.

The fourth showed a listening multitude while Jesus preached on a hilltop. The fabled sermon on the mount. She'd researched the account carefully, reading in all four gospels. Above the central figure of Jesus, she'd shown a hint of angels. Again, angels hovered over an empty tomb in the fifth sketch.

Her Jesus had uneven features in a darkly bearded face, a man very much a part of His time, of His
country. A Middle Eastern face. She hoped to capture His uniqueness by showing the compassion in His eyes, and with a strong mouth.

Could she do this? Could she paint such a historic person believably? Over time, hundreds of viewers might pass this wall. She wanted to pull them into the story, to give them a glimpse of being a part of it.

What had Jesus actually looked like?
No one really knew, David had told her in their initial consultation.

Nonetheless, she sought an inkling from the back reaches of her creativity.
What had people seen when they looked at Him?

Somewhere from the back reaches of the church, sounds of a soft woodwind instrument played a melody she didn't recognize. She realized the music had been playing for a few moments, permeating her consciousness slowly. She tipped her head to listen.

She'd thought the church empty. Pastor David must have forgotten a musician planned to rehearse.

She didn't mind. The music was lovely; it came from the old chapel, she thought, separated from her corridor by a heavy door. It wouldn't be a bother.

And the pastor had promised to route the reconstruction crews around her, keeping her area free of foot traffic, dust and dirt.

The music faded, yet she felt it echo in her mind, staying with her. It felt peaceful. She wondered who had composed it.

Breathing deeply, she forgot her uncertainties and went to unload her things.

T
he early layout of the wall worked well enough, but Autumn spent almost an hour her first morning measuring and arranging and blocking exactly how each scene would appear. She wanted it to be perfect. It took her more than four days to complete the final loose sketches. She'd refine each as she was ready to paint it, she decided.

Stretching her muscles, she climbed down from the twelve-foot ladder she'd been using to view the overall effect. Her leg felt bruised where she'd leaned into an aluminum step for too long.

Pastor David had apparently forgotten to find her a scaffold for the high work; it sure would be easier on her if she had one. Less tiring, and she could work faster. She hadn't taken time to remind him.

Outside the windows, she saw a landscaping truck pull up to park behind her car. That side street usually wasn't a busy one; she realized she'd stayed later than usual this morning.

Ten after ten, her watch showed her. Much later. She'd been caught up in finishing the first phase details and hadn't noticed how late it was. True to his promise, Pastor David had kept her hall quiet and off-limits to whatever work crews were on-site.

She'd need that scaffold very soon. It would be better to let the pastor know now, she decided.

She could brave staying a few minutes longer. The midmorning traffic lull would give her time to get home without bringing on a panic—and it wasn't driving that caused her usual problem, anyway, or motor traffic.

Pastor David wasn't in his office. Wandering down the next hall, she pushed open a side door into the newer sanctuary. Immediately, she heard his voice, gentle yet strong.

Preaching on a Thursday morning? Or was he only practicing a sermon?

When she moved farther into the huge auditorium, though, she spotted nine women sitting on the first and second rows in the side section. Nine women huddled in this one wing of the huge structure, half of whom were elderly, two young, one holding a baby, and three women of between young and middle age.

The tiny gathering seemed dwarfed in the huge structure.

A couple of the women looked to Autumn like street people, dingily dressed and wearing bulky clothes. Two wore fashionable dress and makeup, as though taking time out from business. The in-betweens simply looked comfortable with a splash of lipstick and simple, but neatly clean clothes.

Faces of all hues stared at her momentarily, but quickly returned to the pastor. They had come to hear him talk. Or teach.

David, wearing faded jeans, sat casually facing them on a bench pulled up to make the gathering less formal. His open Bible lay on his knee. When he spotted her, he waved her to a seat and kept on talking.

She slipped into the third-row pew, just behind the young woman with the baby sleeping in her lap. Nothing about the gathering felt intimidating.

“So imagine this boy with the loaves and fishes,” David was saying, “who had gone to hear Jesus speak and taken his lunch with him. I can just picture his surprise when the disciples asked him to share it, can't you? ‘What?' he might have asked. He had enough for only one. Yet he gave his food to the disciples. Did he expect to be part of a miracle? You know he didn't.

“Now we know by the scripture,” he continued, glancing at the various women with a direct gaze, “that the disciples didn't expect much of a miracle right at this time, either. They were too busy grumbling at Jesus to close His teaching for the day so everyone could go into town to find something to eat and a place to sleep that night.”

Caught up in the story, Autumn vaguely remembered hearing it when she and Spring, at ten, went to a summer Bible school. The account of one of Jesus's many miracles had always fascinated her, but she hadn't made up her mind if it was true or merely a folktale.

“And the crowd hadn't thought ahead,” David
said, shaking his head. “They were too fascinated to hear what Jesus was saying to think about what they were going to eat. Did they expect Jesus and His disciples to feed them?” David's glance landed on her. “I don't think so.

“What did Jesus do? What did He expect God to do?” he asked, raising his brows. It seemed he directed that question right at her before his gaze passed on.

“Here it is, ladies,” he emphasized, his hand brushing the open text. “The Word tells us He had a great compassion for the multitude and fed 'em all. Over five thousand people. Multiplied that boy's lunch of loaves and fishes so many times we are staggered by the amount. They even had
leftovers!
”

Several of the women chuckled with the thought, and laughed again when he added, his eyes twinkling, “Now, I'm not really fond of leftovers….”

“You're lucky to get 'em, some days,” a pretty, under thirty blonde said with a grin, adding even more fuel for amusement. “It's leftovers or nothing at all.”

David joined the laughter, saying, “True, Wendy, and I'm very grateful the Lord stretches our grocery budget far enough to even provide leftovers.”

Then he sobered. “And that's my point, ladies. What we need to ask ourselves today is, are we asking too little of God? Are our expectations of Him too small? What do you need in your life? Right now?”

He paused to give a grin. “Now notice I didn't ask what you want.”

Again, a chuckle rippled through the women.

“But how big is your need?” David continued. “Is it too big for our Lord?”

“No, sir. Not a whit,” said a firm voice from the front row.

“That's right, Cordy,” he answered the gray-haired woman with an encouraging nod. “Isn't expecting less than what He wants to give you an insult to Him?”

“Didn't never think of it that way,” said another woman, somewhere in her sixties. She had an overloaded shopping bag at her feet, and her cotton shirt looked as though it could use a good wash. “Don't want to insult the Almighty by not askin' for His help, though I done asked for a lot in my time. You mean we can ask for somethin' bigger than we thought we'd get?”

“Or deserve?” asked another.

“Now is the time to find out,” the pastor said, looking into the women's faces. His eyes held a world of the very compassion Autumn thought Jesus, by reputation, may have felt. “He'll listen when you talk to Him. I can't promise you'll get answers just the way you want 'em, but you'll get an answer. What do you expect from Jesus, Cordy? Emma Kate? Ms. Downing?”

Why Autumn should feel amazed to hear him call some of these woman by name, she couldn't say, but it brought an intimacy to the group. An insider's circle.

Autumn listened quietly as first one woman and another raised their hands to speak of their need. Practical needs for rent money, a job, or the healing of an uncle, hospitalized. And the spiritual ones, of
forgiveness and mending of a broken relationship with a husband. David took notes, then asked a woman from the front row to begin with their prayer.

As the woman began, Autumn slipped out of her pew and back to her corridor. She'd save her renewed request for a scaffold for tomorrow.

The feeling of closeness among the women stayed with her, and the sound of the soft, feminine voices lifted in prayer. They seemed to share a bond. Was it similar to the one she shared with Spring?

She really didn't understand faith. Certainly not the kind David talked about or these women were asked to give. How could one feel something so undefined? Trust an invisible someone you couldn't see or touch? Uncle William had believed faith was simply an empty hope. Yet he'd read his old Bible. She'd noted his marked passages.

Perhaps she'd ask David about it. Or Brent. She felt comfortable enough in his company, now, to ask him that kind of question.

Folding the ladder, she leaned it against the hall corner out of the way. Other supplies, she put away in a cardboard box. She'd been assured they'd remain untouched. The door from the old sanctuary had been locked, David told her. A temporary folding gate, like those used for the safekeeping of small children, had been placed at the corridor's other end to warn people not to use it.

Almost ready to leave, she caught the faint strains of a melody very like what she'd heard the other day coming from the old chapel.

She crept closer to the door, knowing it was barred from the inside. The music remained the same level
of sound, growing no stronger. Drawn to it, she wondered if the players were professional musicians. Their quality of sound could set standards for excellence. She listened for long moments, turning away only when someone called her name.

David, accompanied by two young women from the Bible talk, waited for her. One was the young woman with blond hair who had teased about leftovers, and the other held a pink-blanketed baby. Autumn heard a tiny whimper and caught a glimpse of wispy hair.

“I have to feed her,” the young mother murmured and stared at her offspring a moment, then turned to Autumn. “I'm Ashley Abbot. I think my husband, Sam, helped build shelves for you a month or so ago. Brent told me you've kindly asked about us. Me and the baby.”

“Oh? Oh, you…are you the woman—? Well, of course you must be. But you look so healthy.”

“I am, thank the Lord,” Ashley said. “Though it was scary for a little while. Sure glad I had Wendy and David here to help me pray it through. I'm not sure Sam could've made it without them.”

“That's what we're about, here at Hope Church,” David said with a warm smile. “Autumn, my wife wants to meet you, too. This is Wendy.”

“I wanted to tell you that I love your sketches,” Wendy said, stretching to peek around the corner at the wall. “I can hardly wait to see the completed mural. There's another space—”

“Don't pounce, Wendy,” David admonished.

“I'm not pouncing, David, I'm leaping,” she said without repentance, but with a grin and a flash of
blue eyes. “And it doesn't hurt to let Autumn know there may be other work for her here.”

“That's nice of you, Mrs. Collier, but I prefer to take one project at a time,” Autumn murmured.

Outside, the roar of a truck sputtered down the street, reminding Autumn how late it was. If she didn't leave now, she'd be caught in the noontime rush.

“I'm Wendy, please. So, Autumn. Did you enjoy our Bible study?”

“Why, yes. Sure.”

“Good. I hope you come again sometime. We've only begun, but we're willing to grow, and when the old building has all its rewiring in place, we'll move into there. We won't seem so lost in a smaller place. Right now we're having lunch down in the kitchen. Why don't you join us?”

“Oh, that's kind of you, but not…not today. I must go.” She hitched her carryall over her shoulder and searched a pocket for her car keys. “But I'm so glad to meet you both. And little…what did you name her?”

“Snubnose, if you listen to Sam,” Ashley replied with a chuckle. Gazing fondly at the baby, swaying back and forth to soothe her, she added, “I like to call her Emily Anne.”

“That's lovely,” Autumn said, admiring the pink and white baby.

“Would you like to hold her a moment?” Ashley asked.

“Hold her?” She looked at the young mother in alarm. “I'm not really trained to hold a baby. I'd be too clumsy.”

Autumn had never held a child so young. Even her few baby-sitting dates had been with older children, and she and Spring had more often than not engaged to sit as a team. Especially for the O'Brian family down Uncle William's block, who sported six little ruffians who needed sitters with two sets of hands and eyes in the back of their heads.

The flash of surprised hurt on Ashley's face gave Autumn a quick regret. She added hastily, hoping her sincerity sufficed, “I should love to learn how, though. She's a little beauty. Maybe you could teach me some time?”

“All right,” Ashley agreed, mollified.

“I really must be going,” Autumn murmured.

“Can we check in from time to time to see how you're progressing?” Wendy asked.

“Now Wen, I promised Autumn we'd keep people out of her face,” David protested.

“I didn't ask for daily reports, now did I?” Wendy huffed, tossing her husband a saucy glance. “I said from time to time.”

“It's all right,” Autumn said. She wanted to giggle at Wendy's attitude. She'd never imagined the married clergy to flirt like that. This couple obviously didn't fit into anyone's mold.

She smiled at Wendy. “I don't mind once in a while. But only one or two people at a time, please. I, uh, become distracted if there's too many people in a small space.”

“Agreed,” Wendy said, giving a sunny smile in return.

Then as Autumn turned the intersecting hall corner, striding toward the outside door, she heard,
“Come again to our women's study next Thursday, okay? We call it Power Hour in Prayer.”

“Perhaps,” Autumn half promised over her shoulder.

Perhaps she just would. She wanted to know if God heard any of those prayers of need, or even answered at all. Had one little boy's lunch really been multiplied to feed a multitude of people?

Then even the
thought
of a child being caught in the midst of a mob of people made her shudder. It clutched at her stomach. It would never have been her.

It had been her. Once.

About ten that evening, Brent called. She'd spent the evening in bed reading a new book and felt pleasantly sleepy when she answered. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Didn't call too late, did I? Are you in the middle of something?”

“No. I'm only reading.” It wouldn't sound very exciting to someone else. But then, she'd admitted her life wasn't in the exciting category anyway.

“Something interesting?”

“Yes, I think so. On sculpture.”

“Hmm…don't know a thing about sculpture.”