“Don’t get impatient, remember how God dealt with you—with patience and with gentleness.”
I had given myself to Jesus—thrown my heart and soul into His hands at a young age, loving Him and wanting more than anything to be yoked to Him, to be loved by Him. But somewhere along the line, Pastor Harding, my father, the other elders, and Gerald had all stepped in between Jesus and me, judging and condemning not only my actions, but my motives, my heart’s desires, suspicious of my very thoughts until I didn’t know who I was or even what I thought independently of them. In time, I’d taken those judgments as crushing judgments from God . . . for didn’t Pastor Harding say he was shepherd of the flock? He was, in fact, considered by our church God’s mouthpiece in the earth and I was to be subject, surrendered to his authority. I’d grown convinced that if they could not love me, neither could God.
Involuntarily, I shuddered. There was nothing patient or gentle in the ways they had dealt with me. Now, to hear that Jesus looked at us differently, perhaps could look at me differently than they did . . . it seemed impossible. Was this truth or heresy?
“Grace? Grace?” Aunt Hyacinth was speaking.
“I’m sorry; what did you say?”
“Did you enjoy the reading, my dear?”
“Yes,” I stammered. “Very much.” But Reverend Willard’s expression turned quizzical, as if I’d sung out of tune. I felt as if the room closed in, sucking air from my lungs. “Please excuse me while you read your letter. I’ll take the tea things away. Would you like another cup, Reverend Willard?”
“No thank you, Grace. I’m fine.” He looked disappointed.
“There’s no hurry with those dishes. You’re welcome to stay and listen, my dear. I’m sure Biddy will have news of the war in Britain. They’ve suffered terrible bombing.”
“Yes, I’ve read about that. Thank you, but I think I’d like to get these done.” Before I’d lifted the tray, Reverend Willard stood and took it from me.
“Allow me to carry those for you.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
“Then grant me the blessing.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so simply walked ahead of him into the kitchen and tied an apron around my waist, not turning when I heard the tray set down on the table.
“I hope we’ll see you in church Sunday.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Nothing could be further from my hopes. I’d come to escape the church—and God if need be—not to find Him confronting and condemning me again. “I’ll stay here with Hyacinth and keep her company.”
“I think Miz Hyacinth would love to come to church. She’s refused offers to help her get there for fear of burdening others—and I can’t help but believe from a little damaged pride. But I can tell she’s missed it. It’s a short walk, and now that the weather is warmer, it would do her good to get out—as long as she has a strong arm to lean on and eyes to guide her.”
I felt the high-ceilinged walls closing in again. “We haven’t talked about it. There’s so much to work out. I’ve only just arrived, you know.”
He backed off then. “My apologies. I don’t mean to push. I’m just so happy you’re here—for Miz Hyacinth’s sake. She’s needed someone for a long while, but not given in to saying so. I’m surprised she has now, but I believe it’s just in time. I’ve been concerned for her.”
I turned to face him now. There was nothing else to do without displaying abject rudeness. “And you’ve apparently been a very good friend to her. Thank you for that.”
He smiled that unnerving, disarming smile again. “I’m entirely the beneficiary. Miz Hyacinth has been a great friend and confidante to me. She’s a wise and godly woman.”
I nodded, doing my best to look everywhere but into his eyes, brown with flecks of amber light and a ring of green outside the pupil, a perfect brightness against his dark hair. For the first time I noticed the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. “Well, I’d like to get on with these dishes, and I think Hyacinth is eager for her letter.”
“Yes, of course. It was grand to make your acquaintance, Grace, and I hope you’ll reconsider that invitation to church.” He reached his hand for mine and held it a moment too long.
Chapter Seven
AS SHE PLUNKED INTO THE PEW, Celia squirmed in her itchy Sunday dress—too tight by half—and squeezed a finger between her chin and the elastic strap that secured the bonnet her mother insisted she wear. Her Sunday shoes were an inch too tight and the rough pine pew made her backside go numb. Slouching was impossible. Constructive—or is it constrictive? Celia couldn’t remember which amazing new word it was, but one of those captured just how she felt. How Chester sat bolt upright and still on the other side of their mother in his green woolen sweater and too-short, strangling tie was beyond her.
She hoped Reverend Willard wouldn’t get revved up this week and go on and on as he did when filled with the Spirit. Why, just last summer Wanda Whitcomb had claimed she was slain of the Spirit during one of his “magnificent sermons”—though Celia wondered if she wasn’t just trying to catch the reverend’s eye the way she fell. It wasn’t that his sermons weren’t interesting or entertaining or downright inspiring. It was just that a body could only sit still in such discomfort for so long.
But all that flew from Celia’s head when her ears caught the tap, tap of Miz Hyacinth’s cane coming down the aisle—a tap, tap that had not been heard inside Shady Grove Baptist for a good two years. Celia jumped up to catch a glimpse and wave to Miss Grace, who had a hold on Miz Hyacinth’s arm, steering her to the pew across the aisle and up one.
“Celia,” her mother hissed, “sit down.”
Celia sat, but the arrival of Miz Hyacinth in church after two years’ absence, and of Miss Grace—the woman in tweed, still in tweed—captured her attention for the entire service.
Chapter Eight
IF I’D HAD MY WAY, I’d never have set foot in that church or any other—never again. It was all I could do not to break down for the weariness of it all. The mental conflict, the flashing memories, the certainty that rejection would be repeated at every turn built anxiety and anguish in my chest. I feared it might explode any moment. But Aunt Hyacinth had been determined. It was her heart’s desire to go—and evidently had been for a long time. She’d just refused to ask anyone to help her.
“But now you’re here, Lilliana. You’re here and it makes perfect sense that if you’re working as my companion, you would take me—you would insist on taking me. And to tell the truth, I need to go.”
I’d never been able to deny my mother anything, and this dear woman had raised Mama, offered her balm and home. Now she freely offered me the same—with so few questions asked. I could not deny her, but I could not shake feelings of condemnation from the church—any church.
If these people knew me—knew that I’d run away from my husband and father, knew that I wasn’t really the “Miss Grace Belvidere” that Reverend Willard introduced to the congregation—they would surely be shocked.