by Janette Oke
“Jest so happened,” Clark went on in a rush, the teasing now gone from his voice, “thet I heard of a man within ridin’ distance who also happens to be a church-recognized parson.”
The two faces turned as one to focus intently on his.
“Where?” asked Josh. “Do ya think we could go to ’im?”
“Reckon there ain’t much need fer thet,” Clark said calmly. “He said he’d be happy to come on over here.”
Nandry sat silently, her eyes wide, then rose with sudden comprehension and an exclamation of joy.
“Are ya sayin’ thet ya found us a parson?” she cried, her hands clasped tightly together.
Clark grinned. “Thet’s ’bout it, I guess.”
“Oh, bless ya!” Nandry squealed. She looked about ready to throw her arms around Clark, then turned quickly to embrace Josh instead. Josh didn’t mind.
Marty smiled from her place at the cupboard, remembering Nandry’s early crush on Clark and so glad to see her genuine love for Josh.
Her attention was drawn back to the happy couple and the grinning Clark.
“When?” begged Nandry. “When can he come?”
“Well, I thought as how you’d set yer mind on May twenty-eighth.”
“We did—we have. Ya mean we can have the weddin’ jest as we planned—in the church—with our friends?”
“Yup—jest as planned.”
“Oh, thank the Lord!” said Nandry. “He does answer.”
The two young people left for a walk down by the creek, no doubt to share this moment of happiness and to finalize their plans.
“Well,” said Marty, her own happiness filling her heart, “how did ya ever manage this bit of happy cunning?”
“Didn’t take no cunning,” Clark answered. “Jest money.” They couldn’t help but laugh together.
The much-planned-for wedding came off as scheduled. The hired parson did a commendable job of reading the vows and instructing the bride and groom.
Nandry was glowing and even lovely in her special gown she and Marty had carefully stitched for the occasion, and Clae looked almost as pretty as she stood beside her sister.
Josh’s younger brother, Joe, stood with him. It was a beautiful wedding ceremony full of meaning and promise, and when the guests turned from the service to the bridal supper, there was much laughter and good-natured banter.
“Here ya are,” Todd Stern joked to Clark, “hardly dry behind the ears yet, an’ already givin’ a girl away.”
Clark looked over at his young Missie, who was growing up all too quickly.
“An’ ’fore I know it,” he said quietly, “I’ll be losin’ thet one, too.”
Clark’s mood turned sober as he thought about it.
“Seems like yesterday I had ’em all stumblin’ round under my feet,” he said to Todd, “an’ here I am on the edge of bein’ a grandpa. Sometimes I wish thet time had a tail, so’s we could grab ahold an’ slow it down some.”
Throughout the summer months the church remained without a pastor, but it did not alarm Clark and Marty or their neighbors to be left with a vacant pulpit. They were sure that in God’s good time He would bring someone to them. They did continue to meet to sing, pray, and read the Scriptures together.
The school, too, had no teacher. A meeting of its governing board resulted in Clae being asked to take the position come fall. Clae could hardly believe her good fortune. Here she was, newly returned from her teacher training and already a school was promised to her—her beloved home school at that.
Marty couldn’t help but be excited, too, about Clae’s new job.
“It will be so good to have ya home agin. We missed ya so,” she told Clae with a hug.
“You spoil me,” said Clae slowly. “In a lot of ways I would love to live at home . . . but . . . well . . . I’ve a notion that I sort of want to be on my own. I really want to set up housekeeping in the teacherage. There are still dishes and everything there, and Mrs. LaHaye told me I could just move in and make use of them if I’d like. I’d really love to. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Ma?” She looked a moment into Marty’s face. “Besides,” she hurried on, “I’m doing some studies by mail, and I’ll truly need the quiet if I am to complete the course in the time allowed.”
Marty was disappointed, but she hid her feelings from Clae, simply saying she and Clark would talk it over. After a long discussion with Clark, she reluctantly gave in. It wasn’t like Clae would be off on her own, after all, Clark said. She would be just down the road and over the hill.
It was decided that Clae would move back in with Missie for the summer months to fill in some of the emptiness left by Nandry’s departure. Then before the fall classes began, she would move her belongings into the teacherage and set up housekeeping on her own.
A few leads came in concerning a possible pastor. These were followed up, and one or two seemed to fit the bill. But eventually those doors closed. Not that the search committee was hard to please, but the few available for the post wanted more salary than the little community could provide.
It was getting on toward fall when Ben heard about a young man from Mr. Cassidy.
“He’s from my former hometown,” said the store manager. “Young fella—not too much book learnin’—did get some trainin’ but hasn’t been on to seminary in the East like he’s aimin’ to do. Got lots of zeal, an’ sure does study out of the Good Book—honest an’ hardworkin’, but green.”
“We don’t mind greenness none,” Ben offered. “We’s all pretty green ourselves—maybe we could learn together.”
A two-man delegation left on horseback to see if they could track down the young man in question. It was eight days before they were home again, but they returned with good news.
They had located the man, and he was eager to begin pastoring. He still hoped to advance his education, but if they’d take him as he was, he’d do his best to serve them. They had agreed.
Pastor Joseph Berwick arrived on the fifth of September, the same day Miss Clae Larson began teaching her first classes in the country school. He would not be giving his first sermon until the following Sunday, but in the interim he began to call on his parishioners.
He would be boarding with the Watleys, as had his predecessor, and when Mrs. Watley laid eyes on the tall, handsome young man, she turned to her two daughters with a twinkle in her eyes. She nodded the parson into the parlor, where tea was served. “Surely this time,” she said, sighing.
Parson Berwick was not content very long to sit and sip tea, and before the dust of his last horseback ride had had a chance to settle, he was off again to meet more of the inhabitants of the area whom he saw as members of his flock.
He was not above lending a helping hand, either, and he spent some time cutting wood for Widow Rider, helped pound a fence post that Jason Stern was placing, and forked hay along with the Graham boys.
Gradually he worked his way through the community toward the schoolhouse, and on Thursday around four o’clock he rode into the school yard for a call on the local teacher.
Clae, down on her knees in the neglected flower bed, was not prepared for visitors. Hair hastily pulled back with a ribbon, she was busy cleaning out the weeds that had been left to grow where they wished over the summer, and her hands were deep in the soil.
She looked up in surprise at the approaching stranger, involuntarily leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek as she tucked a loose strand of hair back.
“I’m Parson Berwick,” the man said politely as he dismounted. “Is your father at home?”
Clae shook her head dumbly, trying to sort out who he might mean by her father and where she should tell him that he could be located.
“Your mother?”
“No . . . no one . . . I’m . . .” She took a breath and changed course. “You’re meaning the Davises,” she asked, “or the Larsons?”
It was the parson’s turn to look confused. “I’m meaning the teacher,” he said, “whoever he is. I
haven’t yet heard his name.”
“There is no he.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The teacher . . . he’s . . . he’s gone,” Clae stumbled along, trying to explain. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” said the parson. “I understood the children are at school, having classes.”
“They are—we are,” Clae quickly amended.
“And you are one of the pupils?”
Clae stood up to her full height, which probably didn’t make much of an impression alongside the parson’s tall frame.
“I,” she said with emphasis, “am the teacher.”
“The teacher!” he stammered, his face turning red. “Oh, my goodness!” he exclaimed. “Then I guess I must be wanting to see you instead of your father. I mean—I didn’t really come to see him. I came to see the teacher.”
After a pause, he chuckled with some embarrassment. “Let’s start all over, shall we?”
He stepped back, then forward again with a boyish smile.
“Hello there,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Pastor Berwick, new to your area, and I’m endeavoring to call on each of my parishioners. I understand you are the new schoolteacher hereabouts.”
Clae looked down at her dirt-soiled hand, but the pastor did not hesitate. He reached for it, and Clae felt her hand held in a firm handshake.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “My hands are dirty—”
“You’ve got dirt on your face, too,” he said with a smile.
“Oh my!” said Clae, further flustered. She reached up to rub at the suspected spot, only to make it worse.
He laughed, and pulling out a clean handkerchief, he stepped forward with “May I?” and wiped the smudge from her face.
Clae held her breath. Her throat felt tight and her heart pounded. She wondered if Mr. Berwick could hear it.
“As I said, I’m calling on my parishioners,” he said, stepping back and putting his handkerchief in his pocket. “Can I expect to see you in church on Sunday?”
“Oh yes,” whispered Clae, feeling her cheeks grow hot at her foolishness.
“And you really are the schoolteacher?”
She nodded.
“Sure didn’t have teachers like you when I went to school.”
She caught the twinkle in his eye, and her color deepened.
“I’ll see you Sunday.”
She nodded.
He mounted his horse and was about to move on, then stopped and turned to her.
“You didn’t give me your name.”
“Clae—Clae Larson.”
“Miss Clae Larson?”
“Miss Clae Larson.”
“How do you spell that? Clae. I’ve never heard that name before.”
Clae spelled it. She was so nervous she hoped she’d said the right letters.
“Clae,” he repeated. “That’s unusual. I’ll see you on Sunday, Miss Larson.”
She watched him ride away with a wave of his hat.
So it was that Clae met the new preacher, and so it was that she had problems concentrating. Right from the very first she had trouble keeping her attention on the sermon rather than the one who delivered it—but she never missed a Sunday.
Twenty-Seven
A New Parson, a New House
Soon known as Parson Joe, their pastor quickly established his place in the community. His willingness to lend a hand certainly endeared him to the men.
“Not ’fraid to dirty his hands, thet one,” commented a farmer.
“No—nor to bend his back” was the immediate agreement.
But the real reason for their nods of approval was the Sunday services. Parson Joe made a list of all the hymns the congregation knew by heart, and these were the ones from which he selected their Sunday songs. Occasional new ones were added and learned by writing the words on a chalkboard borrowed from the school. Parson Joe had a nice tenor, and the congregation joined him heartily.
His prayers were not just words but were filled with sincerity, and his sermons were the highlight of the whole service. Simple, straightforward messages, developed from a text or passage in the Bible, gave them all a real sense of being spiritually nourished.
Even the younger ones began to take notice and listen, and eventually young Clint Graham surprised his folks by announcing that he felt the call to go into the ministry.
Only Mrs. Watley felt any disappointment in the new parson—and it had nothing whatever to do with his Sunday sermons. She was beside herself to discover how to make him pay more attention to one of her daughters—which one he chose, she didn’t care, but the man seemed oblivious to both of them.
The congregation continued to grow both numerically and spiritually. Young Willie LaHaye never missed a Sunday, and even his father, Zeke LaHaye, put aside work for an occasional Sunday morning of worship. The loss of his daughter Tessie no doubt had softened the man. Marty noticed on more than one occasion his eyes on the silent mound across the churchyard. A carefully crafted cross had appeared at the gravesite bearing the words Tessie LaHaye Whittle and Baby Boy. May their rest be peaceful and never alone.
Parson Joe called on his flock more than for Sunday dinner, and wherever he went he was welcomed.
Claude Graham was overheard remarking to his twin brother, Lem, “The reason he fits here so well is thet he don’t know nothin’ from them books neither.”
To which Lem replied, “Don’t let him fool ya. He’s got a lot more of a load up there than he’s throwin’ out each Sunday. No use forkin’ a whole haystack to growin’ calves.”
As for Clae, she felt rather befuddled about the whole state of affairs. To get her mind off her confusion, she worked every spare minute on her mail-order education. The study course that normally should have taken until the next summer was completed by Christmas.
The parson was always friendly to her, but no more so than with each member of his congregation. Still, Clae couldn’t stop the ridiculous skipping of her heart, the hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, he had noticed her and he was maybe just a bit more attentive to her than to some of the other young women. At times she despaired; at other times she dreamed . . . if only . . . if only.
And then on Easter Sunday morning following a wonderfully inspirational service, the young parson held her hand just a bit longer as she left the church. She was the last one to leave, having stopped to pick up her chalkboard for its return to the school.
“Good morning, Miss Larson.” He smiled, and then he whispered, “I do wish you didn’t live alone. How in the world is a gentleman to call?”
Clae caught her breath.
Allowing what she hoped was a decent amount of time, Clae moved back home with the Davises.
Clark and Marty sat after breakfast enjoying a second cup of coffee. It seemed as though they rarely had the opportunity anymore for a long chat.
“Looks like we got us a real growin’ church,” Clark commented.
“Yeah, it’s so good to see folks comin’ out, giving themselves—”
“Thet isn’t what I’m meanin’.”
“Then what?”
“I noticed Nandry an’ Tommie’s Fran are both in the family way.”
Marty smiled. She had noticed it, too, and Nandry already had shyly shared her happiness with Marty.
“Speakin’ of growin’,” Clark said after a moment, “I’m thinkin’ thet we’ve put it off fer too long.”
“Meanin’?”
“This house—it’s way too small. Shoulda built another ages ago.”
“Seems a strange thing to be thinkin’ on now. Notice who’s around here much, at least during daylight hours—jest you an’ me an’ little Luke. Soon he’ll be off to school, too.”
“Yeah,” said Clark, “but they start out here every mornin’ and come home agin every night, an’ they don’t usually come alone—iffen you’ve noticed.”
Marty thought of Missie and Clare each showing up with a friend after sch
ool during the last few weeks. Arnie was a big boy like his pa, and he and Clark seemed to fill up any room they were in at the same time. Ellie, their little social butterfly, no doubt would also be inviting her friends home, too, during the coming years. Marty also thought about Nandry and Josh and their baby who was on the way. Then her thoughts moved to Clae and the young parson. And Missie was quickly maturing into a young woman; before long she would be entertaining her young men callers.
“Maybe yer right,” she said, “maybe we do need a bigger house. It’s jest thet it seems so quiet like when they’re all off to school. This little house has been a cozy home for us, Clark.” She reached across the table for his hand. “Thank ya again for—”
“It’s me doin’ the thankin’, Marty,” Clark said, squeezing her hand. “This was jest a roof over our heads till you came and made us a home.”
Marty’s eyes misted and her smile was a little wobbly at the corners. Then she said, “Yeah, we do need us more room. What’re ya thinkin’?”
“I think I’ll spend me the winter hauling logs,” he answered. “This here new house—I been thinkin’ on it a lot. Not gonna be a log one. Gonna be boards—nice boards.”
“Thet’ll cost a fortune.”
“Not really. There’s a mill over ’cross the crik now. I can trade my logs in on lumber. Been thinkin’ on the style, too. How ya feel ’bout an upstairs—not a loft but a real upstairs? With steps goin’ up—not a ladder. Like them fancy houses back east.”
Marty caught her breath. “Seems to me ya got pretty big dreams,” she said carefully, not wanting to dash them.
“Maybe—maybe I have, but I want you to do a little dreamin’, too. I want this house to have what yer wantin’. More windows, closets fer clothes ’stead of pegs—whatever yer wantin’. Ya do some dreamin’ an’ write yer plans down on paper. We’ll see iffen we can’t make some dreams come true.”
“When, Clark?” Marty finally asked, feeling nearly overwhelmed with the possibility but also worried that it was too much.
“Not next year—I don’t s’pose,” he answered. “Gonna take a long while to git all those logs, but the year after—should be able to do it by then fer sure.”
