by Janette Oke
Marty was happy to see Ellie bloom again, now that she and Lane had worked things through. She felt that, if anyone deserved to be happy, it was her Ellie. She even felt a bit of satisfaction that, in the near future, the two sisters might again have each other. But Marty was also aware of just how difficult it was going to be for her to actually give up Ellie as she had done with Missie. She needed to talk to Ma. Ma would understand exactly how she felt.
So Marty laid out her plan before Clark.
“Been thinkin’ a lot ’bout Ma Graham,” she began. “Wonderin’ how she’s doin’.”
“I been thinkin’ on her, too,” Clark responded.
“Sure would be good to sorta check on her,” continued Marty.
“I’m goin’ to town day after tomorra. I can do thet. Thought I should stop by an’ see iffen there’s any way I could help.”
For a moment Marty was silenced.
“Wasn’t really thinkin’ ’bout what she might be needin’ from town or such,” she eventually continued. “Thinkin’ more along the . . . the fellowship lines.”
“I see,” nodded Clark. “Lou’s wife is right there. An’ I expect thet the rest of her girls git over to see her, too.”
“Sometimes one needs neighbors as well as family,” Marty persisted.
“I just don’t think it would be wise right now.”
“What wouldn’t be wise?” asked Marty innocently.
“You makin’ a trip out in the cold to go see Ma.”
“Did I suggest thet?”
“Not in words, ya didn’t, but it’s what ya were aimin’ at, ain’t it?”
“Well, sorta . . . but not exactly. What I was really wonderin’ was iffen ya would mind goin’ on over an’ pickin’ up Ma fer a mornin’ an’ then takin’ her on home again.”
Clark laughed. “Well, why didn’t ya just come out an’ say so?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d think of the idea,” said Marty truthfully.
“What I think ’bout it an’ what I agree to do ’bout it are often two different things,” said Clark wryly, “an’ well ya know it.”
Marty reached a hand to Clark’s cheek. “I know,” she said, “an’ I love ya fer it.”
Clark laughed and turned his head so he might kiss her fingers.
“I’ll see,” he said, and Marty knew that was his promise.
“Tomorra?”
“Tomorra.”
Marty went to bed happy with the knowledge that on the morrow she would have a visit with her dear friend again.
When Clark was hitching the team to the sleigh the next morning to make his promised trip to pick up Ma, Lady began to bark, running down the lane toward an approaching team. It was Lou Graham.
Clark threw a rein around a fence post and walked toward the upcoming sleigh, his crutch thumping on the frozen ground.
Lou was not alone. Carefully tucked in with warm blankets, Ma Graham sat beside him.
After a neighborly “howdy,” Lou explained. “Ma’s been frettin’ ’bout not seein’ Marty fer a spell. I was goin’ on by to pick up some feed barley at the Spencers’, so I brought her along fer a chat while I’m gone.”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Clark. “I was just hitchin’ my team to come on over an’ git ya, Ma. Marty’s been right anxious to see ya.”
Clark helped Ma down, and Lou prepared to be on his way again.
“I’ll bring Ma on home whenever she an’ Marty think they’ve had ’em enough woman talk,” Clark joked.
“Ya mind? Thet sure would help me out some. Then I can go on back by way of town an’ git some things I’m needin’.”
The team left the yard, and Clark walked to the house with Ma. He would put the horses back in the barn and give them some hay until they were needed to return Ma home.
Marty couldn’t believe her eyes when Clark ushered Ma into the kitchen. She knew Clark couldn’t possibly have been to the Grahams’ and back already.
She laughed when she heard the story and settled Ma down in one of the comfortable kitchen chairs. Ellie put on the coffee and placed the cups on the table. Then she set a plate of sugar cookies beside the cups and excused herself.
“Think I’ll just run off down to Kate’s fer a bit,” she said.
“Not so fast, young lady,” Ma said with a knowing smile. “What’s this I’m hearin’ ’bout you and thet there young, good-lookin’ cowboy?”
Ellie blushed.
“It bein’ true?” continued Ma.
“It’s true—thet is, iffen you’ve been hearin’ what I think ya might have been hearin’.”
Ma pulled Ellie close and gave her a big hug. “I’m happy fer ya,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve always saw you young’uns as sorta my own. I wish ya all the happiness, Ellie, an’ God bless ya . . . real good.”
Ellie thanked her with misty eyes. She and Ma Graham had always had a special relationship, as if Ma was the grandmother she did not have.
Ma turned to Marty. “So how ya been doin’?” she asked simply. “You’ve had ya quite a winter. I’ve been thinkin’ so much on ya. First, ya had to git over the rather surprisin’ news of bein’ a mother again. Then ya had the awful hurt to bear with Clare an’ Kate. Now this. Must be a little hard to take, on top of everythin’ else.”
Marty had known Ma would understand. Ma did not believe in talking in circles. She went straight to the heart of the matter.
“Yeah,” she answered, carefully choosing her words. “Guess it has been a rather rough winter. My, it was hard to see Clare an’ Kate go through thet pain. But I’m so proud of both of ’em, Ma. They have both been so strong through it all. They’ve showed me a lesson or two.”
“I could see when I saw ’em in church thet they hadn’t let it bitter ’em. I’m so glad, Marty—so glad. Bitterness is a hard burden to bear. I should know. I’ve had me my bouts with it.”
“You?”
“Sure did. I woulda just gone on an’ on a carryin’ it, too, iffen ya hadn’t come along when ya did an’ straightened me out.”
“Me?”
“You’ll never know just how set I was to sit an’ feel sorry fer myself before Christmas there. Oh, I know. I didn’t really tell ya all I was feelin’, but I was all set fer a good, long bitter spell. I felt it just wasn’t fair thet I should lose two good men in a lifetime. Some women don’t even like the one they got, I reasoned, an’ here I was with two I had loved deeply an’ I lost ’em both. Didn’t seem fair somehow. Didn’t even seem worth fightin’ to keep up a good front fer the kids. Then ya came by an’ made me realize it did still matter to my kids. I started thinkin’ on it an’ I saw somethin’ else, too. True, some women don’t like the man they got. Thet’s to their sorrow. But I had me two good companions. Now, how many women could be so blessed? An’ here I was a fussin’ ’bout it.”
Marty smiled at Ma’s way of thinking it all through.
“So I decided,” continued Ma, “thet I just should be thankin’ the Lord fer all the good years ’stead of fussin’ ’bout the years to come.”
“An’ it helped?”
“Ya bet it helped. Every day I think of somethin’ more to be thankful fer. I have a good family—mine an’ Ben’s. We raised us good young’uns. That’s truly somethin’ to be thankful fer.”
Marty agreed wholeheartedly. What a burden it must be to have children who fought against their parents, against the Lord.
“I have lots of good mem’ries, too, an’ a mind still alert enough to enjoy ’em.”
Marty hadn’t thought about the “mind” bit, but Ma was right.
“So it’s easin’ some? The pain, I mean?” Marty asked softly.
“It still hurts. Many times the mem’ries bring a sharp pain with ’em, but each day I tell myself, This is a new day. It can be just a little bit easier than yesterday was.”
Marty rose to get the perking coffee.
“An’ how is it fer you?” asked Ma.
Marty suddenly realized that thin
gs were just fine for her. Yes, she had wanted to bring Ma to her house so that she could cleanse herself of all of the pain of seeing her Clare hurt so deeply. She had wanted to pour out to Ma that she was going to lose her Ellie, and she didn’t know how she would ever do without her. She had wanted to feel Ma’s sympathetic eyes upon her, to feel Ma squeeze her hand in encouragement, to see the flicker of pain on Ma’s face, mirroring her own. She didn’t want that now. Not any of it. She didn’t deserve it. Every mother had to watch her children suffer at times. Every mother had to someday loosen the strings and let her children go—not just one of them, but all of them, one by one. It was all part of motherhood. One nourished them, raised them, taught them for many years so that they could be free—free to live and love and hurt and grow. That was what motherhood was all about. Marty swallowed away the tears in her throat and smiled at Ma.
“Things are fine,” she assured her, “really fine. We’ve had us a good winter. Kate an’ Clare came through their sorrow even closer to God an’ each other than before. There will be more babies. Nandry turned all her bitterness ’bout her pa an’ Clark’s accident over to the Lord. Ellie has found the young man she wants to share her life with, an’ he will make her a good an’ God-fearin’ companion. An’ me—well, I still have me this here little one to look forward to. Ellie an’ me’s been hopin’ fer a girl, but I wouldn’t mind none iffen it was another boy—just like his pa—or one of his older brothers.”
Marty had not looked forward to coming back from the West to a church without Pastor Joe. Not only did she miss her son-in-law as family, but she knew she would miss him in the pulpit, as well. The adjustment had not been as difficult as she had feared. The young minister who now was shepherding the local flock was easy to learn to love and respect.
Pastor Brown was his name, though many of the people in the congregation called him Pastor John. He had taken a good deal of ribbing in his growing-up years. “Hey, John Brown,” the kids would call, “Is yer body molderin’ yet?” Then would follow a chant of “John Brown’s Body.” John hated the teasing. He had tried unsuccessfully to get his family to call him Jack. Perhaps then the kids would miss the pun in his name. It didn’t work. His family never seemed to remember that he preferred Jack, and on the few occasions where they did remember, the kids didn’t stop their teasing anyway. John decided to develop the ability to laugh with them. It was difficult at first, but it did help him to develop a delightful sense of humor. One thing John Brown was never guilty of, and that was making fun of another individual. Humor was never intended for this, he maintained. It was to make people laugh with, not at another.
Pastor Brown seemed to have a true gift of sensitivity in dealing with people. The older members of the congregation marveled at how well he could often right a difficult situation. Even the children in the church respected him. Never could he be accused of intending hurt to another.
Clark looked up in surprise from his harness-mending to see Pastor John approaching him.
“Hello there,” he called. “Be right with ya. I’ll just hang me this harness back up on the pegs, an’ we’ll go on in an’ see what the womenfolk got to eat fer a bachelor preacher.”
Pastor John smiled. “I’ve already been in the house an’ greeted the womenfolk. They’ve already given me an invite to dinner, so I’m way ahead of you. Smells awfully good in there, too.”
“Well, let’s go on in an’ sit a spell, then,” said Clark.
“No, no. You go right on fixing your harness. I’ll just sit here on this stool and watch you while I’m talking. Anything I got to say can be said right here.”
Clark understood that there was something the young man wished to talk about in private, so he resumed his work on the harness, letting the preacher pick his own time and pace.
“Been a long, mean winter,” spoke the parson. “Sure will be glad to see it coming to an end.”
“Me too,” agreed Clark. “Me too. An’ I expect all the animals thet been winterin’ through it, both wild an’ tame, share our feelin’.”
“Reckon they will at that.”
“Speakin’ of animals, ya got one with ya?”
“I’m riding, all right. Too hard walking in this snow.”
“Best bring it on into the barn.”
“Not too cold out there in the sun, and I won’t be long.”
“Still, it can be feedin’, though,” Clark responded. “Might take us a long time to eat up all those vittles the ladies are a fixin’.”
John Brown laughed.
“Go ahead,” said Clark. “Bring ’im on in an’ put ’im in thet stall right there. I’ll throw in a bit more hay.” And Clark grabbed his crutch and went to do just that.
The parson brought in his horse and pulled off the saddle.
“Never could stand to see a horse eat with a saddle on his back,” he said. “Makes me wonder how I’d enjoy eating if I had to stand there holding my day’s work in my arms.”
Clark laughed at the comparison. “Never thought on it,” he responded.
The horse was tended, and Clark went back to his harness. The pastor pulled the stool closer so they could chat as Clark worked.
They talked of many things. Besides the winter, they discussed the new developments in town, the growth of the church, and the new members in the community. Clark was sure none of these subjects was the one the young preacher had come to talk about.
“Hear tell you’re good at solving a man’s problems,” the pastor said at length.
Clark did not raise his head. “Don’t know ’bout thet. I’ve had me a little practice. Seems I have my share of problems to solve.”
The preacher reached down and picked up a long straw, which he proceeded to break into small pieces.
“You got a problem needs carin’ fer?” Clark prompted.
“Sure do. And I never had one quite like it before—and I’m not sure just what to be doing with it. I’ve been praying about it for three days now, and something seemed to tell me to come and see you.”
Clark continued to work on the strip of leather before him. “I’m not promisin’ to be able to help ya, but iffen ya want to share it and work at it together, I’m willin’ to listen.”
The preacher cleared his throat. “It’s kind of a touchy thing,” he said. “I won’t be able to give you too many details because I don’t want to break confidence.”
Clark nodded to say that he understood.
“It’s one of my parishioners,” the preacher began. Clark could feel how very hard this was for the young man.
“Rumor has it that he’s been seen in town . . . doing . . . ah . . . doing something he shouldn’t be doing.”
“Rumor?” said Clark, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, a pretty reliable source, really. I say ‘rumor’ because I haven’t talked to the individual involved yet, and a man is innocent until proven guilty, right?”
“Right,” said Clark.
“Well, this ah . . . source . . . says he has seen this occur more than once. He’s concerned that others have been seeing it, too, and that it will reflect on the whole church.”
“I see,” said Clark.
“If it is happening, and if he is doing . . . what he shouldn’t be doing . . . the man’s right, Clark. It could reflect on the whole church. It’s wrong . . . and it’s against God’s commandments . . . and I’m really not sure what to do about it.”
“Did yer . . . ah . . . source say what should be done?”
“He wants him thrown out of the church.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is of no importance here, as I see it. What I want to know, Clark, is what does the Lord want?”
Clark laid aside the harness then and looked into Parson John Brown’s honest blue eyes. He had just gained new respect for the young man.
“Guess we better take it a step at a time,” he said and sank down onto a pile of straw, sticking his one leg out before him.
; “First of all, someone . . . meanin’ you, I think . . . needs to talk to the man and find out, if ya can, iffen he’s really guilty as charged. Iffen he refuses to give ya the truth, then one needs to inquire further from the source an’ from others. Iffen one person has seen these . . . these . . .”
“Indiscretions,” put in the parson.
“This here indiscretion, then it’s very likely thet others have seen it also . . . unless yer source has nothin’ to do but sit him around an’ spy.”
“It’s not like that, Clark. He’s a good and reliable man, concerned only for the good of the church. He’s not a busybody or a tale carrier.”
“In that case, one has to pay considerable attention to his testimony.”
“That’s the way I feel about it. But the man accused should still have an opportunity to speak for himself.”
“Agreed,” said Clark.
“So I go to see him and hear his story. Now I need to know what to do about it.”
“Well, let’s say, first off, that he says he’s innocent.”
“That would be rather hard to believe, but I’d have to take his word unless we had further proof.”
“Okay,” said Clark, “we are thet far. He is innocent until proven guilty.”
“And what if he admits to his guilt?”
“What does the Bible say?”
“You mean about taking the two or three witnesses to show him the error of his way?”
“Iffen he admits to his guilt, I don’t reckon he can seriously deny the error of his way, though it’s true thet some have tried.”
“All right, let’s say that he does admit his guilt but he has no intention to stop . . . to stop doing what he has been doing. What then? Does our little church discipline its members?”
“First, I think we need to understand what discipline is all about and why it is sometimes necessary.”
“It’s not easy to discipline a fellow believer, Clark. Who says that I’m so strong that I’ll never fall? I’m not good at setting myself up as judge and jury.”
“An’ yer not the judge. God’s Word is what we judge a man upon. Iffen He says thet it’s wrong . . . then we can’t make it right.”
