by Janette Oke
No! No, that wasn’t when it happened, Belinda realized as she thought further. She had left God out of her life even before leaving Boston. Perhaps the downward slide had begun before she left her own small town, maybe starting with her restlessness. Had the restlessness been a result of her constant care of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth? She had allowed her nursing duties to keep her from daily quiet times of prayer and Bible reading. And I was getting all nervous and upset about Rand and Jackson, she remembered.
Things had only worsened in the flurry of activity in Boston with Pierre. They had been so busy running here and there that Belinda had put aside her Sunday church attendance, as well. Gradually, thoughtlessly, she had drifted into a life that didn’t include God.
Belinda looked across at the gentleman beside her. She did not wish to be rude, but she needed some time alone. No . . . no, she needed time with her God. She had been floundering—starving—and not even realizing why.
“Excuse me, please,” she said to the man. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, but I . . . I . . . need to return to my stateroom.”
Belinda was thankful that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was not there. She needed privacy. With almost frantic gestures she began to rummage through the baggage stored beneath her bunk. Where was her Bible? She who had read her Bible daily had not held it in her hands for weeks.
At last she drew it forth from the bottom of a suitcase. With tears streaming down her face, she clasped the book to her bosom.
“Oh, God,” she prayed, “God, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me for forsaking you. I . . . I’ve been so lonely, and in my foolishness I did not even know why.” Belinda fell on her knees and cried out to a forgiving Father.
It was a while before the inner storm was spent and peace again entered Belinda’s heart. She rose to sit on her berth and opened her Bible. She sat reading favorite portions from her precious book, thankfully noticing how each passage met her need, and wondering how she could have ever become so careless as to neglect it.
She had been raised with Bible reading. Her earliest memories were of sitting on her father’s lap as he read to the family from the Bible each morning. She had always been impressed with the importance of Bible reading and time spent in prayer. She knew! She knew! She had learned it well. She had become a believer herself when she was but a girl and had allowed God to lead and direct her life throughout her growing years. How was it possible for her to let the pleasures of the world and the deceitfulness of living a life of leisure and wealth lead her so far off course? How could Satan so subtly and slowly have drawn her away from her source of spiritual life? It had developed so gradually that Belinda had been unaware of its happening.
It’s not that the Lord doesn’t want me to enjoy beautiful things and interesting places, Belinda decided. But He wants me to do those things with Him, not without Him. Thankful that through the kind words of an elderly man God had jarred her back to the truth, she read on, refreshing her parched soul.
At last, feeling renewed and alive again, she laid her Bible gently on the bedside table. She smiled softly to herself, hardly able to wait to share her new discovery with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. She had not been the Christian witness to the woman she should have been. She prayed God would help her change all that. And feeling assured that she served a merciful and understanding God, Belinda was confident she would be given ample opportunity to share her faith properly in the future.
The future! Suddenly the thought seemed awfully good to Belinda. She had so much to look forward to—so many decisions of life still to be made. She no longer felt crowded—pushed against a wall. Why, even the thought of Jackson and Rand brought no accompanying anxiety. Belinda felt she was ready to offer honest friendship to both of them. Friendship—but no more—at least at present, she told herself and felt no guilt concerning her decision. She smiled again, thankful for the feeling of peace.
She felt no pressure to know what her future held. Perhaps . . . just perhaps God did have a home and family somewhere ahead for her. Belinda would like that, but she was willing to take one step at a time.
A wave of loneliness for the ones at home swept over her. She would love to see them—to see them all. To be held in her father’s secure arms again—to share private thoughts with her mother over a cup of tea—to watch Luke’s steady hand as he held syringe or needle—to chat, to hold, to laugh and cry with her family.
And then Belinda’s thoughts turned to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth—the wealthy woman who was in reality so poor—and Belinda’s heart ached for the woman. For the first time in her young life, Belinda began to sense what it would be like to be alone—really alone. The thought sobered and chilled her. She must do more with her—be more thoughtful and loving. More sharing and giving. The lonely woman needed her, not as nursemaid, but as friend. Belinda knew that at least for now, she would not—could not—desert her.
“God,” she whispered, “I’ll need your leading. Your direction. I want to do the right thing . . . and I trust you to let me know just what that might be. Oh . . . not all at once . . . but step by step. Help me to be patient with what you have for me now . . . an’ ready to move on when you give me a nudge. Don’t let me rush the future . . . but help me to walk into it with faith and confidence in you.” Belinda breathed deeply, at peace with herself. “And thank you, God . . . for a future . . . for the knowledge that you have it all in your control.”
Belinda smoothed her dress and raised a hand to tidy her hair, then moved forward to take the first step in her new walk with God.
I must find him and tell him, she said to herself with a smile. He’s a rather strange little man—but his words changed my life. I must tell him—and then welcome him to America. “Mattie” he said his name was, but it’s hardly proper for me to be calling him that. I must ask his name. Belinda opened the cabin door and stepped out into the bright sunshine and tangy sea air.
Barcelona—Rome—Paris—steamship—Boston? What does it really matter? For as the kind man has pointed out, “‘Ye needn’t leave God behind ye now,’” and wherever one goes—wherever God is, the heart can be at peace, at home.
Love Finds a Home
Contents
Dedication
Some of the Characters in the LOVE COMES SOFTLY series
1. Stirrings
2. Aunt Virgie
3. Plans
4. Homeward Bound
5. Family
6. Seeing Pa
7. Adjustments
8. Memories
9. Return to Boston
10. Back to Normal?
11. An Exciting Event
12. The Bend in the Road
13. Decisions
14. The Task
15. Dinner
16. Arrangements
17. The Unexpected
18. Friendship
19. The Concert
20. Disappointment
21. Final Preparations
22. Christmas
23. Farewell
24. Settling In
25. A Happy Ending
Epilogue
To Ingolf Arnesen,
my Christian brother,
prayer partner, and cheering section—
friend of the Davises, Joneses, and Delaneys.
Thank you for your friendship, support, and prayers.
God bless!
Some of the Characters in the LOVE COMES SOFTLY series
Clark and Marty Davis, partners in a marriage in which each had lost a previous spouse.
Missie, Clark’s daughter from his first marriage, married Willie LaHaye and moved west to ranch.
Clare, Marty’s son born after her first husband’s death, married Kate. They live in the same farmyard as Clark and Marty. Their children—Amy Jo, Dan, David, and Dack.
Arnie, Clark and Marty’s first child. He married Anne and they have three sons—Silas, John, and Abe.
Daughter Ellie, married Lane Howard and moved west to join Missie and Willie. Their children are Bren
da, William, and Willis.
Son Luke, trained to be a doctor and returned to the small town to practice medicine. He married Abbie. Their children are Thomas, Aaron, and Ruth.
Jackson Brown, the school friend who greatly impressed Melissa, Amy Jo, and Belinda when he first arrived at the country school. He later became a doctor.
Belinda, Clark and Marty’s youngest daughter, who trained as a nurse and went to Boston.
One
Stirrings
Belinda slitted her eyes open against the rays of the morning sun, then quickly closed them and pulled the blanket up around her face for protection. It was early, too early to rise—but she wouldn’t be able to sleep any longer with the sun shining in her eyes.
Even in her sleepy state, she knew something was atypical. Previous mornings she had not awakened with the sun shining directly into her face. The drapes—why are the drapes not pulled? she wondered groggily. And then things began to filter back into her foggy consciousness.
It was the moon that had kept her from pulling the drapes across her upstairs bedroom window the night before. It’s so full and golden and shining, she had commented to herself when she went to shut it out. She had impulsively decided to watch it as she lay in her bed. She would get up later, she thought, when the moon had passed from view and properly close the heavy curtains for the night.
But sleep had claimed her before the moon moved out of sight, and now the sun was streaming in the tall, elegant window, refusing to allow her further sleep.
Belinda pushed back her covers and slowly crawled from bed. If she was to get any more sleep, she had to shut out the early morning sunshine. Still tired, she yawned as she reached for the pull, but she couldn’t resist looking out over the lovely garden at the bright summer day.
Already the elderly gardener, Thomas, was bending over the flower beds, coaxing begonias to lift their bright summer faces to the sun. What beautiful flower beds he’s laid out, Belinda thought. Why, Aunt Virgie said just yesterday she doesn’t know what in the world she will do should Thomas decide to retire.
Belinda smiled affectionately as she watched the old man. She did not share her employer’s fears. She could see his love for the flowers in his every careful move. One might as well ask Thomas to stop breathing as to stop nursing his beloved flower beds.
Sudden determination made Belinda drop the drapery pull. With such a beautiful day beckoning her, she could no longer stay in bed. She would dress and slip out to join Thomas. Maybe he would even let her pull a few weeds.
Belinda hummed as she pulled a simple gown over her head and tied a bow at her waist. Aunt Virgie would not waken for some time yet, and Belinda would be free to enjoy the early morning hours.
She carried walking shoes in her hand so she would not make any noise and a hat to protect her face from the sun. She left her door slightly ajar so as not to disturb her employer in the next room with the sound of it closing. She slipped silently from the room and descended the steps.
Belinda left the house by the veranda door, pausing on the steps to breathe deeply. The heavy scent and beauty of summer blossoms filled her senses. It truly is beautiful here at the Stafford-Smyth home, Belinda decided for the umpteenth time. Her longings to be back in her small-town prairie setting were not because she did not appreciate her present surroundings. Her people, her family, were the reason her yearning thoughts so often turned toward home. And thinking of them, as lately she seemed to do almost constantly, her heart ached for a chance to be a part of their lives again.
But Belinda refused to dwell on her loneliness. As she had often done in the past, she firmly pushed it aside and thought instead of the things she had to be thankful for.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had been ill for almost two weeks with a serious bout of influenza, but now, thankfully, she seemed to be gaining strength each day. Belinda was greatly relieved. It wasn’t the constant nursing or the loss of sleep at nights that bothered her. It was the worry—the possibility that her friend might not be able to shake the disease.
Belinda loved the elderly woman almost as though she were truly kin. They even enjoyed their own little game of “belonging” to each other. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had asked Belinda if she minded calling her Aunt Virgie, and Belinda had been pleased to comply. In turn, “Aunt Virgie” always referred to Belinda as “Belinda, deah,” with her intriguing eastern accent. The arrangement satisfied them both.
The lady seemed to have long ago concluded that neither grandson—Pierre and his Anne-Marie, nor Franz and his Yvette—would ever consent to share her Boston home with her. Indeed, Pierre and Anne-Marie had sent word from France that they were soon to be joined by a third family member. Aunt Virgie and Belinda, sharing joy over the great-grandchild to come, had even sat and knitted gifts to send to the new baby. But both had concluded without saying anything to the other that it was most unlikely Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would ever personally see or hold the child.
Belinda stopped to admire a climbing rose. The bright pink bloom filled the morning air with a sweet sunshine all its own. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth said that Thomas had developed the lovely flower in his own greenhouse. Belinda breathed deeply of its scent, then moved on into the garden.
McIntyre, Thomas’s canine companion of many years, slipped alongside to sniff at Belinda’s hand.
“Good morning, Mac,” Belinda greeted him, running a hand over his graying head. “I see you’re up early, too.” The old dog’s eyesight was failing and his hearing was not as sharp as it had been, but he never missed an opportunity to be at his master’s side.
Thomas heard the words and straightened slowly, blinking as though not sure he was seeing right. He put one hand to his creaking back, then grinned slowly, showing a few gaps where teeth were missing. “Miss Belinda,” he said, “how come ye not be abed?”
“It’s too nice a morning to sleep,” Belinda answered good-naturedly.
But Thomas responded with a twinkle in his eyes, “’Tis jest the same as any other mornin’, h’tis.”
Belinda smiled. “I suppose so,” she admitted slowly. “I really wouldn’t know, I must confess. But once I saw the day, I couldn’t resist getting out into it. It will be hot and stifling later on, I’m thinking.” And Belinda cast a glance at the bright sky with the sun already streaming down rays of warmth.
“Aye,” spoke Thomas. “’Twill be a hot one today, I’m afraid.”
“I noticed your rosebush is covered with flowers,” Belinda went on. “It smells most wonderful.”
Thomas grinned widely at her comment. “Aye” was all he said.
He bent back to his work again, and Belinda ventured closer and knelt down beside him.
“Could I . . . would you mind if . . . if I pulled a few weeds?” she asked timidly.
“Weedin’ ye be wishin’ for?” His eyes widened, no doubt picturing milk-white hands in such an endeavor. “Ye pulled weeds afore?”
“Oh yes,” quickly responded Belinda. “Back home I always helped with the garden.”
“Ye had ye some flowers?”
“Oh, not like here,” Belinda was quick to explain. “Nothing nearly as grand as this. But Mama’s always had her flowers. Roses and violets and early spring tulips. She loves flowers, Mama does. But she spends most of her time in the big garden—vegetables, grown for family use. Mama has fed her family almost all year round from the fruits of her garden.” Belinda’s voice had grown nostalgic just thinking about it. She could see Marty’s form bent over the hoe or lifting hot canning jars from the steaming kettle.
“Aye,” said old Thomas, nodding his head in understanding. “My mither, she did, too.” Belinda thought his eyes looked a little misty.
“Be at it, then,” Thomas gave her permission. “Mind ye pick careful. An’ don’t prick a finger on a thorn.” Then Thomas handed her his own little hand trowel, and Belinda leaned forward and let her fingers feel the warmth of the sun-heated soil.
They worked in silence side by side for some
time before Thomas spoke again. “’Tis a new rose I have now. In the greenhouse. It has its first blossom just about to open. Ye wish to see it?”
Belinda straightened her back, smiling her pleasure at the invitation. “Oh, could I?” she asked eagerly.
“Aye,” the old man said with a slight nod. He lifted himself slowly to his feet, moving his hunched shoulders carefully up and down to ease the ache. Then he cast his eyes around the yard to find old Mac. The gardener never took a step without checking on his dog. With Mac’s senses no longer what they had been, he had told Belinda he feared the dog might not notice his departure.
“McIntyre,” he spoke loudly now, “we be movin’ on.”
Belinda loved to hear him speak the dog’s name. He rolled the “r” off his tongue so effectively.
The dog lifted his head, then slowly pulled himself to his feet. He moved to Thomas’s side, and as one, the figures moved toward the greenhouse.
Belinda fell into step beside them. She stopped only once—by the side of the climbing rose.
“It’s so pretty,” she murmured, touching a leaf gently.
“Aye,” acknowledged old Thomas with a twinkle, reaching out a hand to stroke a velvety petal. “’Tis Pink Rosanna I call ’er.”
“You gave it a name?” asked Belinda in surprise.
“Aye. I always name me new ladies.”
Belinda smiled at his description of his new rose hybrids.
At the greenhouse, Belinda waited while old Thomas carefully opened the creaking door. McIntyre found his own gunnysack bed by the entrance and flopped down. Even Old McIntyre was not allowed any farther into Thomas’s sanctuary.
Belinda followed slowly, moved to exclaim over and over as her eyes swept the massive foliage and glorious blooms, but she held her tongue.
At last they were standing before a small rosebush. With obvious skill and affection, it had been grafted onto another shoot. Belinda could see the slight enlargement where the grafting had taken place. But her eye passed swiftly from the stem to the delicate bud that was just beginning to unfurl. On the same stem, another bud had formed, and a third one was slowly breaking from curled greenery.
