The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  Dorothy interrupted her reading only long enough to put the children to bed. Then pulling on a heavy cotton nightgown, two pairs of socks, and a robe that had grown thin with wear, she went back to the living room, pulled the chair up as close as she could to the stove, and tried to soak heat out of the dying fire. There was not enough coal to build a roaring fire, which she longed to do. She read on, hoping to grow sleepy but dreading the loneliness of the cold bed with the thin, lumpy mattress.

  She shivered as the cold crept into her bones. She got up and checked the children. Their bedroom was cold, so she put more covers over them, then got her heaviest coat to wrap around herself and went back and sat down before the dying fire.

  Finally she nodded and was almost asleep when she heard a knocking at the door. Leaping up she nearly stumbled. Her feet had been tucked under her and had gone to sleep. Stomping them as she went to the door, she cried, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me—Andrew!”

  She flung open the door and saw Andrew standing there in his black wool coat and a soft brown hat pulled down over his face. He stepped forward and opened his arms, and she flew into them, crying, “Andrew!”

  Kicking the door shut, Andrew Winslow held his wife in his arms and sensed the relief that washed over her. “It’s good to be back,” he whispered and then took off his hat with his left arm without releasing her. He tossed the hat on the floor, put his arms back around her, and kissed her. “I’ve missed you, Dorothy,” he whispered tenderly.

  “Oh, Andrew!” Tears filled her eyes as the realization of how lonely and miserable she had really been hit her anew. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  He kissed her again, then shook his head. “I didn’t plan to be here, but I got canceled out at my next appointment. So I threw it all up and came home.”

  Dorothy stepped back and dashed the tears from her eyes. Her voice was unsteady as she said, “It’s been a long time.”

  Andrew stared at her for a moment. She was thinner, and he could see the unhappiness in her eyes. He knew she hated for him to be gone, but there was nothing he could do about it. His job demanded it. He made a mental note to spend more time at home, then said, “It’s cold as ice in here.”

  “I know. We’re almost out of coal.”

  “Well, I’ll have enough hauled in tomorrow, but we’ll use what we have tonight.”

  “Are you hungry? I have a couple of chops.”

  “Hungry as a bear. You fix something to eat while I clean up and get that fire going. The children are all right?”

  “They’re fine. I’ll have your dinner ready in a few minutes.”

  Andrew stepped back outside, picked up the suitcase he had dropped, and brought it in. He took it to the larger of the two bedrooms and deposited it on the bed, then moved into the small bedroom. The light filtered in, and he stood over Amelia, looking down at her face. He touched her hair, leaned over, and kissed her. She stirred but did not awaken. He turned around and bent over the crib, examining his son carefully. He was always fascinated by the sight of his son. A lump came to his throat as he noticed how much the boy had grown in the month he had been gone. Frustrated, he thought, He’s growing up and I’m missing it. He did not touch Phillip for fear of waking him but stood looking down for a long time, then turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  He sat down at the kitchen table and watched his wife as she fried the pork chops and opened a can of green beans. After making a pot of coffee, she put the meal on the table and sat down. Andrew reached over, took her hand, and bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for bringing me home safely. And, as always, I pray you would bless my dear wife and my children. In the name of Jesus I ask it. Amen.” He squeezed her hand, then looked at the two pork chops on his plate. “One of these is yours,” he remarked.

  “I’ve already eaten. You go ahead. I know you’re hungry, and they’re very small.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, but it doesn’t seem right.”

  “No, I’ve had plenty.”

  Andrew began to eat hungrily, giving her the details of his trip. Dorothy was not really interested but pretended to be. Long ago she had lost track of the tracings of his journeys of the hundreds of churches he visited. They all seemed to swim together in her mind, and she could not separate them. But her eyes devoured him as he ate, and she filled his coffee cup twice. When he was through, she said, “There’s nothing sweet. I’ll make a chocolate pie tomorrow.”

  “That was good, Dorothy. You’re a fine cook.” The two sat there as Andrew savored another cup of coffee, then he said, “It’s cold. A warm bed sounds good to me.” He hesitated for a moment and then smiled. “And a warm wife sounds even better.” He reached over and took her hand for a minute. He was a big man, an even six feet, but lean. His auburn hair was long and needed cutting, and he had the piercing blue eyes of many of the Winslow men. “Come along,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  Dorothy rose and followed him. She got into the bed, the sheets like cold iron, and when he slid beside her, she turned to him and put her arms around him, whispering, “I’ve missed you, too, Andrew. . . .”

  ****

  For the first two days after he returned home, Andrew was able to forget some of the tensions of his work. He spent all of his time with Dorothy and the children, but on the third day, all the burdens of his job came flooding back. A stack of mail had arrived, filled with demands for his immediate attention, and he withdrew as he struggled with the problems of the missionary work all over the world. Very few people understood the unrelenting pressures of his job—not even Dorothy. The missionaries who left America and sailed to the far-flung corners of the globe were his responsibility. Some of them who had gone, he well knew, were not qualified to be missionaries. Some of them had left in haste without proper training, and now many of them sent letters complaining of the conditions, as if he could change them. Others grew ill and had to be brought home, and their places had to be filled. It was Andrew Winslow’s responsibility to see that these choices were made. He had a board, of course, but none of them worked full time in the missionary service. Most were busy pastors who could come together only at rare intervals to make the overall decisions. For hours Andrew sat at the kitchen table sorting through letters, trying to hold things together in countries that he had never even seen. And there always was the pressure of finding new volunteers to go. Although he was not aware of it, the stress had worn him thin emotionally and robbed him of much of the natural vitality he had had when he assumed the position.

  To clear his mind, Andrew left the house and walked for hours to sort out the various demands and needs of all the stations overseas. When he came back he was physically exhausted, as well as mentally and emotionally drained.

  ****

  Dorothy had enjoyed the previous two days, having her husband back, but she had not really grasped all the burdens that weighed Andrew down. She could think of little else but her own needs—her desire to have him home more often, her longing for a place to settle down and call their own. Having come in from his long walk, he was now sitting at the kitchen table sorting through letters again, his brow furrowed, when she said, “What about Christmas, Andrew?”

  Andrew had just finished reading a letter from a missionary who blamed him for an exasperating situation in Africa. It irritated Andrew greatly. He had not liked the man from the beginning and had sent him against his better judgment. Now, without even looking up at his wife, he grunted, “I don’t have time to think of that, Dorothy! I’m busy!”

  For the first time in their marriage, a deep anger and bitterness rose in Dorothy Winslow that overcame her usual respectful and quiet manner. She had been taught to submit to her husband in all things, and she had faithfully tried to do so, always subduing her own thoughts and desires in deference to his. But her anger would be restrained no longer. It welled up in a sudden rush, spilling out in a tone so sharp it startled them both. “You think about Africa and China,�
�� she cried, “but not your own family!”

  Stung by the biting accusation, Andrew wheeled around and stood to his feet. “That’s my calling!”

  “And what about my calling? Am I to be a mother and a father both to your children? How can a man rule the house of God if he can’t take care of his own family?” Dorothy said, her face pale, her lips drawn together. “You’re gone all the time! You’re a stranger to your own children! And you’re a stranger to me! You spend every moment of your life for someone else, but you have no time for us!”

  Harsh words leaped from Andrew’s lips, and the once quiet kitchen was now charged with the sudden, violent explosion of feelings that neither had suspected lay within them. The bitter words, both of them knew, would come back to haunt their memories, but they were both gripped with an anger and frustration that had simmered unchecked until now, when it finally had boiled over.

  Dorothy began to weep. “You’re no husband, and you’re no father! Why did you ever marry me if you were never going to have any love for me or your family?” She turned and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ****

  The children were asleep, and Andrew hoped that the awful sounds had not awakened them. In a state of shock, he looked down at his trembling hands. “I didn’t think anything in the world could do that to me,” he muttered aloud. He clasped his hands together and moved to the living room, where he stood staring blindly out the window into the darkness. The suddenness of the quarrel had rocked his foundations. Andrew loved his family deeply and missed them terribly when he was on his lonesome journeys crossing the land. He was a man of dedication and firm opinions, and when he threw himself into any job, whether it be chopping wood, or making a toy for his children, or sending missionaries all over the world, he knew no other way but to give it everything he had. His brother, Barney, a missionary in Africa himself, had once said, “You’re a great preacher, Andrew, but you haven’t learned to give yourself to other things. It’s all or nothing with you.”

  Pacing the floor with his hands clenched at his sides, Andrew knew an agonizing time that night. He did not go to the bedroom but continued to pace until he grew tired, then sat in a chair pulled up close to the stove. Dorothy’s cruel words still burned in his heart. You’re no husband, and you’re no father! He thought of his own happy childhood, his parents, Mark and Lola, and of his sister, Esther—what a close family they had been. He thought, with regret, how he never understood his brother, Barney, when they were growing up, and had kept himself apart from him. That had turned out all right, and now Barney had made a fine life for himself in Africa as a missionary.

  Finally he lay down on the couch and tried to sleep, but sleep came only in brief, fitful moments. Just as a gray dawn was beginning to break, he fell into a sound sleep. He awoke with a shock, however, when something struck his stomach with a hard blow. He doubled up defensively, put his hands out, and then he heard, “Daddy!” He opened his eyes to see that Amelia had come and jumped on him. He shook his head until he came to himself. Sitting up, he pulled her onto his lap and held her tightly. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  “Morning, Daddy. Will you read me a story?”

  “Sure I will. As many as you like.”

  She was toying with the watch chain that he had not taken off and asked, “Can I listen to your watch?” She sat very still as he removed the pocket watch and held it to her ear. With his free hand he stroked her hair and thought how pretty she was. So much like Dorothy.

  Amelia was still sitting on his lap when Dorothy came in. Andrew looked up quickly and noted the dark circles under her eyes. At that moment, Amelia handed the watch back and said, “Will you be here for Christmas, Daddy?”

  Guiltily, Andrew thought of the busy itinerary he had planned and how Christmas at home had been sacrificed to go to a huge church in Kansas City. But as he looked back into the blue eyes of the child, he said, “Yes, I’ll be here.” He stood to his feet, holding her in his arms, and moved over to Dorothy, who stood stiffly watching him. “I’m sorry, Dorothy,” he said quietly. “I was wrong. It was all my fault.”

  The lines in her face seemed to lessen, and her lips relaxed. “We were both upset,” she said. “I’ll fix breakfast.”

  Breakfast was unusually quick, with Amelia doing most of the talking, and Phillip banging his fists on his high chair and making as much noise as possible. After breakfast Andrew said, “I’m going out for a walk. I have to think. I won’t be long.”

  “All right. Will you stop by the store and get some milk? We’re all out.”

  “Yes. Anything else?”

  “No. Just the milk.”

  He looked at the children and said, “Before I go for my walk, I’ll take you out for a while.” He dressed them warmly, and carrying Phillip and holding Amelia’s hand, he took them outside. There was really nothing to do. He looked around and saw no swings or anything for children to play on, as he saw in other yards. “Come along,” he said, scooping up Amelia with his free arm. “We’ll just walk, and I’ll tell you a story about Christmas.”

  ****

  From inside the house Dorothy watched through the window as Andrew made his way down the street holding the two children. The quarrel had sickened her, and she had no inclinations to do anything to the house. She forced herself to clean up the breakfast dishes, then finally went and sat down in front of the stove. Picking up her Bible, she began to read, almost listlessly. There was no spirit nor heart in her. The quarrel seemed to have taken all that away from her. From long habit, she turned to the book of John, her favorite, and began reading in the fourteenth chapter. The familiar words seemed to jump out at her. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.” She could go no further than that first verse. Tears came to her eyes. It was these chapters that spoke most deeply to her own heart. She loved to read of the acts of Jesus as set forth in the Gospels, and especially this latter part of the book of John when Jesus spoke to His disciples for the last time on earth.

  “ ‘Let not your heart be troubled,’ ” she read aloud, then began to pray, “Oh, Lord, I have a troubled heart. I’ve sinned against you so many times with my doubts and my fears, and now I’ve hurt my husband. Oh, God, I can’t stand any more! Do something in my life to make me a better woman. Make me content. Help me to be a better wife to Andrew.” She continued to pray for some time, and after a few minutes, a strange sense of well-being and peace settled over her. The Scriptures had this power over her, especially the words of Jesus. Words like “Let not your heart be troubled” came to her again and again. Finally she said, “I can’t solve my problems, Lord, but my heart is not troubled now. I put my faith and my trust in you.” She sat there for a long time, not really praying but thanking God for the peace He had given her. When she heard the door slam, she closed the Bible quickly and rose to meet Andrew. He was still carrying the children, and she reached over and took Phillip, whose face was cherry red from the cold. “Come over by the stove,” she said, taking off his black coat and mittens. “My, your hands are cold.” She put them against her cheeks and held them there as he began trying to tell her what they had seen.

  Andrew watched Dorothy as she spoke to the children, and finally he said, “I’ll go for my walk now.”

  “All right,” Dorothy said, looking up. “It’s very cold. Do you have on enough socks to keep your feet warm?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I won’t be long.”

  Dorothy moved to the window again and watched him walk away. He seemed a solitary figure, and she asked again, “Oh, God, help me to be what you want me to be,” then she went back to the children.

  ****

  “This letter came for you this morning.” Dorothy handed the letter to Andrew, who was sitting at the table, as usual, writing letters.

  He took it, stared at the envelope, and said, “It’s from the First Church in Kansas City, where I had planned to speak over Christmas. We’ve gotten some
good missionaries out of that church.” He opened it, aware that she was watching him. His eyes scanned the lines and he said, “They want us all to come for Christmas service there. Not just me. You and the children, too.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He fumbled with the letter uncertainly, then looked up at her. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

  “We don’t have any friends there, Andrew.” There was a plaintive quality in her voice, although she was quiet, and she said, “I’ll do what you say, but it would be a hard time. You can’t relax or be yourself when you’re visiting in someone else’s home during the holidays. I’d rather stay here.”

  There was no emotion in her voice, and she displayed none of the anger that had leaped out at him earlier, but he had learned from their quarrel that her feelings ran much deeper than he had ever realized before—deeper than she knew how to express openly. Even though she seemed willing once again to accept his decision in this matter, he was certain now that she desperately wanted to have Christmas alone with just the family.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll write them and say we can’t come.”

  “You do what you must, Andrew.”

  He did not answer but remained quiet the rest of the day. He spent a great deal of time with the children, but in the afternoon when they were taking their naps, he walked out the door, saying nothing to Dorothy. He was gone for over an hour. When he came back, he took off his coat and hat, stuffed his mittens in his pockets, then came over to sit down beside Dorothy. She had been sitting on the couch mending a shirt and looked up, asking mildly, “Did you have a nice walk?”