A Home for the Heart

by Michael Phillips

  Oh, Lord, show me the true ministry of giving without thought of self. You gave your life, and your own best friends betrayed and denied you. They put you to death, while they have only taken from me a few dollars. Father, do not let this blow to my serving heart be lethal. I do not want to grow callous and calculating. Let me be just as willing, the next time you send one in need across my path, to give and give again without thought of what may be the result to me. Help me, Lord. And I pray for that dear tormented woman and her two precious young ones. I do not even know how to pray for them but that you would be a Father to them, that you would love them, and that you would accomplish your purposes in their lives, however and wherever that may lead them—and that you would accomplish your purpose in my heart through this.

  Now it is late the same evening. My body is tired and sore, for reasons I will presently explain.

  But first I must say that my deepest regret of this day is for you, my own dear Corrie. Though you knew nothing of it, in one respect you are the one who will have to suffer for my having delayed my journey. For now I will be nearly a week later in my arrival than anticipated, and I know this will be difficult for you.

  Truly, I am sorry.

  I must only trust our Father that he has you in his care, whatever may be my own folly.

  Once the train takes me from Chicago, there should be no more delays. In the meantime, I have found it necessary to look for means to sustain myself on the further journey.

  I had ten dollars packed away in one of my bags in case of emergency. Also the hotel clerk agreed to refund me the unused portion of Annie Bowers’ room. In my walk through town I spoke to a man at a large lumber supply yard. He said that if I was willing to work, he would pay me per day. So until the next train I shall be busy hoisting, not bags of grain, but heavy timbers of pine and fir upon these shoulders of mine.

  In that man’s generous employ I spent this very afternoon, which explains my physical condition. But honest work is always beneficial to aches of the heart. Soreness notwithstanding, I feel much the better for it.

  All in all, I am confident that I shall leave Chicago with sufficient funds for the stagecoach and the last legs of my journey. I may, however, be growing lean by the time you see me, for I will doubtless have to be frugal when it comes to other expenditures, such as food.

  I apologize for this dispirited letter. I do feel much better now for having written it. I wish I could throw it away, but I know you would never forgive me if I did.

  Pray for me. Sometimes I feel so weak.

  Christopher

  Chapter 20

  The New Dress

  One of the things that sort of surprised me when I got home was how much Becky had learned from Almeda about what you might call the womanly arts.

  Christopher was always so nice to give me compliments, but I had never been as interested in womanly things as most young women. I was always traipsing around the woods, riding horses, tracking down some story, or writing in my journal.

  Ma had insisted that I learn the basics of keeping house, though—and Becky hadn’t even had that. She wasn’t even ten when Ma died, so she had to go all through her growing-up years without a mother at all.

  I guess I didn’t give it much thought that there might be things that I knew on account of being the oldest that maybe Becky didn’t. I got so busy and traveled so much, maybe I didn’t pay as much attention to her as I should have. It seemed all I could do to keep the boys and Pa fed and the mud out of the cabin.

  Emily got married pretty young—I don’t even know if she knew how to make a decent batch of biscuits because I had done most of the cooking. I suppose she did, now that I recall, but Becky was even younger than she was. Then when Pa got married again, Almeda took over most of the cooking and cleaning, and by then I was doing a lot of writing and was gone pretty often, although of course I helped as much as I could.

  But now that I was home and seeing Becky as a grown-up and seeing what a homemaker she’d become, I found myself wondering if I really knew enough about being a wife and keeping a home. Ma had never been too much a “wife” while we were growing up because she hadn’t had a husband around to be a wife to.

  And now it seemed that Becky knew more about these wife kinds of things than I did! She’d been alone with Almeda these last two years, and I was amazed at all the homey and womanly things she knew how to do.

  It wasn’t just cooking and cleaning, though I was sure she was a better cook than me by now. There was more to it than that. She thought about things like putting flowers on the table and folding the napkins in special ways and laying the knives and forks just so, things I’d never paid much attention to during my years at home before.

  The house didn’t just look clean now, it had a pretty look. It was more feminine, and that made it pleasant to be in. I noticed all kinds of little things that Becky and Almeda had done to make the house more homey this way.

  One of the biggest surprises of all was how well Becky had learned to sew. I certainly wasn’t much of a seamstress! Ma had always made our clothes before. And since we’d been in Miracle Springs, Almeda had had Mrs. Gianini make our dresses for us.

  I remember that first time when she told Mrs. Gianini to make us all dresses for Christmas. What fun we’d had! We’d never had such pretty things! Then, when I was getting ready to go East, Almeda had told me what I would need, like a traveling suit, a dress for a nice dinner, and a couple of dark skirts with different blouses. But she and Mrs. Gianini had planned it all. I had just stood there while they talked and fitted me. My head had been full of other things besides dresses.

  Now, however, clothes were on my mind. Once I knew Christopher really was on his way, I wanted to make a new dress for the occasion. Ma had taught me how to sew a fairly decent seam when I was little, but I had no idea where to start in making a dress. Becky said she’d help me with it.

  She took me to the General Store and we looked at the cloth goods and patterns. I was impressed with Becky’s knowledge, and she was so careful not to make me feel too stupid for knowing as little as I did.

  We picked out a pretty rose-colored calico print. I had been drawn to a yellow material, but Becky suggested that since winter was coming on I might want something a bit darker. She said I could make a yellow dress later for the spring and summer months. So we looked at black and dark blue, but when I saw the dark rose I knew it was the one I wanted.

  Next we looked at patterns. I had seen so many pretty dresses in the East, and I had an idea of what I liked and what I didn’t care for. I picked out several pictures in the pattern book while Becky was talking to Mr. Bosely, and I showed them to her when she came back. She pointed out to me that two of the patterns would be quite difficult because there were so many pieces and so much detail stitching. She also said the detail wouldn’t show up well enough when made with a dark color.

  Becky suggested that come spring, when I made the yellow dress, I could pick a fancier pattern. This time, she said, we should select something simpler.

  “The fabric you’ve picked will make any dress look lovely,” she added.

  I looked at her for a long moment.

  “When did you grow up to be so wise?” I said.

  We both laughed.

  “I guess at the same time you were becoming so famous,” she answered.

  I didn’t know how the dress would turn out, but Becky and I had a wonderful time together making it.

  We did settle on a simple pattern—at least that’s what she called it. After we had been working on it a week, it didn’t seem so simple to me!

  We had decided on both a skirt and a blouse. The skirt was full, with a second gathered tier that began about my knees. Becky had insisted that we should make two blouses to go with it. One was of the same dark rose fabric as the skirt, and the other was of a cream-colored sheer fabric that would be trimmed with bits of the dark rose.

  The blouse pattern had a yoke in front and back, with gath
ers just about the bustline. The calico blouse buttoned down the front, with no collar and long sleeves. The cream-colored blouse had the same type of yoke, but it buttoned down the back and had short, puffy sleeves. Its collar was made of the rose material, and it had rose-colored ribbons to gather the sleeves.

  I began to get excited as the skirt and two blouses took shape and I was able to visualize what it would look like on me finished. How Becky could tell everything while we were looking at patterns and material to buy, I don’t know, but her choices were good ones.

  Now the only question was which of the blouses to wear on the day Christopher arrived!

  Chapter 21

  Disappointment

  As Christopher got farther and farther west, he knew he would arrive in person before any more letters reached Miracle Springs. So he began sending me brief telegrams of his progress.

  The first one came the last week of November from Fremont, Nebraska, where the train line now ended:

  CORRIE HOLLISTER MIRACLE SPRINGS CALIFORNIA STOP BOARDING STAGE STOP ONLY TEN MORE DAYS STOP CHRISTOPHER

  Another came in from Cheyenne, Wyoming, then one from Salt Lake City in the Utah Territory. Finally, about four days later, I received this message:

  ARRIVED CARSON CITY STOP TONIGHT HERE TOMORROW SACRAMENTO STOP ARRIVE THURSDAY STOP CHRISTOPHER

  Only three days!

  I was beside myself!

  It was absolutely worthless to try to do anything, so I tried to do everything. I felt like a teenager again. Holding in my excitement was no use. Everybody knew, from the smile on my face and the giggling laughter erupting out of me every few minutes, that my head was in the clouds.

  By Wednesday evening all the rest of the family was laughing and teasing me, but I didn’t mind. I think they were nearly as anxious to see Christopher in the flesh as I was.

  I hadn’t heard from Christopher on Wednesday. I thought I might have another telegram.

  I hardly slept that night. Thursday I went to town a little before noon. The northbound stage out of Sacramento wouldn’t arrive till late in the afternoon, but I just couldn’t stand waiting at home any longer.

  I hung around the Supply Company all afternoon, trying to work, but really just waiting for the time to pass.

  Finally about four-thirty I heard the familiar sounds of the horses galloping into town and the stagecoach rumbling behind them.

  I ran outside. There it was coming down the street!

  I ran over to the stage office to meet it. With a great Whoa! the driver reined in the horses. Oh, I couldn’t stand it!

  The stage bounded and bounced to a stop. The driver jumped down. The passenger door opened. A man and two ladies stepped out.

  Christopher was nowhere to be seen!

  I ran up and looked inside. The coach was empty.

  Frantically I approached one of the ladies and asked if there’d been anyone else aboard. She’d come all the way from Auburn, she said, and there had been no one like the man I described.

  What could have happened?

  I walked back to the office and sat down. I didn’t know what to think.

  I was still sitting there in a daze ten minutes later when the delivery boy from the telegraph office came in the door.

  “Telegram for you, Miss Corrie,” he said.

  I jumped out of my chair and practically tore it out of the poor boy’s hand.

  STAGE LOST WHEEL IN SIERRAS STOP DELAYED STOP FRIDAY SOONEST STOP CHRISTOPHER

  I sat there staring at the words on the yellow paper.

  I had waited all this time. What was another twenty-four hours?

  Yet as I sat there, my heart nearly broke.

  I didn’t think I could wait another day!

  Chapter 22

  Pleasant Dreams and Apple Pies

  How I managed to get through the rest of that Thursday I don’t know, but I did.

  Time keeps going even when you are miserable. When you’re waiting for a certain day to arrive, it always does, slow as it may seem. And fretting about it doesn’t speed up the process one bit.

  It helped that I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. By suppertime that evening I was dead tired—too tired even to think about getting excited all over again for the next day.

  I crawled into bed not knowing whether to smile that I might see Christopher tomorrow or cry because I hadn’t seen him today. When I got tired like that, laughing and crying, happiness and sadness, all blended together. My emotions didn’t seem to cope with fatigue too well, and I got all mixed up.

  But I was too tired even to think about it, and before very long I was sound asleep.

  I dreamed of the ride Christopher and I had taken up into the hills around Mrs. Timms’ farm on Christmas Day nearly twelve months before. It was one of those lovely dreams you don’t ever want to end. Everything happened slowly and peacefully. Even the horses galloped with such slow, drawn-out, and exaggerated motions that their hoofbeats were silent. It was almost like the whole dream was taking place someplace in the clouds where there were no sounds.

  Both of us were laughing and smiling and talking, but in my dream I could hear nothing. Even though it was December, I remember feeling—in the dream, I mean—that the air was like a California summer, warm and fragrant, with but the slightest breeze carrying the scent of the pine trees to our noses.

  I don’t know if you can smell in a dream, but it felt like smelling. I don’t know if you can hear sounds in a dream either, but it seemed like this dream, though slow and quiet, was yet filled with the dream-sounds of happiness.

  When I awoke, all my fatigue and sadness from the night before was gone. Sun streamed through my window almost like it was June instead of December.

  I lay a few minutes in peaceful half-wakefulness.

  Then all of a sudden I remembered.

  Christopher!

  Today was the day . . . again!

  I jumped out of bed. How long had I slept? I looked at the time on my nightstand. It was only eight-forty.

  Calm down, I told myself. The stage wouldn’t arrive till after four. Sometimes it was as late as six, and the passengers and driver had to spend the night here before going on to Marysville. And Christopher might not even come today. The telegram had said Friday at the soonest. I couldn’t let myself get as worked up as I did yesterday.

  I forced myself to dress slowly and deliberately, then went to the kitchen to help make breakfast. Almeda, Becky, and Ruth were the only ones there. Pa was in Sacramento again, due back tomorrow. Zack and Tad must have already gone out to do their chores.

  “Good morning, Corrie,” said Almeda. “Will you be going into town bright and early again today?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “I don’t think I can survive getting my hopes up again like yesterday. Are you going in?”

  “No, Ruth and I are going to spend the whole day today making some decorations for Christmas, aren’t we, dear?”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Ruth.

  “What about you, Becky?” I asked.

  “I need to go into the office for the morning. I was just about to leave. But I thought I would come back this afternoon and help Almeda fix something nice for supper.”

  “You will bring Christopher home for supper tonight if he arrives today?” said Almeda.

  “Of course!”

  “I thought it would be good for Almeda and me to take care of it,” Becky went on. “The condition you were in yesterday, I don’t think you could have made a bowl of porridge.”

  “What?” I said, laughing. “Are you criticizing my homemaking abilities?”

  “No, older sister of mine, you are a very good cook,” laughed Becky. “But yesterday you were in a sorry state!”

  “I know, I know . . . I was a mess. But today I’m going to be mature and grown-up about it.”

  “Is that a promise?” laughed Almeda.

  “Yes, yes, I promise . . . as long as you don’t tell Christopher how I behaved yesterday!
”

  We all laughed, and they agreed—all except for little Ruth, who kept asking who Christopher was.

  Becky left for the office in town shortly, but I decided to go later. After what she’d said I was determined to contribute in some way to that evening’s supper!

  I remembered from last Christmas how much Christopher enjoyed apple pies, so I decided to make some. That would make a perfect welcome!

  As soon as I was through with breakfast, I went up to Aunt Katie’s and asked if I could have two pies’ worth of apples from the stock in her cellar. They were still reasonably fresh. It had only been about three weeks since she and I had picked the last of them off her trees. She let me have them on the condition that I would bring Christopher up to meet them and that we kept enough for Christmas.

  “And I’ll be on better behavior than when Cal Burton was in your house!” I said. “That much I will promise.”

  Katie laughed.

  “Then take the apples,” she said, “and be sure to put plenty of sugar in them. Men like their pies sweet!”

  I lugged the apples home. First I made the dough, with plenty of butter. Remembering Katie’s advice, I even threw in half a cup of extra sugar with the flour.

  Then I set about peeling the apples.

  “Would you like some help, Corrie?” asked Almeda.

  “Thank you, but if you and Becky are going to make the rest of supper, the least I can do is make the pies all by myself.”

  “Then the least I can do is make sure the oven will be hot when you need it,” she said. “I’ll add some wood to the fire.”

  An hour later I covered over the two pies with a thin layer of crust, made three slits in the top, crimped the thick edges as decoratively as my fingers could manage, sprinkled the tops with a generous snowfall of sugar, and the pies were ready for Almeda’s oven.

  While waiting for them to cook, I would clean myself up, wash my hair, and get ready to go into town.

  Two hours later I was ready. The pies sat on the table cooling. They had turned out perfectly—with the crust lightly browned and just a hint of the gooey apple syrup trying to bubble out from the slits in the middle and here and there around the edge.