01 The Calling of Emily Evans

by Janette Oke

  Sophie’s eyes lifted then. Emily could see the hardness there.

  “They won’t be in church on Sunday,” she replied sharply.

  Emily’s eyes showed no surprise, but she asked softly, “Will you be—be away?”

  “No. No, we’ll be right here. They’ll jest not be goin’ anymore, thet’s all.”

  “Oh, Sophie,” breathed Emily before she could stop herself.

  “Look, Emily,” Sophie said frankly. “I don’t mind callin’ you a friend. Ya stayed with me and Nicky night an’ day when he was sick, but don’t—don’t ever try to shove yer religion on me again—understand?”

  Emily looked into the cold, dark, angry eyes.

  “As I see it, either He couldn’t do anythin’ to save my son—or He wouldn’t. Either way, He’s not the kind a God I want or need.”

  “Oh, He could have—” began Emily.

  “Then why didn’t He?” spat Sophie, and she rose quickly from the table, her eyes flashing.

  “I—I don’t know,” replied Emily helplessly. “I just don’t know.”

  “Then don’t do yer preachin’ in here—to me or to my children—ever again!” snapped Sophie, and she turned her back and walked briskly to her counter.

  Emily arose and slowly left the small cafe, her shoulders drooped and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know,” she wept softly. “I really don’t know.”

  Emily, numb with sorrow, hardly was aware of what she was doing the rest of the morning. But that afternoon Mrs. Woodrow surprised her at her door. Emily welcomed her warmly and hurriedly set teacups and a small plate of cookies on the table.

  “I didn’t come to sip and chat,” the woman said gruffly. “I came to find out how to get ready to die.”

  Emily did not know exactly what the woman meant. “You mean you—you want to arrange for your funeral service?” she inquired.

  “Lands no!” exclaimed the woman. “I don’t care none if they throw my body in the lake. I need to be ready to die.”

  Emily understood then, but she could not have been more surprised. “I see,” she said slowly, feeling the enormous weight of the responsibility that was hers. She lifted her Bible from the shelf and began to turn the pages. She knew all the appropriate scriptures. She had carefully trained for this moment during her Bible school preparation. Please make the truth come alive to Mrs. Woodrow, she prayed as she came to the book of Romans.

  “The Bible says that all have sinned,” began Emily, pointing to the scripture passage.

  “I know that,” responded the woman. “I’ve lived long enough to see it for myself.”

  “And the wages of sin—is death,” Emily went on.

  Mrs. Woodrow nodded. Emily could see that she accepted that as fair.

  “But God loved us and sent His Son to take the death penalty in our place. We are talking now about spiritual death—separation from God and punishment for our sins. We all still die physically.”

  The woman nodded again, and Emily sensed her impatience.

  “What I need to know is how to get that forgiveness,” she prompted Emily.

  “Well, God’s forgiveness is a gift. We need to accept the gift by accepting God’s Son. We repent of our sins and we receive His forgiveness in Jesus’ name. He will help us turn from what we have been to what He wants us to be. God gives us a cleansed heart. We accept, with gratitude, His salvation. And then we are baptized to show others that we are now members of the believing church.”

  Emily swallowed quickly. She wasn’t sure if she had explained it clearly or if the woman could understand the concept of salvation through faith.

  But Mrs. Woodrow nodded again. “And how do you do that?” she asked.

  “Is that what you wish?” asked Emily.

  “That’s what I came for,” responded the woman.

  Emily flushed. “Well then, you pray. You pray and ask God—and He will do the rest.”

  “I don’t know how to pray,” stated the woman. “That’s why I came to you.”

  “Let’s pray,” invited Emily. “You may repeat after me—if you mean the things I’m saying.” And Emily led the woman in a brief prayer of request for God’s forgiveness and salvation.

  At the end of the prayer Mrs. Woodrow’s face had relaxed. Her eyes, formerly so troubled, were shining now.

  “When do I get baptized?” she asked simply.

  “Well I—I need to make arrangements with Rev. Witt. I don’t do the baptizing myself. He will come—”

  “Well, just don’t wait too long,” cautioned the woman. “I could die most any time.”

  Emily denied the smile that tugged at her lips. Instead she spoke evenly, slowly. “You will want to have fellowship with God, now that you are in His family,” she said simply. “We do that through reading His Word, the Bible, and through prayer.”

  “I can read,” she answered, “but I can’t pray.”

  “All you do is talk to your Father—much as you are talking to me now. But it doesn’t even need to be out loud. Just open up your heart to Him. Any time. Any place. Whenever you feel you wish to talk to Him. And share your—your troubles. Your hurts. Your joys. Anything. And ask Him to help you to understand more about Him each day.”

  “Do I have to come to church?” asked the woman, and Emily did smile then.

  “You don’t have to come to church,” she said, “but I would encourage you to come. There you can grow as you hear God’s Word and fellowship with other Christians. It’s very helpful to come to God’s house as often as you can.”

  Mrs. Woodrow nodded.

  “Do you have a Bible?” asked Emily.

  “My husband’s ma gave him one when he was a boy. It’s still there.”

  “Good,” said Emily.

  The woman’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I wish he would have read it—believed it,” she said softly. “Might have made a heap a difference.” Then she quickly added, “But I can’t blame him none for the way I been. I had enough smarts to know I wasn’t doin’ right.”

  Emily nodded.

  “I’d like that tea now,” said the woman, sniffing, and she took off her hat that had seen many seasons and settled herself at Emily’s table.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Autumn Blues

  Emily looked dismally at the patchy row of carrots, the few potato plants, the yellowish leaves of the one tomato plant, the skinny beets and the stunted corn in her garden. She would not have much to go on through the coming winter with such a skimpy crop. She heaved a sigh and thanked God for Mrs. Reilly’s hens. At least she would have eggs to eat.

  “I had so hoped ...” she mused wishfully, then turned her back on the garden patch.

  “Well, at least there are a few meals there,” she said to herself as she went back inside to prepare for another day of visiting the families in her community.

  During four days of rain, Emily had paced her small kitchen floor waiting for the sky to clear. Walter had chased along after her, playfully grabbing at her shoelaces. It was important to her to make another call on Mrs. Woodrow, who, as she wished, had been baptized by Rev. Witt and was coming to church faithfully. Emily marveled at the woman’s hunger for the Word and the change in her over the past few months. In fact, everyone in the town had noticed the change in Mrs. Woodrow.

  But word had come that the woman was ill. Emily took one more look at the gray skies and decided to hitch her team to the buggy, rain or not.

  It was a mistake. The side road that led to the Woodrow farm was rutted and full of holes at the best of times, but with the heavy rains that had fallen, it was next to impassable. Big John had tried to warn Emily, but she quietly pushed aside his gruff prediction and went ahead.

  The first trouble came in the form of another heavy shower. Emily gritted her teeth against the cold rain and kept her horses headed in the direction of Mrs. Woodrow’s farm.

  When she turned off the main road onto the side road that led to the farm, she discover
ed firsthand how accurate Big John had been. The road to the Woodrow house was even worse than she had feared. Deep, gummy mud holes bogged down her buggy, and it was all her strong team could do to keep the small wagon moving.

  Emily lurched from one hole to another, trying to pick her way through. To make matters worse, the rain running down her face prevented her from seeing clearly. Much of the ground was under a layer of water, and Emily hardly knew where to aim the team next.

  And then the inevitable happened. The buggy wheels careened into a particularly deep hole, and Emily heard the sickening splinter of wood. She had broken a wheel. The horses strained, trying to get the obstinate vehicle free from the cumbersome burden of mud, but Emily knew that to attempt to pull the buggy out would only mean more damage to the wheel.

  “Whoa-a,” she called, pulling hard on the reins.

  Emily looked dismally at the muddy road. Then she slipped off her shoes and stockings, hoisted her skirts as far as her dignity would allow, and climbed down over the muddy buggy wheel.

  She gasped at the depth of the hole and the cold ground as she sank down in mud past her ankles. She could hardly move one foot in front of the other. For several minutes she struggled with the tugs, but they were wet and sloppy, and her hands could not get a proper grip. In the meantime the horses shifted impatiently, lifting one foot after the other with a strange sucking sound. Working as quickly as she could, Emily finally freed the team and managed to get them off to the side of the road where she tied the horses to a tree.

  “If I had a husband,” Emily mumbled, “I would not need to do this.”

  She padded back to the buggy, retrieved her shoes and stockings, and went on to the Woodrow farm on foot.

  Mrs. Woodrow was not as sick as Emily had feared, and Emily was relieved to find her sitting before a warm fire, a cup of hot lemon juice before her and her Bible on her knees.

  “My lands, girl, you’ll catch your death!” the woman exclaimed when she saw Emily.

  Emily only smiled. She had stopped long enough to wash her dirty feet in a cold puddle and slip back into her stockings and shoes. Still, she shivered as she entered the room.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the woman prompted. “Pull your chair right up there to the fire. Here, drink this. It’ll warm you,” she encouraged as she shoved a cup of hot lemon drink toward Emily.

  After the visit, Emily again removed her shoes and stockings and went back to retrieve her team. She rode Shadow into town, and on to the Travis farm, leading Star behind her, her muddy, dripping skirts spread out over Shadow’s broad back.

  When the world finally stopped dripping, she had to send the blacksmith out for her buggy. She worried about the expense of the broken wheel, but he waved her money aside. “Seems I should be able to do some small thing for the church,” he said, and Emily thanked him sincerely.

  After a few days the sun came out in full strength, and the roads began to dry again. Emily had her buggy, solid and sound again, and her horses waiting for her at the Travis farm. Emily was ready to make up for lost time.

  She began the rounds of familiar places, greeting people she had come to know. Most of them were glad to welcome her to their kitchen, but not many promised to visit her church in return, though a few did say they’d stop by for a cup of tea.

  Emily was about to pass a vacant farmyard when she noticed a wagon in the yard. She took a closer look. Yes, two horses stood in the corral, and the fenced pasture beside the road held a few head of cattle.

  With a quickened pulse, Emily turned her horses down the lane. Here’s a new family, she thought joyfully. One on which I’ve never called before. Perhaps they’ll be new members for our little congregation.

  A man in the yard was working on a stretch of broken fence. He lifted his head and looked her way. He seemed young—perhaps newly married and starting out on his own for the first time.

  “Hello,” greeted Emily. “I was just passing and noticed that this farm is now occupied. Welcome to the community.”

  “Thank you,” he responded, and laid aside the hammer, touched his cap, and stepped closer to Emily’s buggy. He had the brownest eyes she had ever seen.

  Emily did not know what to say next. He solved the problem for her. “Are you the community welcoming committee?” he asked, teasing in his voice.

  “Well, no,” laughed Emily. “Actually, I am the—the worker at the little mission in town. I just stopped to give an invitation to our services. I’d love to meet your wife.”

  “I’d love to introduce you—only I don’t have a wife ... yet.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” muttered Emily, embarrassed.

  The man smiled. “No problem,” he assured her. He went on. “Then there is a church here. Ma was afraid there might not be. She’ll be pleased when she hears there is.”

  “Your mother attends church?” Emily inquired, thinking, He must still live with his folks.

  “Regularly! And she tries to make sure that all her offspring do too.”

  Emily felt her heart quicken. New members for our little church! She handed the reins to the young man and moved to descend from the buggy. “I’d love to meet your mother,” she said emphatically.

  He put out a hand to help her down and led her horses to the hitching rail.

  “That would be nice,” he responded, his eyes sparkling just a bit. “I expect her next Sunday afternoon.”

  Emily could feel the color rising in her cheeks. “She isn’t here?”

  “No, ma’am,” the young man answered with a shake of his head.

  “She isn’t moving in until Sunday?”

  “I expect her on Sunday—but only to call. She lives in Meldon. I’m on my own now.” He stopped long enough to lift the hat from his head, wipe a sleeve across his sweaty brow. “I’m just starting to farm my own place,” he said, gazing out across the acres.

  Emily looked at the tall, broad-shouldered young man with love-of-the-land clearly showing in his dark brown eyes. She hadn’t a doubt that he’d make out just fine.

  “Then I guess I should be on my way,” she stated.

  “I would be happy to bring some lemonade to the porch,” he offered.

  “That’s very kind,” replied Emily, “but I really think—”

  “It’s a warm day,” insisted the young man. “I’m about ready for a break. And Mother always taught us to take care of God’s servants.” He smiled.

  Emily returned the smile. “A glass of lemonade on the porch would be nice,” she conceded, and fell into step with the young man.

  Carl Morgan was in church every Sunday. He brought produce to her door. He volunteered to haul her wood, work on her skimpy garden, and build the fire in the church stove when needed.

  Emily enjoyed the attention. She enjoyed his taking some of the burdens that she had carried for so long. But she did not enjoy the strange little warning that kept flashing through her mind.

  Ruth’s dilemma was a constant reminder. Ruth had written that she had let the young man go his own way. “I could not see how I could be wife, mother and minister,” Ruth had written. “God has not yet released me from my call, and I know I could not turn my back on it.”

  But Emily argued that her situation might be different from Ruth’s. Surely she could live right here in the community and still serve the church and be the wife of an area farmer.

  Carl had not as yet asked her to be his wife. “He is considerate and manly and a sincere believer,” Emily told herself. She was sure all she had to do was to encourage him and he would ask for her hand.

  “This is ridiculous,” she finally said aloud one evening. “You don’t marry simply to have someone to harness the horses or haul the wood!”

  From that time on, Emily carefully guarded her words and actions when she was around Carl. She, like Ruth, could not give up her calling until God released her, and He had not done so as yet.

  When I marry—if I marry, Emily reminded herself, it must be to someone who shares
my commitment, not robs me of it. From then on Emily busied herself even more with the task of outreach and nurture of the community.

  But regardless of her new resolve, memories of another man, Shad Austin, began to return to her daytime thoughts and her nighttime dreams. He seemed so comfortable to be with—so right, thought Emily. If only ... if only ...

  Then Emily’s thoughts turned to Ross—Ross whose warm letters arrived each week. Now Emily felt more confused than ever.

  A knock at her door brought Emily’s attention from the Sunday sermon over which she was laboring. She was not expecting company. The women who shared neighborhood news with her over a cup of tea never came on Saturday, knowing it was the time she devoted to her Sunday preparations.

  But when Emily opened the door, there stood Ross!

  “Ross! What a surprise,” Emily managed, and he moved to enter without invitation.

  “I thought it was a nice day for a picnic,” he answered cheerfully.

  It was a glorious fall day. The leaves were delightful shades of reds and yellows. The sun hung lazily in the sky, and birds flitted here and there, calling their last farewells before departing for the south.

  “A picnic? It does sound like fun.”

  “Then grab your coat—or whatever you need, and let’s be off. I already have lunch in the car.”

  It was so tempting. “But I’m not ready for Sunday,” Emily moaned.

  “Sunday?”

  “My sermon,” Emily reminded him.

  “Your sermon? Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not. It takes me most of Saturday to properly prepare it.”

  “But just this once, couldn’t you cut short the time? Use an old one or something. No one would remember. Just change a few words.”

  Emily shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t be—” started Ross, but he stopped and changed his tone.

  “Oh, Emily,” he said, and moved closer to her, “I’ve traveled miles to see you. It is my only free day. I had a picnic lunch specially prepared. I was so looking forward to seeing you again.” His hands on her waist, he pulled her closer to him and pressed his lips against her hair. “Please,” he pleaded. “Please.”