Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  “That’s right, preacher!” Floyd nodded with such force his glasses slipped from his nose.

  “May I speak?” Dr. Marc stood up and folded his hands. “Speaking for myself, I know that in a case of unforeseen illness I would care for the patient without any regard for compensation.”

  Cleta wagged her finger at him. “You do that anyway, Dr. Marc, and we’re beholden, but what about medicine and special treatment? You can’t cover it all. Medical expenses these days can run into the millions.”

  “Then we couldn’t help, regardless,” Dr. Marc gently pointed out. “My point is that I’d do what I could. We should all do what we can.”

  As Abner rose to his feet, heads rotated to watch him. Pastor Wickam inclined his head toward the baker. “You have something to add, Abner?”

  “Thank you, Pastor.” Abner’s gaze moved over the congregation. “Brothers and sisters, I urge you to think. When has God ever failed to meet even one of our urgent needs?”

  Silence fell over the room. Pointed looks were exchanged, then eyes lowered.

  “Really,” Abner pressed. “Who among us has been deserted by God when we most needed him?”

  Silence reigned in the sanctuary. No one offered a rebuke.

  Closing his eyes, Abner softly recited: “Doesn’t life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don’t need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are more valuable to him than they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not… . Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are.” He opened his eyes, focusing on Floyd. “And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won’t he more surely care for you?”

  Clearing his throat, Floyd dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s not the same,” he mumbled.

  “Ah, but it is. We must trust God to care for our needs. Anything less is a lack of faith, and those who come to God must believe, for without faith it is impossible to please him.”

  As Abner sat down, Birdie saw Yakov lean close. “Thank you, brother,” he said, his whisper reaching her ear. “That was a most appropriate response.”

  Grinning shyly, Abner dropped his head. “Wish I had thought of it first.”

  Pastor Wickam cleared his throat in the microphone, redirecting the congregation’s attention to the front. “Many of you know that I like to take long walks along the shore,” he said, a smile ruffling his mouth. “Yesterday morning, while I gazed out at the sea, God spoke to me. Oh, he didn’t adopt a booming voice and literally say, ‘Winslow, I want you to take this message to my people.’ But I felt his presence. I heard his voice in the soft wind, and I heard him speak to my heart. He said, ‘Everything I permit has a purpose.’”

  Winslow looked out at his people, the light of conviction in his eyes. “And then it came to me—perhaps our loving, personal God has singled out Heavenly Daze to give help and hope to a dark world.”

  He paused, letting the silence stretch. “I know about the e-mail chain letter going around,” he said. “At first I was like most of you, annoyed to think that such a silly thing would inconvenience us, then I applied the Lord’s word to my heart and remembered what he told me: Everything he permits has a purpose. And then I asked myself, ‘What if God has decided to allow us to serve him in a way most Christians only dream about?’ How often do we say, ‘Oh Lord, here I am, use me,’ but we never expect him to actually take us up on our offer? Oh, we might volunteer to usher, serve communion, or teach Sunday school, and those are all valuable services to God. But what if he wants more from us who live in Heavenly Daze?”

  Annie Cuvier raised her hand. “What do you mean, more? Are you suggesting God has singled out Heavenly Daze to deal with all the world’s problems? With all due respect, Pastor, that’s impossible.”

  Winslow gave her a patient nod. “I was thinking that perhaps God has singled us out to care.”

  “Care?” Vernie echoed.

  “To be a voice of encouragement where there is none, to offer hope to those who have reached the end of their rope.”

  That sobering thought lingered with Birdie long after Winslow finished his sermon and the worshipers filed past Olympia and Annie to offer hugs and heartfelt condolences.

  And as she walked home with Bea, she asked herself if it could be true: Had God actually anointed Heavenly Daze to be a beacon of hope? The idea seemed ludicrous; that sort of thing didn’t happen in today’s world.

  Or did it?

  As Birdie took the golden brown turkey out of the oven, she considered the challenge the pastor had given them. God worked in mysterious ways, so could the angel letters be part of his plan for the town?

  One thing was certain—Pastor Wickam’s challenge to care had been immediately answered.

  Bea raised her voice above the whirl of the mixer. “I caught everyone, I think. They’ll all be at Olympia’s house by one o’clock.

  “Good,” Birdie said absently. “Good for all of us to pitch in and care.”

  Today, at least, Heavenly Daze would live up to its reputation.

  The house was quiet, so deathly quiet.

  Sitting in the warm kitchen nook, Olympia was staring out at the sea when the chime of the doorbell shattered the stillness.

  As the doorbell pealed again, Caleb shuffled from the stove to answer it. Glancing toward her, he softly mused, “Wonder who that could be?”

  Olympia shook her head. Everyone from church had gone home to gather with family.

  Cruel death was no respecter of holidays.

  The smell of baking ham drifted from the oven, but Olympia had no appetite. Caleb was trying to maintain the de Cuvier holiday tradition, but today seemed surreal. She thought of Edmund lying in the funeral home—no, Edmund was with God, but his body lay in the cold funeral home. And his mother, Edie—though the old woman had been informed of her son’s death, Olympia knew she needed to go personally to the nursing home. She’d go tomorrow. She couldn’t possibly summon the strength for such a somber trip today.

  She heard the creak of the front door, then the sound of voices. Floyd Lansdown’s bass growl rose above Mike Klackenbush’s husky baritone. And was that Vernie Bidderman’s gravelly alto?

  Rising from her seat, Olympia ventured into the hallway. A virtual mob filled her foyer and front porch, and everyone carried a dish. Her eyes skipped from bowl to platter, spying cranberries, pumpkin pies, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

  Birdie was struggling under the weight of the biggest turkey Olympia had ever seen!

  Babette Graham smiled, holding up a bowl of pistachio salad, Olympia’s personal favorite. That little scamp Georgie carried a plastic-wrapped blueberry gingerbread loaf in one hand and a rolled-up parchment in the other.

  Speechless, the matriarch of Frenchmen’s Fairest stared at her neighbors. They should have been home celebrating around their own hearths, but here they were. Edith stepped up to embrace her. Holding her close, she whispered, “Your family has come to share Thanksgiving with you, Olympia.”

  Overwhelmed, she could only point toward the dining room, where an empty table waited to receive a feast. She stared in stupefaction as Barbara and Russell, Birdie and Bea, Edith and Winslow, Cleta and Floyd, Babette, Georgie, and Charles, Dr. Marc, Vernie, and all the Smiths—Yakov, Micah, Abner, Zuriel, Elezar—trooped into the room. Buddy Franklin brought up the rear, red-faced and bearing a large basket of yeast rolls. For once, Olympia noted, he was wearing shoes instead of boots.

  Water welled in her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Annie came up beside her, her young eyes bright with unshed tears.

  Turning to Olympia, Annie smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful, Aunt Olympia? I never expected this.” She reached out to catch Babette Graham’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

  Standing quite still, Olympia heard her pride brea
k. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a toothpick. But the brokenness healed immediately as love washed over her like a tide of rich, warm honey.

  “See?” Caleb whispered at her ear. “Miracles do happen.”

  Swiping self-consciously at her wet cheeks, Olympia eased Caleb aside to throw open the door of Frenchmen’s Fairest to the late arrivals: Captain Stroble, Butch, and Tallulah, all three of whom stood panting on the porch.

  “Come on in,” she whispered, smiling. “Anyone and everyone is welcome in our home.”

  As Babette moved down the groaning dining room table, Charles stepped into the space at her side and slipped an arm about her waist. “Congratulations, Madame Graham,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “I don’t know how you convinced him to paint again, but I just saw Georgie give Olympia a puffin painting.”

  Babette gaped at him. “Really? But I thought he would never—”

  “Apparently he changed his mind.” Charles picked up a plate and fork, then scooped up a slice of Babette’s blueberry gingerbread. “I think it’s his way of comforting the lady.”

  Babette thought for a moment, then moved down the line. Amazing that Georgie had begun to paint again. And more amazing that what her son wouldn’t do for money, he would do for a friend.

  A huge meal usually calls for a huge nap. As Birdie and Bea gathered the coats and empty dishes, she heard the men talking about football games and afternoon hibernation.

  She wouldn’t mind a little snooze herself.

  It was late afternoon before she, Bea, and Abner met in the bakery with several of the latest sacks of mail. Each of them sat at a separate table, deciding to read and sort the letters before answering them. Some petitions required prayer, others action. If nothing else, the trio decided, they could pray over the requests, even those without return addresses. At least they’d be able to know they’d done something to ease the problem represented in each letter.

  Shortly after six, Captain Stroble popped into the bakery to see how their work was progressing. Because of the holiday, he’d received no more mail, but he made a point of shuddering when he mentioned what he feared the next day would bring.

  By seven, there were papers piled on the counter, behind the register, and on every table. The industrial-sized mixing bowl held the urgent requests, most involving money or a miracle, neither of which Birdie, Bea, or Abner could provide. Cures for cancer and pleas for mortgage money were automatically dropped in the mixer.

  The bread pans in the empty display case held the more trivial requests—for new bicycles and video games, new dresses for mommy, new golf clubs for daddy.

  Birdie thought some of the letters would be funny if not for the obvious sincerity of the author:

  Dear Angel,

  My daddy got all his hair burned off lighting the bar-b-q. Can you make my daddy’s hair grow back ’cause Mommy says he looks like a crazed cue ball.

  Others were heartrending:

  Dear Angel,

  Can you please tell God we need money? Grandma is very sick and Momma says she needs to go somewhere where somebody can take good care of her. Momma wants to take care of her, but she has to work since Daddy died and we don’t have anyone to take care of us anymore. Grandma needs to be at a nurse’s home, but we don’t have enough money to put her there so she stays alone here in the house all day while I go to school and Momma works at a macaroni and cheese factory. Grandma cries a lot and says she’s nothing but a bird den, then Momma starts crying and says no, no, that’s not true.

  I don’t understand because Grandma don’t attract birds, not that I can see, but she thinks she’s a lot of trouble for Momma. Grandma Yance smells funny sometimes, but I love her and she isn’t too much trouble. So please, Angel, talk to God about Grandma. She doesn’t want to be a bird den, she just don’t want to bother anybody.

  Birdie’s back ached and her shoulders burned with strain as the minute hand slowly swept the clock. More than once she had to stop reading to wipe away unexpected tears.

  The clock had just struck the half-hour when Birdie heard a rap on the front door. She looked up to see a mob at the front door.

  “My lands, they’ve come to string us up,” she warned, glancing at Bea. “They’ve forgotten every word Pastor said this morning.”

  “Hush, Birdie.” Bea went to unlock the door. “Give ’em a chance.”

  In a moment, the Lansdowns, the Higgs, the Wickams, the Klackenbushes, the Grahams and Georgie, Buddy Franklin, Vernie Bidderman, and even Annie and Olympia de Cuvier had filled the room, their faces whipped red by the wind and holiday atmosphere.

  Lowering the letter in her hand, Birdie stared at them in astonishment. “The bakery’s closed,” she called above the excited chatter. “If you’re looking for dessert, well, we don’t have any tonight.”

  “We’re not here to buy anything.” Cleta straddled a pile of mail bags, crossing her beefy arms.

  Stiffening, Birdie braced for criticism. This had to be a lynch mob.

  They had all come to tell her, “I told you so.” They’d looked in the window and seen this blizzard of mail, and now they wanted to assure her that she’d ruined the island’s reputation forever.

  Well, maybe they were right.

  She opened her mouth, about to speak, but just then Abner and the Smith fellas came in through the bakery kitchen.

  Caleb, Micah, Yakov, Zuriel, Elezar, and Abner stood behind the counter, their arms crossed, their presence almost overpowering.

  Birdie’s heart sank. Had they come to fuss at her, too?

  As the front door opened again, Dr. Marc squeezed in, accompanied by a gust of chilly air.

  The room quieted as Birdie’s gaze moved from family to family. What could she say? Heavenly Daze might never again be the peaceful island they’d grown to love, and all because Bea and Birdie had taken it upon themselves to answer a few little letters.

  Cleta jabbed Floyd.

  Clearing his throat, he met Birdie’s questioning eyes. “We’ve come to help.”

  Birdie’s jaw dropped. Had she heard right?

  Nodding, Cleta spoke up. “Tell us what we need to do, and we’ll do it.”

  “But”—Birdie glanced at the piles of mail—“there’s so much, and it’s likely to keep coming no matter what we do.”

  “Ayuh.” Floyd nodded. “We know.”

  Pastor Wickam threaded his way to the counter. “We’re here to help, Birdie. We were wrong to question an unselfish act. We ask your forgiveness and hope you’ll grant it.” He gave her a heartfelt smile. “Now, where would you like us to start?”

  A rise of sudden emotion blocked Birdie’s sore throat. They weren’t here to fuss; they were here to help. Amazing.

  Annie shouldered her way through the crowd. Stooping to give Birdie a hug, in a loud voice she said, “I think what you did was wonderful.”

  “No use wasting time.” Dr. Marc hefted a sack of mail to his shoulder. “Dana, you and Mike, Buddy, Babette, Charles, and Georgie can help me. Caleb, Micah, Yakov, Elezar, and Zuriel can work with Abner. The rest of you pair off and keep those sacks moving!”

  The bakery erupted in a beehive of activity as everyone assumed battle stations. Bea explained the way Birdie had organized the requests, and Abner passed out empty bread trays to hold more letters. With lightning efficiency, envelopes were opened, read, and passed down the line.

  Birdie and Bea ferried the requests to the proper staging area where Cleta and Vernie marked urgent on the most pressing and set them aside for Pastor Wickam to consider. With pen and paper in hand, Edith and Olympia sat at a table and wrote three heartfelt sentences across the bottom of the more simple requests: “Your letter was received. We prayed for you. God loves you.” On a few others, they added: “Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you.”

  Dana Klackenbush pulled out of the assembly line long enough to tell Birdie: “We can use the Kid Kare Center for overflow. The bakery can’t hold
all this mail, and Georgie will be my only student until spring. I can use the classroom for an operations center.”

  “God bless you.” Overcome with gratitude, Birdie hugged Dana, nearly forcing her to drop an armload of envelopes.

  The young woman grinned. “Oh, he has, Birdie. He has.”

  The town worked late into the night, sorting letters, answering each missive with the simple message. Neither Birdie nor the residents of Heavenly Daze knew how long they could keep up the pace, but for as long as God had a purpose, she reckoned they could come up with a plan.

  With a little luck and an e-mail blitz to point out that Heavenly Daze was only a simple town inhabited by simple people, perhaps the angel mail would slow and the island would gradually settle back into a normal routine.

  As Birdie served coffee and day-old doughnuts to her friends and neighbors, her heart overflowed with gratitude and love. This Thanksgiving in Heavenly Daze had been one to remember. Only one thing could have made it more perfect: Salt Gribbon’s attendance at church, the dinner, and this impromptu gathering.

  Outside the bakery, snow had begun to drift down, white bits of light shining in the golden glow from the windows. Pressing her nose against the frosted glass, Birdie thought of Salt and wondered if he were watching the snowfall. Poor, lonely man …

  She swallowed the despair that rose in her throat. The old skipper had come a long way in the past month, and who could say what the future held for him? After all, wasn’t December the month for miracles?

  Smiling at the thought of taking him a chocolate Christmas yule log, she turned and lifted the coffeepot. “Who’s ready for a fresh cup?”

  Epilogue

  As the clock strikes midnight and concludes another Thanksgiving holiday, my own spirit is warmed by the grateful hearts in Heavenly Daze. Though there is one less human on the island tonight, every heart is blessed to know that Edmund de Cuvier is at home in heaven.

  And every man, woman, and child who wrote to Heavenly Daze, for whatever reason, will realize God has provided a place of help and hope, of prayer and genuine caring. Such a message cannot be valued in terms of money, for honest compassion, in this age, is priceless.