by Janette Oke
And with the coming of spring, their yard would take a good deal of time and effort. Virginia would be able to help with the new neighbor’s, but would she be able to do it all? She wasn’t sure.
“I’ll help all I can. . . .” she found herself saying hesitantly.
“You have all been so kind,” said a thankful Damaris. “You don’t know how much that means to us. And we are so happy that Mama has found a good church. Good neighbors and a good church—those are things we all have been praying for.”
Belinda refreshed the teacups.
“We’ve decided that Gil will return home and I’ll stay on for a couple of weeks to see how things go. I do want to be back home for Christmas, though. I hope that I’ll be able to talk Mama into coming with me, at least for that long. I hate to think of her all alone for Christmas.”
“I know how you must feel,” responded Belinda. “If she . . . really doesn’t want to do that, we’d be glad to have her join us. I know that it isn’t the same as being with family, but at least she wouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s very kind.” Damaris stirred her tea for what seemed to be a long time to Virginia. When she looked up, her eyes were misty. “Mama has not had an easy life,” she began haltingly. “I . . . I don’t believe in running round—spilling my soul—or laying my burden on others. But I know you will respect Mama’s privacy, and it may help if you know something about her past.”
She hesitated again, then sighed deeply and went on. “She told you the other day that my papa had the wanderlust. Yes, he did. He was never too settled. But he also had a . . . a drinking problem even as a young man, I think. The . . . drinking . . . was a way to . . . I think to try to escape what he knew to be his responsibilities. But the worse things became—and they did get pretty bad—the more he needed to drink.”
She absentmindedly stirred her tea round and round.
“He became abusive. It grew worse with the years. As a child growing up I was often a target of that abuse, but so was Mama. Eventually I ran away from home and went west with a wagon train moving out that way. One of the last ones that made the journey, I suppose. Soon locomotives were taking the people to where they wanted to go.
“Anyway, it was then that I—through a dear friend—found a personal faith.” She smiled. “I also found Gil—and a ready-made family.”
Belinda answered with an understanding smile.
“But I always worried about Mama. I felt really guilty for leaving her behind.”
“I can understand,” said Belinda, her eyes shadowed as she thought about the woman’s story.
“I longed to write to Mama—to let her know where I was and plead with her to join me. But I feared that a letter from me would just increase my father’s rage. And I admit, I still had no love for my father. Nor any sympathy. I was very angry inside for what he had done to us over the years.
“It wasn’t until I became a believer—no, it was even after that. For some while I still struggled. I finally learned that I had to let go of my bitterness and forgive my father. It wasn’t easy, but God helped me. I was able to write a letter to them both, telling them—honestly—that I loved them.
“Mother said that Papa said nothing when he read the letter—just laid it aside. But he didn’t head for town and another bottle as I had feared he might. Oh, he didn’t stop drinking. And he didn’t stop being abusive, either—at least not at first. But he softened somewhat, and he wasn’t quite as heavy-handed.
“Several months after the letter arrived, he had a stroke. The doctor said he should have died, but he didn’t. He was left paralysed on one side. Mama had the heavy burden of nursing him. Day after day she cared for him. I longed to go back, but I was expecting my second child at the time.” She sighed and stared out the window before continuing.
“At first he was terribly difficult for Mama to handle as he went through an alcoholic’s withdrawal, but when they had finally weathered that storm he settled down. She read to him by the hours. Books. Any books she could find. When she ran out of storybooks she started reading from the Bible. He didn’t object as she had expected. Soon they were both engrossed. They spent whole weeks going through the Old Testament. Then the New.
“One day when she was reading he made motions to her. She couldn’t understand them. She brought him a piece of paper, and with an unsteady hand he wrote, ‘Let’s do it.’ She still didn’t understand. She looked back at the page that she had just read to him. It was the story of Nicodemus coming to Jesus.
“ ‘You mean . . . be born again?’ she asked Papa. He nodded. And so they did. Both of them—together—with Mama saying the prayer and Papa nodding his agreement. The baby and I arrived home just in time for me to say good-bye. He died the next day. I’ve always been so thankful that God allowed me the chance to tell him I loved him.”
She stopped and lifted her hankie to dab at overflowing eyes.
“I think that one special week was the most wonderful time of all their years together.
“Of course, we had been praying—every day—but we had no idea God would need to lay Papa flat on his back to keep him from the liquor so that he would have a clear head to understand the Scriptures.
“Gil came for the funeral. I tried to talk Mama into leaving the farm and coming to live with us, but she wouldn’t. Didn’t want to leave the farm—leave Papa. I think that her joy—and her sorrow—were still much too fresh. She stayed on, letting a neighbor farm the land and pay her a stipend from the crop.
“Now she has finally agreed to sell the land to the neighbor. It’s a big step, and I know it will not be easy for her. I still wish she had decided to come with us, but she said, ‘No, not so far away. I am still close enough to make the trip back now and then. And close enough to be buried beside him.’ Rather strange, isn’t it? I think that she has quite forgotten all of the . . . the bad times and remembers only that one beautiful week they had together.”
She stopped again to wipe away tears from her cheek. Virginia realized that she had a few tears of her own. She determined anew that she would do all she could to make things as easy as possible for their new neighbor.
———
“Jenny’s married.”
Mr. Woods had made a special trip to the post office to tell Virginia the news.
“The young therapist?” she asked. Jenny had not written her even about this.
He nodded.
“I didn’t know,” she stated quietly.
“It was a very private wedding from what I hear,” Mr. Woods said. “I didn’t know, either.” Then added, “She’s walking again, you know. In fact, she is making real good progress physically.”
Virginia wondered what he meant.
He explained, “Spiritually, she seems to be getting further and further away from God.”
Virginia tried to imagine how she could get much further away from Him.
“Grandma Davis says that sometimes the darkest part of morning is just before dawn,” Virginia said softly. “God loves Jenny, and I’m not giving up on her.”
He nodded. “I hope the dawn comes soon.” He looked so weary. So old. “They are back to the fast life. Running with a fast crowd. Partying. Drinking a lot. That sort of thing.”
Virginia did not know how to respond. What could she say?
———
“Aunt Gina, do you know why bees buzz?” young Anthony asked, his face screwed up in all seriousness.
Virginia shook her head, wondering where this conversation was heading.
“They have a little auto motor—right down here in their tummy.”
Virginia frowned, then smiled. “Who told you that?”
“I fig’red it all out.” He looked quite proud.
“Well, I’m not sure you figured it out correctly.”
Now it was his turn to frown.
“The buzz is the sound their wings make as they move.”
“Uh uh,” he argued, shaking his head and causing a soft brow
n lock of hair to fall over his forehead. “I don’t think so. Wings couldn’t do that.”
“Have you watched them? Did you see how quickly they move?”
“I can’t see their wings when they’re moving them fast. And when they sit, their wings don’t move.”
Virginia smiled. It was true. “Well, if you watch closely, you’ll see a little blur.”
He still looked doubtful. “They are sleeping now. In their hibe. Papa said so.”
“Your papa’s right. They are in their hibe—hive,” she said with a warm hug.
“Like dead,” he said, wriggling free of her embrace.
“Sort of like dead, I guess. But they are very much alive, and as soon as spring and the warm weather comes they’ll be out again.”
“Then I’ll look,” he informed Virginia, “but I don’t think you’ll be right.”
“So how do you plan to see if you are right—if they have a little auto motor?”
He frowned as he thought about it. At last his face brightened. “Cut one open and let it pop out.”
“That wouldn’t be very nice for the poor bee.”
He looked very intent. “Maybe I should just ask Uncle Danny. He knows all about bees and things.”
“That’s a better idea. Ask Uncle Danny.”
A muffled sound came from the nearby bedroom. Anthony’s head came up and his eyes shone. “Jeffy’s awake. We better go get him.”
Virginia was only too happy to comply.
———
Jamison and Rachel were married on the eve of December twenty-fourth in her home church with her father performing the ceremony. Virginia was invited and would have attended, but the distance made that trip unwise. Besides, she had promised that she would keep an eye on Damaris Lewis’ mother. They had given up trying to persuade Mrs. Withers to travel out to the ranch in the West for Christmas. She would be spending the day with the Simpsons.
So Virginia sent her best wishes and a gift that she had selected and packaged with great care. She did genuinely hope they would be happy together. At last she had come to the place where she no longer nursed any feelings of regret and could agree with her grandmother, “God knows best. We can trust Him with our lives as well as our eternal souls. He does not take something from us without filling that spot with something just as good—and because it’s from Him, even much better.”
Virginia supposed that the peace she was enjoying was the “something better” in her own life. At first she found this difficult to believe, but when she stopped to think about it, she was happy. Settled and content. Should spinsterhood be in store, and she fully expected that it was, she would have no regrets. Her life with God, family, and friends was full and complete, leaving no room for sorrow or bitterness or might-have-beens.
———
Virginia thoroughly enjoyed her visits with Mrs. Withers. It was no hardship at all to fill her evening hours calling on the woman, sharing cups of tea or hot cocoa as they sat and chatted by the living room fireplace or at the kitchen table warmed by the big iron range. Virginia took treats of baking and small casseroles to be used for the next day’s dinner and shared community news and stories of Mr. Adamson and his beautiful flowers.
“I can hardly wait for spring to come,” the woman told her many times. “It will be so wonderful to watch them all bloom.”
Virginia smiled. She was anticipating spring, as well. The only task she had found at all difficult was keeping Mrs. Withers’ walkway clear of snow.
Mrs. Withers, over their evenings together, gradually shared more details of her life—of their difficult struggles on the farm and the heartbreaking work of her husband. She always ended with a shine in her eyes, repeating the story of the last week of their lives together and how he held her hand in his own weak, trembling one, and tried to thank her, without words, for her love and care.
Virginia never failed to have a lump in her throat. Never once did the woman refer to the difficult years of his drinking.
———
Virginia hurried up the walkway toward Mrs. Withers’ house. She always delivered her mail in person whenever a letter came. It was awfully cold for February—more like a January day. Virginia’s fingers were numb from the cold as she hurried around to the back door, anxious to be home herself and out of the wind.
“It’s just me,” she called as she knocked, opened the door, and thrust her head in. The warmth of the wood-burning stove and the smell of the evening meal cooking were most inviting, and Virginia was tempted to shut the door behind her and stay if her own family had not been expecting her. “I have your mail. I’ll put it on the table.”
From the adjoining room a quivery voice answered, “Thank you, dear.”
“I’ll see you after supper,” Virginia called as she closed the door firmly behind her to shut out the cold.
She’ll be excited when she sees a letter from her daughter, Virginia thought as she hustled off home.
Damaris wrote regularly, and Mrs. Withers was always thrilled to see those precious envelopes. Her old eyes would sparkle and her mouth work slightly as her shaky hands worked at opening it without any damage. Each letter was carefully added to the little stack in the metal box that she kept on a bedroom shelf.
Supper seemed to take longer than usual as Francine chattered on about all the events of her school day. Francine liked to share the details of her life, large and small. Often they seemed childish to Virginia, but she tried to listen with a measure of patience. She supposed they weren’t much different from the small happenings that had seemed so monumental in her own life such a short time ago.
“And Andy said, ‘Really, Josie, you’ve only yourself to blame. You knew when the assignment was due. Why should you think that you are above everyone else?’ And Josie, you know what a temper she has. She threw the book right at him. Andy ducked, and the book just about hit Mr. Randolph, who was going by in the hall. We almost had to stay after school—the whole lot of us—while he tried to sort out what had happened.”
And on and on it went. Virginia chafed at the delay. She was anxious to wash up the dishes and get over to Mrs. Withers’ before the woman retired. She went to bed very early.
“So how do you see it?” asked Drew. Virginia couldn’t help but smile as she saw their lawyer father “prepare the case” for her unsuspecting sister.
“What do you mean?” from an innocent Francine.
“Who was at fault here?”
“Well, Andy was just sticking up for me. It wasn’t his fault.”
“And you?”
“It wasn’t my fault that Josie’s assignment was late.”
“But you only have one book to share for research.”
“Yes, but I did get it first.”
“Could you have gotten it back sooner?”
Francine hesitated.
“You knew other members of the class needed it?”
Francine tipped her head.
“Did you know they would be penalized for a late assignment?”
Francine’s reluctance to nod was very evident.
“It seems that it would have been considerate to finish with the book as quickly as possible to prevent that,” her father continued.
“Josie did spend the entire weekend . . .”
Can’t we just go? Virginia was getting fidgety. Let Mr. Randolph sort out this . . . this teenage dilemma.
At last they were excused, and Virginia hurried with the dishes.
“I’m going over to see Mrs. Withers,” she called to those reading the evening paper in the parlor.
A rustling of paper and a “Fine. Wrap up. It’s cold,” followed her.
Mrs. Withers met her at the door. Virginia had the feeling the woman had been watching for her to come up the walk. In her hand she waved her latest letter like a flag of triumph. Her eyes were shining, and her unsteady feet looked about to break into a dance.
“He’s coming,” she said, excitement making her voice more waver
y than usual. “Damaris says so, right here. Next Thursday. Coming right here. And he’s staying—just as long as I need him.”
Virginia stopped, her hand still on the doorknob. What was making the woman so excited?
“He’s coming,” the lady repeated again.
“Who?” asked Virginia.
“Jonathan. My grandson. He’s coming from the West to stay with me.”
The elderly woman lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve never told this to a single soul,” she whispered. “One isn’t to have special pets, you know, but out of the whole bunch of them, he’s always been my favorite.”
Virginia smiled and gave the small figure a hug. If she was so happy about this visit, Virginia would be, too.
CHAPTER 20
Mrs. Withers is just thrilled,” Virginia informed her folks when she came in the door. “Her grandson is coming to stay with her,” she added as she shrugged out of her coat.
“Her grandson?”
Virginia nodded.
“Which one?”
Virginia chuckled softly and shook her head knowingly. “Her favorite one. Though don’t you tell a soul. Grandmothers aren’t supposed to have favorites.”
Belinda smiled.
“There is only one who isn’t married,” her father remembered. “Must be him.”
“Oh yes. Damaris told us. He has been ranching with his father. What was his name again?” This from her mother.
“Jonathan,” filled in Virginia. “Mrs. Withers called him Jonathan.”
“Jonathan. That’s it. So he’s coming? That will be so nice for her. Will he be here by spring?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Next Thursday? My, he made up his mind in a hurry.”
“Or his mother made it up for him,” put in Drew.
“Oh, I hope he doesn’t feel . . . feel that he has to do this. I mean, it’s not easy looking after the elderly and especially if . . .” Belinda did not finish her statement.
