“I don’t know, except that she wanted you to know about your birth and name.”
“But couldn’t she have told me?”
“I suppose, but that gets back to the question of timin’. I suspect you’re more able to appreciate this information now than when you were a teenager.”
“I guess so. Still, I don’t…” Renny folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
Mama A continued, “You’ll need to read the story of King Josiah yourself, but he was a boy king who rediscovered the Book of the Law and brought the nation of Israel back to the Lord. He also fulfilled a prophecy by destroyin’ a pagan altar at a place called Bethel.”
“Well, things get more complicated every time you hope they are going to get simpler,” Renny said.
Mama A nodded. “But if we walk with the Lord, most things get worked out in the end.”
“I hope so.”
Mama A picked up her plate. “Do you want another piece of cake?”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll wrap up a piece for you to have later.”
While Mama A was in the kitchen, Renny picked up the other envelope and started to break the seal, but stopped, deciding to wait until he was alone.
Mama A handed him the cake.
“I’ll read the papers from my grandfather later. Thanks for … for everything,” Renny didn’t know where to start thanking her. “I need to get on the road to Charlotte. I’ll call you soon.”
“You call or come anytime, day or night.”
Renny picked up the Bible and the two envelopes.
“Bye, Mama A.”
“The Lord bless you. Thanks for comin’ by.”
Agnes chuckled to herself as the screen door slammed behind Renny. She watched through the front window as he backed his car into the street and drove away. The chuckle blossomed into a laugh as she threw back her head and let the joy flow through her. It was the joy of the Spirit bubbling up from within, a joy known only by those who have the opportunity to participate with heaven in the unfolding of the divine plan for a precious life. No, God wasn’t up there anxiously wringing his hands, hoping everything was going to be all right. He was a confident Father who enjoyed watching the adventure of life. “Yes,” she said aloud, “he knows the end from the beginning, the Alpha from the Omega.”
Agnes wasn’t surprised by Renny’s visit. She had seen him in the night; whether in a dream or vision, it didn’t really matter to her. He appeared to her, walking into a woodland clearing in the moonless darkness before sunrise. But he was not alone. Clarence was with him. The two men stopped, talked a moment, and Clarence pointed toward a path on the other side of the opening. Renny hesitated. There were other paths out of the clearing, and the young man was not sure which one he wanted to take. She left him there, not knowing his choice. Half-awake, she looked at her clock. It was 3:21 A.M., but to her blurred vision it looked like 30:21. Shaking herself fully awake, a familiar verse dropped into her consciousness, “This is the way, walk ye in it.” Flicking on the table lamp she found it. It was Isaiah 30:21. Then she knew; Renny was searching for direction and needed to hear from God.
Whenever Clarence appeared to her, Agnes knew the call to prayer was serious. Shortly after Clarence died, a five-year-old girl from the neighborhood was abducted from a local playground. Agnes learned about the kidnapping through a phone call from a lady in her church. Filled with concern, Mama A went to her back porch to rock and seek the Lord’s mercy for the child. Her head bowed as she prayed, she heard a noise and looked up. It was Clarence standing on the back step. He looked steadily into her eyes and said, “Pray Matthew 16:19, Agnes,” and was gone. Grabbing her Bible, she read, “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”
Holding up her Bible, she shouted, “Thank you, Lord!” Then she prayed aloud, binding the evil and releasing the good. On the evening news that night, a TV reporter described how the little girl escaped when the kidnapper’s car stalled at a traffic light in front of a convenience store. The child hopped out of the car and ran into the store. Driving away at a high speed, her abductor hit a telephone pole and was captured.
Mama A kept the back porch encounter to herself, and, after studying the Scriptures, decided she probably saw an angel appearing in a form familiar and friendly to her. On two subsequent occasions, one involving a friend with throat cancer and another involving a marriage with potential for serious domestic violence, Clarence appeared in dreams and gave her instructions for intercessory prayer on behalf of others. She prayed: the woman was healed, the marriage restored.
Mama A knew the battle for Renny had been long—it took time to bring forth a statue from a block of marble. Thinking back, she calculated the years since Renny’s birth. His grandfather had a vision. Katharine had a hope. Now it was Mama A’s turn to help bring the promise to fulfillment. Picking up her Bible, she decided to go out on the back porch and rock awhile.
12
“Some have entertained angels unawares.”
HEBREWS 13:2, KJV
If Renny retraced his route through Moncks Corner, he could still be back in Charlotte by supper. A quiet spot in Moncks Corner would be an appropriate place to open the envelope containing his grandfather’s papers. It seemed right to read the words in the town where they were written.
Little was stirring in downtown Moncks Corner on a hot Sunday afternoon. Renny drove through the town square and turned onto a side street that passed in front of his grandfather’s former home. Two stories tall with a broad wraparound porch and a trio of enormous oak trees shading the front yard, the white frame house peacefully surveyed the street. There were no cars in the driveway, and Renny parked in the shade alongside the curb.
Breaking the seal on the envelope, he slid out several sheets of crinkled onionskin paper covered with neat blue handwriting.
There were three poems, a sheet with Bible verses on it, a genealogy of the Candler family, and a page entitled “The Promise—Josiah,” dated January in the year of his birth:
I have been praying for ten years that Katharine would be able to conceive and deliver a child. There has been tremendous resistance. She called this morning with the news that she is once again pregnant. After spending some time waiting on the Lord, I was impressed to turn to 1 Kings 13—the promise of Josiah. I believe she will have a successful pregnancy and deliver a boy with a Josiah call on his life. I claim this promise in advance for this tiny life today. Lord, bless my grandson. It will be so. Amen!
Tears welled in Renny’s eyes, forcing their way through blinking eyelids. A soft, tender spot deep inside, a place he didn’t know existed, was touched by the thought of a man rejoicing over his life, calling him “my grandson,” and blessing his future before Renny drew his first breath. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked up at the house and felt a link with his grandfather in the stillness of the quiet afternoon; a connection with the past that in some way held importance for the days and years to come.
Carefully placing the papers back in the envelope, he started the car and drove slowly down the street. At the corner, he saw a small sign pointing the way toward the Methodist church where the Candler family worshiped and the cemetery where several of his relatives, including his grandfather, were buried.
Located one block from the town square, Moncks Corner Free Methodist Church was established in 1756. The original sanctuary, made from red-clay bricks molded by slaves on nearby plantations, had a slender spirelike steeple and steeply pitched slate roof. Narrow stained-glass windows with pointed tops lined each side of the building like sentinels. Today, a large, modern sanctuary obscured from view the older structure, which was used primarily for weddings and more intimate church functions.
It was midafternoon, so the Sunday-morning crowd had gone home to dinner and a nap. The main church parking lot was
empty as Renny pulled up to the entrance of the older building. It’s probably locked, but worth a try, he thought.
To his surprise, the dark wooden door opened smoothly when he pulled the brass handle. The interior of the church was cool and dark, and he paused to let his eyes adjust. It had the smell of old wood, well oiled and polished. The stained-glass windows, six on each side, were magnificent, each depicting one of the twelve apostles with his name across the bottom. St. Paul took the place of the fallen Judas Iscariot. Renny walked slowly down the center aisle, admiring the wide variety of light and color that only expertly crafted stained glass could produce. Remembering how dull the windows looked from the outside, Renny marveled at the beauty and detailed artistry revealed within the sanctuary. Hearing a creaking board, he turned and saw an old man with a cane come in from a side door to the left of the first pew.
“Hello, sir,” Renny said, hoping the elderly gentleman wouldn’t be startled by his presence.
The man squinted through rimless glasses and smiled. “Good afternoon. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“I was admiring the windows.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? They were made in Charleston and patterned after larger versions in a cathedral in France. Pretty fancy for small-town Methodists.”
“They’re magnificent.” Renny covered the distance between them in a few strides and extended his hand. “I’m Renny Jacobson.”
“Michael Harriston,” he responded with a firm handshake.
“Are you the church historian?”
“Some might say so. I’ve been in this church for many years, and you pick up a lot by osmosis if you stay around a place long enough.”
“Then you would probably remember my mother and her father, Katharine and Nathaniel Candler.”
“Sure do. Is your mother still in Charleston?”
“No, she died several years ago. I’m on my way back to Charlotte and decided to visit my grandfather’s grave.”
“Have you been to the graveyard?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you know where he’s buried?”
“Not really. He died when I was a little boy, and I haven’t been here in years. All I know is that he attended this church and his grave is in the cemetery.”
“Come with me. I can take you right to it.”
Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Harriston walked across the front of the sanctuary. A narrow door opened into a small hallway which led to a tiny study containing a single wooden chair and a small writing table.
He stopped. “In the old days, this was where the ministers always prayed before going in to begin the service. It was a way to remind them of their continuous need to rely on God.”
Renny peered into the plainly furnished little room before following the old man again.
“What can you tell me about my grandfather?” he asked as they stepped into the blinding sunlight.
Mr. Harriston put on a white cloth garden hat as they walked toward the cemetery. “He was a generous man. Easy to meet and friendly. Much like you, I would suppose.”
No one had ever compared Renny to his grandfather.
Mr. Harriston continued, “It’s obvious you have some of his physical gestures; the way you walk and move reminds me of him.”
The cemetery was open without a surrounding fence or definite boundary line. Within a few steps of the first marker, tombstones of various sizes and designs surrounded them. The older graves were close to the church, the ancient markers thin and streaked in black. Mr. Harriston zigzagged his way along paths obviously familiar to him.
Then he stopped, removed his hat, and wiped his forehead with a red bandanna he had pulled from his pocket. “Here is the Candler plot.”
There were several simple markers, the oldest a small, black-streaked slab. Renny leaned over to read the inscription:
Amos Candler
June 5, 1800–April 12, 1875
Though dead, he speaks.
“I left the Candler genealogy in the car. Is he a direct ancestor?”
“Let’s see.” Mr. Harriston counted on his fingers. “Amos Candler was your great-great-grandfather, the first Candler to settle in this area.”
Nearby was a more modern marker: Nathaniel Candler, January 20, 1905–August 26, 1982. Next to him was his wife: Marie Candler, October 15, 1904–April 24, 1971. A sprig of fresh-cut flowers in a small glass vase balanced on top of the marker. This was the resting place of Renny’s grandparents.
“Did the church put the flowers on the grave?” Renny asked.
“I did,” Harriston said with a small smile. “Today is August 26, the anniversary of Nathaniel Candler’s death.”
Renny’s mouth dropped open. “Thank you. I didn’t know that. I’ve been living more day-to-day than paying attention to the date.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“So, were you good friends?”
“We were close for a number of years.” Mr. Harriston stepped next to Renny and shaded his pale blue eyes from the sun’s glare with his left hand. “I do a little something every year. Your grandfather is where he belongs. He was as fit for heaven as anyone who ever set foot in Moncks Corner. He lived life to the fullest by giving of himself to the fullest.”
“That’s what I’ve been told before.”
They stood in silence, Renny wishing for memories, Mr. Harriston enjoying some.
“I’m going back to the church for a minute,” Mr. Harriston said, mopping his brow again. “You take your time.”
“No, I’m done. I’ll walk back with you.” Renny felt closer to his grandfather with Mr. Harriston than he did without him.
The cool interior was a true sanctuary from the heat. “Have a seat,” the old man offered. They sat down on the front pew.
“Your grandfather always sat on the end of the pew behind where we are today. He’s probably looking over our shoulders right now.”
“How’s that?” Renny asked, not sure if the old gentleman was joking or serious.
Gazing upward toward the narrow arch of the ceiling, he said, “He’s part of the great cloud of witnesses mentioned in Hebrews 12:1, the crowd in the grandstand of heaven.”
Renny followed his gaze, but saw nothing. “That’s an unsettling thought,” he said, not at all sure he liked this notion. He did a quick inventory of a few things he’d done and places he’d gone that he hoped no one knew about, much less a great cloud of witnesses.
“Only if you have something to hide, which, of course, all people do,” the old man said with a wrinkled smile. “But I like to think of the positive side. There is a vast throng cheering you on to victory. Like a home crowd at a football game.”
“I can imagine that, I guess,” Renny said, accepting the metaphor. Turning in the pew, he asked, “If my grandfather were here, what would he be yelling from the grandstand?”
“Given our surroundings and your short pilgrimage, as you described it, I think he would be shouting, ‘Pray, Renny, Pray!’”
Before leaving Charlotte to come to Georgetown, Renny would not have seriously considered Mr. Harriston’s suggestion. But Jo and Mama A had softened up the beachhead of his resistance to spiritual activities like prayer.
“That’s something I honestly don’t know much about.”
Mr. Harriston pointed toward an altar rail supported by dark wooden spindles that spanned the front of the church. A narrow purple kneeling cushion was slightly raised above the level of the wooden floor of the church.
“Your grandfather would often leave his pew and go to the altar for prayer,” he said, pointing to a place to the right of the Communion table. “I suggest we go there, too.”
Offering no resistance, Renny followed Mr. Harriston to the designated spot and knelt beside him. All his senses heightened a notch, and instead of being distracted by the unusual setting, he became focused. “Would you pray?” he asked.
“Certainly, but I suggest you make my prayer your prayer.”
Mr. Harriston began in a soft voice, which increased in authority and volume as his prayer continued. “Lord, you are the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Nathaniel Candler. All are alive to you. I pray now for Josiah Jacobson and ask you to meet him in his pilgrimage. Bring into his life the full blessings and promises of his grandfather and others in his family line, and break every curse or influence that would hinder him from knowing you and walking in his God-ordained purpose. Answer every prayer uttered on his behalf before he was born and cause every good thing you desire for him to come to pass. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
The prayer filled the small sanctuary, and Renny felt his own soul fill with something he could not identify or label. It was similar to what happened outside his grandfather’s house but without the tears. As he heard phrases in the prayer similar to words in his mother’s letter and grandfather’s papers, he bowed his head lower. When Mr. Harriston said, “Amen,” Renny didn’t stir or lift his head, not wanting to come back too quickly from the place where the prayer took him. After several moments he raised his head to thank Mr. Harriston and ask him how he knew his name was Josiah.
Mr. Harriston was gone.
Renny, still on his knees, glanced quickly around the church. The sanctuary was empty. Getting up from his grandfather’s place at the altar rail, he went to the side door where Mr. Harriston had first entered, the floor creaking with each step Renny took. The door opened into a short hall with a room on either side. One room was filled with choir robes, music folders, and costumes for the church Nativity play; the other room had boxes of Sunday school material and a couple of chalkboards. No Mr. Harriston.
Back in the sanctuary, Renny shook his head. The old fellow was either very light on his feet or he flew out of there. Walking up the aisle past the apostles, Renny looked up and down each pew to see where Mr. Harriston was hiding. Seeing no one, he made his way to the back of the church, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped into the sunlight.
13
But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him.
The List Page 16
