The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  My first weeks I experienced periods of melancholy and loneliness, whereupon the Preceptress, perceiving my disposition, has graciously taken me under her wing, as if God had sent a guardian angel to me. I am day by day taking an increasing part in the society of my fellow students, yet I sorely miss Catherine. I have received letters from her, as well as from Dr. and Mrs. Barry, who are making plans for my return to their home for the Christmas holiday.

  I have taken it upon myself, much too forward for a genteel woman, I am sure, to, unsolicited, write to Mr. Beck during my tenure here at the Normal School. He has not answered every correspondence, but he has written in return on occasion, his hand less sure than mine, for his gift is in speaking rather than writing. But his few words cause my heart to stir. He works still at the livery, much to my happiness, and has recently stated that he is anxious to hear of the location of my posting as a teacher when I am graduated. If it is in Butler proper, I am praying that he will yet be in residence there and soon thereafter seek me out. I also pray I may have the happiness of seeing him over the Christmas holiday should it indeed be possible for me to return to Butler for the span of but ten days.

  For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee:

  And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time

  thou dash thy foot against a stone.

  —Luke 4:10–11

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WEDNESDAY EVENING CAME TO DOWNTOWN Butler. Long shadows cut across Diamond Square, and the daytime traffic, a constant rumble, gave way to a more sporadic grumble—a few cars now, then a truck, a couple of well-insulated motorcycle riders, followed by long breaks of silence. From its spot at the center of the square, the Silent Defender statue looked down on the city as it stretched and got ready for the night.

  Jack left his truck at the apartment and set off on foot. He didn’t want to drive. Being behind the wheel provided him with too many options. It was too easy to stop and turn around, or simply keep driving. He could play the parking place game; he’d played it before.

  If there isn’t a place to park, I’m not driving around for hours looking for an empty spot. I’ll go home and come back tomorrow.

  He would not have wanted to count the times he participated in the game. He not only thought of God as a lifeguard but also as a parking attendant at times.

  If He wanted me to be here, there would be a place to park nearby.

  He knew such a thought was heretical—not really knowing fully what heresy it suggested—but he assumed that it was bad and that only heretics would fully believe it.

  As he came closer to Diamond Square, he realized Butler was much different than most places: There was a plethora of empty spaces nearby. Diagonal spots all around the square were vacant, plus a nearly empty lot full of parking spots.

  Maybe God does want me here tonight. Jack quickly pushed the thought away, assuming that if there was an all-knowing deity, a “Higher Power” as he’d heard in previous AA meetings, that He wasn’t paying attention at this one specific moment.

  Grace @ Calvary was a beautiful church, Jack thought, as he walked closer. Rough-hewn granite blocks, each block the size of a small oven, were stacked in perfect symmetry, with arches and keystones over the front doors, and golden windows deeply recessed into the stone, walls tilting inward slightly, pushing one’s eye to the heavens. The roof was done in slate—dark, heavy, leaden gray.

  No one builds this way anymore.

  The doors were dark walnut in color, thick, planked, and with curved tops to fit in the massive archway. A small sign, with adjustable letters under a glass cover, listed the service times. Near the bottom were the two letters: AA, with an arrow pointing away from the main entrance. Underneath the AA, the sign read: Use Side Entrance. Room 102.

  Jack looked into the front doors and saw the main sanctuary, with a white dome, and heard the sounds of a piano and a guitar filled in with voices—younger rather than older voices, Jack thought. They were singing—not a hymn he’d never heard, but an upbeat version of one he had: “Amazing Grace.” Their voices were rather good, Jack decided. He climbed the few steps into the narthex, then stood in the doorway to the sanctuary and listened. In between the familiar verses, sung with a decidedly contemporary beat, they began singing an unfamiliar chorus:

  My chains are gone, I’ve been set free.

  My God, my Savior has ransomed me.

  And like a flood His mercy reigns.

  Unending love. Amazing grace.

  As the song went on, Jack could not have moved from that place had there been an earthquake. All alone and unnoticed in the darkened narthex, as the words of the song washed over him, his throat tightened, and tears formed. Because it was a rehearsal, the musicians went through the song a second time. He listened again, until the end, and it was only then, because the group began to break up, that he could bring himself to leave.

  He turned and headed outside, wiped at his face, and took a couple of deep breaths.

  It must have been the part about the chains that got to me.

  He walked to the side door. Once inside, he faced two stairways—one up, one down. He imagined that the meeting room was downstairs.

  He was correct.

  A brown-topped folding table stood in the hallway, and a near-commercial-grade coffeepot—a big stainless steel West Bend sixty-cup model—squatted in the middle. There were Styrofoam cups, plastic wicker baskets filled with sugar packets and cream packets, and a plastic cup filled with brown stirrers. At the far end was a clipboard, with a sign-up sheet attached under the metal clip.

  Mailing List Sign-up! was written in thick letters at the top.

  Next to it was a tented sign that said, Tonight: Step 3—Made a decision to turn our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  Jack poured a cup of coffee, added sugar, tasted, added cream, tasted, and added another sugar. He looked at his watch. The meeting should have started five minutes ago. His heart was beating faster than it should. He didn’t want to walk into the room alone, and unknown. He wanted to gently, carefully, place his coffee cup on the table, then sprint down the hallway, up the few steps, and run until he could not run any longer. That’s what he wanted to do.

  But he did not. He could not.

  He drew in a breath. And another. Then he walked to the door of room 102, put his hand on the doorknob, and opened it. He stepped inside and felt the eyes of a dozen other men snap to him as he found an empty chair.

  He sipped at the coffee, now tasting like a bitter poison, but he maintained his normal face, tried his best to maintain his normal breathing, looked up, and listened.

  “My name is Brad, and I’m an alcoholic.…”

  One hour and twenty minutes later, Jack stood up from his chair, shook a few hands, nodded to others, and tossed his empty cup in the trash can overflowing with empty coffee cups.

  The man who had loosely led the meeting—tall, forty-something, with a warm smile—introduced himself to Jack. “I’m Bob McNeil. I’m the associate pastor here.”

  He shook Jack’s hand and told him he was always available should Jack need any help, or if he was interested in a sponsor. Jack thanked him, then walked down the hall, up the steps, and into a chilly dark autumn evening.

  He zipped his coat up to his chin. He set off walking toward his truck.

  Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will.

  The words of the ending prayer Bob had read kept echoing in his mind, along with the words of the song he’d heard earlier, with a similar theme.

  My chains are gone, I’ve been set free.

  Jack jumped into his truck, and a few minutes later found himself in front of The Palm, debating with himself, debating whether he should risk entering to find Earl, and what his odds were of not finding Earl, and
what might happen if he entered and there was no one to help stop him from doing what he so desperately wanted to do.

  Bondage … chains …

  As Jack walked out of his meeting, Leslie was walking into the prayer meeting, held upstairs in the sanctuary, held every Wednesday evening at 7:30, right after worship-team practice. Had she hurried up the steps, they would have run into each other. Had Jack stopped to chat for even thirty more seconds, he would have seen her walk into the church, unbuttoning her coat, putting the keys to her minivan into her purse.

  Jack gambled. He gambled big. If Earl was there, if Earl was behind the bar, Jack would have a cheeseburger and a Coke. Maybe two Cokes.

  If Earl was not there, Jack would walk in, slap a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and ask for a double Jack Daniels and Coke.

  It could have gone either way. Jack remembered what he had told the group this night, about his past experiences. “I would go to a meeting,” he had said, in a quiet, almost guilty voice, “then I would go out and get loaded. Like I owed it to myself—for an hour of being honest. If I was honest with somebody, even for a little while, I could drink. It hurt being honest, so I drank more.”

  Several men tonight had nodded in agreement.

  Jack flipped the coin, high into the air, and did not wait until it spanked off the pavement. He stepped inside. He did not breathe until he sat down at the bar, in his spot, in his now-comfortable place at the first turn of the bar by the window.

  “Good evening, Mr. Kenyon,” came the greeting.

  It was Earl.

  Jack finally allowed himself to relax. “I just came from a meeting,” he said, as if admitting something dark or onerous.

  Earl knew what to say and what not to say. “Good. Burger and a Coke?”

  Jack nodded, then quickly added, “Wait, with cheese.”

  Earl tilted his head just so, as if his wry smile was all the validation Jack required or needed this one chilly autumn evening. “Good meeting?”

  Shrugging, Jack replied, “I still want a drink. That’s not changed.”

  Earl leaned in close. “That’ll never change completely, my friend. You always want to get off the train. With time, the station gets a little further away. Take heart.”

  And Jack sat there, in the dim light, amidst the smoke, the pool-table chatter, the drone of the television overhead, the sloppy bravado of the old men at the other end of the bar, the clatter and swish of glasses, and the pungent odor of beer and highballs. He ate his burger and drank his two Cokes, thinking about the prayer and the song about the chains.

  He didn’t say another word until he stood, slipped a ten-dollar bill on the bar, waved to Earl, saying, “See you later.”

  Leslie drove the few blocks home.

  I could have easily walked there. I don’t know why I thought it was so far.

  But then she realized she would have to walk past two bars on her way home, and though neither place was disreputable, a single woman, regardless of the city, had to be cautious.

  I really liked tonight.

  Leslie didn’t pray out loud this evening. Pastor Blake had been true to his word. No one pressured anyone to pray out loud. A number of people did. Maybe not everyone, but most of the twenty or so people of all ages made Leslie feel right at home. Pastor Blake did her a great favor and introduced her to the rest of the prayer group and mentioned that she was new to town, owned the Midlands Building, and had a daughter at the Brittian Elementary School.

  No one pressed her on marital status. No one pressed her on how and why she knew Pastor Blake. No one had pressed her on anything.

  But they had prayed for her. She had mentioned renting out the bottom half of the building and her concern that everything would go well with her new tenants. Also that she needed to find a job.

  People prayed for her, her tenants, the contractors, her employment, and her daughter. She was touched by their openness, their care, and their willingness to pray for a complete stranger.

  Then Pastor Blake prayed. He didn’t mention her name. But she knew it was she he was praying for. And that was okay. It felt good that he prayed for her.

  “We pray for all of those who are facing trials. We pray that they will find the strength and perfect peace that comes only from complete surrender to You, Lord. For Christ is our peace. We pray, Lord, that You would draw them to Your love. We pray that Your will be done. We pray for people who have hurt us at one time, that we can forgive them, that they, too, will be changed. And we pray for the safety of our children.”

  He prayed about a lot of other things, but that is what Leslie remembered. And as he had prayed, the older woman sitting next to her had reached over and taken Leslie’s hand in hers and squeezed it, just for a moment. To her, it felt like the hand of God Himself, reaching out to her. That’s when the tears behind her eyes—tears held back for so long—began to silently flow. That one simple caring touch from a total stranger had the power to cause Leslie to open her heart, closed for so long, just enough to allow the peace she so desperately needed to begin flowing in.

  Now, as she drove home, she had to admit to herself that she felt even more hopeful than she had when she’d first talked to Pastor Blake, and even more than she’d felt after they had met—before the prayer meeting.

  Gramma Mellie believed in the power of prayer. Maybe Gramma Mellie was right.

  Amelia Westland, age twenty years, eleven months

  Indiana Normal School

  Indiana, Indiana County, Pennsylvania

  June 10, 1883

  My time at Indiana Normal is now at an end. I have studied diligently, as I promised Dr. Barry. By God’s grace I have received my diploma and certificate from the State of Penna., that allows me to seek out teaching situations within the Commonwealth. I have written letters to the persons in charge of the schooling in Butler County, inquiring as to open positions for this imminent school year. I pray God’s will be done.

  Catherine is now in the employ of Dr. Barry. Perhaps he plans the same path for her as was mine. I am in hopes that the days until the time I shall see her again will be short.

  So shalt thou find favour and good understanding

  in the sight of God and man. Trust in the LORD with all thine heart;

  and lean not unto thine own understanding.

  In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

  —Proverbs 3:4–6

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALICE HELD A QUART CAN in front of her like it was some dead animal she’d discovered living under her bed. Her other hand held a paintbrush, which she treated much the same.

  “I can’t tell from paint chips. Unless I was as small as a Barbie doll, which I am not. I need to see this on a wall. And not only in the morning light, but all through the day and at night, too.”

  Frank sat on a folding chair in the midst of the clutter of their new venture. He was flipping pages on a clipboard, apparently deep in thought, a pencil tucked behind his ear at an absolutely rakish angle. He was wearing his two-hundred-dollar workshirt, custom-made, with his monogram on the cuff, made of very fine Egyptian cotton denim. He wasn’t sure whether denim was made in Egypt or not, but the tailor had said it was, and Frank had no good reason to doubt him. And the shirt was stunning. Even Alice admitted that.

  Alice did not like to paint walls.

  “I see a freshly painted wall and I get vertigo, and I wind up falling against it. Why is that?” she had remarked.

  She dipped the brush and carefully stroked the paint onto a rear wall, creating a big square of color.

  “I can’t paint,” she said emphatically, hoping Frank would take the hint and take the paint and the job from her. He did not.

  “Frank,” she said, with some expectation in her voice.

  “Alice,” Frank
responded, attempting to match her tone, but his attempt was totally contrived.

  “Frank, can you paint? I’m no good at this.”

  He looked up. “Weren’t you a fine arts major in college? Of course you know how to paint.”

  She would have stomped her foot, in an Ethel Merman sort of theatrical move, but was afraid if she had, the paint would somehow slop out of the can and spill all over her leopard-skin flats.

  “I used teeny, tiny brushes. I can’t use these big clodhopper brushes.”

  Frank stood up, put the clipboard on the chair, and stepped to his wife’s side. “I’m not painting a thing—but that color is superb. That is one terrific choice. You have remarkable color sense.”

  Alice beamed. “You think so?”

  “Oh, I do. No need to go any further.”

  And with that, he walked off, tape measure in hand, leaving Alice to wonder if he had agreed so quickly just to get out of painting.

  The more she pondered, the more positive she became that Frank had done just that.

  Yet … the color was really smashing on the wall, and she didn’t want to be bothered anymore with the decision.

  She put the paint can down, as if it were still that dead, unattractive animal, and stepped back.

  We are on our way. The focal-point paint color is the first step. Once that’s done, everything else falls into place.

  She squinted.

  And the paint color is just so perfect.

  She opened her eyes wide, and knew for a fact, just then, that Alice and Frank’s Take Two was going to be a smash hit as soon as it opened.

  Totally surprised, Jack tapped at the glass window of the Midlands Building and smiled. The cool morning had left pockets of condensation at the top and bottom corners of the large display window.