Through the Fire

by Diane Noble

  Then she smiled suddenly and reached out her hand to Kate. “I’m afraid this has made us all forget our manners. My name is Livvy Jenner.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And this is my husband, Danny. Our sons, Justin and James. We’re members of Faith Briar...” Her voice caught. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this church means everything to us...”—she gestured to the silent parishioners around her—“to us all. To those of us raised in Copper Mill, and that’s most of us here, it’s the only church we’ve ever known. Danny and I were married in this church. He’s on the church board, and I work in the nursery on Sunday mornings. And now...this.”

  Kate squeezed Livvy’s hand. How could she find the words that would comfort her? In a time like this, words were inadequate. Finally, she said simply, “We’ve come to help, to do everything we can.”

  By now the word had spread that Paul and Kate had arrived, and several more people joined the earlier group to meet them. After they had been introduced around once more, Paul stepped forward and raised his voice so all could hear.

  “There is a passage in Isaiah 61 that seems appropriate on this dark day. I think it might bring us comfort to hear it.” He pulled his pocket Bible from his jacket and opened it. The crowd fell silent, except for a few sounds of soft weeping.

  “To all who mourn in Israel, he will give beauty for ashes, joy instead of mourning, praise instead of despair. For the LORD has planted them like strong and graceful oaks for his own glory.”

  Compassion filled Paul’s clear blue eyes as he gazed at the despairing crowd in front of him.

  “We mourn today, my friends,” he said. “But God’s promise is this: The ashes you see now will someday be exchanged for something of exquisite beauty, your mourning exchanged for joy beyond measure. That is our hope—he is our hope, and we must cling to his promises. We don’t know how it will happen, or even when...but consider this: God has planted you like strong and graceful oaks here in this place. He will give you the strength, the stamina, to get through this tragedy.”

  By now the firefighters had subdued the worst of the flames, but all that was left was a charred, burnt-out hulk of a building and a wet, smoldering pile of ashes and embers.

  “And I can tell you this,” Paul continued. “Faith Briar couldn’t be more loved—by you or by our Lord.”

  As Paul spoke, Kate noticed a middle-aged man sidling closer as if to hear better. By the cast of his shoulders, he seemed broken down by life. His grayish brown hair was thin and collar length. He wore a brown wool plaid shirt, the collar turned up as if to protect his neck from the cold. He met her eyes briefly before turning away. There was something in his expression that haunted her.

  She turned her attention back to Paul, whose voice was filled with both sorrow and love for his new flock. “Keep these words in your heart, dear friends. In the dark days ahead, remember: God will give you beauty for ashes, and the oil of joy instead of mourning. We need to remember this promise even as—”

  Renee Lambert hollered “Yoo-hoo,” interrupting him as she started back across the street in her high heels, clutching the Chihuahua. “Listen up, everyone,” she cried. “I was right.”

  Murmurs rose in the crowd as Renee clicked her heels closer, skirting the puddles again before stepping up onto the curb. The Chihuahua’s big eyes looked soulful, his oversized ears flopping with each of Renee’s tottering steps.

  Kate exchanged a quizzical glance with Paul.

  “I just heard it from Deputy Spencer himself—” Renee said, then she interrupted herself, staring solemnly at the smoldering ashes. “Our bell...” she choked, clutching her hand to her bosom. “Our beautiful historic bell...it’s covered in mud and debris.” She looked up at the crowd helplessly. “I have a special place in my heart for the old thing...”

  “We all do,” Danny Jenner said, his voice raspy with emotion. “We all do. And I promise you, we’ll keep it safe. We can’t lose the bell too.”

  Renee nodded.

  “Renee,” Livvy said. “You were about to tell us something?”

  Renee brightened considerably. “Oh yes. My news,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “I heard it from the deputy himself: It’s arson!”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Kate rose at five thirty and tiptoed from the bedroom, being careful not to wake Paul.

  She padded toward the kitchen to make coffee. But when she reached the living room, she stopped. “Oh boy,” she breathed and fell into the nearest chair—the only one without a stack of boxes.

  Of all the strange rooms in this tiny, sixties ranch-style house, the living room was the strangest. For one thing, it was as big as a barn. The rest of the entire parsonage could probably fit in it with room to spare.

  A river-rock fireplace took up one corner of the room. Two walls were covered with fake walnut paneling that absorbed the light, and a third was made up of sliding-glass doors that were so covered with hard-water deposits, they were nearly opaque. The ceiling lights consisted of plastic-covered fluorescent tubes, which attacked Kate’s artistic senses every time she flipped the switch.

  As she sat here now, she decided that if she were to design the homeliest living room on the planet, this would be the decor she would choose. From fake wood paneling to moss green shag carpeting. The opaque sliders were a nice touch as well.

  She looked up at the fluorescent lighting set against a ceiling covered with acoustic popcorn coating. It was a decorator’s worst nightmare. She started to giggle. “Oh, Lord! You do have a sense of humor.”

  The whole house was a nightmare, each room more garish than the previous one. Her personal favorite was the guest bathroom, with its wallpaper of silver foil, a trellis of orange and yellow, and a wild sprinkling of nine-inch poppies in various shades of peach, mauve, and moss green.

  Still giggling, she stood and headed to the kitchen.

  When she and Paul lived in San Antonio, every morning she rose before sunup, fixed a large mug of fresh-ground coffee, and sat in her favorite rocking chair near an east-facing window that let in the early morning sunlight. Starting her day in the quiet dawn with meditation, prayer, and a chapter from the Psalms saw her through whatever troubles—or joys—that might come her way.

  But this morning she had the sinking feeling it would take a miracle to find the coffeemaker. Or a mug. Or the coffee beans. Or the grinder. And honestly, she was in no mood to pray.

  She rummaged through two boxes, which, though marked quite clearly, didn’t contain anything close to what she was looking for. Then she tried another large box the movers had left on the stove.

  On the stove? What were they thinking? The box was so heavy, she couldn’t make it budge, let alone move it to the floor so she could use the stovetop.

  She leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed her small domain. Boxes were stacked three high and so close together they covered the kitchen floor. What she could see of the faded yellow cupboards was smudged with fingerprints.

  There was no doubt that she could handle the scrubbing, mopping, and scouring, but it was the size of the rooms, with the exception of the living room, that had her stymied. She adored gourmet cooking, and her heart sank to her knees as she looked around the kitchen, taking in its too-few cupboards, its twenty-five-year-old refrigerator that rattled and whirred like it was ready to fly to the moon, and its stove that—before the box was placed on the stovetop—she had noticed appeared of an age to have been delivered by mule and buggy in the early years of Copper Mill.

  She felt a headache coming on just thinking about the work ahead. She needed coffee, and fast.

  She plowed through another cardboard box, a smaller one she vaguely remembered packing at the last minute. Stacked at the top were table linens and napkins, different matching sets from Williams-Sonoma. Then, finally, at the bottom of the box, she found the grinder and the coffee beans. It took a few more tries to find the mugs and coffeemaker. The coffee filters were missing completely, so she put a paper
towel in the basket, ground the beans, flipped the switch, and hoped for the best.

  When the last drip had landed in the carafe, Kate poured herself a fresh mug of coffee, then returned to the living room with her Bible. The furniture that wouldn’t fit in the other rooms was jammed against the walls, with stacks of boxes between, spilling out into the center of the room. Even her little spinet piano was stacked with unpacked boxes. She settled again into the rocking chair and took a sip of coffee.

  “How can I stand this?” she whispered, a halfhearted prayerful plea that she was certain bounced back from the popcorn ceiling. She looked down at the Bible resting in her lap but didn’t have the energy to open it. Instead, her mind whirled with the work that lay ahead just to get the parsonage in a livable condition, sans fingerprint smudges, dust bunnies, and soiled cupboards. She leaned her head against the high-back rocker and closed her eyes.

  How could she even think about praying when her mind was filled with so much to do? She’d left her beautiful home in San Antonio for this?

  Then her eyes flew open. What was she thinking?

  Here she was, focused on herself, when the congregation they had been called to serve had just suffered a devastating loss. Here she was, complaining about the parsonage decor, without considering that an elderly and saintly man, Paul’s mentor, had lived here alone, and probably lonely, for two decades after his wife died.

  Kate was ashamed. And humbled.

  “Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she whispered. Then she bowed her head and prayed for the Faith Briar congregation, their heartaches and fears, and she prayed for Nehemiah Jacobs, the seventy-nine-year-old former pastor of Faith Briar, who had recommended Paul for the position. He had moved to an assisted-living facility in Chattanooga. She wondered if he was comfortable there, or if he was as dismayed by his new life as she was by hers. She prayed for God’s peace to envelop him; she prayed for the hurting families, the young, the elderly, all the members of Faith Briar’s congregation, that God would heal their heartaches and give them wisdom for the days ahead; she prayed for Paul, that God would strengthen him for the task of building up the brokenhearted and rebuilding the church.

  Finally, she prayed for herself, asking simply that God would make her acutely aware of seeing the world through his eyes, with his heart of compassion.

  She looked up after her prayer and again took in the room. Somehow it didn’t seem quite as grim as before. The sunlight was valiantly trying to shine through the milky sliding-glass doors. She walked across the room, opened the slider, and stepped outside. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the maple tree, creating a dappled pattern on the overgrown lawn. Beads of dew reflected the light, looking like a thousand tiny jewels had been cast across the yard during the night.

  It didn’t matter that the weeds had grown tall in the postage-stamp-sized backyard or that the rosebushes were half dead. It didn’t matter that she could still smell ashes in the air. It didn’t matter, because if she looked beyond the ordinary she might see something of beauty.

  Paul’s words came back to her: Out of the ashes would come beauty. Mourning would be exchanged for the oil of joy.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed and punched the air the way her kids used to. “Yes!”

  “Yes?” came the sleepy voice behind her.

  She turned and laughed and stepped back inside. Paul was scuffing across the shag carpet in slippered feet, his hair mussed, his bathrobe half-tied. He scanned the room, his expression probably much like hers had been. With a sigh he moved a stack of boxes and sat down on the piano bench.

  “So it wasn’t a nightmare,” he said with a half smile.

  “This room?”

  He nodded. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  She laughed. “I’ve come up with a plan. We can make this house work.”

  He quirked a brow. “You’ve always been creative, but this...?” He rolled his eyes at the popcorn ceiling, then shot her a mischievous grin.

  “I’ll figure out how to scrape it off. It can’t be that hard.” She sat down on a cardboard box across from him. “Besides, a house doesn’t need to be large to be welcoming and warm.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “We’ll need to get rid of about half of our furniture.”

  “Can you let your antiques go?”

  The little twist of her heart lasted only a moment. She nodded. “Yes. Plus a lot of other things. We’ve talked about simplifying our lives. It’s time to do it with a clean sweep.”

  “I agree, but it may be harder than you think. What about your Mauviel?”

  She grinned at him. “I scrimped and saved for years to buy that copperware. I can’t let it go now. That’s where I put my foot down.”

  “But the cupboards here...”

  “Too small, I know.” She stood to go to the kitchen to get Paul some coffee. Stopping at the doorway between the two rooms, she looked back and said, “I’ve already figured that out.” She eyed the ceiling above the breakfast bar.

  “The ceiling?” Paul said.

  “I just thought of it. I’ll hang all those gorgeous pots and pans from hooks.”

  “Are you sure? The kitchen is so small.”

  “It’s a European thing. I’ve seen pictures.”

  Paul reached for his mug. “Honey, all this means a lot to me,” he said.

  She sipped her coffee, waiting for him to go on.

  “What you’re doing—how you’re being so, well, creative and wonderful about this. I know this isn’t easy for you, leaving San Antonio, leaving friends and relatives you love, moving to a place where everything is new and different. And this”—he looked around the room, shaking his head—“this can’t be easy. You’ve always taken such pride in your decorating skills, your artistic sense of things, your ability to entertain with a gourmet touch.”

  She started to speak, but he held up his hand. “Before you say anything, I just want you to know that once in a while I see a fleeting expression on your face.” He paused, his expression gentle. “It tells me you’re sad when you think of home.”

  She moved closer to him and took his hands in hers. “This is home, Paul. Home is where you are.”

  His voice was gruff when he continued. “I love you, Katie, for your willingness to give up so much to come here. I just wanted you to know.”

  She smiled at him, her heart swelling with love for this man. “All I need is time to get this place in order. I would die of embarrassment if anyone came in for a visit before we’ve at least got our furniture arranged and unpacked a few dozen boxes.”

  Before Paul could respond, the doorbell rang. He frowned. “It’s a bit early for visitors. What time is it? Seven?”

  She stood, put down her mug, and retied her robe before heading to the door. “Maybe it’s an emergency.” The phone line wouldn’t be activated until the following week, so the only way anyone could contact them was to stop by.

  She opened the door and peered out.

  The blonde woman who had been wearing the faux leopard-skin coat the day before was standing on the front porch, her little Chihuahua in her arms. Today she was dressed in a velveteen warm-up suit. She was wearing full makeup, and her blonde hair was swept up into a fancy do. Silver earrings dangled from her ears, sparkling in the morning sunlight. “Hello—it’s Renee, isn’t it?” Kate said.

  “Renee Lambert,” the woman said and swept into the room without invitation. A cloud of Estée Lauder’s Youth-Dew wafted in behind her.

  “Please, come in,” Kate said to Renee’s back as she disappeared into the living room.

  “Oh, Pastor Paul,” the woman gushed. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get properly reintroduced yesterday. I did meet you when we hired you, as you probably remember. I’m a member of the church board.”

  Paul stood, looking as if he wanted to be swallowed up by the moss green shag carpet—robe, pajamas, spiked hair, and all. “Yes, of course. But if you’ll excuse me, I was ju
st about to get dressed.” He hurried from the room and disappeared into the master bedroom.

  Renee helped herself to the rocking chair, pulling the nervous Chihuahua onto her lap. “While we’re waiting for your husband, I’ll take some tea, if you would be so kind.”

  “I have coffee made,” Kate said sweetly, “but the tea will have to wait. I’m afraid the stove is out of commission right now, even if I could find the kettle and tea bags.”

  Renee fluttered her fingers. “I don’t drink coffee,” she said. “I think dependency on caffeine is a sign of a weak constitution. As for tea, I wouldn’t let a paper tea bag near my hot water. I prefer loose leaf. Though in a pinch I’ve been known to dunk a tea bag made of silk.”

  “Hmm . . .” was the only response Kate could manage. Seated again on the cardboard box, she reached for her mug and took a sip of coffee. A nice long sip to bolster her constitution.

  Paul returned, gave Renee a warm smile, then sat down again on the piano bench. “Now, how can we help you?”

  She fluttered her fingers again. Her long, squared-off nails appeared to be acrylic, painted in French manicure pale pink and white. “Actually, Pastor. It’s what you two can do for us.”

  Paul gave her another smile, though Kate noticed it was getting a little tight. “We’re here to serve, Renee.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, as you know. And our congregation doesn’t have anyplace to meet.”

  “I’m aware of that. Last night I spoke to—”

  “You see, back in ’87 when the flood hit, we had to find another meeting place. Then in ’95, little Sydney Hill flushed her rubber duck down the toilet, backing up the plumbing, and in ’97, we had a freak snowstorm. It broke the water pipes and ruined the heating system.” She sat back, looking smug.

  Kate wondered where Renee was going with this. From the look on Paul’s face, he did too.

  “You see,” Renee continued, patting the Chihuahua’s head, “whenever these sorts of things hit our little church, it’s up to the pastor to provide a place to meet.”