“Mrs. Elliot, Dr. Ezra, this is my mother, Bonita, and my daughter, Marta, and my son, Jorge.”
Her mother and son politely extended their hands to say hello. The little girl was shy. She clung to her mother and peeked out at Ezra and Lillian from behind Estrella’s leg. She held a stuffed dog that looked a bit worse for the wear.
“¡Hola!” Ezra said brightly to Estrella’s mother and son.
“How do you do?” Lillian followed up with a tight smile.
“Why don’t we all go into the living room and chat a little?” Emily said. “We have some coffee and cookies for you.”
The coffee break was Emily’s idea, to make them feel welcome. Lillian thought it was overkill. For goodness’ sake, how much more welcoming did she need to be? She was permitting these people—total strangers, really—to live under her roof. Did she have to give them coffee and cake, too?
But Lillian did think this would be a good opportunity to go over her house rules. She didn’t want to be unwelcoming, but did think she should make her standards known at the outset. That way there would not be any misunderstandings.
The sweets were a hit with the children. They headed straight for a plate piled with bakery cookies, but much to their credit, held back, staring at it hungrily. “Mama, can I take a cookie?” the boy whispered.
“What do you say?” Estrella asked him.
“Please?”
She nodded and let him take one on a napkin, and the little girl did the same, though she took much longer deciding which one to choose.
While Emily served coffee and tea to the adults, Lillian watched the cookie crumbs raining down every which way. She held her tongue with fierce determination, until finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“You there, young man, please eat that over the napkin. You’re getting crumbs all over the rug. It’s a real Persian rug,” she added, then realized he had no idea what she was talking about.
The boy cowered and stared at his mother. Estrella gave him a firm look. “Be careful of the crumbs, Jorge. That’s all.”
Bonita sat in an armchair, watching Lillian. When Lillian looked at her, the older woman smiled. She began to say something in Spanish that Lillian did not understand, though she did catch the first word, gracias, which she knew meant “thank you.”
Ezra understood her and started prattling along. His Spanish had improved since Estrella had arrived, and what he lacked in fluency he made up for in volume, as if speaking louder would somehow help him get his point across.
Estrella’s family stared at him politely, but Lillian had a feeling they didn’t understand him any better than she did. Which was not at all.
“Ezra, please. I told you that I don’t want this house turning into the UN. It’s not at all polite to speak a language that many of us present do not understand.”
Emily and Dan did not understand it, she was almost positive. So she wasn’t just speaking for herself.
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Elliot. That is correct,” Estrella said, siding with her. “It is not polite, as you say. My mother needs to improve her English. It will be good for her to speak only English here.” She turned to Bonita. “Try to speak English with the Elliots, por favor, Mamá. Sí?”
Bonita smiled and nodded. But she didn’t say anything more.
Marta, who was cuddled on the couch next to her mother, tugged Estrella’s sleeve, then whispered in her ear. “Later, Marta,” Estrella answered. “We’ll see.”
“What’s the matter? What does she want?” Ezra leaned forward, jumping at the chance to grant some wish of their new guests. He had suddenly turned into a genie popping out of a bottle, Lillian thought.
Estrella sighed. “She’s just wondering if there’s a TV here. The neighbor we stayed with gave her a movie. She’s seen it about ten times, but it distracts her.”
Emily gave the girl a sympathetic look. “Janie, our daughter, is just like that. She can see a movie she likes a million times. Remember Stuart Little?” she asked her husband.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Every word of it.”
These children had been through a great ordeal, Lillian thought. Of course a movie would be comforting. But she didn’t want them to watch TV in here, that was for certain. This room really needed to be off limits.
“There’s a TV right in that antique cabinet,” Ezra pointed out before she could say anything. “Mrs. Elliot likes to keep it hidden.”
“And with good reason,” she followed up smoothly. “This isn’t really a TV-watching room. There are too many breakable items . . . and the furnishings are too fragile. I really don’t want anyone watching TV in here,” she said firmly. “Not without very strict supervision.”
The children sat back, looking as if they’d been reprimanded but didn’t know what they had done wrong. Estrella forced a smile. “I understand, Mrs. Elliot. This is a very lovely room with many fine things. I wouldn’t want anything disturbed.”
“There’s no TV upstairs right now,” Emily explained in a rush. “But my sister, Jessica, has one she can give us, and her husband will bring it over and hook it up for you. I’m not sure if he can come until after Christmas, though. He does a lot for our church and he’s very busy over the next few days.”
Lillian hadn’t thought of that. Sam Morgan was the head deacon now. She had expected he would be able to come over with the television for them sooner. This was going to be a problem.
“We have plenty of books,” Lillian said. “It’s much better to read a book than watch TV,” she told the children. “Look at my daughter. I never allowed her to watch much television, and now she’s the mayor,” she added, pointing at Emily. “You can borrow any of the books we have . . . Well, most of them,” she amended, thinking of some rare editions she didn’t want them to touch. She should actually put those away, she realized. “If you’d like to borrow a book, just show me and I’ll tell you if it’s all right,” she added.
The children stared at her, then looked at their mother. “Reading is the best thing,” Estrella agreed. “You use your imagination. Now that I’m with them every night again, I can read a story before bedtime.” She smiled at Lillian. “That is one good thing about us being all together again. Thank you for that, Mrs. Elliot.”
Lillian nodded. Well, at least Estrella understood what she was trying to say.
“There’s a TV in my room,” Ezra said suddenly. “It has a movie player and all that stuff,” he added, talking to Marta. “You can come in and watch your movie with me.”
“Dr. Ezra, that’s very nice,” Estrella said quickly. “But the story is about a pink unicorn who has to break a magic spell and find his family. It might bore you.”
“Would you really like that, Ezra?” Lillian asked innocently. “The last time you watched a film about unicorns, it was a documentary about the restoration of medieval French tapestries, as I recall.”
Ezra ignored her comment and gave Marta a friendly smile. “I would like to watch your movie. Any time,” he insisted.
Children always liked him, she reflected. He’d had a real way with them as a doctor.
“Well, it’s been lovely meeting all of you, and I’m happy that you’re here. But I’m a little tired,” Ezra confided. “I think I’ll go back to my room. If you’d like to see your movie, or just say hello, stop by anytime. I’m right down that hallway.” He pointed to his room.
Marta stared at him. She didn’t smile, but Lillian could tell she was considering the offer.
“Why don’t we help you get settled upstairs?” Emily suggested, getting to her feet.
“I’ll bring your things up,” Dan offered.
The family only had two small suitcases and some big plastic bags of belongings.
“I’ll help you, Mr. Forbes,” Estrella said. “Jorge, you help, too.”
Jorge obediently rose from the couch and followed his mother. Bonita took Marta’s hand, and they left as well. Marta paused in the doorway and glanced back at Ezra. He wink
ed at her and she ran away.
He laughed. “She’s adorable. And the boy is very polite,” he added.
“Yes, model children. For now, anyway,” Lillian said drily. She had a feeling their mother had warned them to be on their very best behavior today. “Let’s see how it goes once they get warmed up.”
“It’s nice to have children around the house. Gives the place a sense of life.” Ezra leaned forward on his crutches and rose slowly, then swung himself back to his room.
He was whistling, she noticed. He never did that unless he was quite happy. Well, let’s just see how he feels when these full-of-life children are running around making a racket when he wants to take a nap or watch one of his history shows.
And just how long will these good folks be living with us? she wondered. So far, nobody had said a word about that.
* * *
ON SATURDAY EVENING, JUST BEFORE HER FAMILY SAT DOWN FOR DINNER, Amanda got a call from Reverend Ben. “I’m sorry to call so late,” he began, “but I’ve been visiting parishioners all day, and I wanted to discuss some changes I’d like to make in tomorrow morning’s service.
“I know it’s only four days until Christmas,” he went on, “but there’s no ignoring the storm and its consequences. I’ve decided to preach on that, and I think the choir should set the tone with some familiar hymn of comfort. Something that sends the message that we’ve all been through a mighty test but must hold fast now to our faith.”
Amanda felt the same. It would be the fourth Sunday of Advent, but the effects of the storm still hung over the town, and she knew that it had washed away the holidays for many in its wake. It wouldn’t be right to just paper over those feelings with the usual holiday cheer.
“I was thinking about that, too, Reverend. I’m not sure what we could sing, though . . .” Amanda gave the question some thought. If Sunday hymns were a category on Jeopardy!, she would never win the round. But she had sung in the choir for a few years, and a familiar standard came to mind, one she had always loved that was written by William Cowper. “How about ‘God Moves in a Mysterious Way’?” she suggested. “Is that the sort of hymn you mean?”
“That would be perfect.” Reverend Ben sounded pleased by her suggestion. “I can even work some information about Cowper into the sermon. He faced many challenges and dark hours, but still expressed such steadfast faith in his hymns and poems. The choir can sing it for the introit. And I was thinking we might close with something upbeat and faith-affirming, like ‘This Little Light of Mine.’ It will be an intergenerational service, and the children always enjoy that one.”
Amanda agreed, glad of the changes. For the first time since she stepped into this job, she understood what it meant to work at a place of worship and to try to help people find peace and comfort, hope and connection, and how those things could all come through the music. “Oh, and Frank Borge called me yesterday. He won’t be in church,” Reverend Ben added. “He has to go down to Marblehead to help his mother.”
Amanda expected quite a few members of the choir would be absent on Sunday, their lives still unsettled by the storm. But their starring tenor was scheduled to sing a piece of holy music by Verdi.
Maybe they would just skip the special music, Amanda thought. Frank could sing the piece in a few weeks. But before she could respond, Reverend Ben said, “I wonder if you could play something for us on your cello instead—if it’s not too much trouble. I’ve heard you practice in the sanctuary. You play remarkably well.”
Amanda was surprised. She hated to refuse the reverend this favor, but it was very short notice. “I would like to step in, Reverend, but I feel unprepared,” she said honestly.
“Oh, play anything that comes to mind. It will be a real treat, a wonderful distraction for people from their worries right now.”
Amanda knew that was true. She decided to play part of the Vivaldi concerto, the one she’d been practicing for possible auditions; the one that Gabriel liked so much.
* * *
WHEN AMANDA ARRIVED ON SUNDAY MORNING, THERE SEEMED TO be a different feeling at church, just something in the atmosphere. The few choir members who were able to get there arrived early, as she had asked, and they held a short rehearsal, going over the Cowper hymn.
As members of the congregation drifted in, they greeted each other warmly. It was normally a very friendly group, but everyone seemed even warmer and more caring today.
The pews slowly filled, and she noticed that there were almost as many in attendance as there would be on Christmas Day. Less than a week ago, their world had been shaken like a snow globe, and they had come seeking some solace and guidance, she realized.
Her family soon arrived, taking seats in the middle section, not up close, thankfully. It was distracting enough having them here.
She smiled at her sisters. Lauren gave her a thumbs-up while Jill and little Betty waved.
The choir was gathering in the narthex with Reverend Ben, getting ready to come in. Amanda was about to turn back to the piano when she spotted Gabriel. He had slipped into a pew at the very back. He looked at her a long moment and slowly smiled. Even at that distance, she felt their deep connection.
Amanda played the prelude as the congregation gathered. When the choir was ready to enter, she struck the first chords of the opening hymn, feeling a deep sense of purpose.
“God moves in a mysterious way . . . His wonders to perform . . .” The choir was reduced in number by almost half, but sang with double the spirit and energy, she noticed. “He plants His footsteps in the sea . . . And rides upon the storm . . .”
As their voices rose and filled the sanctuary, Amanda felt her spirit rise, too. She wasn’t sure why or when it had happened. She just felt different, very present. She wasn’t just sitting here playing in a competent and dutiful way, as she had on Sundays past. She was doing something more. She put her heart and soul into each note.
She could tell from the expressions on the faces in the choir that they noticed, too. She felt them pushing themselves to reach higher with their voices, lift their notes to heaven in sonorous harmonies. When the hymn ended, Amanda blinked back tears.
Reverend Ben then began his sermon about the storm, about the bewilderment and anger people experience facing such great losses.
“It’s only normal for us to question, and even to doubt. To say, ‘Why God? Why me? Why did You do this?’ Life doesn’t seem fair or just. God doesn’t seem fair. Or even loving.
“But I ask you to look back on the words of the poet William Cowper, the stirring lyrics of his most famous hymn, which the choir sang so beautifully for our introit today. As some of you might know, Cowper was a brilliant poet, whose work set English literature in a new direction. But he was also plagued by mental instability and great emotional anguish. Had he lived in our time, he might have been diagnosed and treated, and gone on to live a relatively normal life. But back in the late eighteenth century, this brilliant and sensitive artist endured a long confinement in a mental institution, called an insane asylum in his day. One can only imagine the primitive, brutal treatment of the patients. Cowper somehow survived and returned to normal life, and was taken in by the famous minister John Newton and his wife. He lived in relative peace and comfort for a time, but again faced a dark hour and attempted suicide.
“But rising out of those painful depths, he wrote this hymn, ‘God Moves in a Mysterious Way,’ acknowledging God’s power and superior intelligence and wisdom, which are so often beyond our frail, human understanding.”
Reverend Ben paused and picked up the hymnal. “‘Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, the clouds ye so much dread . . . Are big with mercy and shall break in blessings on your head.’” He paused. “These lyrics strike me as particularly relevant to our feelings about the storm. ‘Where is the mercy? Where are the blessings of this disaster?’ you may be asking.” He paused, giving the congregation time to consider the question.
“I see God not in the senseless, random de
struction,” Reverend Ben said, “but in the many stories of survival and the many lives spared. We have all heard those stories and even experienced some of those events ourselves.”
Amanda thought about her own ordeal, stuck on the road with her mother, Betty, and Mrs. Honeyfield. It seemed almost miraculous that they had made it home that night unharmed.
“I see it in the amazing way people have prevailed during this trying hour,” Reverend Ben continued. “And while full recovery will take months or even longer in some cases, so many are already starting to repair and rebuild. What courage that takes. What energy! Surely God’s hand and breath must be at work in these efforts.
“Mainly, I see it in the opportunity God has given us to be the living instruments of His love and mercy. Of His charity and goodness. To be the channel of His undiscriminating love for all, by reaching out and lending our hands to others, to anyone who’s hurting and in need of help right now. By being love in action, that’s how I see God in all of this. The storm is a disaster. But the aftermath is an opportunity, truly a gift and a blessing.
“We’ve seen it in the news and right in our neighborhoods. We’ve seen it here, in our church. As Cowper reminds us, we may not comprehend God’s mysterious purpose in this event. But it is unfolding, petal by petal, hour by hour. ‘The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.’”
He paused again and looked out at the congregation. “This morning, I encourage you to trust that some good comes of even the darkest hour and most dire event. Like William Cowper, I encourage you to carry on in faith and prayer.”
The church was silent a moment. Then Amanda played the anthem. She was very moved and had to force herself to focus on the music. The reverend’s wise words had helped her, and she felt sure they would help many others who had come to church this morning. She felt quietly proud that she and the choir had helped bring some comfort and a sense of renewed faith to those attending, too.
When it came time to play her cello, right before the offertory, Amanda put forward her best, and her audience listened intently. Maybe they were not music connoisseurs who had paid a hundred dollars or more for their seats. But Amanda played one of her favorite Vivaldi pieces for them as if they were the most important audience in the world.
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