A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “How very . . . cordial of them,” she murmured to herself.

  Introductions were pleasant, even exciting. The children eagerly shook her hand, grinning uninhibitedly, but few of them spoke more than a word. Martha, Meg’s “wee” sister, stroked the soft fabric of Rose’s skirt with respectful pleasure until Meg caught her at it.

  “Really, Meg, it’s all right. Truly.” Rose’s arms craved to sweep up the tiny girl and hold her warm little body tightly. She beckoned the tot surreptitiously from the fold of her skirt and was rewarded when a tiny brown hand slipped into hers.

  Mr. McKennie was warmly deferential, getting easily through the exchange of greetings. It was easy to see that Meg’s wonderful auburn hair and bright complexion were his gifts to her. Every other one of the children right down to baby Sean was the “stamp and image” of Fiona McKennie. Black snapping eyes, curling black hair, and red apples on each cheek greeted Rose heartily. She was not a big woman at all, her head only coming to Rose’s chin, but her personality was Meg’s all over again only a little older and more mature. Rose liked her immediately.

  “Sure an’ it’s proud we are t’ meet ye, Miss Rose; it’s been hearin’ all about ye since Meg coom home last night, an’ too glad she was of bein’ your guest yest’day. We’re thankin’ ye for your kindness, an’ would ye be honorin’ us by takin’ supper wi’ us today after service?”

  “How very hospitable of you, Mrs. McKennie, and yes, I’d be delighted!” Rose was pleased by the prospect.

  They ushered her into the little sanctuary where friends and neighbors were gathered. Many turned and looked curiously; some smiled or nodded a welcome. Then an old gentleman, gnarled and weathered, stood up before the congregation and began the service by announcing the hymns as they sang them. His voice was still young and robust, and the singing commenced strongly and grew in fervor.

  Rose saw only two hymnbooks in the group. If folks didn’t remember the first line, they would join in as soon as the man leading the songs (and the lady with the other book) began. It was so different from church back home—the worshippers appeared uninhibited and free. Rose furtively watched individuals and how they sang. Obviously what they sang meant something to them, for their faces reflected what they felt. One song began:

  There is a fountain filled with blood,

  Drawn from Immanuel’s veins

  And sinners plunged beneath that flood,

  Lose all their guilty stains!

  The man leading songs closed his eyes and sang with fervor:

  Lose all their guilty stains,

  Lose all their guilty stains,

  And sinners plunged beneath that flood,

  Lose all their guilty stains.

  A tear glistened on his cheek.

  Why, Rose wondered, is he sad? They launched into the second verse and a great smile lit his face. He’s not sad, she marveled. He’s happy!

  Wash all my sins away,

  Wash all my sins away,

  And there may I, though vile as he,

  Wash all my sins away.

  She felt a stirring in her heart, a yearning to feel what he felt. Soon hands began clapping and toes tapping as the next hymn was picked up.

  ’Tis the grandest theme thro’ the ages rung,

  ’Tis the grandest theme for a mortal tongue,

  ’Tis the grandest theme that the world e’er sung,

  Our God is able to deliver thee!

  He is able to deliver thee, he is able to deliver thee,

  Tho’ by sin oppressed, go to him for rest,

  Our God is able to deliver thee!

  The room was alive with joy and song. Rose had never experienced anything like it. Was this like the “revival meetings” she’d heard about? Her foot kept time with the music and she hummed softly to pick up the tune. Too soon they were through and it was offering time. Rose dug generously into her purse. It seemed right to give abundantly of what she had, and not just a token amount. Wryly she noted that what remained in her purse at the moment didn’t amount to much more than a token amount. She would have to fix that tomorrow.

  The preacher stood up after the offering. He was very young, she thought, and not at all what a minister should look like either. He smiled at the congregation, and Rose noticed how everyone settled down; a quietness came over the room. He opened his Bible and began to read:

  Now the Lord had said unto Abram,

  Get thee out of thy country,

  and from thy kindred,

  and from thy father’s house,

  unto a land that I will show thee;

  Rose shivered and felt goose bumps on her arms. In breathless anticipation she waited for him to continue.

  And I will make of thee a great nation,

  and I will bless thee,

  and make thy name great;

  and thou shalt be a blessing:

  And I will bless them that bless thee:

  and in thee shall all families

  of the earth be blessed.

  So Abram departed,

  as the LORD had spoken unto him;

  and Lot went with him:

  and Abram was seventy-five years old

  when he departed out of Haran.

  The preacher closed his Bible and scanned the room, nodding at several, and smiling a greeting at Rose. Her face flushed, but she felt accepted.

  He continued. “Most of you,” he spoke looking around at the faces in the room again, “have come from far off to this land. You left your fathers and mothers, your brothers and sisters, just like Abram. And just like him, you didn’t know what you would find. Some of you sailed or steamed to this continent across the vast, cold ocean before you traveled west to this place, of all the places on earth. You came looking for a better life, perhaps, than the one you left behind. What you found for sure was work. Hard, unrelenting work. Along the way or over the years you may have lost loved ones in the pursuit of your dream. I cannot say what motivated you all individually, and I do not know the circumstances in your particular case, but let me tell you this: God has a plan for your life, and bringing you clear around the world or half across a continent was not too hard for him to do so that you could find him and fulfill that plan.”

  A smile played over Rose’s face.

  “Let me tell you about a woman in the Bible named Esther. Esther was taken as a slave far from her home in Israel to the pagan kingdom of Babylon. She was beautiful and became, of all the beautiful women in the land, the Queen, the wife of the King. After she had been Queen for a time, a terrible threat to all of her people arose. Every Jew was to be killed by his non-Jewish neighbors on a certain day in a certain month. But because God had placed Esther in the palace, for just that purpose, she was able to speak to the King and save her people.”

  “You may not ever be called on to save your people or nation. You may never do anything bold or dramatic. But if you have God living inside of you, the people in your life will see how God loves them too. In this way you become his instrument just as Esther was, to save someone or ones from being eternally lost.”

  “How important are you to God? He has no one else he can use to do what he has planned for you. Yes, God has brought you here—not just to work hard, raise a crop and a family and grow old, or to fail in spite of your efforts, but to bring the message of real life, life that remains because of Jesus, to the frontiers of America.”

  Several resounding “Amen”s from the congregation took Rose unawares. This too was unusual to her. They stood to their feet now as the minister prayed a benediction, then filed out. The mood was cheerful and friendly as they moved toward the door. Several strangers said “hello” and shook her hand as they passed to the McKennies’ wagon.

  “Mrs. Brownlee! I say, hello there!” Mr. Morton was just arriving in his buggy and jumped down to prevent her from leaving.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morton,” Rose replied coolly. She didn’t know if shouting to a lady was considered good manners in RiverBend, but
it wasn’t where she came from. “You are late if you came for church; we’ve just let out.”

  He laughed unashamedly. “I’m not the church-going type, you can be sure, Mrs. Brownlee, and certainly not the loud, Bible-happy kind like this. No, I’ve other things on my mind on a fair day such as today. Which brings me to why I’m here. You’re alone in town, so this time I purchased a picnic lunch, and came to take you to the river for the afternoon.”

  Rose lifted her eyebrows. “I’m very sorry you went to so much trouble on my account, Mr. Morton, without consulting my plans first. I’m afraid I already have an engagement this afternoon. Do you know Mr. and Mrs. McKennie?”

  By reminding him of their presence he was forced to quit ignoring them. He greeted them civilly but without warmth.

  “Oh, yes. How do you do today?” he turned back to Rose and, taking her elbow, pulled her a few feet away. “I’m certain that they would not object to your postponing with them in light of my preparations.”

  “Oh, but I would, Mr. Morton. It would be very rude of me to cancel after accepting their hospitable invitation. And besides, I am quite looking forward to it.” She smiled calmly.

  “Very well, then. Perhaps another time.” Deservedly embarrassed, he excused himself and Rose rejoined the McKennies.

  All crowded together in the wagon, children laughing and whispering, adults trying to converse, they meandered to the McKennie homestead. The road was familiar to her, as she had gone the same way only yesterday with Mr. Morton. A happy family rode in the wagon, and Rose, charmed by the whole experience, drank deeply of its overflow.

  She held newborn baby Sean part of the way home, delighted by the thick black fuzz covering his tiny head and caressing his miniscule clenched fists. An ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her more than once, but under cover of Fiona’s and Meg’s good-natured dialogue she mastered and put aside the welling tears.

  Brian McKennie drove studiously while chewing a piece of straw and smiling. His contribution to the general melee was an occasional “yis” or “nae, surely” but it sufficed. Rose didn’t think she would ever sort the children out. Try as she did, the three boys between Meg and Martha were interchangeable or identical; she couldn’t decide which.

  When they finally drove into the McKennies’ yard, a large female dog and her two half-grown pups ran out to greet them. Suspicious growls and sniffs met Rose when she stepped out of the wagon, and fearfully she paused.

  “Oh, shame! Get back wi’ ye!” Meg rebuked. The three dogs circled cautiously and relaxed their guard.

  “Bit protective-like but nae a mean bone in them t’ be sure,” Brian apologized. “Better watchdog canna be found. Connie had six pups an’ four are goon t’ families needin’ a good dog. Sure an’ they’re not foine to be lookin’ at, for a fair mix o’ three kin’ o’ hound they be. Now Connie! Come here. Yis, good girl, meet Miss Rose, an’ you an’ yours treat her wi’ respect or I’ll be takin’ t’ switch t’ ye, sure!”

  All three dogs sniffed at Rose’s timidly extended hand. At last satisfied, Connie lost interest and led her gangly pups off.

  Rose sighed. Big dogs frightened her.

  “Now off wi’ ye all,” Brian commanded, and the commotion melted away. On a farm each child had his or her chores to do, Sunday or no Sunday, and Brian McKennie tolerated no slackness. Fiona led Rose inside, put her in a chair by the window to hold the baby, and busied herself with the dinner.

  The whole room fascinated Rose. It was clean and neat as a pin, but its contents were a contradiction. The walls themselves were bare board, well sanded and oiled, but bare board the same.

  Most of the furniture—table, chairs, and cupboards—were homemade and rough. But on shelves over the table and on either side of the stove was one of the loveliest displays of china and plate she had ever seen, each piece scrupulously cleaned and the silver shining. On the table, too, lay as fine a linen cloth as ever laid on her own table at home.

  Then again, the floor was strewn with rag rugs, those colorful creations made by braiding strips of fabric scraps together and sewing the braid into a winding, enlarging circle or oblong. Obviously the McKennies lived off the land and, by Rose’s standards would be considered “poor,” yet they possessed a valuable collection of dishes and linen.

  One by one, the children filed in to dinner. Hands and faces scrubbed, hair combed, they sat down to eat. All was quiet while Brian McKennie prayed in Gaelic before they ate. The meal Fiona passed around that day was plain and simple: strips of beef dredged in seasoned flour and fried, boiled potatoes with gravy, bread, and green beans. There was plenty for everyone to eat their fill. At the end, Fiona brought a plate of steaming scones, a saucer of butter, and a dish of raspberry preserves. Something in the appreciative “ahhs” from the children made Rose believe this treat was in her honor. The flaky, piping-hot pastries melted in her mouth. They certainly disappeared from the platter!

  After dinner, Meg and Martha cleared off the table and set about washing up. Fiona finished nursing the baby and handed him to Brian, then offered her arm to Rose.

  “Would ye be takin’ a walk about t’ place wi’ me, Miss Rose? The grass is still green an’ the breeze is makin’ it a pure pleasure to be outside on such a day.”

  Companionably they wandered about the McKennie homestead. Rose saw baby chicks scurrying among the mother hens, a sow with her seven piglets wallowing in a puddle near their shed, and the two milk cows out in the pasture, one nursing a wondering-eyed calf. Each sight was such a new adventure for Rose that she exclaimed like a child over them. And the prairie was indeed green, beckoning them to wander, wildflowers splashing the distance with color. Brian’s plowed fields took such a small part out of the vastness that Rose considered if it would ever be “used up,” farmed or built up like back east. Proudly, Fiona walked her through the “green garden,” too. Brian’s fields would supply corn for feed and food, wheat, oats, and hay, but Fiona’s plot fed them on good things the year round. Although much wasn’t showing yet to point out, Fiona listed off carrots, turnips, beets, onions, radishes, tomatoes, leaf lettuce, peas, green and dry beans, lima beans, several kinds of squash, pumpkin, and (to the McKennies) the all-important potatoes. A raspberry patch removed to the other side of the yard was their only fruit. Rose was so impressed by Fiona’s knowledge of growing things that her tongue tripped over the questions that tumbled out.

  Fiona laughed at her zeal. “‘Tis sounding like you’re born to love the growin’ of things.”

  “Mrs. McKennie, do you think I could learn to garden like this? I mean vegetables and food things. I know about flowers, for we had a fine gardener at home, and I learned to cultivate beautiful roses, but I mean do you think I could plant and care for a garden like this?”

  Fiona looked skeptically at Rose’s lovely clothes and soft hands. Carefully she replied, “‘tis sure I am you could be learnin’ how, but ’tis mean, hard workin’ and not fit for a lady’s hands, I’m thinkin’. An’ hot! Yis, in summer th’ sun is wiltin’ th’ greens fast as ye can water them. So, bein’ considerin’ of your fair skin, it moight not be t’ thing for ye. An’ I’m thinkin’ ye have naught to do so.”

  “But . . . if I put my mind to it, and not thinking of my hands, do you think I could learn?”

  Somehow Fiona couldn’t resist the earnestness in Rose’s question, so responded rather placatingly, “To be sure, to be sure. One can be learnin’ onything if ’tis fittin’ one’s purpose.”

  Back at the house Meg had carefully laid out tea. Some of the delicate things from the shelves on the wall were used including a magnificent silver teapot and china tea service. Rose complimented Fiona over and over and examined the teacup at her place with care.

  “Mrs. McKennie, this is about the finest china I have ever seen. Such art it took to make it—and it’s very old, isn’t it?”

  “Yis,” Fiona replied proudly. “These are bein’ me dowry, an’ me mother’s before me an’ hers before
her, for about one hundred year, I’m thinkin’. We buried every piece in good Irish peat when we come to America. Not one piece broken nor lost, neither. That an’ t’ linens and napkins I saved up for me weddin’ when just a girl. To be sure, ’tis also bein’ Meg’s one day.”

  Meg blushed becomingly as she said this but tossed her auburn head and answered saucily,

  “An’ not for a long while yet, Mother. First I’ll be finishin’ school, an’ God willin’, goin’ to teacher’s college, for I mean to teach an’ ye know well.”

  “Is that why you work in town all week, Meg?” Rose inquired with interest.

  Meg suddenly turned shy again, but ducked her head. “Yes.”

  “That’s very admirable, Meg,” Rose insisted. “And I believe you will make a fine teacher. Teachers are needed, especially out here in the west, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, yes!” Meg burst out. “Why, they are needin’ at least one new teacher for our three schools every year. Either one is longin’ to go back to her home and family or the maiden teachers are findin’ husbands an’ are marryin’ an’ no longer wantin’ to teach. I am goin’ to teach a long time though. For it’s makin’ good, cash money I can be doin’.”

  “An’ that is all foine an’ good—if your heart is not lovin’ the money,” Fiona said meaningfully.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Meg was chastened.

  The four ladies, for little Martha begged to be included, had their tea, and as the time for Meg and Rose to go back to town grew near, Brian called the family together and brought the big Bible from their bedroom.

  First they prayed. Brian spoke at some length, remembering each one in the room and including “Miss Rose, Father, that ye be givin’ her of your peace an’ t’ joy of salvation an’ she be blessed in her travels.” Then each one in the circle lifted their personal thanks and requests. Rose nearly panicked as she realized she was expected to pray, too.

  When her turn came she stammered, “Lord, I thank you for today; I’ve had a precious day. And I thank you for leading me—please let me know what you wish me to do. Amen.”