Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why . . . why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re . . . you’re incredible. And because I had things to say. Things people should hear. Things I wanted people to know. I needed to give voice to my feelings. I couldn’t keep them inside any longer. And why should I? You’re sort of my hero. And you wanted a story. I would say I gave you one, but the truth is . . . you are the story, Lucy. All I did was tell it.”

  “What . . . what are you talking about?” she said, shaking her head, eyes beginning to shimmer.

  “I told you,” I said, tapping the book.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not right.” Tears started to fall down her cheeks. She turned to Nigel and Mr. Schubert. “That’s not right,” she said. “He’s the hero.” She pointed to me. “Him! I can only read because he took the time to teach me! He taught me my first words! I am who I am today because of him!” She turned back to face me. “What are you doing, Sam?”

  “Lucy, you don’t understand. Not a whit. How can I make you understand?” I pulled her to me, and she latched on. We held each other like we might both disappear.

  There was a long silence at the table. Nigel and Mr. Schubert spoke quietly among themselves. Eventually, we got back to the matter of business. Mr. Schubert slid a contract across the table. He welcomed me to take it home, read over it, have a lawyer read through it, whatever I was comfortable with, and send it back to him.

  Later that night, we tucked our children into bed, and I tried once again to explain why I’d written the book. I still didn’t think she understood, so I had her read the copy Mr. Schubert had left with me. A few pages here, a few pages there.

  I didn’t know how long I should wait before going to her. Should I try to touch her . . . hold her . . . or just try to apologize? I didn’t know. I just didn’t know!

  She abruptly turned toward me. Tears tracked her cheeks. I stood, an apology clanging around inside me. She looked wrecked. Utterly wrecked.

  “Lucy,” I said.

  “I know you love me,” she said. “I know.” Her chin quivered. “But the breadth of your love . . .” She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. “You—you didn’t have to do this.”

  I took a step toward her. “Do what?”

  She shook her head. “You made me sound so . . . so . . .”

  “Precious?”

  Her chest heaved a sigh. “Yes.”

  Another step closer. “You are precious. Is it wrong I wanted everyone to know what they were missing?”

  “You love me,” she said.

  “I do,” I answered.

  “Not everyone will see me through your eyes.”

  “As long as they see you now, then I’ll count that as a win.”

  “It doesn’t matter what others think, Sam.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because people need to know they were wrong. They need to know that treating people badly for something they have no control over is wrong. They need to know that there is more than one way to be a monster! I’m going to get it through their heads if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Lucy’s lips quirked up into a smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I love you too. I always have. I always will. And you didn’t have to do this.”

  “I did. Hopefully, those who read it, they’ll understand why I had to write it. Even if you do not.” I gathered her into my arms and kissed her. I closed my eyes, smelled her skin, and thanked God above for bringing her into my life. And I prayed all over again that people would understand why I had written a book honoring Lucy. And the only way to truly honor her was by starting from the beginning . . . when we’d first met.

  When I was only eight years old . . .

  People often ask me if I became a pastor because of my father.

  “Following in your father’s footsteps, eh?” they’d say.

  I’d smile, letting them believe what they wanted. Indeed, he played a big part in shaping the man I grew to be. But no, he was not why I became a pastor. Becoming a minister of God is a calling. A divine calling. It’s a stirring in your soul, it’s a whisper in the wind. It is the Breath of God across your face. And you either respond to it, or you do not.

  Though, I do harken back to the day Papa took me shopping for new clothes and the day we had the talk about poems and poets. About ‘thing makers’ and ‘things made.’ And I realized that God was a poet, the first ‘Thing Maker’ and we were his creation, his beautiful ‘things made.’ And how we often approach each other much like I had often approached poetry—putting them in boxes, assuming they must all be a certain way. You see, Papa had taught me how to approach poetry and how to read it, which was a wonderful tool once I realized we were all poems in God’s eyes. And no poem had ever been more beautiful than Lucy Hallison in mine. Her quiet strength, her raw beauty, her enchanting wit, and her unfailing kindness, had taught me about love, about sacrifice, about courage. Learning to read her has been my greatest success.

  I may hold the title of Reverend now. But Lucy Hallison Burke is the one truly deserving of the title. She’s the one deserving of true reverence.

  And that is why I told this story.

  Ah . . . and there’s a knock at my door. My beautiful Reverend of Silence has come to see me to bed. The timing is indeed fortuitous, and yet, it feels rather predetermined. Don’t you think? Although, when it comes to Lucy and me, I feel as though we were written in the stars.

  Thank you to all who stayed with me to the end and endeavored to hear my story—her story—our story. I pray that means you have listened. Really listened. With your hearts—with your souls. Lucy has a way of touching them. Or perhaps, it’s just mine she has a way with. Either way, I thank you all the same.

  Good night, my friends. I pray you all may be blessed with peace, love, and kindness. May you have it, and may you always give it.

  Reverend of Silence

  Author, Samuel J. Burke

  Read other books by Pamela Sparkman

  I’ll repeat Sam’s words and thank everyone who stayed to the end.

  Before I even began writing this story, I did a lot of research. I knew nothing about how deaf people were treated throughout history until I started my explorations. I dug deep into history, and the things I discovered were shocking, and quite frankly, heartbreaking. I knew this story needed—no—had to be written. But it didn’t begin with my research. It began when a little boy kept creeping on the edges of my mind, dressed in period clothing, all so eager to tell me something important. Finally, I stopped, listened, and the rest, as they say, is history. That was how this story was born. A shadow in my mind’s eye and a whisper in my soul.

  That was when my research began, and eventually, I turned my focus toward the first American school for the Deaf. I must thank Christie Parker, my dearest friend, for gifting me The Cogswell Letters, A Collection of Cogswell Family Letters and Diaries, 1772-1830 Father and Daughter to help with my research. I wouldn’t have learned what I did without this precious book. This was a collection of letters donated to the Library of Yale University, which I also acknowledge and give my thanks to. I read it cover to cover. It was a fascinating read in which I learned so much.

  Dr. Mason Fitch Cogswell lobbied tirelessly for this school. Father to a deaf child, he believed all deaf persons could and should be educated. He fought to bring The American Asylum at Hartford for the Deaf into existence. I briefly explained this in Reverend of Silence, but it bears repeating. Dr. Mason Cogswell knew about the success of sign language in Europe, having heard about it, and he asked Thomas Gallaudet to travel abroad to learn the methods of sign language. I’m summarizing heavily here, but Gallaudet brought back Laurent Clerc, a deaf educator who taught at the Institution Nationale des Sourds-Muets in Paris, because there was too much to learn and he simply couldn’t stay in France any longer. Together, Clerc and Gallaudet are responsible for creat
ing what we now know as ASL (American Sign Language) which is sort of a mashup between the French sign language Clerc brought back, and the home signs the students they taught already knew.

  Lucy, Sam, Noah, and their parents were all fictional, but Alice Cogswell, Thomas Gallaudet, Laurent Clerc, and Lydia Huntley were real people. I loved learning about them, and I wanted to also tell a bit of their story. Any mistakes or embellishments were well intentioned. This was certainly a blend of fact and fiction. My intent was to highlight their place in history and shine a spotlight on them while I also crafted a fictional story around them.

  This was a story inspired in many, many ways. Some I can’t possibly even tell you about. But what I can tell you is how deeply I have been changed by it. Moved by it. I hope that you also have.

  I think Sam would love that.

  Having said that, I couldn’t have gotten through this writing process without the aid of these lovely ladies: Christie Parker with Smokin’ Hot Book Blog. You helped me early in my research. You are always willing and ready to help assist me with whatever I need—whether that be beta reading chapters, helping with research, making beautiful graphics, or just lending an ear when I need to work out a plot point. You’re always there for me and I love you dearly. Thank you! Your friendship means more to me than you will ever know. Melyssa Winchester. Thank you for always having my back, for reading each chapter and leaving encouraging remarks—sometimes making me laugh out loud. You are a gem and I couldn’t imagine getting through writing a novel without you. You are a treasure and I love you. Astrid Heinisch with The Bookish Sweet Tooth. Thank you for your friendship most of all, but also for your keen eyes and your attention to detail. I appreciate all the ways you helped me along the way. To Trisha Rai. Thank you for being the sweet person you are. The world needs more sweet people like you in it. And thank you for all your encouraging words. You are an angel and I need you in my life. Sharon Hanson. Thank you for your enthusiasm and for loving this story. You made me love it even more than I already did. Thank you for that. And thank you for being such a good friend to me. Anne Woodall. Thank you so much for all your words! Everything you said, I have held closely and cherished. I very much appreciate and treasure you. I know at this point, I sound like a broken record because I’ve said all this to you before, but it’s true. You are a treasure and I am so lucky to call you friend.

  To my editor, Claudette and E.M. Tippetts Book Designs. Thank you for making my novel as polished and as beautiful as it can be.

  Finally, thank you to my family for never complaining about how I spend too much time writing. Your support and faith in me are everything. Thank you for loving me. I love you all right back.

  Pamela Sparkman is an award-winning author of the historical fiction novel, Back to Yesterday. Growing up in Alabama, she became an avid reader at a young age. The written word has always fascinated her, writing her first short story while still in elementary school. Inspiration for her stories usually begins with a song. She believes music is the pulse of life and books are the heart of it. When she isn’t writing, however, she’s spending time with her family and taking one day at a time.

  To find out more about Pamela, visit her at the links below.

  Website:

  http://www.authorpamelasparkman.com/

  Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/pamelasparkmanauthor

  Goodreads:

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7761886.Pamela_Sparkman

  Instagram:

  https://www.instagram.com/pamelasparkman/

  Copyright © 2019 Pamela Sparkman

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by The Editing Sweetheart

  Cover Design by Hart & Bailey Design Company

  Interior design and formatting by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the express written permission of the author.