The Preacher's Bride

Billy Joe had drifted to a position in between Gil and his mother.

Gil took a deep breath. “Billy Joe, I need you to be brave,” he said. “Your father is dead. He was killed in a fight between himself and another prisoner,” he said.

Billy Joe had already been pale with worry, but now the color drained from his face. Gil rose and put a bracing hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was only about twelve, Gil knew, but at this moment he looked much younger.

“I’m very sorry, Billy Joe,” Gil said. “You’ll need to be strong, for your mother will need you to be the man of the house now.”

Billy broke away from Gil then, his face growing red as the tears flooded his cheeks. “I’m not sorry!” he cried. “My pa was mean to me an’ Ma every day a’ his life. We was gonna hafta leave town, and now we don’t need to! We can stay here, Ma!” He knelt by the couch and buried his face in his mother’s skirts, crying just as she had been.

Daisy Henderson stroked her son’s rumpled hair as she raised her tearstained face to Gil. “That’s why I’m cryin’, too, Reverend,” she admitted. “I’m feelin’ guilty ’cause I should be grievin’, but what I mostly feel is relief.”

“No one could blame you for feeling that way, Mrs. Henderson,” he said. “In time, perhaps, you will be able to remember your husband’s better qualities, the good times...” He wondered if the brutality the dead man had exhibited had erased all that from her memory. Surely there had been a time when Henderson had cherished his wife?

She shrugged. “Maybe someday,” she said. “But right now his body’s at the undertaker’s, waitin’ to be buried. Might you have some time to say some words over him tomorrow? I’ll have to borrow some widow’s weeds, too, I expect, just to be proper.”

There was a defiant glint in her eyes that hinted she secretly wanted to put on her Sunday best and celebrate her unexpected freedom.

“I’ll be happy to say some words at the graveside,” he assured her. “And again, I expect folks will understand if you choose not to wear mourning very long. It’s only natural that you’re experiencing a lot of conflicting feelings, Mrs. Henderson, under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to pay for his buryin’, Reverend,” she said bitterly. “I’ve been taking in washing, but... He left me with next to nothing, you know.”

Gil did know about her financial situation from conversations with his father. The church’s Fund for the Deserving Poor had been helping the mother and son keep food on the table even before this. “Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Henderson. I’m sure the church can help you with that. Would you like me to have a word with the undertaker?”

She rose, gathering her dignity around her like a shawl with many rips and holes in it. “I’d be much obliged, Reverend. Thank you for coming—and not judging me.”

“The Lord understands what you’re feeling, too, Mrs. Henderson,” he assured her.

He was conducting his first wedding on Saturday, and tomorrow he would conduct his first funeral, Gil mused as he walked back down High Street from the Hendersons’ house. How he wished he could get advice from his father on what to say over a grave when the widow felt—understandably—more reprieved than bereaved. He could tell his father, but his father could only stare back at him, his eyes full of answers he couldn’t express. He would have to pray for wisdom and trust that the right words would come to his mouth.

He wondered what Faith would say. Of course he couldn’t divulge what Daisy Henderson had confided in him, but like most of the town, she’d known about Henderson’s brutal character.

He wondered if his father had confided the things he knew about the townspeople to Gil’s mother, secure in the knowledge that his wife wouldn’t gossip. Had his mother had insights about people that she’d shared with his father? His mother had been gone for years, but he remembered her as a very wise lady. Surely his father had shared his concerns with her. Being a pastor would be a lonely business, indeed, without a helpmate.

Not for the first time, Gil thought about how much he needed a wife himself. Immediately Faith’s face appeared in his mind. Is she the one, Lord, or is it just my wishful thinking? I want to act according to Your will. I don’t want to make a mistake again, like I did before, a mistake that could make me unfit to serve You.

But the image of Faith continued to burn itself across his brain. He could imagine telling her all about what had happened today, and all his days. About his doubts and his fears. He would never need to fear that she would be indiscreet with what he confided to her. The words of the Book of Proverbs came to him: “The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.”

Faith Chadwick. It had a good ring to it.

Chapter Five

Faith was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink when Gil returned to the parsonage from the undertaker’s.

“Is everything all right?” Faith asked, after reporting that his father was dozing again. “I mean...if it’s all right for me to ask, that is?” she added quickly.

There was certainly no reason not to tell her the news, even if he couldn’t tell her all of it.

After he told her about the death of Mrs. Henderson’s husband, Faith’s lovely green eyes were troubled. “That poor woman, and poor Billy Joe,” she murmured. “Perhaps in time she’ll see it as a blessing in disguise...”

He didn’t tell her that Mrs. Henderson already did. “The burial will be tomorrow morning,” he said.

Faith looked thoughtful. “There probably won’t be any other people there, will there? Caroline will be with your father tomorrow, but I could stay here during the funeral, so she could attend—she and Billy Joe were close, you know, because she was his teacher. It would be a comfort to him. And I’ll tell the spinsters and others about it, so they’ll come, too, and Mrs. Henderson won’t feel alone...”

He was touched by the way her compassion immediately moved her to help in a practical way. “That would be very kind.”

“And perhaps you could take her some of the food the townspeople have brought by for you and your father? They’ve brought more, even after I put away the bounty of this morning. I found this on the doorstep while you were gone,” she said, pointing to another already-plucked chicken, a cake and a pie. “It’s more than any two people could eat all week, especially when one of them isn’t up to taking solid food yet. Which reminds me, Dr. Walker stopped by and said we could try giving him some soft food very slowly at supper tonight.”

“Sure, I can take Mrs. Henderson some of the food,” Gil said. “It’s good that you thought of it. And you don’t have to prepare supper—I can see to it,” he said. “It’s all right if you want to go home.” He could remember his mother being just such an energetic individual, with the members of the congregation being as much her concern as his father’s.

“It’s already cooking,” she said, lifting the lid of a pot on the stove and a savory aroma filled the air. Unless his nose misled him, beef stew simmered within. “Besides, I want to be here when the reverend first tries swallowing soft food. I think he should try applesauce to begin with—Dr. Walker said to make sure it was watered down at first, so it was more like a thick liquid than solid food—until we’re sure he can swallow well.”

So that his father wouldn’t choke. Gil sighed. His father was going to have to learn to eat all over again, as if he were a baby. Gil said a quick prayer for patience, both for his father and himself—and one of thankfulness for Faith’s nursing ability.

“I thought once you came home, we could get him up in the wheelchair for a little while,” Faith went on. “The doctor says the more he’s up, the better, but he won’t be able to tolerate being out of bed very long at first.”

“All right, let’s try it now,” he said, gesturing in the direction of his father’s room. Minutes later, when they had lifted the frail old man into the wheelchair and wheeled him out into the sunshine-lit parlor, the look in his father’s eyes was all the reward any son could have asked.

Later that evening, Gil told his father the whole story about Henderson’s death, including the parts he couldn’t tell Faith. His father listened attentively, and Gil found it helpful to speak his thoughts aloud, even though his father couldn’t advise him.

“Mrs. Henderson and her son need our prayers as well as any help we can give them, Papa,” he said. “But of course you knew that as soon as I told you what had happened.”

His father nodded.

Gil sighed. “Papa, I can’t help thinking how sad it must be to live one’s life, and have the person who should be closest to you only feel relief that you’re gone,” he murmured. “I’d like to think someone would miss me when I die.”

His father nodded again, and jerked a shaky finger at the daguerreotype portrait of him and his wife which sat on the top of a bookcase.

“I know you miss Mama,” Gil said. “I miss her, too.”

His father then pointed at the thin gold band he wore, the ring that had once been his wife’s, but now fit his thin, gnarled finger. Then he pointed directly at Gil. He mumbled something unintelligible, then looked exasperated at himself.

Was he asking Gil what Gil thought he was asking? “Are you saying I need a wife, Papa?”

The old man nodded emphatically and repeatedly, then turned his left palm upward while shrugging the same shoulder, as if he was asking what Gil thought.

Gil was pleased that he had judged correctly, and that his father had guessed what had been so much on his mind of late. “Yes, I’ve been doing some thinking about that very thing, Papa,” he said, grinning. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

His father shrugged, but there was a distinct gleam in his eyes.

Gil knew his father probably wouldn’t have told him, even before his stroke. He’d always encouraged Gil to make his own decisions—with the Lord’s direction, of course. If only he’d always included prayer in his decision making...

“You’re not being much help, Papa,” he said, letting his father see that he was teasing. But then he gathered himself to ask a daring question. “What do you think of Faith Bennett?” He found himself holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

His father’s gaze went to the ceiling, as if to indicate he was thinking about it. Then he looked back at Gil, held out the hand that hadn’t been affected by the stroke and pointed his thumb up.

He approved! Gil felt a surge of encouragement. “So you think that’s a good idea, Papa?” he asked in confirmation.

His father took hold of the hand he couldn’t move with his good hand, and held up the hands, clasped together.