A Woman Named Damaris Read online

  A Woman Named Damaris

  Books by Janette Oke

  Return to Harmony • Another Homecoming

  Tomorrow’s Dream

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame

  The Damascus Way

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart • When Comes the Spring

  When Breaks the Dawn • When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly • Love’s Enduring Promise

  Love’s Long Journey • Love’s Abiding Joy

  Love’s Unending Legacy • Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love Takes Wing • Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years • A Searching Heart

  A Quiet Strength • Like Gold Refined

  SEASONS OF THE HEART

  Once Upon a Summer • The Winds of Autumn

  Winter Is Not Forever • Spring’s Gentle Promise

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore • The Birthright

  The Distant Beacon • The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans • Julia’s Last Hope

  Roses for Mama • A Woman Named Damaris

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc • The Measure of a Heart

  A Bride for Donnigan • Heart of the Wilderness

  Too Long a Stranger • The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  A Gown of Spanish Lace • Drums of Change

  www.janetteoke.com

  * with Davis Bunn

  © 1991 by Janette Oke

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8728-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  To Josue and Judith,

  my Compassion kids.

  May God bless your lives and help you

  to be all He wants you to be.

  ———

  I began supporting Josue when he was quite young. He is now sixteen and a fine-looking young man. He lives in Mexico with his family and enjoys sports—especially soccer. He writes me short notes and draws me pictures. It has been interesting to share his growing up.

  I met Judith when I traveled with Compassion to Haiti in January 1989. We visited some of the schools where Compassion children were scattered among the students.

  The Haitian children were so open and loving, running to us to say hello, shake our hand, or to get a hug. I wondered how they could smile when they showed how hungry they were, lifting their simple shirts and showing us gaunt tummies. It was so sad. In that extremely needy country it was wonderful to see Compassion-sponsored children receiving schooling, health care, a daily meal, and most of all, the opportunity to hear about our Lord Jesus.

  But there are not enough funds to meet all the needs. Many children are still without sponsorship.

  Judith was one of the needy children. She lived with her widowed grandmother, her mother having gone to Port au Prince in hope of finding some kind of work. Compassion decided to take on the care of Judith, and I was given the opportunity to provide her support.

  Judith was shy—but sweet. We could not communicate with words, but I will never forget the little arm that wrapped around me. I fell in love with her then and hope that one day I will have the privilege of visiting her again.

  Helping children through Compassion is a wonderful opportunity to share love. It amazes me that the organization is able to do so much with so little. Having seen the many other children in Haiti who have no such support, no proper meal to fill hungry tummies, no medical care when they are ill, no education to help them through life, no chance to hear the Gospel that will free them from the terrible fear of voodoo worship, I thank God that there are Compassion people who really care and give their lives to reaching out.

  I am also thankful to be a small part of such a rewarding program. A few dollars makes it possible to turn a life around. I also have the privilege of remembering my children in prayer and communicating through letters. Compassion sends pictures and keeps me well informed of their welfare and growth.

  God bless your work, Compassion!

  Should you have an interest in being a part of the wonderful family of Compassion, you may write to them for information at one of the following addresses:

  Compassion International

  3955 Cragwood Dr., Dept. A

  PO Box 7000

  Colorado Springs, CO

  80933-0001

  Compassion of Canada

  Box 5591

  London, Ontario

  N6A 9Z9

  I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastoring churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written forty-eight novels for adults and another sixteen for children, and her book sales total nearly thirty million copies.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their fifteen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.

  Contents

  1. Damaris

  2. A Daring Idea

  3. Travel

  4. Town

  5. An Opportunity

  6. On the Trail

  7. Disappointment

  8. In Camp

  9. Traveling On

  10. A New Life Begins

  11. Miss Dover

  12. The Book

  13. Confusion

  14. Time

  15. A Dinner Guest

  16. Christmas Day

  17. The Name

  18. The Truth

  19. Scars

  20. Fires of Rage

  21. Changes

  22. The Children

  23. Home

  24. Family

  Chapter One

  Damaris

  “Damaris! Damaris!”

  Damaris Withers shrank back against the hard boards of the attic wall that supported her back. Pa was home, and she knew by his voice that he had been drinking. She wondered where he had found the money. She wished there was no such thing as money. It brought nothing but woe to the household.

  “Damaris!” the man hollered again. “Where is thet girl?” he demanded, a nasty string of profanity following his second outburst.

  Damaris shivered. She knew her pa would never find her in her attic retreat, but she never considered staying there. If she didn’t go when called, things would not go well for her mother. Her pa would become angry and abusive. If she hurried, he might do no more than lash out with words, but if he became angry…The thought made Damaris shiver ag
ain.

  She laid aside her book, worn from reading, and crawled from her hiding place. Silently she lowered herself to the beat-up chest that stood against the wall in her room and quietly replaced the trapdoor leading up to her hiding place. Then she stepped carefully onto the sagging cot that was her bed and down to the rag rug that covered the broken floorboard beside it. She slipped her feet into worn shoes, brushed at her mended dress to get rid of any cobwebs, and hastened toward the creaking stairs.

  “Here I am,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from trembling.

  Her father had settled himself in a chair by the table. One glance told Damaris that he had spent a good deal of his afternoon at the saloon. Fear gripped at her, but then a thought flashed through her mind. If he’s had plenty to drink, then maybe—maybe he will soon take to bed and leave Mama and me alone.

  “Get in here, girl!” roared her father. “Give yer poor ma a hand. Don’t ya care a’tall thet she’s got all the work to do?”

  The man shook his head and began to curse again. “No respect a’tall,” he ended his tirade.

  “Yes, Pa,” Damaris whispered.

  No point telling him that already she had drawn water from the deep well for the two cows. That she had hoed the garden in the hot morning sun. That she had walked into town with the eggs and traded them for salt and flour. That she had chopped the wood for the fire and hauled the water to replenish the kitchen buckets. Or that Mama herself had given her permission to rest a few moments. All Damaris said was “Yes, Pa,” as she moved forward to appease her irate father. To answer back or fail to show proper respect would get her the back of his hand at best or a thrashing if he felt so inclined.

  He sat at the table mumbling his complaints and curses as Damaris and her mother scurried about the kitchen preparing him a hot meal. They did not dare speak. They did not even raise their eyes to each other. Nor did they look at the man slumped at the table. Damaris did not need to look. She had played this scene before—many times—whenever there was money from somewhere. She hated money. Hated what it did to her pa. Hated what it did to her mama. And she hated the fear coursing through her now, shriveling her body into a quaking, trembling mass.

  “What’s takin’ ya so long?” her pa demanded, his words slurred and angry. “When a man gets home his supper oughta be waitin’ fer ’im.”

  More angry words followed but Damaris tuned them out. She held the chipped plate for her mother to fill with pancakes and fried salted pork and hastened to the table to place it before her father.

  “Where’s the coffee?” he bellowed. Damaris returned quickly to the stove, hoping there had been time for the coffee to boil. There hadn’t.

  Her pa hated coffee that wasn’t steaming. He also hated to wait. Which offense would be the most annoying on this night? Damaris glanced at her pa, hoping to be able to guess. One hand held the fork that shoveled the food to his mouth, the other shifted restlessly on the table. Damaris decided to risk the coffee—now. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice that it was less than boiling. She poured a cup and hastened back to the table, then went for the sugar bowl. She held her breath as she entered the small cubicle that served as a pantry. Would he be angry? She glanced over her shoulder to see which objects from the table she might have to dodge if her father’s anger turned violent.

  He hadn’t waited for the sugar. Lifting the cup to his lips, he took a drink. Immediately he turned, leaned from his chair, and spat the coffee onto the floor beside him.

  “Tastes like slop,” he said, accusing eyes glaring at Damaris. He turned his cup upside down and emptied the remainder of its contents onto the floor. But he did not throw the cup. For that Damaris was thankful.

  “Bring me another one—hot—an’ put some sugar in it!” he roared.

  Damaris moved quickly to comply. The coffee was now boiling. Perhaps she had been lucky. The bit of stall had resulted in hot coffee, and her pa had remained reasonably controlled.

  But her pa never drank the coffee. The hand that held the fork was slowly losing its grip, and a glaze started to cover the man’s eyes. Damaris dared to glance at her mama. The man at the table would soon pass out, and it would be up to the two of them to get his dead weight from the kitchen floor to his bed. They had struggled with the weight of the big man many times. Damaris hated this part of the ordeal.

  Slowly, the man slumped over the table. Damaris didn’t know whether to step forward and risk holding him in his chair before he was totally unconscious, or to stand by and let him slide completely to the floor. It was always so much harder to lift him up after he had fallen. She raised her eyes to her mama and the woman nodded feebly. Damaris stepped forward and placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders, holding him against the back of his seat.

  “I’ll take his arms,” she said softly to her mama in a remarkably controlled voice.

  The slight woman moved forward, tugged off the man’s heavy boots, tossed them aside, and lifted his legs.

  Together they heaved and hoisted until they got him into the bedroom and finally managed to slide him onto his bed. Then they tossed the covers over the bulky frame.

  Without a word they left the room and returned to the kitchen. Damaris pulled a rag from the scrub bucket and fell to her knees to wipe up the floor while her mama cleared the table.

  Damaris glanced at the woman. Beads of perspiration still stood on her forehead, a reminder of the hard task of bedding her pa. She looked old for her thirty-four years. Old and tired. Yet Damaris knew from a picture tucked inside the little box in her mama’s drawer that she had been young and attractive not many years before. Damaris thought she heard a deep sigh as the older woman placed the dirty plate in the dishpan on the stove.

  “It’s a shame to waste good coffee,” her mama said quietly. “Want a cup?”

  The coffee—when they had it—was kept for her pa or for the family’s occasional guest. Damaris had tasted coffee only once before in her life. To be offered a cup now surprised her, but she nodded in assent, feeling a strange sensation of excitement. There slept her father, while she and her mama drank his coffee. Damaris stifled her impulse to giggle and went to wash her hands.

  “Too bad we don’t have some cake—or something,” her mama said.

  Damaris nodded again, the light leaping to her eyes.

  She sipped her coffee, wondering why people made such a fuss about the bitter-tasting beverage. But Damaris would never have voiced such a negative opinion at that moment. She was set to savor every drop of the forbidden liquid.

  “I like it much better with cream,” her mama admitted. “Been so long since I had a cup—I’d most forgotten how it tastes.”

  Damaris took another sip. It was beginning to taste better. Perhaps because it was such a pleasure for the two of them to be sitting serenely at the table, completely composed and relaxed, knowing that it would be hours before her pa could be of any threat to them again.

  “Were you reading?” her mama asked.

  Damaris nodded, seeing in her mama’s eyes complete understanding. She wondered how her mama knew, how they could communicate so completely with so few words.

  “Wish we had some new books for you. You must have those few ‘most worn out.”

  Damaris nodded again, but then hurried to add, “I don’t mind. I always enjoy reading them again.”

  But deep in her heart, Damaris knew she would give almost anything to have some new books.

  They sipped in silence for a few more minutes, then Mrs. Withers spoke again.

  “You have pretty eyes,” she said.

  Damaris was not used to compliments—not even from her mama. She didn’t know how to respond.

  Her mama went on, “They are just like my papa’s. He had dark brown eyes, too, you know. I took after Mama. My eyes are gray. I was always disappointed about that. Wanted dark eyes like my pa.”

  Damaris let her mama’s words slide slowly past her. She had never given much thought to eyes. She supposed t
hat gray ones could look out upon the world just as good as brown ones.

  “One hasn’t much choice about eyes, I guess,” the woman mused aloud. “Shouldn’t even waste time thinkin’ ’bout it.” She stirred her coffee, her thoughts seeming to go on; then she took a deep breath and said, “One should be more concerned with things thet can be changed. Who we are—what we become—and how our lives affect others.”

  Damaris looked directly at her mama. The thin, pale woman sitting opposite her had slightly graying hair that was pushed haphazardly in a bun at the base of her neck. It had become dislodged in the struggle with her pa and several strands of shorter hair curled in wisps against her shallow cheeks. The longer strands had been tucked recklessly behind her ears. For the first time in her young life, Damaris wondered who her mama really was, and who she had been before she met and married her pa. Would life have been different if she had married someone else? Never married at all?

  Damaris had never thought to ask such questions. She had accepted their life together as the way things were. Now she found herself wondering if there were alternatives. Could life have been different? For Mama? Even for her?

  Her mama stirred in her chair. Damaris again lifted her eyes to look at her. For one brief moment the brown eyes met the gray and Damaris fancied that she saw something she had never seen before. She wasn’t sure what it was or what it meant so she let her glance slip away.

  “I have something I want you to have,” the woman said. She rose quickly from the chair and left the room. She was gone for some time, and Damaris began wondering where she’d had to go to retrieve whatever it was she was after.

  When she returned, her hair was even more dishevelled and bore bits of barn straw.

  “I had it hid in the barn,” she whispered. Damaris felt her eyes go toward the room where the man breathed heavily in his sleep.

  Mrs. Withers produced a small piece of faded cloth tied tightly into a bundle. Damaris watched, her curiosity growing as her mama fumbled with the knots.

  “Bring me my sewin’ shears,” the woman instructed, and Damaris crossed to the corner where the small basket of mending supplies was kept and returned almost on tiptoe.