Spring's Gentle Promise Page 3

  Jon nodded his head, his eyes thoughtful. “I guess it was peas,” he said somberly, and I had to hide my smile.

  “Then I brought in the clothes for Auntie Mary,” he began, but ended with a shrug of his small shoulders. “But she hada take ’em back agin. They wasn’t dry yet.” Then Jon added quickly as though with great relief, “But Auntie Mary din’t scold me. Jest took the clothes and hung some back up an’—” His eyes lowered and then lifted again to mine. He finished with a grin that told me everything was all right. “An’ washed some of ’em agin an’ then hung them back up, too.”

  Poor Mary. She had enough work without re-doing the wash.

  “Here comes Aunt Mary now!” Jon excitedly pointed toward the farm buildings.

  He was right. Mary and Sarah were coming our way.

  “We brought you something, Uncle Josh,” Sarah called before they reached us.

  I looked at the small container in Sarah’s hands and then to Mary. Both young ladies seemed pleased with themselves.

  “Do I have to guess?” I asked Sarah.

  Puffing, she reached the spot where Jon and I still sat on the ground.

  “It’s a drink,” she said proudly.

  “A drink? That’s nice. But Jon here”—I ruffled the boy’s hair again—“he already beat you to it. But I guess another drink would—”

  But I stopped. The mention of the drink brought to me by young Jon had made Mary’s face blanch, her hand went to her mouth and she stood staring down at the red pail.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked Mary, but it was Sarah who answered the question for me, though in a rather roundabout fashion.

  “In that?” she squealed, pointing her finger at the red pail in the grass. Before I could even answer her she went on, “Jon was botherin’ Grandpa in the garden—hoeing up things— so Grandpa gave him that pail and sent him to water the flowers.”

  That didn’t sound so bad. I didn’t mind sharing water with the flowers. But Mary’s face was still pale and she hadn’t said one word except for a gaspy little, “Oh, Joshua.”

  “But,” went on Sarah, “Jon was dipping water from the stock trough!”

  For a moment my stomach rebelled. I even thought I might be sick. The thought of the horses and cattle slurping and snorting in my drinking water made my insides heave. I looked up at Mary’s white face and agonized expression. And then the whole thing struck me funny, and I pulled Jon closer into my arms, rolled over in the grass and began to tickle him and laugh. Not just little chuckles, but outright guffaws. Mary’s color returned to normal, and I saw she was trying to hide a snicker behind her hand. Then she looked at Jon and me tumbling on the grass together and began to laugh right along with me. Now my stomach hurt from laughter.

  When we finally got ourselves under control, we all sat down on the ground together and shared the cool lemonade Mary and Sarah had brought.

  “I guess if I can drink with the cows and horses, I can use the same cup as family,” I said and began to laugh again.

  “We have cookies, too,” Sarah informed me importantly. I think she was trying to get me to settle down. She didn’t seem to understand why I thought my drink from the stock trough was so funny. I tried to respond properly to Sarah’s announcement.

  “Cookies? What kind? Where did you find cookies?”

  “They’re sugar cookies and I made ’em—myself.” And then she quickly corrected her statement. “Auntie Mary and me made ’em.”

  “Can I have one? Can I have one, Sarah?” Jon was asking. Sure enough, there were some for all of us.

  I guess the lemonade and the sugar cookies had a settling effect on my stomach. At any rate, I suffered no ill effects from drinking water out of the stock trough, though I did determine that in the future I would carefully check any food or drink offered me from the hand of my young nephew.

  CHAPTER 4

  Summer

  THINGS SETTLED DOWN AGAIN after Sarah and Jon went off to their home. I think even Mary was glad for the peace and quiet, though she never admitted it. She had much to do, with the garden now in full swing. Her hands never seemed to be empty nor her body still.

  The summer was busy for me as well. There was haying, the war with farm weeds, the continual care of the stock and fences; and before we could scarcely turn around, the summer would be drawing to an end.

  I was glad for Sundays. It was the one day of the week that, with a clear conscience and no guilty feelings, one could actually take a bit of a break. It was good to be driving into town for the church service—though I must confess that as I sat behind the slow-moving team, I kept thinking more and more of the time we’d save in traveling if I had that motor car.

  On a couple of Sundays we stayed on to dinner with Lou and Nat and their three. That was about the only chance we really had to catch up on the happenings of one another’s lives.

  Baby Timothy was growing so fast it was hard to keep up to him. He celebrated his first birthday in June and was busy with the task of learning how to walk—how to run might more aptly describe it. Timmy wanted to be in on the fun with his older brother and sister and tagged around after them as fast as his sturdy little legs would allow.

  “The crop’s looking good and seems to be a little ahead of schedule,” I told Nat over one of our Sunday dinners. “It might well be our best crop yet,” I admitted.

  But I went from day to day with one eye on the sky and the other on my fields. I knew without being told that one good hailstorm could change everything, and deep inside me, I kind of wished there was some way I could make a little bargain with God. But of course I didn’t try. I had the good sense—and faith— to know that He knew all about our needs and my wishes, and that in His love He would take care of our future. But oh, my, how I did hope that the future didn’t include hail.

  In next to no time Matilda was breezing in again. The two girls hugged and squealed and laughed like they’d been apart for years. Even Grandpa and Uncle Charlie got enthusiastic squeezes. I accepted a small hug myself, then backed up and looked at Matilda’s glowing face.

  “How’s the crop, Josh?” she burst out before I had a chance to open my mouth. No “How are you?” or anything like that, but “How’s the crop?” and I knew just what she was thinking about. I was prepared to tease her a bit.

  I shrugged my shoulders and put a glum look on my face. “It might pay for the cuttin’,” I informed her drearily. “That is, if we don’t get any hail or such.”

  Matilda’s mouth went down at the corners, and a sound of disappointment escaped her lips.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said, patting her shoulder. “With good weather and no more problems, we’ll have a bit of seed grain for next spring.”

  Matilda looked awfully disappointed, even shamefaced.

  “I told all my friends that you’d be getting a—a motor car,” she said softly, her voice catching on the last word.

  “Well, now, I didn’t make me any promises on that, did I?” I said, keeping my expression somber. “Maybe you shouldn’t’a been tellin’ tales out of school.” But when she looked like she might cry, I decided I had gone far enough.

  “I’m just joshin’,” I grinned at her. “The crop looks good. Real good.” And as Matilda was about to exuberantly throw herself at me I hastened on, “Now remember, I’m still not promisin’. Just been thinkin’ on that automobile. No promises.”

  But Matilda didn’t seem one bit worried about the results of “thinkin’ on it.” Guess she knew me well enough to know I wanted that motor car too.

  She punched me on the arm with a little fist, but her eyes were shining. “Oh, Josh,” she scolded, “you’re mean!”

  Grandpa chuckled, and Uncle Charlie just grinned.

  When the school year started again, it was rather a traumatic time for Aunt Lou. Sarah Jane started off to first grade. I hadn’t realized how tough it was on mothers to see their first baby go off into a whole new world. Lou wanted to be enthusiastic for Sa
rah’s sake, but I knew that if it had been in Lou’s power to turn back the clock a year or two, she could not have refrained from doing so.

  Mary went into the final stages of putting up summer fruits and vegetables. As I watched the stacks of canning jars fill and refill the kitchen counter top, I wondered how in the world the five of us could ever consume so much food. Part of the answer came when I saw Mary and Grandpa load a whole bunch into the buggy and send it off to town to Aunt Lou. Lou was too busy with her little family and being a pastor’s wife to do much canning of her own, Mary reasoned. Lou was deeply appreciative. After all, a pastor’s salary didn’t leave much room for extras, though I’d never heard Lou complain.

  I began to find little pamphlets and newspaper advertisements scattered about the kitchen telling about this motor car or that automobile and the merits of each. I didn’t have to guess who was leaving them about, but I did wonder how Matilda was collecting them.

  I read the descriptions—just like she knew I would. In fact, I sneaked them off to my own bedroom and lay in bed going over and over them. My, some of them were fancy! I hadn’t known that such features existed. Why, you could start the motor without cranking it in the front! Then I would look at the listed price. I hadn’t known that they cost so much, either, and doubts began to form in my mind. The same number of dollars could do so many things for the farm. I began to realize that Matilda’s little campaign might well come to nothing. It could be sheer foolishness for me to buy a car.

  I went into harvest with my mind debating back and forth. One day I would think for sure that I “deserved a car.” The whole family deserved a car after all the years of slow team travel. And think of how much valuable time we’d save, I’d reason. Then the next day I would think of the farm needs, of the church needs, of my promise to support Camellia in her missionary service, of the stock I could purchase or the things for Mary’s kitchen; and I would mentally strike the motor car from my list. Back and forth, this way and that way I argued with myself. Even all of the praying I did about it didn’t put my mind at rest.

  It did turn out to be a good crop. Even better than I’d dared hope. I watched the bins fill to overflowing with wonderfully healthy grain. I had to purchase an extra bin from the Sanders and pull it into our yard with the tractor. I filled it, too. The good quality grain brought good prices as well. God had truly blessed us.

  Now, how did He want me to spend what He had given? How could I be a responsible steward?

  I was still busy with the farm duties during the day, but in the evenings I spent hours and hours poring over the account books. I figured this way, then that way. With every load of grain I took to town, the numbers in my little book swelled. There would be a surplus. But would there be enough for the motor car? And if so, was a motor car necessary? Practical? The right thing for the Jones family?

  I knew everyone was waiting for my decision. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie did not question me. Mary never made mention of the vehicle, but I could sense that she was sharing my struggle over the decision. Matilda stopped cajoling me about it, but her eyes continually questioned, and I knew she was getting very impatient waiting for me to make up my mind.

  I went to my room one night and took out all the advertisements again. I laid aside the one showing the shiny gray Bentley. It was far too fancy and costly for me, though I did allow myself one fleeting mental picture of me purring down our country road at the wheel. I laid aside a few more as well. As the pile of discarded pamphlets grew, a bit of the pride and envy of Joshua Jones was also cast aside. At last I was left with a plain, simple car made by the Ford company. There was plenty of money for the Ford—with a good deal left for other things we needed. I would get the Ford. My conscience could live with that.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, laid aside the pamphlet and blew out my light. In the darkness of my room I knelt by my bed to pray. With the decision finally made with the seeming approval of my Father, I welcomed a sense of peace. I slept that night like I hadn’t slept in weeks.

  The next morning at the breakfast table I cleared my throat to get the family’s attention. “I decided to get a car,” I announced, and before I could go further there was a squeal from Matilda, a smile from Mary, and a nod from Grandpa. Uncle Charlie just grinned a bit. The long, jarring buggy rides were hard on his arthritic bones.

  “Now wait. Now wait,” I protested, holding up my hand and directing my words to Matilda. “We can afford a motor car—no problem. But I decided that it won’t be a fancy one. No need for that, and it would just set us back. We’ll get a simple, practical Ford—none of the gadgets and gizmos.”

  Matilda sobered.

  “But it will have wheels—and get us to where we need to go,” I assured them.

  Matilda’s face brightened again.

  “When?” asked Grandpa, and though he tried hard to hide it, I caught the excitement in his voice.

  “I’m goin’ to town to order it today,” I answered, and I had a hard time controlling my own excitement.

  Matilda squealed. “Oh, Josh. It’s so-o exciting!” she bubbled.

  Uncle Charlie’s smile widened.

  I looked at Mary. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining. Then she did a most unexpected thing. She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.

  If Matilda had done it, I would have thought nothing of it. In fact, I would have thought nothing of it if Matilda had thrown herself wildly into my arms or flung her arms about my neck and squeezed with all her might—that was just Matilda. But Mary? That quiet little gesture of shared excitement somehow set my pulse to racing.

  I flushed slightly as I pulled my eyes back to the other members at the breakfast table and rose slowly to my feet. It was a moment before I found my thoughts, my tongue.

  “I—I’ll order it—today, but—but I have no idea how long it might be before it comes.”

  Matilda brought things back to normal. “Oh, I hope it arrives soon!” she exclaimed, bouncing up from her chair. “I hope it hurries. We don’t have much time. We need it before winter so we can learn to drive it before the snow—”

  Matilda caught herself and stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes met mine and she looked like a small child coaxing for a treat. She had been using a lot of “we’s,” which was rather presumptuous on her part, but I just smiled and gave her a quick wink. I understood.

  After we shared our morning devotions together around the breakfast table, I went back to my room and folded the Ford pamphlet and slipped it into my pocket. As soon as I had finished the last of the morning chores, I would saddle Chester and head for town.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Ford

  LIKE MATILDA, I was hoping the car would arrive before snowfall. I wanted the chance to learn to drive it while the roads were still clear.

  I managed to keep myself busy with no problem. I must admit I made a few more trips to town than normal. I pretended that I needed things or wanted the mail, but in fact I stopped in to check—with regularity—if there had been any word on the car.

  On one such trip to town I found a long, newsy letter from Camellia. She had received word from the Mission Society that she would be leaving for Africa in the spring. She was so excited that her penmanship, usually in character—neat and attractive—was rushed and almost sloppy. This letter conveyed intense excitement.

  “I can’t believe it, Josh!” she wrote. “After all these years I am finally going to Willie’s Africa. To the people he learned to love so. I will be stationed near enough to the village where Willie served that the mission has promised a trip to the grave site. I will be able to see the spot where Willie’s body is lying. I know that it might not seem like much to others, but I think you will understand. I want to personally be able to lay some flowers on Willie’s grave. And it will be very special for me to be able to kneel there and ask God to help me in carrying on Willie’s ministry.

  “I won’t be staying in the area. At least not for now. They say it is much too primitive
to leave a woman all alone, and there is no other young lady available to live and work with me at present. But I am praying that if it is God’s will, He will provide me with a working companion so that we might be able to live there before too long and have a chance to reach Willie’s people.

  “He used to write me all about them. I can almost see them. There was the chief—a small man by our standards—but, my, he had power! Willie said that the people didn’t question his word for one minute. And there was one old woman—I do hope she is still there. She fed Willie from her own cooking pot, even though there was scarcely enough for her own family. Willie was sure she herself must have gone without food numerous times. And the little children. Willie said they followed along behind him, curious as to what this strange white man was going to do. And then there was Andrew. That was not his African name. That was the name Willie gave to him after he became a Christian. He was Willie’s only convert. I can hardly wait to meet Andrew.”

  Camellia’s letter went on, but I couldn’t continue reading for the moment. It was some time before my eyes were dry enough to see the words on the page. If I missed Willie this much, I couldn’t imagine what the loss was like for Camellia.

  Camellia wrote about not wanting to leave her mother all alone. Then she chided herself. Of course her mother would not be alone—she had the same Lord with her who would be with Camellia on the mission field.

  “You’ve always been such a dear friend, Josh, to both Willie and me. I appreciate your friendship now more than ever. And I can never thank you enough for helping with my support so I can go to Africa as Willie and I had planned. I pray for you daily. May God bless you, Josh, and grant to you the desires of your heart, whatever or whoever that might be.”

  Camellia had underscored “whoever,” and I could picture her face with the teasing gleam in her eyes as I read the little message. I felt an emptiness inside of me. Would there ever be anyone else who would take the place of Camellia in my heart? I pushed the thought aside. Camellia was headed for Africa, and for some reason, still a mystery to me, God had chosen for me to stay on the farm.