Healing of the Heart: A Shumard Oak Bend Novel (Discerning God’s Best Book 4)

Chapter 15

New Year’s Eve 1871Thomas

Thomas arose early, dressed, and crept down the stairs. The parlor fire still provided warmth, as if someone had fed it recently. He added wood and placed his Bible on the table between the stuffed chairs. He knew what scripture he would read for this morning’s gathering but thought a stout cup of coffee would help him plan his thoughts.

Light shone from under the kitchen door. He pushed it slowly so as not to disturb whoever was inside. Teddy’s shoulders rose and fell. Her brown locks rested on her folded arms on the flour-laden table. The smell of yeast bread cooking made his stomach grumble loud enough to wake the sleeping form.

“Oh.” Teddy jumped and hit her knee on the table, causing a white cloud to form around her.

“I’m sorry to wake you. I came for a cup of coffee.”

“Not to worry. It should be hot still.” Teddy covered a yawn.

“Still? How long have you been up?” Thomas poured a cup for himself and lifted the pot in her direction. She shook her head, her loose hair like waves, ready to drown him in their depths.

“It’s the curse of working nights. I’m usually finishing up my shift about now. If I drink that coffee, I’ll never get to sleep.”

“You made bread?”

Teddy stood and stretched her back, hands encircling her slim waist, then peeked in the oven. “I hadn’t planned on staying up all night, but the kitchen stayed so cold I couldn’t get the yeast to rise. I just put the loaves in a while ago. It should be ready in about ten more minutes.” She yawned again.

“You head on up to bed. I’m happy to take them out for you. Just give me a moment to grab my Bible.” He watched her body relax.

“Are you sure?” She wiped her hand across her cheek and made the smear of flour worse.

He didn’t have the heart to point out the mark. “Absolutely. I’m up anyway. I learned early on that if I wanted to eat something other than jerky or charcoal, I needed to keep a watch on the food cooking at our house. My mother is a horrible cook.”

Teddy’s yawn mixed with the laughter in her eyes. Thomas wanted to reach out and wipe the flour from her cheek. Instead, he reached for the coffee pot. The heat from the handle warmed his palm even through the dish cloth, reminding him of the briefest moment their hands had entwined last evening. Keeping his hands busy was a good idea, but he’d need to find a mug, or he’d scorch his palm.

“Here.” Teddy rose on tip toes and pulled a mug from the cabinet.

He willed his hands not to shake as he poured, then quickly set the pot back on the stove. Steam rose from his cup as he held the warming mug.

Teddy covered another yawn. “Goodness. I believe I’ll take you up on that offer, or bread bricks are what we’ll have for breakfast, since I’m likely to fall back to sleep. I found a jar of apple butter and figured it would be enough to tide everyone over until lunch.”

Thomas’s stomach growled again, and his hand instinctively covered it.

“Well, except maybe you. You worked up an appetite with all that attacking last night.”

He loved how her eyes sparkled when she teased him. “Attacking? More like self-preservation. You ladies didn’t give fair warning, and you single-handedly slayed Goliath.” He pointed to his forehead, then placed his unoccupied hand on his hip, trying to look stern.

She slapped his elbow as she grabbed the towel and wiped her hands. “All’s fair in love and snowball fights.”

She diverted her gaze, but Thomas glimpsed a pretty pink covering Teddy’s cheeks. “Quoting John Lyly at this hour? Impressive. There is no limit to what one deems necessary to achieve one’s ends and preserve one’s reputation.”

Her dark circles made her eyes shine even more. This time, the movement in his belly wasn’t from hunger. This girl did something to his insides. She reached toward him, and he froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.

“Wash rag.” She pointed behind him.

He was an idiot. “Right. I’ll let you finish here, and I’ll grab my Bible.”

He set his cup down, not trusting himself to walk with it. The temperature in the parlor was rising like his own. He poked at the fire, moving a piece of wood farther back, then replaced the screen. The leather of his Bible was warm to the touch, and he held it to his chest.

“Help me remain focused, Father. I have no time for a woman, and Teddy has been clear she wants to buy a home and settle here while I want to return west. Thank you for her friendship. Help me keep it that way.”

Streaks of flour and flecks of dough mingled with brown in her hair, now up in a mess of a bun on top of her head. The countertops and table were clean, and utensils sat in the sink. Teddy turned the water on and filled a pot to boil water for washing.

“I’ll get those and take the bread out. You head on up to bed.”

She released a deep sigh. “Thank you. There’s butter on the table to melt on top after you take it out. Now to see if I can get a few hours of beauty sleep while my roommates are getting ready.”

All he could do was nod. She didn’t need sleep to do that. She was already beautiful.

Thomas closed his eyes as Reggie’s harmonica expelled a deep, haunting sound while Merriweather sang the words of “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.”

Merriweather’s clear soprano was crisp compared to the flowing movement of the music. Thomas watched as Reggie embellished the sound with each movement of his cupped hand.

Plenteous grace with thee is found,grace to cover all my sin;let the healing streams abound;make and keep me pure within. (Charles Wesley)

The music stopped. The crackle of the fire and the rustling of taffeta as Mrs. Jones wiped her nose were the only sounds. Thomas’s throat was thick with emotion. He did not know the spiritual state of the souls in this room, but the song spoke to him. Make and keep me pure within, Father, he prayed.

When he lifted his head, expectancy filled most of the faces in the room. He lifted his Bible and placed it on his trembling knees. “Tomorrow is the start of a new year. It seems appropriate to read from Isaiah, chapter forty-three, verses eighteen and nineteen. ‘Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.’”

Thomas looked at each face in the room. Birdie already had the glassy-eyed stare of boredom. Josephina picked at her skirts. Only Teddy remained focused on her Bible, her finger tracing over the words. Thomas wondered how the pages of her Bible remained intact. Cracked leather peeked out from the edges of Teddy’s skirt. Water stains marked the Bible’s golden-painted foreedge, creating a unique pattern.

He ran a finger under the edge of his scratchy sweater. If he was going to keep the group’s attention, he would need to move forward with enthusiasm. He marked his spot and closed his Bible, garnering the attention of all.

“I’m not a preacher,” Thomas started.

“Amen,” one girl muttered.

Thomas chuckled. “Amen is right. I’ve been called to save people another way.”

Crocket chortled. “Well played, young man.”

“Instead of a sermon, I’d like to tell you a story.”

Birdie’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and Merriweather brightened as she clasped her hands together.

“When I was a boy of four, my family traveled from South Carolina and headed west. I wasn’t old enough to understand the reasons, but I trusted my father. He and my mother left behind far more than I did at my young age.

“I won’t bore you with details of our travels, but all along the journey, I witnessed small instances of what I now call God-incidences. Some may say the stars aligned, the heavens smiled upon us, or even luck was on our side . . .” He had their attention and offered a quick prayer for succinct words. “But I knew it was God.”

Birdie looked skeptical, but Merriweather scootched even farther onto the edge of her seat. Thomas dare not look at Teddy, or he’d lose his train of thought.

“We met a woman I named Grammie, and we became instant family. When I turned six, Grammie introduced me to Jesus. Technically, she’d shown him to me through her life every day up to that point, but on Christmas Day, she explained that this Jesus of the Bible, God’s son, was a real man who came to take away the sins of the world. To wash away all my wrongdoings and cleanse me of all my sins.

“These verses in Isaiah from the Old Testament are that gospel story. We do not have to live in our past failures. Our brokenness, defeat, and pain no longer define who we are, condemn us, or hold power over us when we follow Christ. When the Spirit of God lives in us, He transforms us into a new creation.”

Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat and brought his volume down. “This is the heart of the gospel. When you surrender your heart to Christ, the old you is washed clean, and a new you steps into a new beginning. Today is the last day of 1871. None of us know what the new year holds, but I pray you will allow God to be a part of a new start for you.”

The crinkle of Mrs. Jones’s sleeve pulled Thomas’s gaze her way. Her red-rimmed eyes brimmed with tears. She dabbed at her nose. “Thank you, Thomas. You may not have been called to preach, but you certainly could do the job should God change His mind.”

Reggie lifted the harmonica to his mouth. “Amazing Grace” poured from his soul through the mouthpiece. Teddy hummed, the rich sound a melodious harmony to that of the harmonica. She added words, but no one else sang. Thomas wasn’t certain Teddy realized it was her voice alone filling the room. Merriweather joined in the second verse, her light soprano harmonizing. Crocket added a third layer before everyone else joined in.

It was a heavenly choir. Long after the song’s last word, the echoes of their voices filled Thomas’s mind.

“Mr. Shankel, would you lead us in a closing prayer?” Mrs. Jones requested.

“It would be my honor. Lord, we praise You for being a God of new beginnings. We thank You for bringing us this far and trust You with our future. May we honor You in all we say and do. Amen.”

Crocket slapped his knees. “Fine sermon. Best I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. Reggie, my friend. Wherever did you become master of the mouthpiece? Exceptional. And two harmonicas. I didn’t realize they could be so different.”

Reggie sat up taller and gave a quick glance at Merriweather. “Thank you. This diatonic was my first and given to me by Mr. Hohner himself during the war. The Hohner mouthpiece is American made, but I bought this German Seydel Classic Low when the war ended. It fit the more melancholy sounds of my mood.” He relaxed his posture. A faint smile touched his lips as he dipped his head.

Merriweather’s hand moved to her heart. Her voice was breathy. “Your sorrow after the war has brought joy. Your playing quite touched me.”

Birdie stood. “That’s my cue to start our afternoon meal. If you’ll excuse me.” The other women followed.

Crocket stood and peered out the window. “Quite the little family we have here.”

Thomas detected emotion in the man’s voice. “We are fortunate.”

Reggie cleaned his harmonicas and put them in a wooden box, then focused his attention on Thomas. “I believe you mentioned something about how it wasn’t luck but a God—what did you call it?”

“God-incidence. And you’re right. It’s no coincidence we are all here. At this specific time. I can’t imagine why, but perhaps the new year will shed light on that topic.”

Reggie moved to the other window and pushed the curtain aside. “Speaking of light, would you look at that sun. With this cold weather and the cloudless skies, this snow won’t be melting anytime soon. I doubt even the roads will be passable for a few days.”

Crocket used his jacket sleeve to remove the haze from his breath. “Well, someone’s braving the weather and blazing a path on a sleigh. Looks like he’s stopping here.” Crocket reached and opened the door before the man knocked.

“Message for a Mr. Thomas Shankel. I’m to wait for a reply.”

Thomas’s stomach quaked. Surely it wasn’t a telegraph bringing bad news from home or Douglass or Harriet in need of him. Cold air rushed in, threatening to freeze him where he stood in the parlor entrance. He committed to do whatever was needed.

Crocket played host and closed the door. “Thank you, my man. Come in, and warm yourself. You must be frozen through. Might we offer you a cup of coffee?”

Thomas could see the man shivering from where he stood.

“Thank you kindly.” He said to Thomas, “Are you Mr. Shankel?”

Thomas felt he was trudging through knee-deep snow. “I am.” He reached for the cream envelope. A stamped wax seal with an embellished W sealed the paper. His nerves calmed. “Thank you. Excuse me while I read this and compose my reply.”

Thomas moved to the now-empty parlor and stood at the window. Snow sparkled in the midmorning sunlight. One snowman leaned slightly, its nose askew from a direct hit by a snowball still lodged near the carrot. Footprints dotted the lawn, creating a haphazard pattern. A smile crept over Thomas’s face. This may not be home, but these were his people. He fit here.

Thomas studied the flowing black script on the envelope that read, Mr. Thomas Trexler Shankel.

The paper crinkled as he opened the seal. The crisp linen paper, its edges frayed, felt stiff in his fingers. The same handwriting filled the page.

Thomas,

We request the honor of your company at this evening’s grand New Year’s Eve soiree as our daughter’s special guest for her seventeenth birthday.

A driver will pick you up at seven o’clock.

Sincerely,

William T. Whitaker

The paper created a breeze as he opened and closed the note. The words may have said request, but the obvious message made his chest tighten. New Year’s Eve and birthday. Perhaps Miss Whitaker’s date could not attend because of snow or sickness.

Thomas felt a pang of awareness as he realized he hadn’t been included in the earlier invitation. This sudden request could very well be a trial orchestrated by Dr. Whitaker to assess Thomas’s dedication to assimilating into Philadelphia’s elite circles. If this was a God-incident, he would prove himself worthy and inch closer to clinching the sought-after internship.

Now that his legs would carry him, Thomas headed toward his room. A quick glance let him know Crocket had things well in hand. His dramatic flair for storytelling kept the young man occupied, though the messenger seemed to only care for the steaming drink. The pleading eyes of the messenger met Thomas’s.

“Let me pen my reply, and I’ll return shortly.” He lifted the note to the men and lumbered up the steps.

The desk chair creaked as he sat and placed his head in both hands. He’d looked forward to a night of games with his friends. If this was a birthday celebration, Miss Whitaker would have other friends in attendance. Why did she require his presence?

Her birthday. He’d need a gift. No stores were open on a Sunday, which meant he would need to be creative. Beside him sat his Christmas gift, At the Back of the North Wind. He’d read it twice, but it still looked new. “It is better to give than receive, right, Lord?”

Thomas pulled a pencil from his drawer and wrote an affirmative reply before he could change his mind.