Chapter 21
21
Relief washed over Owen as the final hymn ended and the priest offered his departing blessing to the congregation. All of yesterday afternoon and evening, after bringing the herd in, he couldn’t stop mulling over God’s goodness, struggling to reconcile it with his current circumstances. He was anxious to come to church this morning and hear a fresh word, and to connect with the Almighty alongside others. However, the longer the service went on, the more his chest tightened and his gut twisted. The potent incense that usually brought him comfort had, instead, weighed him down and caused his head to swim with its pungent aroma. Every song had been about God’s grace and provision. But rather than bolster his faith, he found they only fed his doubts. He hurried down the aisle and burst into the fresh, brisk air, taking it in gulps.
Somehow Aileen had beat him outside and was already setting up the picnic lunch. The unseasonably calm weather allowed them to take their cold lunch out of doors rather than hurrying home after service. Several other families were following suit, including John and Bridie, who had spread their plaid out near Aileen’s.
As he approached, Aileen gestured to where she wanted him to sit. Lowering himself to the ground, he greeted the Sheridans again. Saoirse handed him a basket of sandwiches from her place on his right. Owen took two and passed the basket to his sister on the other side of him, who was reaching across and handing Saoirse a flask of tea. He had just picked up a triangle of sandwich when Bridie stopped him.
“Eh, shall we ask the Lord’s blessing on the food?” she asked.
Heat crept up Owen’s cheeks, and he set the food back down on the blanket. “Of course.”
Bridie took hold of John’s hand and reached for Saoirse’s. Aileen took John’s other hand and grabbed Owen’s left one. He reached for Saoirse. She smiled shyly and slipped her smaller hand into his. Equal parts mesmerized by the feel of her skin and frustrated he couldn’t wrap his fingers fully around hers, he forced himself to focus on the prayer of thanks and blessings John was offering.
When the prayer ended, Saoirse squeezed Owen’s hand gently and slowly slid hers back to her side. The group tucked into their simple but delicious meal. The food was tasty and satisfying, and the company delightful. However, Owen kept looking over his shoulder. It was as though the stones of the church walls were beckoning him. Despite his discomfort and doubts during the service, he couldn’t help feeling there was some unfinished business that awaited him inside the house of worship. Anytime he looked away from it, he could feel its pull on his back in that uneasy feeling of being watched. When the group had finished eating, Bridie passed around a small tin of biscuits. Owen politely declined, stood, and excused himself.
“Everything alright?” John asked.
Owen nodded. “Aye. Just need to stretch my legs.”
John bobbed his head in understanding, and Owen headed away from the group. He feigned as though he was going to go for a walk, but when he was certain no one was watching, he slipped back inside the church. The air was cool and damp, and it was so quiet that his breathing seemed to echo among the stone walls. Owen stood in the center of the aisle at the entrance and let his gaze trace the room. The interior was dim compared to outside, but soft light flowed in from the tall windows lining the length of the sanctuary. The glow of candles at the prayer stations at the front and back of the room added a warm radiance. The air was scented with damp, turf, and the faintest hint of incense.
At the end of the aisle stood a large table that usually displayed the elements for communion, long since put away by the priest after service. In the center of the table, on a heavy stand, stood a massive Bible splayed open, with a red satin ribbon draped down the middle. With slow and reverent steps, Owen made his way to the book. It was opened to Psalm 23. Owen skimmed the text and then divided the pages on the left side roughly in half and flipped them over. He had to turn a few more pages, but eventually landed on the Old Testament book of Joshua. Skimming once again, he stopped when he finally found the section he was looking for—the battle of Jericho.
According to what he read now, the battle had occurred because God was leading His people to take possession of land He had promised them long, long before. And when they arrived at the city of Jericho, it was highly fortified. The battle—if one could call it that—consisted of Israelite soldiers and priests marching around the city once a day for six days, in total silence. On the seventh day, they marched around it seven times. On the seventh lap, when the priests blew their trumpets and the soldiers shouted, the walls around the city fell down. Then the army invaded the city and killed everyone.
Owen shook his head. It made no sense. How could marching and shouting cause massive walls to fall down? His thoughts drifted to the stone walls slicing through the countryside all over Ireland. Many had been established thousands of years earlier, withstanding gales, storms, and all manner of other torrents. How could those stone walls last through centuries, but massive city walls fell with only shouts?
But he realized he’d gotten some of the things Father Cunningham had read mixed up. Jericho wasn’t the story he really wanted to look at. He flipped a few more pages and landed in the book of Judges. He ran his finger down the columns of text until he found the verses that spoke of how the people of Midian had overtaken Israel and were oppressing them. One verse practically jumped off the page and bit Owen on the nose. It read, “And they encamped against them, and destroyed the increase of the earth till thou come unto Gaza, and left no sustenance for Israel, neither sheep, nor ox, nor ass.”
Owen’s jaw tensed. That was exactly what Haggerty had done to them, just on a smaller scale. His chest burned as he continued to read about how a man named Gideon was tasked with defeating the enemy army. When he read how Gideon begged God for clarification because he was the weakest member of the weakest family in all of Israel, Owen blinked, trying to clear the burning that sprang up behind his eyes. He’d never felt so weak before, and it seemed more and more of his own strength was being stripped from him at every turn. Just like God had dwindled Gideon’s army down to ten thousand from over twenty thousand and, eventually, to just three hundred, Owen’s resources had been stripped down to the bare minimum—including having a novice weave the expertly crafted tweed he’d been contracted to create. And every time Gideon asked God if He was sure, or mentioned how scared he was, God’s reply was, “I will be with you.”
Owen couldn’t hold back the sarcastic laugh when the enemy armies began fighting each other out of confusion. He envisioned himself, Saoirse, and Aileen sneaking up on Haggerty’s camp with lanterns, jugs, and tin whistles. The notion was so utterly ridiculous, the heat of embarrassment flooded his face just thinking about doing such a thing.
“Ah, there ya are.”
Owen spun around to see John walking up the aisle of the church. “We thought the banshees had absconded with ya,” he said with a laugh and a wink.
Owen snorted. “That might’ve been more desirable.”
A shadow of concern swept across John’s face before his good-natured grin returned. “Things goin’ that well, are they?”
Owen huffed a breath and shook his head. “’Tis been a season, alright.”
John stepped up next to him and stared down at the yellowed pages. Nodding, he inhaled slowly and let the air slip from his lips. “Ye’ve had a mite few difficulties of late, to be sure.” He gestured to the Bible. “Gideon, eh?”
“Aye.” Owen turned and leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve not been able to stop thinkin’ about that story since Father Cunningham spoke of it last week.”
John matched Owen’s stance. “Well, that’s not surprisin’.”
Owen’s brows pulled together. “Why d’ya say that?”
“Well.” John shrugged. “Ye’re basically livin’ his same life.”
Owen looked at John from the corner of his eye. Had the auld man’s mind started slipping already? “Last I checked, the Almighty hasn’t asked me to lead an army into battle to save His people.”
John’s eyes rolled playfully. “It’s a metaphor, lad.”
Metaphor? Apparently, the man’s faculties were fully intact. Owen thought for a moment. There were a few similarities, he supposed. But beyond God’s plan for both men not making a lick of sense, Owen couldn’t see much else they had in common.
“Lookit,” John said, pushing off the table to face Owen. “Gideon was faced with an impossible task. In his case, it was defeating a massive army with limited resources and no soldiering background. For you, it’s gettin’ the weaving done on time and keepin’ yer farm up and goin’.”
Owen’s brows lifted, and he bobbled his head. He hadn’t really thought of it that way before.
“And,” John continued, “God required Gideon to do it with the bare minimum of manpower and supplies.” He shrugged and laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “He reduced the size of Gideon’s army down to next to nothing. And from where I stand, He’s doin’ the same fer ye.”
Owen’s hand floated up and absently scratched at the stubble on his chin. When it was laid out like that, it really did seem like he and Gideon had somewhat parallel lives. “Well,” he said after a pause, “when ya put it that way.”
Both men chuckled.
“I just wish I knew my story would turn out as well as his,” Owen added.
The corner of John’s mouth made a clicking sound, and he nodded. “Well,” he said, “I reckon that’s why it’s called faith.”
Owen closed his eyes and shook his head. The man sure had a way with words. Owen wondered for a fleeting moment if John had ever considered joining the priesthood. Then again, Owen wished that perhaps his friend wasn’t quite so intuitive. His remark about faith had hit Owen like a splash of cold water on a winter’s day. No warm, fuzzy platitude there. Only cold, hard reality. “Well,” he said slowly, playful sarcasm lacing his voice, “don’t sugarcoat it fer me, John. Give it to me straight.”
John guffawed and slapped his hand on Owen’s back. “Don’t blame me fer that one, boyo. That one’s all Him.” His gaze flashed upward to the ceiling.
They walked quietly toward the exit for a moment and then John broke the silence. “Och! I almost fergot!” He pressed his hand to his own forehead. “The whole reason Bridie sent me in here was to invite you, Aileen, and Saoirse to our Máirt na hInide celebration next Tuesday.”
“Well, that’s very kind of ye. Go raibh míle maith agaibh!” Owen smiled and shook his friend’s hand. “Is it really Lententide already?”
John’s head bobbed. “Indeed, it is.” He turned to look at Owen, a twinkle in his eyes. “And ya know Bridie won’t let it start without a grand to-do. I do hope ye’ll come.”
Inside Owen, a war raged. While he wanted nothing more than to celebrate with his friends and family, they were still dreadfully behind on the weaving, and he hated leaving his farm unattended and so vulnerable after all that had transpired.
“Owen.” John’s voice interrupted Owen’s reverie. He pinned a look on Owen not unlike his father used to do. “Faith, lad. Faith.”
Could the man read his mind? Or was Owen just that bad at hiding his thoughts? Either way, Owen still couldn’t shake the sense of dread swimming in his gut. “We’ll try,” he said at last.
When John’s gaze intensified, Owen held up his hands as if in surrender. “I promise,” he said, laughing. “We’ll try. We really will.”