stayed in their homes on Sunday morning.
She did spot Mildred Martin, the Reverend Martin's wife, and offered what she hoped was not too desperate a smile. Mildred had been quite dear in the first days after Wesley had been taken, although her visits to Grace's bedside had tapered off in the subsequent weeks of summer and finally stopped altogether. Grace realized that she had hardly noticed, occupied as she had become with her constant vigilance all night and then her need for sleep during the day. But now she looked across at Mildred and yearned for her gentle company. Grace smiled, and Mildred offered pursed lips and a little nod that made the hair on Grace's arms rise.
The Reverend cleared his throat and began to speak. As he did, the new congregants sucked in air, as if amazed that he could converse in their tongue. Why on earth had they come, Grace wondered, if they did not believe they would understand him? Such a daft and mystifying people, she thought.
Her husband's face appeared pale and calm, but rather quickly perspiration appeared on his handsome brow. He seemed to have a difficult time finding his handkerchief in his jacket pockets or in one of those little sacks and pouches that he wore. As his voice began to gain its stride, she found herself wondering what on earth were in all those odd items strung about him. She had noticed that several of the coolies who had come tromping in carried just such amulets in their hands. She hoped to heaven they weren't bringing them all to the Reverend. The man was beginning to look like a great Hawaiian chieftain sporting one too many leis. At such a ridiculous comparison, Grace giggled quietly to herself. Getting out and about seemed to agree with her. She must try to do so more often.
The Reverend's cheeks flushed, and the timbre of his words echoed against the plaster walls that he himself had erected. He was a master builder, a man with a vision in the full stride of life at forty years of age, and here, surrounded by witnesses, it was to God that he spoke with force and purpose and even anger, something she did not recall from his previous sermons. Now, from the simple wooden pulpit, he called out and begged the Lord for mercy.
Grace could not help remembering what a thin reed of a fellow he had been when she had first met him. He could barely raise his voice then to reach the back of the crowd where she and her girlfriends were hanging about. It was in 1903 on the Oberlin College campus in Ohio at a ceremony celebrating the erection of a memorial arch to the recent martyred missionaries of Shansi. As the band played a rousing march and the dedication gained momentum, with speaker after speaker extolling the bravery of the missionaries who had lost their lives in the battle against ignorance and fear in a distant province of a distant land, Grace had left her friends under the trees and drifted toward the front of the crowd. Once there, she had noticed the young Reverend who glanced repeatedly at the papers in his hand as he prepared to take the stage.
When he stepped forward, the young man towered over the dais, inspiring hope in the crowd that this chap would carry them away with his words. But, instead, his voice had faltered, and Grace could plainly hear that he had the uncertain rasp of a humble servant of God with a head cold. His eyes did not blaze yet with purpose, although he vowed to move to China that very year, but instead blinked under eyebrows that twitched unpredictably. Young Grace felt a surprising tenderness toward this man who bowed awkwardly when he finished speaking. Later she would wonder how she could possibly have sensed his power and potential based on that uninspired performance.
As she looked around now at the crowded chapel and her husband's flushed face and heroic stance there above them all, she allowed herself to consider that her direction had changed forever, not only because
She did spot Mildred Martin, the Reverend Martin's wife, and offered what she hoped was not too desperate a smile. Mildred had been quite dear in the first days after Wesley had been taken, although her visits to Grace's bedside had tapered off in the subsequent weeks of summer and finally stopped altogether. Grace realized that she had hardly noticed, occupied as she had become with her constant vigilance all night and then her need for sleep during the day. But now she looked across at Mildred and yearned for her gentle company. Grace smiled, and Mildred offered pursed lips and a little nod that made the hair on Grace's arms rise.
The Reverend cleared his throat and began to speak. As he did, the new congregants sucked in air, as if amazed that he could converse in their tongue. Why on earth had they come, Grace wondered, if they did not believe they would understand him? Such a daft and mystifying people, she thought.
Her husband's face appeared pale and calm, but rather quickly perspiration appeared on his handsome brow. He seemed to have a difficult time finding his handkerchief in his jacket pockets or in one of those little sacks and pouches that he wore. As his voice began to gain its stride, she found herself wondering what on earth were in all those odd items strung about him. She had noticed that several of the coolies who had come tromping in carried just such amulets in their hands. She hoped to heaven they weren't bringing them all to the Reverend. The man was beginning to look like a great Hawaiian chieftain sporting one too many leis. At such a ridiculous comparison, Grace giggled quietly to herself. Getting out and about seemed to agree with her. She must try to do so more often.
The Reverend's cheeks flushed, and the timbre of his words echoed against the plaster walls that he himself had erected. He was a master builder, a man with a vision in the full stride of life at forty years of age, and here, surrounded by witnesses, it was to God that he spoke with force and purpose and even anger, something she did not recall from his previous sermons. Now, from the simple wooden pulpit, he called out and begged the Lord for mercy.
Grace could not help remembering what a thin reed of a fellow he had been when she had first met him. He could barely raise his voice then to reach the back of the crowd where she and her girlfriends were hanging about. It was in 1903 on the Oberlin College campus in Ohio at a ceremony celebrating the erection of a memorial arch to the recent martyred missionaries of Shansi. As the band played a rousing march and the dedication gained momentum, with speaker after speaker extolling the bravery of the missionaries who had lost their lives in the battle against ignorance and fear in a distant province of a distant land, Grace had left her friends under the trees and drifted toward the front of the crowd. Once there, she had noticed the young Reverend who glanced repeatedly at the papers in his hand as he prepared to take the stage.
When he stepped forward, the young man towered over the dais, inspiring hope in the crowd that this chap would carry them away with his words. But, instead, his voice had faltered, and Grace could plainly hear that he had the uncertain rasp of a humble servant of God with a head cold. His eyes did not blaze yet with purpose, although he vowed to move to China that very year, but instead blinked under eyebrows that twitched unpredictably. Young Grace felt a surprising tenderness toward this man who bowed awkwardly when he finished speaking. Later she would wonder how she could possibly have sensed his power and potential based on that uninspired performance.
As she looked around now at the crowded chapel and her husband's flushed face and heroic stance there above them all, she allowed herself to consider that her direction had changed forever, not only because
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