continued the meal in silence—there wasn’t much I wanted to talk about anyway. Mary, sensing it, didn’t try to involve me in meaningless conversation.
“Where’s Grandpa and Uncle Charlie?” I finally asked, realizing it was strange for the two menfolk to be missing from the kitchen at that hour on a wintry day.
“Uncle Charlie went back to his room. To read, he said, but I’ve a notion he didn’t get much sleep last night either. And Grandpa went out to the shed to work on that toboggan he’s makin’ for Sarah and Jon. He says the weather could turn bitter any day now, and then he won’t be able to work outside.”
I nodded. Yes, the weather could turn bitter. We were nearing the end of November.
After some more silence, Mary removed our plates and poured fresh coffee. She returned to her chair and sipped the hot liquid slowly. Then she put down her cup.
“Mitch stopped by while you were chorin’,” she said simply and my head came around, wondering if Mitch had brought bad news. It had been some time since Mary’s brother had paid us a call, and he certainly wouldn’t be making neighborly calls at breakfast time.
Mary met my gaze.
“He’s tired of the farm,” she went on evenly, but I could see pain in her eyes. I didn’t know if she was thinking of Mitch or of her ma and pa.
“He’s off to the city to find himself a job. Was goin’ on into town to catch the mornin’ train.”
I forgot my own small problems for the moment. I knew Mary needed all the sympathy and support I could give her. I could see tears glistening in her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to spill over. I wished there was some way I could comfort her—give assurance that I knew it was hard for her and cared that she was hurting. But I just sat there, clumsily trying to find words, not knowing what to do or say. Finally I made a feeble attempt to reach out to her, if only by letting her talk about it.
“Did he say for how long?”
Mary’s eyes lowered. “He’s not plannin’ to come back,” she said quietly.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I muttered, reaching out to take Mary’s hand resting on the checkerboard oilcloth.
“Can—can your pa manage the farm without him?” I went on.
Mary turned to me and the tears did spill over then; she clung to my offered hand as though it were a lifeline. “Oh, Josh,” she said in a whispery voice, “it’s Mitch I’m worried about. I’ve been prayin’ and prayin’ that he might become—become a believer. What ever will happen to him if—if he gets in with the wrong crowd in the city?”
I reached over to cover Mary’s hand with my other one. “Hey,” I comforted, “we can still pray. Prayer works even over long distances. There are ‘right’ crowds in the city too, you know. Maybe God is sending Mitch to just the right people— or person—and he will listen to what they have to say in a way that he might never listen to us.”
Mary listened carefully. She was quiet for a moment and then she turned to me and tried a wobbly smile through her tears. She pulled back her hand and searched in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. After wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she had control of herself again.
“Papa will manage—I guess,” she said softly. “Mitch never did care for farm chores anyway. But Mama will be heartbroken.” And another tear slipped down her cheek.
I sat there thinking of Mary—thinking of her ma and pa and their concern over Mitch.
“Did they have a row?” I asked carefully, knowing full well that it was really none of my business.
Mary smiled. “That’s exactly what I asked Mitch,” she answered, “but he said no, he just announced that he was leaving and they didn’t even try to argue him out of it much. He said that Mama cried some—but he expected that.”
Mary left the table and began preparing for washing up the dishes.
I thought about her words for a few minutes. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about
“Where’s Grandpa and Uncle Charlie?” I finally asked, realizing it was strange for the two menfolk to be missing from the kitchen at that hour on a wintry day.
“Uncle Charlie went back to his room. To read, he said, but I’ve a notion he didn’t get much sleep last night either. And Grandpa went out to the shed to work on that toboggan he’s makin’ for Sarah and Jon. He says the weather could turn bitter any day now, and then he won’t be able to work outside.”
I nodded. Yes, the weather could turn bitter. We were nearing the end of November.
After some more silence, Mary removed our plates and poured fresh coffee. She returned to her chair and sipped the hot liquid slowly. Then she put down her cup.
“Mitch stopped by while you were chorin’,” she said simply and my head came around, wondering if Mitch had brought bad news. It had been some time since Mary’s brother had paid us a call, and he certainly wouldn’t be making neighborly calls at breakfast time.
Mary met my gaze.
“He’s tired of the farm,” she went on evenly, but I could see pain in her eyes. I didn’t know if she was thinking of Mitch or of her ma and pa.
“He’s off to the city to find himself a job. Was goin’ on into town to catch the mornin’ train.”
I forgot my own small problems for the moment. I knew Mary needed all the sympathy and support I could give her. I could see tears glistening in her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to spill over. I wished there was some way I could comfort her—give assurance that I knew it was hard for her and cared that she was hurting. But I just sat there, clumsily trying to find words, not knowing what to do or say. Finally I made a feeble attempt to reach out to her, if only by letting her talk about it.
“Did he say for how long?”
Mary’s eyes lowered. “He’s not plannin’ to come back,” she said quietly.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I muttered, reaching out to take Mary’s hand resting on the checkerboard oilcloth.
“Can—can your pa manage the farm without him?” I went on.
Mary turned to me and the tears did spill over then; she clung to my offered hand as though it were a lifeline. “Oh, Josh,” she said in a whispery voice, “it’s Mitch I’m worried about. I’ve been prayin’ and prayin’ that he might become—become a believer. What ever will happen to him if—if he gets in with the wrong crowd in the city?”
I reached over to cover Mary’s hand with my other one. “Hey,” I comforted, “we can still pray. Prayer works even over long distances. There are ‘right’ crowds in the city too, you know. Maybe God is sending Mitch to just the right people— or person—and he will listen to what they have to say in a way that he might never listen to us.”
Mary listened carefully. She was quiet for a moment and then she turned to me and tried a wobbly smile through her tears. She pulled back her hand and searched in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. After wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she had control of herself again.
“Papa will manage—I guess,” she said softly. “Mitch never did care for farm chores anyway. But Mama will be heartbroken.” And another tear slipped down her cheek.
I sat there thinking of Mary—thinking of her ma and pa and their concern over Mitch.
“Did they have a row?” I asked carefully, knowing full well that it was really none of my business.
Mary smiled. “That’s exactly what I asked Mitch,” she answered, “but he said no, he just announced that he was leaving and they didn’t even try to argue him out of it much. He said that Mama cried some—but he expected that.”
Mary left the table and began preparing for washing up the dishes.
I thought about her words for a few minutes. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about
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