demanded, “Why did you not wake me for my watch?”
Gerald made wide eyes. “Was that you? I thought a bear had crawled inside your lair, eaten you whole, and suffered from indigestion.”
Mary hid a giggle behind one hand.
“I suppose I did need the rest,” Falconer allowed.
“Yes. I reckoned as much.”
As Falconer started for the kitchen, he said over his shoulder, “I will spell you tonight.”
“Don’t forget the new man is here to help share duties,” Gerald called after him. “What’s more, you don’t owe me a thing, John Falconer.”
The house held an empty silence. Falconer assumed the family had already left for church. But there were signs of early activity. Every surface in the kitchen was covered with dishes. A vast iron pot simmered on the stove, filling the air with fragrances of tomatoes and fresh herbs. Someone had thoughtfully left a jug of apple cider, along with bread and cheese on the windowsill. Falconer took his breakfast along as he wandered around the new house. Through the front windows he spotted a flock of dark-cloaked figures headed for the church at the square’s farthest corner. He recalled the young man and his invitation and went back to the cottage for his coat.
Saint John’s was a quiet place, one that embraced all believers in whitewashed wood and simple lines. Falconer arrived just as the last stragglers were being sent upstairs to the loft, as the downstairs was packed. Just as at the Langstons’ church in Georgetown, most of the congregants were dressed in dark colors. The men wore frock coats and stiff-collared shirts, the women gray or black cloaks and stiff little hats tied under their chins. Falconer slipped into a pew by the loft’s back wall just as the pastor began his welcome. The man’s first words caught him unaware.
“Some of us come in joy,” the minister told the gathering. “Others in sadness. In the Lord’s eyes, what matters most is that you have come at all. Is your heart troubled? Come. Is your world fraught with peril? Come. Are you filled with joy and triumph and a sense of accomplishment? Come. Have your prayers been answered? Come. Is there pain, anguish, an unraveling of the mortal coil? Come and find welcome in the name of our risen Savior.”
Falconer had been impacted by many Sabbath services. Never, however, had the words felt so keenly directed to him as this day. God was speaking through the pastor. To him. The force blew aside Falconer’s ability to question. He was struck by a divine cannonade that began with the opening welcome and continued to the benediction.
He listened to the pastor read a passage from the thirty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel. A valley of bones, the pastor intoned, a place of death and loss and mortal despair. Without hope or future, the man explained, without any sense of life. And God asked His prophet, can these bones ever walk with life and purpose again?
“Yes.” Falconer was astonished to find he had spoken aloud. Yet the power flooding through him would not be denied. “Yes!”
“Indeed so.” The pastor found nothing untoward with a response from the balcony. Nor, clearly, did the others. There were murmurs and nods throughout the congregation as the pastor went on. “The day of renewed hope that the Lord spoke about is certain to come. Those, my brethren, are His own words. Wait upon Him. He will call His divine winds to course through your dark valley and draw forth life. Will you remain heartsick, alone, even sad? Perhaps. Even the apostle Paul was commanded to bear his thorn. But God will knit together your bones and from your despair bring forth reason.”
Falconer slipped off the pew and onto his knees. A few glanced over, but attention soon turned away. He covered his face with battle-scarred hands and offered a warrior’s prayer, as direct and well-aimed as a stabbing sword. Give me your purpose, Lord. Make gold of my dross. I am your man, and I am ready. Amen .
Falconer spotted
Gerald made wide eyes. “Was that you? I thought a bear had crawled inside your lair, eaten you whole, and suffered from indigestion.”
Mary hid a giggle behind one hand.
“I suppose I did need the rest,” Falconer allowed.
“Yes. I reckoned as much.”
As Falconer started for the kitchen, he said over his shoulder, “I will spell you tonight.”
“Don’t forget the new man is here to help share duties,” Gerald called after him. “What’s more, you don’t owe me a thing, John Falconer.”
The house held an empty silence. Falconer assumed the family had already left for church. But there were signs of early activity. Every surface in the kitchen was covered with dishes. A vast iron pot simmered on the stove, filling the air with fragrances of tomatoes and fresh herbs. Someone had thoughtfully left a jug of apple cider, along with bread and cheese on the windowsill. Falconer took his breakfast along as he wandered around the new house. Through the front windows he spotted a flock of dark-cloaked figures headed for the church at the square’s farthest corner. He recalled the young man and his invitation and went back to the cottage for his coat.
Saint John’s was a quiet place, one that embraced all believers in whitewashed wood and simple lines. Falconer arrived just as the last stragglers were being sent upstairs to the loft, as the downstairs was packed. Just as at the Langstons’ church in Georgetown, most of the congregants were dressed in dark colors. The men wore frock coats and stiff-collared shirts, the women gray or black cloaks and stiff little hats tied under their chins. Falconer slipped into a pew by the loft’s back wall just as the pastor began his welcome. The man’s first words caught him unaware.
“Some of us come in joy,” the minister told the gathering. “Others in sadness. In the Lord’s eyes, what matters most is that you have come at all. Is your heart troubled? Come. Is your world fraught with peril? Come. Are you filled with joy and triumph and a sense of accomplishment? Come. Have your prayers been answered? Come. Is there pain, anguish, an unraveling of the mortal coil? Come and find welcome in the name of our risen Savior.”
Falconer had been impacted by many Sabbath services. Never, however, had the words felt so keenly directed to him as this day. God was speaking through the pastor. To him. The force blew aside Falconer’s ability to question. He was struck by a divine cannonade that began with the opening welcome and continued to the benediction.
He listened to the pastor read a passage from the thirty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel. A valley of bones, the pastor intoned, a place of death and loss and mortal despair. Without hope or future, the man explained, without any sense of life. And God asked His prophet, can these bones ever walk with life and purpose again?
“Yes.” Falconer was astonished to find he had spoken aloud. Yet the power flooding through him would not be denied. “Yes!”
“Indeed so.” The pastor found nothing untoward with a response from the balcony. Nor, clearly, did the others. There were murmurs and nods throughout the congregation as the pastor went on. “The day of renewed hope that the Lord spoke about is certain to come. Those, my brethren, are His own words. Wait upon Him. He will call His divine winds to course through your dark valley and draw forth life. Will you remain heartsick, alone, even sad? Perhaps. Even the apostle Paul was commanded to bear his thorn. But God will knit together your bones and from your despair bring forth reason.”
Falconer slipped off the pew and onto his knees. A few glanced over, but attention soon turned away. He covered his face with battle-scarred hands and offered a warrior’s prayer, as direct and well-aimed as a stabbing sword. Give me your purpose, Lord. Make gold of my dross. I am your man, and I am ready. Amen .
Falconer spotted
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