“Papa, I can’t help thinking how sad it must be to live one’s life, and have the person who should be closest to you only feel relief that you’re gone,” he murmured. “I’d like to think someone would miss me when I die.”
His father nodded again, and jerked a shaky finger at the daguerreotype portrait of him and his wife which sat on the top of a bookcase.
“I know you miss Mama,” Gil said. “I miss her, too.”
His father then pointed at the thin gold band he wore, the ring that had once been his wife’s, but now fit his thin, gnarled finger. Then he pointed directly at Gil. He mumbled something unintelligible, then looked exasperated at himself.
Was he asking Gil what Gil thought he was asking? “Are you saying I need a wife, Papa?”
The old man nodded emphatically and repeatedly, then turned his left palm upward while shrugging the same shoulder, as if he was asking what Gil thought.
Gil was pleased that he had judged correctly, and that his father had guessed what had been so much on his mind of late. “Yes, I’ve been doing some thinking about that very thing, Papa,” he said, grinning. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
His father shrugged, but there was a distinct gleam in his eyes.
Gil knew his father probably wouldn’t have told him, even before his stroke. He’d always encouraged Gil to make his own decisions—with the Lord’s direction, of course. If only he’d always included prayer in his decision making...
“You’re not being much help, Papa,” he said, letting his father see that he was teasing. But then he gathered himself to ask a daring question. “What do you think of Faith Bennett?” He found himself holding his breath as he waited for the answer.
His father’s gaze went to the ceiling, as if to indicate he was thinking about it. Then he looked back at Gil, held out the hand that hadn’t been affected by the stroke and pointed his thumb up.
He approved! Gil felt a surge of encouragement. “So you think that’s a good idea, Papa?” he asked in confirmation.
His father took hold of the hand he couldn’t move with his good hand, and held up the hands, clasped together.
Gil didn’t have to guess at the message— Pray about it.
* * *
“Cup,” Faith repeated patiently, sitting by the preacher’s bedside and pointing to the object he had been drinking tea from, with her help, a little while ago.
“K—kkkk—” he repeated, managing the hard consonant but not the rest of the word. “K-k-kkk,” he said again, then fisted his left hand and pounded it in the mattress, his face furrowing in frustration.
“You’re doing better, Reverend,” Faith assured him. “Remember, only days ago you couldn’t say even that much. If you keep working on it, I just know your speech will come back in time. Perhaps you’ll even be preaching to us again one day.”
He gave a skeptical snort, then a look which said, plain as day, I don’t believe it, but you’re sweet to try to make me think so.
Faith couldn’t help chuckling aloud. “They say when you’re feeling ornery it’s a sign of recovery,” she said, and he flashed his crooked smile.
She heard the door open, and a moment later Caroline appeared. “Your son conducted a very comforting graveside service, Reverend,” she said as she entered the room. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suppose.”
Pride twinkled from the old man’s eyes, but he made a gesture that showed he wanted to hear more.
“Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe are doing as well as could be expected,” Caroline went on. “I think it helped her to have others there to support her, thanks to Faith getting the word out.”
Reverend Chadwick reached a gnarled hand out and patted Faith’s arm, clearly commending her.
“It was the least I could do,” Faith assured him, warmed by his regard.
“Gil’s escorting Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe back home, but he said to tell you both he’d be back soon,” Caroline said.
His father nodded again, and jerked a shaky finger at the daguerreotype portrait of him and his wife which sat on the top of a bookcase.
“I know you miss Mama,” Gil said. “I miss her, too.”
His father then pointed at the thin gold band he wore, the ring that had once been his wife’s, but now fit his thin, gnarled finger. Then he pointed directly at Gil. He mumbled something unintelligible, then looked exasperated at himself.
Was he asking Gil what Gil thought he was asking? “Are you saying I need a wife, Papa?”
The old man nodded emphatically and repeatedly, then turned his left palm upward while shrugging the same shoulder, as if he was asking what Gil thought.
Gil was pleased that he had judged correctly, and that his father had guessed what had been so much on his mind of late. “Yes, I’ve been doing some thinking about that very thing, Papa,” he said, grinning. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
His father shrugged, but there was a distinct gleam in his eyes.
Gil knew his father probably wouldn’t have told him, even before his stroke. He’d always encouraged Gil to make his own decisions—with the Lord’s direction, of course. If only he’d always included prayer in his decision making...
“You’re not being much help, Papa,” he said, letting his father see that he was teasing. But then he gathered himself to ask a daring question. “What do you think of Faith Bennett?” He found himself holding his breath as he waited for the answer.
His father’s gaze went to the ceiling, as if to indicate he was thinking about it. Then he looked back at Gil, held out the hand that hadn’t been affected by the stroke and pointed his thumb up.
He approved! Gil felt a surge of encouragement. “So you think that’s a good idea, Papa?” he asked in confirmation.
His father took hold of the hand he couldn’t move with his good hand, and held up the hands, clasped together.
Gil didn’t have to guess at the message— Pray about it.
* * *
“Cup,” Faith repeated patiently, sitting by the preacher’s bedside and pointing to the object he had been drinking tea from, with her help, a little while ago.
“K—kkkk—” he repeated, managing the hard consonant but not the rest of the word. “K-k-kkk,” he said again, then fisted his left hand and pounded it in the mattress, his face furrowing in frustration.
“You’re doing better, Reverend,” Faith assured him. “Remember, only days ago you couldn’t say even that much. If you keep working on it, I just know your speech will come back in time. Perhaps you’ll even be preaching to us again one day.”
He gave a skeptical snort, then a look which said, plain as day, I don’t believe it, but you’re sweet to try to make me think so.
Faith couldn’t help chuckling aloud. “They say when you’re feeling ornery it’s a sign of recovery,” she said, and he flashed his crooked smile.
She heard the door open, and a moment later Caroline appeared. “Your son conducted a very comforting graveside service, Reverend,” she said as she entered the room. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suppose.”
Pride twinkled from the old man’s eyes, but he made a gesture that showed he wanted to hear more.
“Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe are doing as well as could be expected,” Caroline went on. “I think it helped her to have others there to support her, thanks to Faith getting the word out.”
Reverend Chadwick reached a gnarled hand out and patted Faith’s arm, clearly commending her.
“It was the least I could do,” Faith assured him, warmed by his regard.
“Gil’s escorting Mrs. Henderson and Billy Joe back home, but he said to tell you both he’d be back soon,” Caroline said.
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