Minnie Lomax examined the bent head and hunched shoulders of the village priest as he blew past, his mouth moving in what she supposed was prayer.
He didn’t look at all like a man besotted with love, not in her view.
Why was he staring at the sidewalk when he might be looking into the heavens, or whistling, or waving to her through the window as he usually did? He was scared of what he’d let himself in for, that’s what! Sixty-something and getting married for the first time ? The very thought gave her the shivers.
She had never married, and never wanted to. Well, not never, exactly. She had wanted to once, and look what happened. She sniffed and smoothed her cardigan over her thin hips and took a Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose, then turned around to the empty store, wondering what she might do to lure traffic through the door today. Boiled wool had a terrible go of it during the summer; next year she would advise the owner to put in more cotton and linen, for heaven’s sake, and get shed of the entire lot of those hideous crocheted caps.
He would choose each word as carefully as his mother had chosen peaches off Lot Stringman’s truck. “Let me pick them out for you, Miz Kavanagh.” “No, thank you, Mr. Stringman,” she would say, “I like the doing of it myself.”
Finally despairing that writing a poem was beyond his endowment, he had decided to be content with writing a letter.
Peach by perfect peach, that is how he would choose his words....
Sunday afternoon, four o’clock, a breeze stirring through the open windows
My Own,
Consider how these two small words have the power to move and shake me, and take my breath away! I am raised to a height I have never before known, somewhere above the clouds that hide the mountain-rimmed valleys and present a view of floating peaks. I have been comfortable for years, haplessly rooted in myself like a turnip, and now am not comfortable at all, but stripped of everything that is easeful and familiar, and filled with everything that is tremulous and alive; I am a spring lamb upon new legs. Every nerve is exposed to you, my dearest love, and my thankfulness for this gift from God knows no bounds, no bounds! Indeed, He has saved the best for last, and that He should have saved it at all, set it aside for me, is a miracle. A miracle! Let no one ever say or even think that God does not work miracles, still; every common day, every common life is filled with them, as you know better than anyone I have ever met. You, who see His light and life in the dullest blade of grass, have taught my own eye to look for and find His magnitude abounding everywhere.
Though you are merely steps away, beyond the hedge, I long for you as if you were in Persia, and yet, your presence is with me, your very fragrance clings to the shirt I wear.
I have given my heart completely only once, and that was to Him. Now He has, Himself, set aside in my heart a room for you. It is large and open and suffused with light, with no walls or boundaries to stifle us, and He has graciously fashioned it to give us warmth and shelter and joyous freedom until the end of our days.
May this be only the first of many times I thank you for all you are to me, and for the precious and inimitable gift of your love.
Please know that I shall set a watch upon myself—to make every effort to bring you the happiness you so richly deserve, and, by His grace, to place your needs before my own.
May God bless you with His greatest tenderness now and always, my sweetheart, my soon-to-be wife.
Timothy
He sat as if drained; there was nothing left of him, nothing at all, he was parchment through which light might be seen.
“Barnabas,” he murmured.
His good dog stirred at his feet.
“I have a mission for you, old friend.” He folded the letter, regretting that he’d written it on paper from a mere notepad. Ah, well, what was done was done. He placed the letter in an envelope and thought
He didn’t look at all like a man besotted with love, not in her view.
Why was he staring at the sidewalk when he might be looking into the heavens, or whistling, or waving to her through the window as he usually did? He was scared of what he’d let himself in for, that’s what! Sixty-something and getting married for the first time ? The very thought gave her the shivers.
She had never married, and never wanted to. Well, not never, exactly. She had wanted to once, and look what happened. She sniffed and smoothed her cardigan over her thin hips and took a Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose, then turned around to the empty store, wondering what she might do to lure traffic through the door today. Boiled wool had a terrible go of it during the summer; next year she would advise the owner to put in more cotton and linen, for heaven’s sake, and get shed of the entire lot of those hideous crocheted caps.
He would choose each word as carefully as his mother had chosen peaches off Lot Stringman’s truck. “Let me pick them out for you, Miz Kavanagh.” “No, thank you, Mr. Stringman,” she would say, “I like the doing of it myself.”
Finally despairing that writing a poem was beyond his endowment, he had decided to be content with writing a letter.
Peach by perfect peach, that is how he would choose his words....
Sunday afternoon, four o’clock, a breeze stirring through the open windows
My Own,
Consider how these two small words have the power to move and shake me, and take my breath away! I am raised to a height I have never before known, somewhere above the clouds that hide the mountain-rimmed valleys and present a view of floating peaks. I have been comfortable for years, haplessly rooted in myself like a turnip, and now am not comfortable at all, but stripped of everything that is easeful and familiar, and filled with everything that is tremulous and alive; I am a spring lamb upon new legs. Every nerve is exposed to you, my dearest love, and my thankfulness for this gift from God knows no bounds, no bounds! Indeed, He has saved the best for last, and that He should have saved it at all, set it aside for me, is a miracle. A miracle! Let no one ever say or even think that God does not work miracles, still; every common day, every common life is filled with them, as you know better than anyone I have ever met. You, who see His light and life in the dullest blade of grass, have taught my own eye to look for and find His magnitude abounding everywhere.
Though you are merely steps away, beyond the hedge, I long for you as if you were in Persia, and yet, your presence is with me, your very fragrance clings to the shirt I wear.
I have given my heart completely only once, and that was to Him. Now He has, Himself, set aside in my heart a room for you. It is large and open and suffused with light, with no walls or boundaries to stifle us, and He has graciously fashioned it to give us warmth and shelter and joyous freedom until the end of our days.
May this be only the first of many times I thank you for all you are to me, and for the precious and inimitable gift of your love.
Please know that I shall set a watch upon myself—to make every effort to bring you the happiness you so richly deserve, and, by His grace, to place your needs before my own.
May God bless you with His greatest tenderness now and always, my sweetheart, my soon-to-be wife.
Timothy
He sat as if drained; there was nothing left of him, nothing at all, he was parchment through which light might be seen.
“Barnabas,” he murmured.
His good dog stirred at his feet.
“I have a mission for you, old friend.” He folded the letter, regretting that he’d written it on paper from a mere notepad. Ah, well, what was done was done. He placed the letter in an envelope and thought
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