reception would be nothing more than a Saturday version of a run-of-the-mill after-church fellowship, giving more an excuse not to attend. Darlene had walked the aisle with their father, who had then stepped to the front of the church to perform the ceremony. Donny had been standing as a witness next to a nervous, fidgeting Roy. Neither would be there for Dorothy Lynn. Rusty Keyes would officiate, but there was no one to give her away.
Not that she’d be taken anywhere.
The tears started anew.
“Oh, Lord . . .” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, swung herself out of bed, and began to pace the room. “Forgive this foolishness.”
It would be easier if she didn’t love him, but it took only the thought of Brent, his strength and his warmth, to stop her in her steps. She wrapped herself in her own arms, feeling his embrace, and felt her breath once again become even and smooth.
It was Ma who first suggested they ask Darlene—chic, fashionable Darlene—to make her wedding dress. It was Brent who recognized her longing to tuck her private life to herself and get away.
“Go see your sister,” he’d said one oppressive Sunday afternoon as they lay head-to-head in the forest clearing. It had become a regular custom to walk there, to get away from the prying eyes of the town and the prattling plans of her mother. “Spend some time with her, just in case she can’t make it to the wedding.”
“You’re not worried that I won’t make it to the wedding?”
“Should I be? Do you think you might forget?”
She’d rolled herself over, propped herself on her elbows, and looked straight down into his eyes.
“Of course not. It’s my birthday. A girl never forgets her birthday. Maybe I’ll have two cakes.”
A piercing pain snatched her from her reverie. She lifted her bare foot to reveal a small toy soldier wielding a tiny rifle in defense. Mindless of the ruckus it might be creating downstairs, she hopped back to the bed, where she sat down to rub the throbbing instep. As she did, she realized her tears were gone, having disappeared in the midst of her memory. Pity had disguised itself as fear.
Raising her eyes to the ceiling from which model fighter planes flew in constant battle, she thanked God for the distraction.
Wincing with pain, she gingerly put a bit of weight on the veteran foot and reached for her guitar, propped against the iron footboard. She cradled it in her lap and strummed it lightly, cringing at the sound. A bouncing five-hour bus ride followed by the handling of two boisterous boys had done nothing for its tuning. She rummaged in her bag for her tuning pipe and played an A, tightening the string until the guitar and the pipe were married in tune before going to the next.
Oh, Lord, be the captor of my tears. She strummed, trying to match the chords to her prayer. Oh, Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.
She reached down for the magazine, flipped through, found a page near the back devoted to infants’ christening gowns, and ripped it out. Then, with a grubby stub of pencil fished from underneath the bed, she scribbled in the white spaces surrounding the chubby, well-dressed infants.
Downstairs, the boys were complaining loudly about theirdinner, and it seemed no adult at the table had the power to soothe them. Her stomach rumbled behind the guitar, but the idea of joining them at the table seemed as repulsive as the menu.
Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes until the world became nothing but her words and her music. As she held still, a familiar song worked its way into both her fingers and her voice.
What have I to dread? What have I to fear?
Leaning on the everlasting arms . . .
Dorothy Lynn closed her eyes and gave in to the chorus, “Leaning . . .” only to hear a second voice in an echoing alto join hers. They’d sung together before—with Ma joining them—on rare Sunday evenings at Heron’s Nest First Christian
Not that she’d be taken anywhere.
The tears started anew.
“Oh, Lord . . .” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, swung herself out of bed, and began to pace the room. “Forgive this foolishness.”
It would be easier if she didn’t love him, but it took only the thought of Brent, his strength and his warmth, to stop her in her steps. She wrapped herself in her own arms, feeling his embrace, and felt her breath once again become even and smooth.
It was Ma who first suggested they ask Darlene—chic, fashionable Darlene—to make her wedding dress. It was Brent who recognized her longing to tuck her private life to herself and get away.
“Go see your sister,” he’d said one oppressive Sunday afternoon as they lay head-to-head in the forest clearing. It had become a regular custom to walk there, to get away from the prying eyes of the town and the prattling plans of her mother. “Spend some time with her, just in case she can’t make it to the wedding.”
“You’re not worried that I won’t make it to the wedding?”
“Should I be? Do you think you might forget?”
She’d rolled herself over, propped herself on her elbows, and looked straight down into his eyes.
“Of course not. It’s my birthday. A girl never forgets her birthday. Maybe I’ll have two cakes.”
A piercing pain snatched her from her reverie. She lifted her bare foot to reveal a small toy soldier wielding a tiny rifle in defense. Mindless of the ruckus it might be creating downstairs, she hopped back to the bed, where she sat down to rub the throbbing instep. As she did, she realized her tears were gone, having disappeared in the midst of her memory. Pity had disguised itself as fear.
Raising her eyes to the ceiling from which model fighter planes flew in constant battle, she thanked God for the distraction.
Wincing with pain, she gingerly put a bit of weight on the veteran foot and reached for her guitar, propped against the iron footboard. She cradled it in her lap and strummed it lightly, cringing at the sound. A bouncing five-hour bus ride followed by the handling of two boisterous boys had done nothing for its tuning. She rummaged in her bag for her tuning pipe and played an A, tightening the string until the guitar and the pipe were married in tune before going to the next.
Oh, Lord, be the captor of my tears. She strummed, trying to match the chords to her prayer. Oh, Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.
She reached down for the magazine, flipped through, found a page near the back devoted to infants’ christening gowns, and ripped it out. Then, with a grubby stub of pencil fished from underneath the bed, she scribbled in the white spaces surrounding the chubby, well-dressed infants.
Downstairs, the boys were complaining loudly about theirdinner, and it seemed no adult at the table had the power to soothe them. Her stomach rumbled behind the guitar, but the idea of joining them at the table seemed as repulsive as the menu.
Lord, be the conqueror of my fears.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes until the world became nothing but her words and her music. As she held still, a familiar song worked its way into both her fingers and her voice.
What have I to dread? What have I to fear?
Leaning on the everlasting arms . . .
Dorothy Lynn closed her eyes and gave in to the chorus, “Leaning . . .” only to hear a second voice in an echoing alto join hers. They’d sung together before—with Ma joining them—on rare Sunday evenings at Heron’s Nest First Christian
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