Morning Office in his study and carried two mugs of coffee upstairs, where Cynthia opened the first door on their Advent calendar.
Propped in bed against the pillows, she read aloud the supplication from the prophet Isaiah.
“ ‘Let the sky rain down justice, and the earth bud forth a saviour!’ ”
“Amen!” he said, handing her a mug.
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “A blessed Advent to you, beloved.”She put the palm of her hand to his cheek. “And to you, dearest.”
“I’ve set out your little crèche.”
“Oh, that ragged thing!”
“Fourteen years old, and sewing robes for those clothespins!” He recklessly counted this among the most endearing things he knew about his wife.
“Phoo, darling!”
“I want to thank you for something.” He sat on her side of their bed and took a sip of the strong, black brew. “I want to thank you for encouraging me to retire.”
“But you’ve struggled with it so.”
“I know. I think most people do. But I was exhausted all the time; I never knew how to rest or take a break, or how to refuel. I think God is at last teaching me something about that.”
“Hoppy said if you hadn’t retired, your health would have suffered greatly.”
“I wish I’d spent the last couple of years enjoying retirement instead of fighting it. But now I believe I can.” He grinned. “I’m giving up the book of essays. It’s a blasted nuisance.”
“Hallelujah, darling! You always looked woeful when you sat down to an essay.”
“I thought I had to stay busy with something important, that I had no right to rest. Of course, I want to keep myself open to any use He might make of me.”
“Look at the use He’s made of you in supplying so many pulpits, and the lives that were changed in that wonderful year at Whitecap, and the way you found Sammy. . . .”
“Ah, well,” he said, mildly flustered. Though he had no knack for totting up such things, his wife definitely possessed a certain skill. “I have a confession to make about the essays—I’ve just realized it in the last few days. I thought I had to keep up, somehow, with my successful wife.”
“But you don’t.”
“But I don’t.”
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you back.”
They were silent for a moment, comforted, as the wind keened around the north corner of the house.
“We used to talk about what we might do when I retired,” he said. “You always wanted to travel. Truth be told, it’s something I’m beginning to think I’d like to do.”
“Your old fear of flying—is it going away?”
“A lot of my fears seem to be going away.”
“Remember how I used to be afraid you’d leave me?” she asked. “That fear has vanished completely.”
He raised his coffee mug in a glad salute. “After our year at Meadowgate, how would you like to go to Ireland?”
“Ireland! I’d love to go to Ireland!”
“See the Kavanagh family castle, muck about with the cousins, do rubbings of gravestones . . . like that.” His heart lifted up.
She set her coffee on the bedside table and opened her arms to the man whom she’d always believed, even when others didn’t suspect it, to be wise and romantic, witty and ardent, generous and brave—in the end, the truest soul she had ever known.
At the end of an unpaved road, in a white frame house surrounded by three acres of pines, Lew Boyd sat up in bed and yawned. He didn’t know if he wanted to go to church this morning or not.
If he remembered right, this afternoon was the annual Advent Walk. A horde of locals would start out at the Episcopalians, then march around to thePresbyterians and Methodists, enjoying a brief service at each stop and singing hymns and carols along the way. The whole caboodle would end up at First Baptist, with all the hot cider, cookies, and whatnot a man could hold.
If he showed up at church this morning, the elders would be after him to join the walkers this afternoon and fill in the bass.
Propped in bed against the pillows, she read aloud the supplication from the prophet Isaiah.
“ ‘Let the sky rain down justice, and the earth bud forth a saviour!’ ”
“Amen!” he said, handing her a mug.
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “A blessed Advent to you, beloved.”She put the palm of her hand to his cheek. “And to you, dearest.”
“I’ve set out your little crèche.”
“Oh, that ragged thing!”
“Fourteen years old, and sewing robes for those clothespins!” He recklessly counted this among the most endearing things he knew about his wife.
“Phoo, darling!”
“I want to thank you for something.” He sat on her side of their bed and took a sip of the strong, black brew. “I want to thank you for encouraging me to retire.”
“But you’ve struggled with it so.”
“I know. I think most people do. But I was exhausted all the time; I never knew how to rest or take a break, or how to refuel. I think God is at last teaching me something about that.”
“Hoppy said if you hadn’t retired, your health would have suffered greatly.”
“I wish I’d spent the last couple of years enjoying retirement instead of fighting it. But now I believe I can.” He grinned. “I’m giving up the book of essays. It’s a blasted nuisance.”
“Hallelujah, darling! You always looked woeful when you sat down to an essay.”
“I thought I had to stay busy with something important, that I had no right to rest. Of course, I want to keep myself open to any use He might make of me.”
“Look at the use He’s made of you in supplying so many pulpits, and the lives that were changed in that wonderful year at Whitecap, and the way you found Sammy. . . .”
“Ah, well,” he said, mildly flustered. Though he had no knack for totting up such things, his wife definitely possessed a certain skill. “I have a confession to make about the essays—I’ve just realized it in the last few days. I thought I had to keep up, somehow, with my successful wife.”
“But you don’t.”
“But I don’t.”
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you back.”
They were silent for a moment, comforted, as the wind keened around the north corner of the house.
“We used to talk about what we might do when I retired,” he said. “You always wanted to travel. Truth be told, it’s something I’m beginning to think I’d like to do.”
“Your old fear of flying—is it going away?”
“A lot of my fears seem to be going away.”
“Remember how I used to be afraid you’d leave me?” she asked. “That fear has vanished completely.”
He raised his coffee mug in a glad salute. “After our year at Meadowgate, how would you like to go to Ireland?”
“Ireland! I’d love to go to Ireland!”
“See the Kavanagh family castle, muck about with the cousins, do rubbings of gravestones . . . like that.” His heart lifted up.
She set her coffee on the bedside table and opened her arms to the man whom she’d always believed, even when others didn’t suspect it, to be wise and romantic, witty and ardent, generous and brave—in the end, the truest soul she had ever known.
At the end of an unpaved road, in a white frame house surrounded by three acres of pines, Lew Boyd sat up in bed and yawned. He didn’t know if he wanted to go to church this morning or not.
If he remembered right, this afternoon was the annual Advent Walk. A horde of locals would start out at the Episcopalians, then march around to thePresbyterians and Methodists, enjoying a brief service at each stop and singing hymns and carols along the way. The whole caboodle would end up at First Baptist, with all the hot cider, cookies, and whatnot a man could hold.
If he showed up at church this morning, the elders would be after him to join the walkers this afternoon and fill in the bass.
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