where he had found Emma earlier that day, but she wasn’t there. He called her name, but she did not answer. When he circled back to the line of stalls on the left, he found Emma in the first one, sitting on the straw floor beside a stack of hay bales, with her arms wrapped tightly over her knees. When he pulled the gate open to enter, she looked up briefly, then put her head down to hide her face.
Plainly, Emma was a girl in distress. Her white head covering had become somewhat dislodged from the bun of her brown hair, as if she had started to pull it off and had forgotten it. Her long lilac dress was spread carelessly over her knees; its hem lay in the straw around her ankles. She had taken her day apron off, and it lay crumpled at her feet.
Cal pulled a heavy bale of hay from a tall stack beside her and set it down to Emma’s left. He sat there and studied her, small and alone, in a place he knew she had considered private. She turned her eyes up to him once, and he saw that they were red and swollen. Hoping she would talk, he pulled another hay bale into place beside his and asked, “Emma, can you have a seat with me? Can we talk a little?”
With her face buried between her knees, Emma gave a muffled but determined answer. “I’m not crying.”
“No,” Cal said, “I can see that now. Can you sit up here with me?”
Emma didn’t answer, and she didn’t move.
Cal tried again. “I know that you’re sad about Ruth.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Cal nodded, but she didn’t see. He leaned over to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she buried her face deeper between her knees, jerked away from his touch, and remained seated. Cal eased off his hay bale and knelt in the straw beside her. “Emma,” he said, “I can see that you’ve been crying. If we talk a little, it might help.”
“I could talk to Ruth,” Emma said with a whisper. “Only Ruth. But I’m not crying.”
“I can see that,” Cal said.
“I don’t want to cry for her.”
“Why, Emma? It might help if you did.”
“If I can’t be strong for her, then I’ll know she’s really gone. And I won’t really know she’s gone until they bring her home in a coffin.”
“Then I think you must be the strongest girl I know,” Cal said. Again he tried to lay his hand on her shoulder, but again she wrenched away and kept her face buried between her knees.
Cal waited in silence for several minutes beside her. Eventually, Emma offered, “Ruth is the only one I could let see me cry.”
“Did you cry when you lost your family?”
“Only Ruth saw that,” Emma said, looking up.
“Oh, Emma, God sees all our tears.”
Emma ignored that and said, “She’s the only one I could trust with my tears. The other kids teased me if I was sad.”
“Kids can be cruel, Emma. You’re lucky you had Ruth.”
“Is she really dead?”
“Yes,” Cal answered softly.
She turned her face back into her knees. When Cal reached out for her shoulder, she pulled away again.
“If Ruth is really gone,” Emma whispered, “then I can’t cry anymore. Not ever. Or if I do, I can’t ever let anyone see me do it.”
“God knows all our tears, Emma.”
She looked up briefly and buried her face again. “Ruth was the only one I could trust.”
“You can trust me, Emma. I wouldn’t tell anyone. And you still can pray.”
Emma shook her head and squeezed her arms tighter around her knees. Muffled by her dress, her voice seemed distant and weak. “I can’t let anyone see me cry.”
“You have to trust someone, Emma.”
“That sounds like something Ruth would say.”
Cal held silence, waited. Cautiously he said, “Your grandfather says you are his stratus flower.”
Emma didn’t reply. Instead, she stood up and brushed off the back of her dress. She retrieved her day apron and tied it on. She straightened her prayer cap at the back of her head.
Cal stood beside her, and she turned to face him, she so much smaller than the pastor,
Plainly, Emma was a girl in distress. Her white head covering had become somewhat dislodged from the bun of her brown hair, as if she had started to pull it off and had forgotten it. Her long lilac dress was spread carelessly over her knees; its hem lay in the straw around her ankles. She had taken her day apron off, and it lay crumpled at her feet.
Cal pulled a heavy bale of hay from a tall stack beside her and set it down to Emma’s left. He sat there and studied her, small and alone, in a place he knew she had considered private. She turned her eyes up to him once, and he saw that they were red and swollen. Hoping she would talk, he pulled another hay bale into place beside his and asked, “Emma, can you have a seat with me? Can we talk a little?”
With her face buried between her knees, Emma gave a muffled but determined answer. “I’m not crying.”
“No,” Cal said, “I can see that now. Can you sit up here with me?”
Emma didn’t answer, and she didn’t move.
Cal tried again. “I know that you’re sad about Ruth.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Cal nodded, but she didn’t see. He leaned over to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she buried her face deeper between her knees, jerked away from his touch, and remained seated. Cal eased off his hay bale and knelt in the straw beside her. “Emma,” he said, “I can see that you’ve been crying. If we talk a little, it might help.”
“I could talk to Ruth,” Emma said with a whisper. “Only Ruth. But I’m not crying.”
“I can see that,” Cal said.
“I don’t want to cry for her.”
“Why, Emma? It might help if you did.”
“If I can’t be strong for her, then I’ll know she’s really gone. And I won’t really know she’s gone until they bring her home in a coffin.”
“Then I think you must be the strongest girl I know,” Cal said. Again he tried to lay his hand on her shoulder, but again she wrenched away and kept her face buried between her knees.
Cal waited in silence for several minutes beside her. Eventually, Emma offered, “Ruth is the only one I could let see me cry.”
“Did you cry when you lost your family?”
“Only Ruth saw that,” Emma said, looking up.
“Oh, Emma, God sees all our tears.”
Emma ignored that and said, “She’s the only one I could trust with my tears. The other kids teased me if I was sad.”
“Kids can be cruel, Emma. You’re lucky you had Ruth.”
“Is she really dead?”
“Yes,” Cal answered softly.
She turned her face back into her knees. When Cal reached out for her shoulder, she pulled away again.
“If Ruth is really gone,” Emma whispered, “then I can’t cry anymore. Not ever. Or if I do, I can’t ever let anyone see me do it.”
“God knows all our tears, Emma.”
She looked up briefly and buried her face again. “Ruth was the only one I could trust.”
“You can trust me, Emma. I wouldn’t tell anyone. And you still can pray.”
Emma shook her head and squeezed her arms tighter around her knees. Muffled by her dress, her voice seemed distant and weak. “I can’t let anyone see me cry.”
“You have to trust someone, Emma.”
“That sounds like something Ruth would say.”
Cal held silence, waited. Cautiously he said, “Your grandfather says you are his stratus flower.”
Emma didn’t reply. Instead, she stood up and brushed off the back of her dress. She retrieved her day apron and tied it on. She straightened her prayer cap at the back of her head.
Cal stood beside her, and she turned to face him, she so much smaller than the pastor,
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