Wonderful Peace – Part 3

Hello, FFFs!

This week has been cold! We had one day of barely reaching into the 20s. And the night was 10º. Schools were cancelled because of the cold. I know, I know, some of you think that kind of cold is nothing. But you don't live down south. ;) We got another dusting of snow on Friday later afternoon, and a very light dusting just the other day. But nothing that covers the grass. Maybe someday.

It's been a very good week for writing! Not only have I reached and surpassed my weekly goal of 5k, I still have tomorrow to write! (Probably won't write today because my nieces and nephews are coming over!!!!) Maybe I'll have "Hymns in the Hills" finished by the end of February and ready for beta readers! Now that's an exciting thought. :)

I'm going to keep this short since I have other things I need to do before I eat breakfast and then clean the house. I hope you all have a great first day of February! *stares in shock at calendar that still says January* *wonders if by not changing it the days will still be January*

Wonderful Peace

Part 3

    “Yes, Art, it’s me,” answered the young man who had discovered him on the porch, as he took the coffee cup from the hands that trembled. “Welcome home, brother,” he said quietly and grasped the cold hands held out to him.

    “Davy, my little brother all grown—” A spell of coughing halted for several minutes any further words the newcomer wanted to say. At last, limp and exhausted, wiping the dots of perspiration from his brow, Arthur leaned his head back in the chair, his eyes closed. There was so much he wanted to say. He hadn’t even greeted his sisters yet nor found out if John was Johnny Dunnington from the farm by Snake Creek. They would be wanting to know his story, and why he hadn’t written for such a long time. But he was tired, so very tired and the wound in his leg throbbed painfully. He would try to talk, however, try to say how wonderful it was to be home again, try—. Wearily he forced his eyes to open and lifted his head. Taking a slow look about the room, he discovered only his family. The one called John was not to be seen. “Perhaps I imagined him,” he murmured.

    “What was that, Art?” David was seated in a chair beside him watching him closely.

    Shaking his head, Arthur’s gaze slowly roved from face to face. They were all familiar, yet so changed that he wasn’t sure he knew them, except one. There was one that he would have recognized anywhere and there his eyes returned and fastened, his mother’s dear face across from him. She was watching him with a tender smile. “Mother,” he asked in a low, hoarse voice, “were you singing just before I came?”

    “No dear, I couldn’t sing tonight. Julia was singing.”

    “Julia?” Slowly he turned his eyes to the young lady seated still at the piano. Surely that lovely thing couldn’t be the little girl he had left so long ago. Why she was just a child! But this, this was— “You sound just like Mother and—” another spell of coughing interrupted his words.

    “You should be in bed,” Davy remarked quietly, rising.

    Mrs. Fowler rose also, “So he should, poor boy.”

    Arthur shook his head and tried to still his cough. “No,” he gasped out, pushing his brother’s hand away. “Not yet. Father . . . I . . .”

    “What is it, Son,” Reverend Fowler’s deep voice was gentle and he moved over to stand beside the chair of his returned son.

    “I . . . I . . . I can’t go until I . . . hear . . .” Coughing took his breath for a minute and it was only after he swallowed some more coffee that he could continue. “Father?” A firm hand was placed on his shoulder and he looked up into his father’s face. “I want to hear you pray again.” It had been a longing in the young man’s heart for years to hear his father pray once more before he slept.

    Gladly the father answered that request and poured out such a heartfelt prayer of thankfulness over his son’s return, and asked such a tender blessing on each one of his children, that the tears again trickled down the returned soldier’s cheeks.

    Only when the prayer was over and his mother leaned over to whisper that she would be up later, did Arthur allow himself to be helped from the chair, and up the stairs to his old room by his brother and John who had returned.

    The doctor came shortly afterwards and soon the weary traveler lay resting, exhausted by the excitement of the last hour and the fatigues of weeks of travel. His wound was dressed and felt better than it had for days. But so tired was he that, when his mother and father slipped in after the doctor had left, to bid him goodnight, he had already fallen asleep contented, for he had seen his mother’s face and had heard his father pray.

    “I wonder what he has gone through,” whispered Reverend Fowler, his arm about his wife as they stood looking down at the pale face of their returned son.

    “I don’t know, but there is a peace about him that I never saw before,” replied the mother, bending down to plant a tender, caressing kiss on his forehead and softly brush back a lock of his dark hair.

    It was several days before Arthur was rested enough to come down and join the family in the music room. He didn’t talk much that first hour, but sat and listened. He had discovered through Davy that John was indeed Johnny Dunnington and that he had married Julia two years before. Mrs. Fowler, on one of her visits to her son’s room, told him that Margaret Wilson was soon to become Mrs. David Fowler. At that Arthur smiled.

    “If she’s anything like she was a dozen years ago, Mother, she’ll make a good wife for Davy. But, it is hard to think of little Davy as a college graduate, a successful businessman and getting married soon. Oh Mother,” Arthur had sighed deeply and turned his head restlessly on the pillow. “I missed such a lot by leaving home when I did.”

    With a gentle smile, Mrs. Fowler had patted his hand and replied, “But would you have found peace had you stayed?”

    “I don’t know. Not in the state of mind I was in then. It sure took a lot of trouble and hardship to bring me to my knees, Mother. But the Savior found me and gave me the peace you always sang about, the wonderful peace. It is wonderful, Mother, truly wonderful!” His eyes had closed then and he slept.

Have you had any snow this week?

Have you been really busy?

Are you ready for the final part of this story?