Returning to Rest - Part 2

 Good morning!

Happy Friday! I hope you had a good week. I've stayed busy. Writing, nieces and nephews over, Instagram posts, reading, editing, working on some things for writing camp, and knitting. No lack of things here. I finally sent off 11 cradle sets to Bridget's Cradles. Glad to finally get them done and mailed so they can be used.

 It's gotten hot again here. Feels like summer. Yesterday it was 98ª F. Ugh! I'm ready for cooler weather! I want to wear sweaters and flannel and long sleeves. But fall will come even here. 

I know a few things might look a little odd on my blog right now. That's because I have to create my own backgrounds since I can't find any that I can use anymore. I'm still working on trying to get things just right.

I hope you enjoy the rest of this story. Next month I should have another one for you.

 

Returning to Rest - Part 2

 

    Leaning forward, Francis shielded his face with his hand and sat still.
    “The Lord has dealt bountifully with you! Yes, with you who have wandered from His rest. With you who have strayed. With you who have betrayed your Lord by word or deed. And yes, even with you who have still refused His offer of salvation. But you say you don’t see His bounty. Are your sins pardoned in the blood of the Lamb? Did you deserve it? That’s mercy and grace. Did you earn it? No, that’s the Lord dealing bountifully with you! So return. Return and rest. Dine with the Master and rest your weary soul in him.”
    Francis didn’t hear any more. He closed his eyes and let the thought of the bountiful goodness of the Lord put to flight the doubts and fears, the worries and discouragements, the shame and feelings of defeat that had long resided in his mind and heart.
    A hand rested on his shoulder and he started.
    “I didn’t mean to startled you.” It was the young man who had coaxed him to come in.
    Sitting up, Francis realized that the service was over. “It’s okay.” He coughed. “I was just thinking. Thanks for letting me come in. I–” He coughed again and reached for his wet jacket. “I’d best be going.”
    “Where are you staying? Do you need a ride? It’s gotten dark, and it looks like we might be in for another storm.”
    Francis shook his head and stood, looking toward the open door. It was dark out. Where would he sleep?
    A man with gray around his temples and a tired but peaceful look about his eyes stopped beside the pew. “Will you introduce me to your friend, Westley?”
    The young man grinned. “I’d be happy to, Uncle, but it seems we were so interested in the singing and the service that it never occurred to me to exchange names.” He turned to Francis and held out his hand. “I’m Westley Moore.”
    “Francis Cartwright.” Francis shook the offered hand. “Thanks for inviting me in and,” he slid the jacket off his shoulders and handed it back, “for the use of that. Mine was a little wet.”
    “Glad you came in. Oh, Uncle Paul, this is Francis. Francis, my uncle, Paul Eastman. Otherwise known as Dr. East.”
    “East? West–”
    Dr. East laughed at Francis’ bewildered expression. “I know, my sister had a strange sense of humor. But she was determined that her son wouldn’t be a physician, so she refused to name him after me. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand.
    Recalled to the social duties he had so long been excluded from, Francis put his hand in the offered one. “Did her plan work?”
    “Perhaps. I think Westley is more interested in helping souls than bodies. Where are you staying?”
    Francis shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”
    “Have you had supper?” the doctor asked, eyeing him keenly.
    With a cough, Francis shook his head. “Supper costs money and money takes work and work hasn’t been found, though I’ve searched for it.”
    “Well, then,” Westley sounded eager, “you’ll not object if I press my claims on you and take you home to dinner.”
    “No, I–”
    “I wouldn’t object,” Dr. East said quietly. “Much more exposure to that cold and rain could land you in bed for weeks. That cough doesn’t sound good.”
    Westley turned toward a woman who was approaching. It was the one Francis had noticed playing the organ. “Mother, we have a relative who needs a good meal and a bed tonight. I invited him over. You don’t object, do you?”
    The woman addressed looked older than Dr. East, and her hair was liberally streaked with gray, but her cheeks were pink and she smiled. “Of course not. We always have room for one more. Or two. Paul, are you coming over?”
    Dr. East looked at his watch. “I’ll try to later, Dorcas. I need to stop by the Bridgeman’s and see how Laurel is doing.”
    “All right.” The woman turned to her son. “Are you ready, Westley?”
    “Just about. Oh, Mother, I’d like you to meet Francis Cartwright. Francis, my mother.”
    “Please to meet you, Mrs. Moore.”
    “Just call me Aunt Dorcas, Francis. If you are a relative, there’s no need to be formal.”
    “I’m not really a–”
    “Excuse me, Francis,” Westley interrupted, “but you are my brother, and that makes you a relative.” He looked at his mother. “I won’t be long, but I need to catch Mr. Ross a moment if I can.”
    Francis pulled on his still wet jacket and coughed.
    “That cough doesn’t sound good,” Mrs. Moore remarked. “Where have you been staying?”
    Francis shrugged. “Wherever I could find a place.”
    “That’s a good way to get sick. Oh, Rhoda,” Mrs. Moore turned quickly to another woman who was passing, “do you want me to pick you up for the sewing bee on Saturday?”
    Francis stood quietly in the back of the church and watched. Oh, to belong to a place like this. A place where one was welcomed as though returning home again. Home. What wouldn’t he give to be able to go home once more?
    A hand rested on his shoulder and a warm voice spoke.
    “My friend, I’m glad you came in tonight.”
    Francis turned and found the friendly face of the old minister beside him. “Thank you. I . . . Well, I wasn’t going to come in. Didn’t feel I had the right, for I had wandered away and denied my Lord, but Westley–”
    “Ah, Westley Moore is a servant of his Master. And what about you, my friend? Have you returned to your Lord?”
    Francis gave a faint nod. “Yes, sir. But I didn’t think . . . That is, I didn’t expect . . .” He floundered over his words and coughed. The minister waited silently, his hand still on Francis’s shoulder. “Well, I didn’t think there was a place for a sinner like me to have fellowship with the saints until glory.”
    “Ah, my friend,” the minister said with a smile, “our Lord forgives when we repent and turn from our wanderings and our sins. Are we better than our Lord?”
    His eyes on the floor, Francis shook his head. “No, sir. But other places–”
    “I’m sorry,” the minister said. “There are and probably will always be folks who forget about the log in their own eye. Have you a place to stay tonight?”
    “Yes, sir, he does!” Westley appeared beside them at that moment. “I’m taking him home.”
    The minister nodded. “That is good. By the way, Westley, I wasn’t expecting to see you here this evening. Weren’t you supposed to be helping in the city tonight?”
    “Yes, sir, but my truck wouldn’t start, and I knew if I took Mother’s car she wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. So I phoned someone to take my place there. I think the Lord was in that plan.” He cast a smiling look at Francis.
    Francis couldn’t say a word. He was overcome by the Lord’s goodness to a sheep who had strayed. He knew he would not have come into the church or heard the message the minister had shared if it hadn’t been for Westley’s persuasiveness. The Lord had dealt bountifully with him.
    “Westley, are you ready now?” Mrs. Moore asked.
    “Yes, Mother. Francis?”
    Francis nodded, and gripping his walking stick, limped from the pew.
    “What did you do to make you limp so much?” Westley asked, offering an arm to lean on.
    “Fell and twisted my knee. I’ll be okay.”
    “Well, Uncle will be over later this evening, I’m sure. He can take a look at it then. Here we are.”
    And before Francis could protest that he couldn’t afford a doctor, he found himself in car being driven toward a warm home and a hot supper. He didn’t know what would come in the morning, but for now he was going to rest in the bountiful goodness of his Lord.

 

What have you been doing lately?

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Returning to Rest - Part 1

 Good morning!

Fall is coming. It's been cooler in the mornings. Sometimes downright chilly. Some days are lovely but others are still warm. It has been dry and we could really use some rain.

I've been staying busy trying to get a lot of different things done. Things like the Christmas Play for church written, formatted, and parts to people, starting to teach my new writing students, writing, working on blog posts, figuring out how Instagram works and what to post there, yard work, and more. Life just doesn't slow down.

 Today's story is one I wrote last fall maybe? I shared it at KDWC, but thought I'd share it here now. Hope you enjoy this first part.

 

Returning to Rest - Part 1

    Francis shivered in his wet jacket as he crouched among the trees. He heard another motor and watched as a red pickup rattled down the rough road to join the other trucks and cars before the small, white church nestled against the scarlet trees. The autumn day had been wet and dreary. Even the bright colored trees had failed to lift Francis’s spirits.
    Why should they be lifted? He was alone, sick, hungry, out of work, and did he mention friendless and discouraged? If only he could find some place where he was needed! He’d walked for miles and miles with nothing to show for it except worn shoes and a cold.
    He coughed and hugged his jacket closer.
    A beam of light caught his eye, and he watched as the clouds broke, letting through a shaft of light that seemed to fall on the old church and make the trees glow.
    Music drifted from the open doors of the white structure.

“Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?”

    “Mama used to sing that song,” Francis whispered to himself.

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”

    “Oh, if only I could!” The young man wiped away a tear. “If only I could gather with someone who believes, and be welcomed, I could be sure that– But no. Who would welcome someone like me? God has forgiven me and will take me home at the end, but until then–”
    The chorus rang out again in the clear evening air.

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”

    “Yeah, well,” Francis sighed, moving into the open clearing in an attempt to catch what little warmth he could from the sun, “I ain’t no saint. They only gather with each other. But their singing sure is nice. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I just stand nearby and listen.”
    Leaning on his walking stick and limping down the road, Francis listened to the singing coming from the white church.

“Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we ev’ry burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.”

    A smile, too rarely seen on Francis’s face these last few years, turned up the corner of his lips. “I’d be happy with just a pair of warm socks, a dry jacket, and a place to warm up. Don’t need a crown.”
    He limped his slow way closer to the church where the sunlight seemed to be the strongest. Perhaps he could just sit in the sunshine and listen to the music. A cough made him stop and lean on his walking stick a minute just as the song ended. He hoped he wasn’t bothering anyone.
    The organ started another song as he found a seat on the rocky hillside next to the flag pole. He closed his eyes and sighed.
    “Why don’t you come in my friend?”
    Startled, Francis looked up. A young man around his own age stood before him. His smile was warm and friendly. “No, that’s okay,” Francis gasped out with a cough. “I ain’t deserving of being in there with . . .” He coughed again. “With nice folks like you. It’s just nice to hear songs about my Lord.”
    “Has the Lord saved you, my brother?”
    Francis nodded. “He did, and I’m mighty grateful, but well–” He cleared his throat. “I walked away from Him, and now–”
    The young man held out his hand. “Come on. The Lord is merciful and ready to forgive.”
    “But–”
    “Hear that song?”
    Francis listened to the words pouring from the simple church.

“Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “Come and dine”;
You may feast at Jesus’ table all the time;
He Who fed the multitude, turned the water into wine,
To the hungry calleth now, “Come and dine.”

    “It’s not for me,” Francis began, wishing it was for him. “I’ve strayed and am not worthy–
    “Listen,” the voice interrupted.

“The disciples came to land,
Thus obeying Christ’s command,
for the Master called unto them, “Come and dine”;”

    “Do you know when Jesus called those men to come and dine?” the young man asked, looking at Francis.
    He shook his head. It must have been nice to have been called by the Master to come and dine.
    “He called them all after they had forsaken Him before the cross. Peter had denied the Lord, and yet, there was forgiveness and compassion in the Master, my friend. He knew they were weary and sad, and He prepared food for them. Come inside, brother.”
    Was it true? Had this call to come and dine been given after some falling away from the Lord? Without even fully realizing what he was doing, Francis allowed the stranger to help him up and guide him into the warm church building.
    
“Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “Come and dine.”

    The words rang out from the small congregation gathered in the brightly lit church.

“To the hungry calleth now, “Come and dine.”

    Francis sat in the back pew beside the young man who had invited him in. He shivered a little.
    Before Francis quite understood what was happening, the young man had shucked off his own jacket and had tugged off the wet one Francis was wearing.
    “Here, put this one on,” he whispered.
    Francis shook his head, but the dry, warm jacket was put about his shoulders anyway.
    The congregation sang a few more songs, and then a white-haired man stepped up to the pulpit. “That was some fine singing, folks! Let’s gather and dine with our Master this evening.” He bowed his head and prayed.
    Francis, with a feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, bowed his head. Perhaps there was hope even for him.
    The passage for the sermon was from the book of Psalms. “Return unto thy rest, o my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The minister’s voice reached to the back of the small church. “Return unto thy rest. Return? What is this about returning? If the Lord has dealt bountifully with us, why have we need of returning to our rest? Oh, my friends, how often do we stray? How often do we wander? We allow worry or fear to drive us away from the rest our Lord has given us. Return? Yes! Perhaps you don’t feel worthy to return. You reason that it has been too long, you’ve gone too far, rest won’t happen until we cross that shining river.”
    Francis swallowed. He had been thinking that.
    “You know,” the minister went on. “I was thinking of Peter this evening as we sang about dining with our Master. He didn’t just have doubts or worries. He didn’t just run away like the other disciples when his Master was betrayed. No, Peter denied that he even knew his Lord! Oh, Peter! How miserable he must have felt! How worthless and hopeless. How ashamed. And yet our Lord called him to come and dine. The Lord prepared fish for Peter too. Return! Did Peter return? You better believe he did! Return unto the rest that the Master has given you!”
    Leaning forward, Francis shielded his face with his hand and sat still. 

Have you wandered and need to return?

Do you have fall weather?

Come back next Friday for the rest of the story.