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.
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