At Every Turn (2 page)

I slid the photo to the back of the stack. Two little girls squatted at the edge of a trickle of water, bodies scarcely covered, faces serious. And William between them—at least I assumed so, given the toothy grin, the life-filled eyes. I swiped my thumb across his face, wishing I could see his joy in person. Joy that wouldn’t be his if the McConnells hadn’t gone to Africa in the first place. I pushed out my breath, trying to release the tight band of emotion constricting my chest. But it cinched tighter, surging into my throat and threatening to spill out of my eyes.

Mr. Trotter nudged my arm. I held out the photos. The minute they left my hand, I yearned to hold them again.

Mr. Trotter gave them a cursory glance and passed them along.

My mouth dropped open before it pulled into a frown. How could he part with them so quickly? Didn’t he see what I saw? Didn’t he feel what I felt? I craned my neck to follow the progress of the photos, reading other faces to see if their reactions mirrored my own.

Compassion cloaked many faces. Others gave them only momentary attention.

I turned back to the front, tried to concentrate on Mr. McConnell’s stories of God’s faithfulness in their work. But my thoughts returned to the pictures, to the people. How could anyone remain unmoved?

Perhaps the images stirred some people so deeply they had to relinquish them quickly. Perhaps if they gave close attention to the faces, they’d be unable to mask their emotions. My spirit brightened. That had to be the explanation.

Satisfied, I settled back in my seat to listen.

“Will you pray for us as we are away from our work? It is difficult but necessary. And by the grace of God, we’ll return to Africa soon.” He bowed his head, as did the others around me.

But I couldn’t force my eyes shut. The earnestness that clenched his features as he talked to God held me fast—at least until my focus roamed to Mrs. McConnell. Clasped hands. Lips moving in silent supplication. Such obvious devotion. Such willing sacrifice. A lump rose in my throat as the pictures loomed again in my mind.

Pastor Swan stood before us again. I blinked my surprise. Had Mr. McConnell walked from the stage or been whisked back to his seat by the Spirit of God?

“What John will not tell you is that he and his wife are trusting the Lord to raise the money they need to return to their work among the Africans of the Gold Coast. They need money not only for their return passage but also to build a church for the new believers, to help educate the men who desire to lead the young congregation, and to feed and clothe those who have little resources of their own.”

His gaze swept over the entire church, front pew to back, one side to the other. “Will you commit to support them? Will you help the gospel go forth in word and in deed?”

My feet danced. My hands trembled. I squeezed my eyes shut, but African faces appeared before me, both the ones who needed Jesus and the one who had already found Him.

My eyes flew open. Money. I had money. Or rather, Father did. Why else would God have placed me in such a family if not to use its resources for His kingdom?

Like an automobile leaping into a full-throttled run, I sprang to my feet. My fingers clamped the back of the pew in front of me. “I can help, Pastor Swan.”

His face tinged pink as he looked at me. My stomach somersaulted, but my mouth refused to stop. “I’ll give three thousand dollars to Mr. McConnell’s mission.” I whirled to face the congregation. “Will you join me? Will each of you give something toward this important work of God? With our gifts together, we could present Mr. and Mrs. McConnell with a total of six thousand dollars to help bring Christ to the world.”

Gasps sounded from every corner of the room. Wide eyes stared back at me, no less startled than if I’d declared an intention to travel to Africa myself. My knees shook under the weight of my words.

Three thousand dollars? Six thousand dollars? I doubted any of these people could fathom such amounts, though three thousand dollars would represent little hardship to my father. He’d spent near that amount on my Packard and his Mercer. Certainly Mother spent at least that much in a year on clothes and charity events and travel to and from Chicago. I peeked down at Mr. Trotter, anxious for his encouragement. But his jaw hung open, glazed eyes peering into mine.

“Such a . . . generous offer, Miss Benson,” Pastor Swan stammered as I spun to face him again. Mrs. Tillman gaped back at me, her face seeming to reflect both admiration and concern. I brushed a cluster of curls from my face as I quashed momentary misgivings.

With a turn of my head, I found Ava McConnell’s shining black eyes fixed on mine. The gratitude in them weakened my knees, until a tug at my sleeve drew my attention.

Mr. Trotter cleared his throat, patted my place on the pew. I eased down, eager for the service to be dismissed. I needed to meet the McConnells and explain how much I admired and appreciated their service to the Lord.

“You’ve landed yourself in quite a quagmire, Miss Alyce.” Mr. Trotter’s whisper tickled my ear. “Have you forgotten that your father despises all things religious?”

I turned in his direction. “Except for his daughter.” I kept my voice low as my lips curled into a smile. Mr. Trotter appeared unmoved. I shook away his concern. He handled Father’s accounts. Yet I knew my father far better than he did. Father supported Mother’s charitable causes without question. I couldn’t think of a reason he’d refuse to support mine.

 2 

M
rs. Tillman beat me to the McConnells. She gushed out details of her own work facilitating the spread of the gospel through the Women’s Mission Auxiliary. I tapped my foot. Stared out the window. Blew an errant wisp of hair from my forehead.

Mr. Tillman crept up behind his wife, a mask of doubt covering his pasty face. When he tapped her on the arm, she hesitated, her mouth puckering with displeasure for a split second. Then it smoothed into a smile.

“If you’ll excuse me?” She nodded to each McConnell in turn. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

I stepped forward before she’d finished her exit, extending my hand first to Mr. McConnell and then to his wife. “I’m pleased to meet you both.”

Mrs. McConnell’s plain features lit with joy as our eyes met again. Without hesitation, I threw my arms around her slight body. She chuckled as she pressed her small hands against my back. When I pulled away, Pastor Swan stood beside me.

My cheeks heated. “I never meant to disrupt the service. Will you forgive me?”

“No need to apologize, dear.” The pastor’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. “I see you’ve met John and Ava.”

We all answered yes.

“Good. Good.” His head bobbed a period at the end of each word. “Then I guess we ought to discuss the details of your generous offer toward their work.”

“Of course.” I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Trotter hovered behind our group. I stepped aside, motioned him into our circle of conversation. “Mr. Trotter, please meet Mr. and Mrs. McConnell.”

While the men shook hands and exchanged greetings, I gave closer study to Ava McConnell’s face. Despite her sallow complexion, her eyes shone with energy and delight.

She inched closer to me. “I pray the Lord will richly bless you, Miss—”

“Alyce.” I grasped her thin hands as if she and I had already shared years of friendship. “Alyce Benson.”

“Alyce.” Her smile warmed me to my toes. “But surely you didn’t intend to offer such an exorbitant sum.”

I glanced at Pastor Swan, a grin playing at my lips. “Oh, but I did. How could I not after seeing those faces?” I pressed my hand over my heart.

Tears welled in Mrs. McConnell’s eyes. She reached for her husband’s Bible and slipped one of the photographs from its pages. She stared at it for a moment and then held it out to me. “These are three of my favorite children in the village.”

I smiled down at them, wishing I could wrap my arms around their little bodies. “They are beautiful.” I pushed the photo back in her direction.

She held out her palms. “No, please. Keep it. Pray for them—and for us.”

I dropped to the pew as my heart burst into a million pieces at such an extravagant gift. “Oh, Mrs. McConnell! Are you sure?”

She perched beside me, nodding. “I’m sure. I would only give those precious faces to someone I felt cared about them as I do. And please, call me Ava. We’re friends now.”

I pressed the photo to my chest, unable to voice my gratitude on both counts.

Her spindly fingers rested on my knee as she lowered her voice. “But Alyce, are you sure about the money?”

Laughter spilled out of my full heart. “Please don’t worry on that score, Ava. My father owns Benson Farm Machinery here in Langston. He’ll be happy to help with your work in Africa.”

Joy radiated from her face. “Then we must thank him personally.” She pushed up on her toes and stretched her neck to search the thinning crowd.

My stomach clenched as I rose. “My father doesn’t actually . . . attend church.”

Ava’s heels settled back onto the ground, but her smile never wavered. No pity sprang into her eyes. My twinge of anxiety fell away.

“Be assured, then, that I will pray for your father, Alyce. His generosity will accomplish much in our small corner of Africa. And I know the Lord will reward His faithful steward for sowing an abundance into the work of the Lord.”

My smile sagged into a frown. She didn’t understand. Father wasn’t a steward of the Lord. He didn’t yet recognize his need for a savior, let alone a Lord and master. I knew myself to be a servant of the Lord, but I had nothing of my own to give. Nothing but what I received from my father.

“How long will it take to arrange the transfer of money, Miss Benson?” Pastor Swan asked.

Mr. Trotter cleared his throat, gave me a pointed look. I tried to dismiss him, but he cleared his throat again. More loudly this time.

What if it took some special action to retrieve the money—something I didn’t understand? Was that what Mr. Trotter was trying to tell me? I certainly didn’t want to look foolish in front of these men. “I don’t know. I mean, it might take a little while.”

Mr. Trotter relaxed. There. I’d read him correctly. I’d speak with him to understand the details, and then we could move forward. I sucked in a breath, ready to excuse myself from the gathering to confer with Mr. Trotter.

Mr. McConnell waved one of his large hands. “I can provide you with our bank’s information. I assume there wouldn’t be a problem with a wire transfer.” His gaze landed on mine.

I turned to Mr. Trotter. His eyes stretched wide as red splotched his face. I stepped in front of him, blocking his agitation from my new friends. As I did, my mind whirled with other possibilities. A celebration of God’s provision. A way to expose others to the work of the gospel around the world. “I’d hoped we could present the money to you in person. Couldn’t you stay a few days longer?”

Mr. McConnell wagged his head. “I wish we could. I sincerely do. But we haven’t time to spare. We are expected at another church, in Illinois, this evening.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “We must catch the train in less than an hour.”

My excitement wilted. I didn’t want to send the money to a bank. Not when I’d felt such a connection to the McConnells and the people they served in the Gold Coast. I wanted to feel the transfer of funds from my hands to theirs.

Pastor Swan’s face brightened. “Perhaps you could stop by on your way back to New York, at the end of your visit to the States. That would allow my congregation time to meet Miss Benson’s challenge to match her generous offering. We could boast publicly of the Lord’s faithfulness and provision.”

Mr. McConnell’s deep laughter rumbled through the almost-empty room as warm breath spewed down the back of my neck. Fingers jerked my elbow. I turned my head just a bit, my voice low, my lips barely moving. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Trotter. I’m sure I can handle things from here.”

Mr. Trotter’s eyes narrowed as he stepped away, his shoes echoing up the aisle and out the door.

“I think that’s a fine plan.” Mr. McConnell slapped Pastor Swan on the back, nearly catapulting him into the front pew.

I fought back a giggle as the missionary pulled a diary and pencil from his pocket. “September twenty-fourth should work,” he said. “We hope to be on a ship back to Africa by the end of that month.”

“Lord willing,” Ava breathed.

September. I counted quickly. Seven weeks for the people of our church to raise three thousand dollars. Father would provide our part and then I’d help the others raise the rest. How providential that I’d just offered a list of ideas to Mrs. Tillman that very morning. Bubbles of joy tickled laughter from my mouth.

The Lord had obviously prepared me for this day and this day for me.

Now I just needed to speak with Father.

My heart soared as my foot pressed the pedal on the floor, urging the car homeward with small adjustments to the throttle and spark plugs. Moments later, I turned off the main road and motored down the brick drive running beneath the porte cochere of our Italianate home. The doors of the old carriage house stood open at the end of the path.

I motored inside. Father’s Mercer, silent and clean, sat to my right, beside a shell of a racing car Webster Little was building. I parked the Packard between the Mercer and the workbench attached to the wall. My engine fell silent. I gathered my things, banged the Packard’s door shut, and grimaced. Earth clung to the paint of my car, transforming its gleaming white to the color of my morning toast and muting the bright red trim. I latched the carriage-house doors shut with a grin. Webster would likely shake his head and ask how fast I’d traveled before scrubbing every inch of the motorcar and checking it for damage.

Handbag swinging from my wrist, I sauntered through the ornamental gardens at the back of the house. Velvety petals drew my nose to their sweet scent and reminded me again that a sacrifice of obedience such as I’d offered that morning rose as a pleasing fragrance before the Lord. I hurried up the steps and into the kitchen, grasped our cook around the waist, and spun a circle before letting her free.

Clarissa shook her wooden spoon at me, but I recognized the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s a glorious day, Clarissa!” I dashed into the hall, up the curved staircase, and into Grandmother’s bedroom, my feet almost dancing.

I placed my Bible and handbag on a small table and leaned down to kiss Grandmother’s soft cheek before thudding into my usual chair beside her bed. She reached for me. I clasped her hand tight.

“I wish you could have been at church today, Grandmother. A missionary came and spoke about his work in Africa. He and his wife live in the Gold Coast. They teach the people about Jesus, as well as meet other needs in the remote villages. It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Releasing her hand, I fumbled through the pages of my Bible for the photograph. “I wish you could see this picture Ava gave me.” I leaned in, elbows sinking into the mattress. “Two little girls and a little boy, all sitting in front of a massive tree, its arms spread out over them, shielding them from the sun. Their faces are dark, but their eyes and teeth gleam white. There are grass huts in the background. Ava teaches them. She said these are some of her favorites.”

Grandmother’s mouth curved upward, as I knew it would.

“I’ve never heard such wonderful stories in all my life. And the photographs! There were several more. I feel so honored that they let me keep one. To remember.” With a sigh, I leaned against the back of the cane-seated chair, wishing I could loosen my stays and be more comfortable. But sharing my enjoyment of the photograph eased the pinch of my corset.

“I can just imagine those sweet children, Ally. But your enthusiasm over them worries me a bit.”

Laying aside the photo, I scooted my chair closer to the bed.

Her head tipped to one side as she stared unseeingly at me. “What have you done?”

I crossed my arms in a huff. “How do you know I’ve done anything at all?”

She giggled, her wrinkled face transforming into an expression of childlike wonder. “Because you’ve been on a desperate search for adventure ever since you were a tiny thing. Remember when we had to get the fire wagon’s long ladder to help you down from the old oak by the creek?” She shook her head. “No one ever imagined you’d climb up so high.”

I smiled in spite of myself. Mother had swooned right there under the tree.

“And when you put yourself between those two ducks, one wing in each hand, and jumped out of the old hayloft? That time you were certainly old enough to know better!”

The doctor had shaken his head, too, as he fastened a harness around my arm to keep it still while the bones healed. But those few minutes in the air had been worth all the pain. “Scoot over, Granny. I’ll tell you everything.”