Prairie Storm (26 page)

The baby in one arm, he pulled her against his chest. Reeling from the sudden outburst, she slipped her arms around the man and held him close.

“Elijah,” she said as Sam caught a clump of her hair in his tiny fingers. “Elijah, what does this mean?”

“Oh, Lily, it means everything.” He was breathing hard, his voice ragged with emotion. “You're right; I haven't been looking at the path right in front of my feet. I haven't been trusting God with my life. I've been trying to figure it all out myself, trying to get what I thought I wanted instead of letting God take care of me. But I can see it now—I know why I'm here, what I'm supposed to do. I can see everything. It's all going to work out fine.”

“Brother Elijah, that is you there?” Rolf Rustemeyer, lantern in hand, came running through the darkness toward the soddy. “You must hurry. Come quickly!”

“What's wrong?”

“Is the church!” The big German came to a stop, his boots caked in mud. “Is the church!”

“What about the church?”

“Cyclone caused much troubles. Barn of Seth Hunter is blown away. All windows in mercantile broken. Part of Cornwalls' roof is torn off. O'Toole house is missing front porch. But only building completely gone is church.”

“The church?”

“No church left. No fence. No cemetery. No benches. All is gone.”

Lily covered her mouth with her hand as Elijah let out a cry of disbelief. Taking the baby from him, she stood in a chilly puddle as Rolf handed the preacher his lantern and the two men raced down the street toward the scene of the disaster.

No church!

Lily lifted her head toward heaven as a scrap of doubt fluttered into her heart. “There's no church,” she whispered. “I thought you had a plan for him here. He said you wouldn't take it. But you did. You took the church.”

As Sam began to whimper, Lily made her way back to the soddy.

Elijah stared at the gaping hole in the ground where Hope Church had stood. Dawn bathed the prairie in a gentle pink glow that softened the edges of the tornado's destruction. Around him, lumber lay scattered on the ground like windblown hay. Shingles hung from tree branches and floated at the edge of Bluestem Creek.

A wagon rested upside down on the roof of the O'Tooles' house, while a length of wet canvas now covered the place where their porch had stood. The Hunters' barn had been lifted, carried to the plot of land behind the mercantile, and dropped with such force that it had flattened like a stomped-on tin can. Caitrin Cornwall's shining plate-glass windows lay on the ground in a thousand knife-sharp shards.

Rolf Rustemeyer's cow had been discovered an hour ago chewing her cud in Ben Hanks's backyard. Three of Rosie Hunter's chickens had landed in Sheena O'Toole's oak tree, barely alive and with only a handful of feathers among them. Jack Cornwall's hog had slid into the creek and drowned. A pair of mongrel dogs no one had ever seen before were found eating sausage in Jimmy's smokehouse.

But not a single person had perished in the storm. Salvatore Rippeto was the only man seriously injured. A couple of young farmers sported bumps and bruises. Will O'Toole had stepped into a hole and twisted his ankle.

And the church was gone.

Elijah swallowed hard as he counted the postholes he had dug with such vigor. Not one of them contained a fence post. Of the hundred rails he had split, not a one lay in sight. His vegetable garden had been stripped bare. Half of a ceramic chamber pot lay where the corner of the cemetery had once stood.

As if in mockery of his fervor to beautify and strengthen the place, the only portion of the church still intact was the doorframe to his little room—the cans of white paint and the wide brushes still neatly stored in readiness for the next project he would undertake. He walked over and kicked them skyward. There.

“Elijah?” Lily's voice showered warm rain through him.

He swung around, emotion hanging in his throat like a lump of dry bread. “It's gone, Lily,” he said. “The whole thing is gone.”

She looked at the ragged, water-filled cavern in the ground, the scattered boards, the empty postholes. Without speaking another word, she walked to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. Elijah rested his head against hers and let the loss wrack through his chest.

“I don't understand it,” he said. “We didn't do anything to deserve this. We were trying our hardest to please the Lord. Why did he take the church, Lily?”

She stroked her hand down his back. “You're the man who taught me that bad things can happen to people who don't deserve them. God doesn't protect us from all evil, Elijah.”

“But this was his church.”

“It was a building.”

“It was my work.”

“His church is the people of Hope. Your work is the people of Hope. And Christ is right here with us now. He's with us always, remember? Have you lost your faith?”

He gripped her tightly. “Oh, Lily.”

“Come on,” she said softly. “Eva's watching the baby for me. Let's start cleaning up.”

He couldn't let go of her, agony washing over him as the tormented confusion in his mind tumbled forward. Maybe this destruction was a sign for him to leave. Maybe God didn't want him to stay in Hope after all. Lily insisted that the Lord had led him to this town, but hadn't that same Lord just swept away the church building?

Should Elijah gather up the baby and head east? Or should he stay here and rebuild? Did God really have a plan as Lily claimed?

“I don't know,” he said. “I've been wandering around here for hours, and I just can't make myself think straight. After the storm, after you told me about your new life, I was so sure I understood what God wanted me to do, Lily. Now I wonder if I was wrong.”

“Christ calmed storms and walked on water. Do you think he would allow a single cyclone to change his almighty plan for your life?”

He studied the gentle woman, painfully aware of the trust and hope shining in her blue eyes. She had pulled back her hair into a lump of gold, rolled up her sleeves, and washed her face. Her cheeks glowed pink, her chin tilted upward in confidence, her lips curved into a soft smile.

“We're never alone,” she told him. “Not in the midst of the cyclone. And not now. Don't you trust that, Preacher-man?”

He let out a breath. Had the storm blown his faith in God away along with the church building? Was he really that shallow rooted?

No
, he lifted up.
Father, I believe you're here with me. And I'm going to look into the light of my salvation and step forward on the path you've stretched out in front of me. Amen and amen
.

“Well?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“I believe those boards over there belong to Seth Hunter's barn,” he said. “Mrs. Hunter told me that's her favorite shade of red.”

Lily turned and observed the tangle of painted lumber, long square-headed nails protruding like porcupine quills. “You might be right. If they're his, Seth will be wanting them back. But I'm sure I saw part of your split-rail fence hanging on Eva's clothesline.”

“We'd better go fetch it. Jack Cornwall already lost one hog. I don't want him to get the idea he can pen in the rest of those critters with the church's fence.” He took Lily's hand and headed for the road. “A church cemetery needs a fence.”

“And thank the good Lord no one needs the cemetery.”

Elijah laughed as he walked beside her across the street to gather up the fence rails. Eva Hanks spotted them coming and stepped out into the yard, the baby in her arms. “Hey, you two!” she called, giving them a wave. “You look happy as foxes in the chicken house—and that's a mighty good sight after all the troubles we been through.”

“God is good,” Elijah said, feeling his heart swell with courage even as the words left his mouth.

“All the time,” Eva replied. “I'm going to see if Miz Caitrin will write Mother Margaret a letter for us. If we tell her about the cyclone, maybe she'll come home to check on us.”

“That's mighty low-down and conniving, Mrs. Hanks,” Elijah said as he tugged the fence rails from the clothesline. “But I sure could use a good dose of her common sense and godly faith.”

“So could I,” Lily agreed. “Mercy and hallelujah.”

Eva laughed. “We're going to be all right. I don't believe this baby of yours even knew what hit him. You should have seen him a minute ago when Ben came home to eat a bite of breakfast. I do believe Sam winked at that big ol' man of mine.”

“Winked!” Lily chuckled and began picking up the painted white rails from the yard. “You're seeing things now, Eva.”

“Maybe so.” The other woman gave the baby on her hip a pat. “Ben said he thought he was seein' a ghost last night when he come upon that opera house a-standin' there by the road.”

Elijah stopped and straightened. “The opera house?”

“Perfect as a new penny,” Eva said, giving Lily a glance. “That storm didn't touch it. Not even a lick.”

Lily picked up a shingle and dropped it among the others in the hammock she had made of her apron. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said, setting off for the church site, “his wonders to perform.”

Chapter 14

I
N THE late afternoon of the third day, when the sun beat down on the scorched earth and cicadas screeched in the denuded trees beside Bluestem Creek, Elijah finally understood why God had let the cyclone take the church.

From every part of the countryside around the devastated town of Hope, people had come, driving wagons filled with lumber, nails, quilts, benches, window glass, cans of paint, and food. Without being asked, they set about repairing barns, nailing shingles to roofs, and putting up new split-rail fences. Although most of the folks who showed up had never set foot in the Hope Church, they began rebuilding the temple of the Lord with the zeal of King Solomon himself.

Elijah had eaten more apple pie in the last three days than a body could rightly hold. He had hammered so many nails that the smithy could barely turn them out fast enough. He had greeted more newcomers than he'd known lived in the area. And he had never seen people work as hard or as long or with such determination.

“Brother Elijah,” an old man called out, hurrying toward the preacher on bandy legs. The fellow lived three miles west of Hope, and he'd been laboring on the church building as though it belonged to him alone. “We got a problem here, Preacher. I say we ought to put a baptistry right up at the front where everybody can see what's a-goin' on. You know, we could haul in water and baptize every new believer the way it should be done. But Simeon over there says we don't need nothing more than a bowl of water to do the baptizin'. He thinks we ought to use the space up front to put in a choir. But everybody with half a brain knows the choir sings at the back of the church, not the front.”

Elijah regarded Simeon-the-adversary standing beside the rapidly rising walls of the church. The fellow had his jaw set and his eyes narrowed like a feisty old ram ready to butt the stuffing out of whoever stepped in his way. Aware that the pastor was observing him, he stepped forward.

“At the church where I growed up in Ohio,” he said, “we sprinkle babies.”

“Sprinkle babies?” the other man bellowed. “In Kentucky, where I come from, we dunk full-grown believers.”

“And the choir sets in the front.”

“In the back!”

“Now just a minute here, fellows,” Elijah said, stepping between them. “We'll work this out—”

“Next thing, you'll be wanting to drink grape juice at the Communion!” one of them cut in.

“What else?” the other barked. “You don't reckon we'll be servin' wine, do you?”

“All right, gentlemen,” Elijah said, holding up his hands. It was time for the shepherd to come between these two old rams. “We'll use the water God has already provided us for baptizing— and that's Bluestem Creek. If a river was good enough for John the Baptist, it'll be good enough for us.”

“What about the choir?” Simeon snapped. “Where's it gonna set?”

“We don't have a choir,” Elijah returned. “We don't have a song leader. We don't have a piano. And we won't even have a building if we stand around arguing all day. Now let's get back to work, shall we? Brother Simeon, would you mind helping those fellows frame up that wall back there? And you, sir—”

“Hubert.”

“Brother Hubert, I couldn't help but notice what a fine job you do planing down shingles. Would you be willing to supervise the roofing of the new church?”

The old man's chest swelled. “Indeedy-do.”

As the fellow hobbled away on his bowed legs, Elijah let out a breath. Shepherding a little flock was turning out to be challenging work. If the sheep weren't butting heads over one doctrinal detail or another, they were bleating that someone was sitting in their pew or not giving a fair share of tithe. Then there were the struggling lambs that needed his tender care—the sick, the lonely, the widowed, the fearful. Just as important, all these new sheep had come to town to help with the rebuilding—and Elijah was bound and determined to round up every last one of them and bring them into the Father's fold.