The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (32 page)

P
apa will be
buried tomorrow.
The numb thought paraded through Grace’s mind as she passed by the cemetery.
The loud lilt of the wren accentuated the loneliness of the place, and she
hurried on her way, the scarf tied over her hair blowing a little in the wind.

The stone steps
of the church rose before her, and she wondered again why she felt drawn to
come, when she would be here tomorrow for Papa’s mass. Yet Grace had sensed the
constraint tugging at her all day. At last, after supper, she’d given in.

She sat in one
of the back rows. Other parishioners had come as well, praying for sick or
sinning loved ones or for their heart’s desire, no doubt. A man wept in the aisle
before the altar; Grace saw Father Frederick move to speak with him.

Why am I here?
The question
darted into her mind again, and she turned her eyes to the statue of the
crucified Christ, that image that had always repelled her with its aloofness.

I’m afraid.
There, she had
admitted it. But afraid of what? She met the Lord Christ’s stony, dolorous
gaze, seeking, begging.
Paulie talks as if You are the answer to all of my
problems. But then in the same breath, he tells me that You placed me here!

“That you would
seek Him and find Him, even though He’s never far from you…”

The tears sprang
up as she remembered Paulie’s words:
“He is a good God, Grace!”

How could she
believe in this good God, how could she trust Him, when Papa – the man upon
whom she should have been able to rely – had failed her? When she had to fight
for herself against the whims of her earthly father, how could she begin to
trust this Man’s Father? This Heavenly Father who had given her so much
suffering in life?

“He suffered for
me. For you.”

“You ask too
much,” she whispered aloud to the statue. Dashing away the moisture on her
cheeks, Grace rose to her feet and slipped from the sanctuary.

But her feet
took her home the long way, past First Baptist. It looked dark and empty,
unlike the church she’d just left. It figured. These people had no worries,
nothing for which to beseech God on their knees.

So intent on her
acidic thoughts, Grace almost bumped into a waist-high statue near First
Baptist’s steps. The setting sun gleamed on the three-or-four-foot-high white stone,
and she squinted to see it clearly.

It was a
portrayal of the Good Shepherd, with a lamb clasped in one arm, his staff gripped
in his hand. A full-grown sheep peeked from behind him, closely at his heels.
There was writing on the statue’s base. Grace leaned close to read it in the
fading light.

“Take My yoke
upon you, and I will give you rest.”

Her thoughts
returned to the statue in her own church: the suffering Christ.

Bleeding, dying
on a tree.
For me.

Like the slow
dawning of a vernal morning, Grace connected the dots Paulie had pointed out.
He
took our sin… He identified with our suffering.

Grace looked
from the words to the Shepherd and back to the words again.
He understands
because He underwent the same things that I have.

She stared at
the gentle Shepherd.
But even worse. For me. And yet He has rest…

Was it really so
simple? Her shoulders had felt heavily burdened for so long.
So very long.
Would the Shepherd – that same Man dying on the cross back at her own church –
give her His rest?

Is it really so
easy?

And yet… so very
hard, too. For in this moment, Grace realized that this Jesus was not just part
of a phrase in her catechism. He was a real Person; more real than any other
person. Though she could not see Him, Grace knew He was present; she heard His
knocking at the door of her heart. And she knew that He would demand her
loyalty, that there would be no going back to her own way of struggling free.

Was it safe?

Grace knew in a
moment that it was not.

But she knew
that she would say yes, anyway.

Because she
believed that Paulie was right: Despite all the difficulties, all the trouble,
all the heartache she had endured, He was a good God. One who had suffered as
she had.

And whose plan
for her was good.

Paying no mind
to anyone who might pass by her, Grace knelt there on the rough pavement.

And she
entrusted herself to the Everlasting Arms.

W
orn from the
events of the past few days, yet knowing a deep sense of peace, Sarah took
Emmeline aside at the funeral reception. Good thing Sarah’s sister Mary had
volunteered to arrange everything; Sarah wasn’t sure she would have had the
energy. As it was, Mary certainly had provided a good spread of food.

Sarah led
Emmeline over to two chairs in the corner of the community hall. “I got
something I need to tell you,” she began, speaking quickly since so many relatives
would want to grieve with her today.

Emmeline nodded,
that sweet smile gracing her lips. “Alright.”

Sarah paused but
didn’t falter.
I know it’s a fitting sacrifice; my thank-offering…
“I
want to know if you would take David. As your own, I mean.” Her eyes glanced
down at the baby cradled in her arms, then back up at her friend.

She’d stunned
Emmeline, poor thing. “What?” the younger woman stammered.

“Will you? Take David
as your own?”

“You mean, adopt
him?” Emmeline shook her head. “Sarah, you can’t…”

“Yeah, I can. I…
want to,” Sarah added quietly, knowing a deep pain coupled with a more
triumphant joy.

Emmeline began
to weep.

A
cross the room,
Sam Giorgi sipped his black coffee and tried to pay attention to the
conversation of one of the Picoletti relatives. But he had to admit it: His
eyes kept roving through this crowded hall that smelled of salami and meatballs
and lots and lots of cheese. Ah. There she was.

She sat, talking
to Emmeline, cradling her newest baby. Despite the years, regardless of the
gray that streaked her hair, Sarah still held the power to captivate Sam.
Utterly
captivate him.

He had dropped
her once, to his shame and bitter regret. And she had spurned him by marrying
another man.

But Charlie
Picoletti was dead now, God rest his soul.

And Sam Giorgi
wasn’t a man to give up easily. Not this time around.

“I
’m sorry about
your father.”

Grace looked up
from her uneaten sandwich. Paulie stood quietly before her, hat in his hands.

She opened her
mouth to apologize for her harsh words toward him, but he smiled, his dark eyes
warm and – she believed – full of forgiveness. “You’re wearing the earrings,”
he commented, and there was pleasure in his voice.

“Yes,” she said,
glad he’d noticed. She’d taken them out of the desk drawer last night.

“They’re
beautiful on you, Grace,” he said, and, because she knew he really meant it,
she blushed.

“Thanks,” she
said again.

Paulie sat down
next to her, and they talked long and deeply. And Grace knew that it was
perhaps just the first in many similar conversations she would have with
Paulie.

After a time,
her thoughts drifted back to the geranium that still sat on her bedroom
windowsill, nearly ready to bloom scarlet. She remembered how it had appeared
stubby and lifeless during the wintertime, without any buds, its stems cut
back. As good as dead, it seemed.

Yet the
springtime had come and made it new. God had given it new life, as He had her.
And as He was doing in her friendship with Paulie, once almost dead.

She thought of
the Good Shepherd with His sheep. Of the Man hanging upon the cross. And the
understanding bubbled up in her soul:
He makes all things new.

All
Our Empty Places
– the sequel to
The Fragrance of
Geraniums
– releases September 29, 2015. It’s available for pre-order
HERE
.

For
those of you familiar with Rhode Island, you’ll know that the town of Chetham
has no place in its landscape. Instead, Chetham is based on various 1930s-era
Rhode Island towns and finds its location north of the state capitol, Providence.

The
Great Depression stretched from 1929 through the mid-thirties. (Some place its
end only at the beginning of World War II.) It devastated the United States’ –
and the world’s – economy. Social programs established by Franklin Delano
Roosevelt’s government, as well as aid given by churches and other
organizations, did help to decrease the misery, but the Depression inflicted
serious wounds across the nation. Rhode Islanders suffered badly.

In
the 1930s, being Italian in Rhode Island was nearly synonymous with being Roman
Catholic. (In other words, the Giorgis’ identification with Protestantism is
unusual, though not unknown.) My own family’s heritage lies in Roman
Catholicism, though my relationship with Christ finds its expression of worship
in the Protestant church. My great-grandmother’s beliefs (as related by her
children) serve as the basis for Sarah’s half-Protestant, half-Catholic faith
that eventually finds its root in Christ Jesus, the Lamb who takes away the sin
of the world.

If
you enjoyed
The Fragrance of Geraniums
, you might want to leave a short
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Amazon
– such a blessing! And, if you’d like to know about future book releases,
including the release of the final novel in the “A Time of Grace” trilogy, you
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I’d
love to hear from you – your thoughts, your reflections, your questions. You
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as well as my blog,
A
Brighter Destiny
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at
[email protected]
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Alicia G. Ruggieri
writes Christ-centered fiction that proclaims redemption. She obtained her B.A.
in Communications and History from Rhode Island College and lives with her
husband and their emotionally-disturbed pug on the New England coast. Receive
her latest news and book release dates through her
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