Angels of Humility: A Novel (16 page)

After her prayer time, Sarah crawled out of bed in the morning. The arthritis medicine certainly wasn’t helping much, if at all, and she’d increased to 15 milligrams immediately after her doctor’s appointment. As she shuffled to the bathroom, she made a mental note to call Dr. Newbury and make a follow-up visit.

“Look at your clothes basket,” whispered Lying.

It was overflowing with dirty clothes. I
haven’t done laundry for ten days. I’d better divide this into two loads
.

“Think how much time it will save if you just do it in one load,” said Lying. “Only up and down the stairs twice instead of four times. You can do it all.” She headed to the kitchen carrying the basket. She opened the basement door to go down the stairs, but paused.

“Be careful, Sarah,” said Joel. “You need both hands on the rail.” She’d never thought about going up and down the stairs with the basket before, but today there was an uneasy feeling. She looked at the steps for a long time then put the basket on the floor and pushed it with her foot. Halfway it over-turned, spilling dirty clothes at the foot of the stairs. She grasped the rail as she cautiously made her way down each step, assisted by Joel and Malta.

She checked the washing instructions on a new, brightly colored blouse she had just purchased. The first tag said “Made in India.”

“Watch this,” said Joel. “Here’s a great prayer opportunity.” Malta nodded. “Sarah, the woman who sewed this blouse lives in Bangalore. A mission organization taught her and many other women marketable skills so they can support their children. Many of the husbands are alcoholics and unfortunately their paychecks are rarely spent on food. This sewing group of 30 women is now able to provide for their children while they are being taught the Gospel. Whenever you wear this blouse, remember to pray that these ladies would prosper spiritually and financially.”

After loading the washer and praying, she turned around and noticed a box on the gray storage shelves that Malta was pointing at. It was marked “OLD DOCUMENTS,” in George’s writing. It had been there for years, but today, for some reason, she decided to see what was inside.

She dragged the trashcan over to the shelves, gave the box a big tug, and it fell to the floor, stirring up so much dust that it gave her a sneezing fit.

“God bless you,” said Joel and Malta as she slowly sat down on the area rug. The first document was their taxes from 1949. She smiled.
George was nothing if not organized. That was such a hard year for us. President Truman signed to raise the minimum wage to 75 cents an hour. We had to cut the amount of help we could use during harvest season. S
he smiled, looked at the taxes again and with slight hesitation threw them in the trashcan. I
guess I’ll clean these out so no one has to do it after I’m gone
.

The next six stacks were the next six year’s taxes. Then came the utility bills from 1948.
What was that man thinking?
Next was a yellowed newspaper. She opened it carefully. It was the
Gazette
. On the front were George’s
picture and the headline, “Local Fireman Saves Twins In House Fire.” She remembered the incident well. It was the first year he’d been with the department. It wasn’t until George came home for dinner that she found out what a hero he was, and then not until dessert when she inquired about his day. She smiled as she read. Then she flipped through the paper and scanned the weekly grocery ad. Eggs five cents a dozen. She smiled again and set the paper aside. After a few more inches of old taxes and old insurance papers, she pulled out a hand full of letters. She recognized her writing at once. It was her old love letters to George. She clutched them to her heart. I
never knew he saved these
.

After considerable effort, she got to her feet, still holding the precious letters, and headed slowly upstairs. Entering the kitchen she saw yesterday’s stack of mail. She looked at the letters in her hand and picked up the letters on the counter. She pulled out a letter from her niece and one from Buchanan County Correctional Facilities and threw the rest in the trash.
That felt liberating
, she thought. She poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the yellow table with her old love letters.

The top letter was one that she had written to George when he was away that first year at college. I
missed him so much I literally didn’t think I could stand being apart
. Then she realized that these feelings from many years ago were the same she had been forced to endure since his death. Only her love now was more mature, more intense; and he wouldn’t ever be coming home to visit for spring break.

There were 64 letters. She’d written them over a period of two years until they’d decided to get married when George started his junior year. Although Sarah wanted to read them all in one setting, she decided to ration them. I’ll
read one a day, and then I’ll start over
. It seemed like a healing thing to do. Reading them all at once seemed gluttonous, like she’d use up something precious that she could never replace.

She started putting them in chronological order according to the postmarks. The last letter in the stack was not her handwriting, nor was it George’s. It was postmarked from Bradbury and the year was 1926. It was addressed to Lorna McHone.
That was George’s mother’s maiden name. I think I’ll read two today. S
he carefully opened the yellowed pages. It was from George’s dad before he and Lorna were married.

Sarah laid the letter on the table; her hands were shaking. I
never knew how he got the farm
. She hurried to her car and drove out of town on Old Highway 3 and past the land. She turned left on Old Cemetery Road and pulled onto the dirt drive. She stepped carefully through the weeds. This
old cemetery, in need of mowing and repair, was where most of the town’s settlers were buried. The largest tombstone was William Bradbury’s, the town’s namesake; next to him were his wife, an infant daughter, and two adult daughters and their husbands. After looking for five minutes Sarah found a small flat headstone, off in the corner, more like a large brick. On it was carved:

Reverend Arthur Templeton
May 19, 1855 - July 28, 1933
He preached Jesus

She slowly sat down beside the small headstone and ran her fingers over the letters. “You see, Sarah, the Lord has had plans for this land from before the foundation of the world,” whispered Malta. “He was orchestrating them before you were born. You’re one link in those plans. Reverend Templeton was another link, and he was faithful. He heard the Lord’s voice and sold the land to George’s father so you could own it today. It’s your turn to be faithful.” Malta laid his large gleaming hands on Sarah’s shoulder and she began to weep.

“Remember the dream you had about the jail before it was announced? Remember the Scriptures and how they undid you emotionally? That was Father talking to you. Don’t be thrown off track by anyone or anything,” said Joel. “All of the confusion is from the enemy to keep you from following through with Father’s plans.”

“It will be hard to go against what the town wants,” said Malta. “There will definitely be a high price to pay. You will suffer, but one place that you can go deeper with the Lord in intimacy is in your sufferings. Instead of fleeing from the pain, feel it and meet Him in your pain. Realize that this very pain is part of what He suffered for you when He was on this earth. Remember that He was despised, and rejected.
³
Then take your focus off yourself and thank Him that He loved you enough to suffer like that for you. Remember, no injustice you’ll ever suffer will come close to what He suffered for you.”

“You see Sarah, in addition to suffering everything we suffered, He also carried all your sorrows and griefs just like He carried all your sins.
⁴
He understands every physical and emotional pain, and He will give you
the grace you need. You can go to Him and find relief and healing there,” said Joel.

Sarah’s shoulders heaved up and down under Malta’s hands as she continued to sob.

“Even in your seemingly darkest hours, He’s a good God, and you can trust Him. He not only moved Barbara here in answer to your request for a friend, but also as an intercessor for you. Pastor Hall is still praying for you, too. Did you know that intercessors need people to intercede for them? They’re high on Satan’s target list,” said Malta.

She thought about the two people praying for her and took several deep breaths to try to bring her sobbing under control.

“Sarah,” asked Joel, “when you face eternal judgment and it is too late to do anything more about this situation with the land, what will you wish then, with all your heart, that you would have done at this critical time as you are actually dealing with it?”
⁵
Sarah breathed a desperate prayer and ran her hand again over Reverend Templeton’s headstone as a kind of connection with his obedience.

After several minutes, a new determination welled up inside of Sarah. She understood that she was a conduit for the Lord’s plans. She wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and spoke. “I have come into the Kingdom for such a time as this,” she said with great resolve. If the Lord suffered so dreadfully for me, then I can surely suffer some because of Him.” Sarah made a vow, “Lord, I want to be the next faithful link in Your destiny for this ground. Thank You for Reverend Templeton’s faithfulness and thanks for showing me Your will. I’ll sell to BCCF. Amen.”

The manipulative spirits that had formerly been taunting Sarah began wailing. Black fur and accusations flew as each one turned on the other. “You heard her boys,” said Joel with a broad smile. The demons stopped bickering and looked up, but before they had a chance to leave his flashing sword sent their wretched bodies flying. Oh, yeah. He loved his job!

She took the letter from BCCF and sat on the sofa. As she opened it, her hands were shaking, but her spirit was totally at peace.