Land of a Thousand Dreams (53 page)

From the rocking chair by the hearth, Kerry smiled and put down her mending to watch. This was Jess's favorite part of the day, a time he looked forward to and, inasmuch as possible, arranged his hectic schedule to ensure.

The sight of him, in his shirtsleeves on his knees, tumbling about the floor like a boy himself, brought a sudden, unaccountable touch of sadness to her heart. Lately, Jess seemed to have so few times like this: light-hearted times in which he could simply shrug off the daily problems he faced and, at least for a while, escape the encroaching storm that now seemed to threaten his ministry.

Kerry's smile waned as she watched him. Every day there seemed to be a new sprinkling of silver in his hair, a few new lines about his eyes. The startling blue gaze that could still melt her heart now looked out on the world with what appeared to be a permanent sorrow, as if somewhere deep within his soul there smoldered an unspeakable pain.

With her, he was never less than gentle, always considerate, tenderly teasing and affectionate and thoughtful. But Kerry knew that a part of him often drifted off, away from the haven she had tried to create with her love. Even here, in this deep-cushioned, warm, friendly room that had become so much a refuge for them all, she would often sense his thoughts slipping away into troubled waters.

She knew he wasn't sleeping, although he was careful not to disturb her when he left their bed during the night. All too often she would awaken and hear him moving about downstairs. Obviously, he was trying to keep his restlessness from her, so she worried in silence.

It seemed to her that Jess's heart was breaking, slowly, quietly, one piece at a time. Her gentle giant was a man whose wounds were many, wounds inflicted by the cruelty, the wickedness, the apathy of a world at war with itself. Like the grieving prophet, Jeremiah, her Jess was a God-driven man, tormented by the brutality and oppression all around him, a man unable to compromise the Truth he had been given, a man often accused of fanaticism or foolish idealism…a man whose very spirit bled for the agony of the world.

And yet he was also a man who had managed to turn his anguish into sacrifice, his personal pain to a kind of triumph. For through it all, he had clung to the faithfulness of a God who had promised to one day redeem and repay and reward.

Abruptly, Kerry looked up, yanked out of her dark reverie by a sense of being watched. Flanked by two bright-eyed boys, Jess stood in front of her. His grin and the glint in his eye spelled nothing but mischief.

“It seems to me that Little Mother looks entirely too comfortable. What do you think, boys? Shouldn't she join in the fun?”

“Ladies,” she said firmly, anchoring herself to the chair with both hands, “do not indulge in horseplay.”

Jess looked at each boy, then cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a fact, now?” he challenged in a brogue that would have done Kerry's father, God rest his soul, more than proud.

“What do you say to that, lads? Shall we unseat the grand lady from her throne?”

Before she could squeal out a protest, Kerry found herself pried loose from the chair and lifted into her husband's arms. For a moment, he pretended to consider tossing her to first one boy, then the other. Finally, at her indignant demands—highly feigned—he laughed and set her to her feet. With obvious reluctance, he declared an end to the playtime.

Later, when the boys were in bed and the house was finally quiet, the two of them sought the privacy of their bedroom. As was his practice, Jess pulled up a chair behind her at the vanity and began to brush her hair.

Kerry smiled at his reflection in the mirror as he worked intently to bring order to her stubborn red curls. “Watching you with the boys downstairs,” she said, “I decided your favorite time of day is when you're down on all fours with the two of them. I believe there's still a great deal of the boy in you, Mr. Dalton.”

He slowed the brush, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “You're right about that, I confess.” He paused, then added, “But not about my favorite time of day, Mrs. Dalton.”

“Indeed?”

He nodded, meticulously unwinding one copper curl from around the bristles of the brush. “Indeed.”

Carefully, he replaced the brush on the dressing table and put his hands to her shoulders, slowly turning her about to face him. “As it happens,” he said, pulling her into his arms, “my favorite time of day is just beginning.”

Long after Kerry had fallen asleep, Jess tucked the blankets snugly under her chin, then eased himself from the bed. Slipping into his dressing gown, he left the bedroom and went downstairs.

It was late enough that he was the only one up and about, but he closed the library door behind him anyway. He needed the quiet, and he craved the solitude.

He sat at his desk, his head in his hands as he pored over the Scriptures. Outside, a steady, beating rain had begun, and, born on the rising wind, lashed the roof and the sides of the house. The lamp on the desk flickered in the draft.

The minutes turned to hours. Still, Jess read and prayed. At times he stopped and sat, scarcely breathing, a feeling of anticipation rising in him, then ebbing.

For more than a week now, he had caught a sense of God endeavoring to break through the turmoil of his days. In the midst of the clamor of the hourly responsibilities and problems crowding in on him would come a gentle stirring in his spirit. Sometimes, awash in the turbulence of his thoughts and rioting emotions, he would be engulfed by an unexpected hush, a sudden stillness. Just as quickly, a heaviness would center in his chest, weighing in on him like a knot of dread at some impending disaster.

He was determined to spend the rest of this night alone, in the silence, waiting. Waiting for whatever it was that God wanted to make known to him. And praying that he would be given the strength for whatever might be required.

At last, though, the recent succession of sleepless nights and wearying days began to take their toll. Exhausted, he slumped over the desk and, resting his head on his arms, fell asleep.

Arthur wasn't sure what had awakened him. Maybe the rain beating down on the roof that jutted out past his bedroom window.

He raised up in bed and listened. Other than the rain, there wasn't a sound to be heard, but somehow he knew that Mr. Jess was having another wakeful night.

Night after night lately, he had heard him. The stairs would creak under his weight, and after a while Arthur would hear him pacing the downstairs hall or moving quietly from room to room.

There was trouble. Bad trouble, even though nobody was saying much about it. It was that business at the big church again. Mr. Jess was in trouble, sure enough, with the people that ran things over there. And all because of
him
—Arthur Jackson, a runaway slave boy who didn't belong here in the first place.

A mixture of sick fear and anger set his stomach to churning as he thought about what was happening to Mr. Jess. And what it would mean to Miss Kerry and Casey-Fitz. Oh, Casey-Fitz kept on insisting that most of the trouble had to do with his daddy's being an—an
abolitionist.
But Arthur knew the boy was just trying to make him feel better.

He also knew what he had to do. It would mean breaking his promise to Casey-Fitz, and now that he was a Christian, he realized that was a wrong thing to do. But right now, keeping Mr. Jess and his family out of trouble seemed a lot more important than a promise.

Besides—he was the only one who
might
be able to help. He'd brought this trouble on Mr. Jess, after all, so he reckoned it was up to him to put an end to it.

Ignoring the chill of the room, he slipped out of bed and dropped down to his knees. Two weeks ago, he'd decided for himself that what Mr. Jess had been teaching him about the man named Jesus had to be the Truth. There was no other way that man could have done the things He did—raising dead people up out of the grave and making those leper people clean—and, the most amazing thing of all, forgiving those hateful folks that nailed Him up on the cross.

So, with Mr. Jess helping him, and Casey-Fitz and Miss Kerry laughing and rejoicing, he'd become a
Christian
—baptized and everything!

Mr. Jess said that one of the most important things a Christian should do was to pray. That, even though there was no explaining how the Lord could hear everybody praying at the same time and still work out answers for all of them, the fact was that He did it.

So ever since then, Arthur had been practicing his praying each night, with the help of Mr. Jess, and sometimes Casey-Fitz. He thought he was good enough at it by now to try some praying on his own, so, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a big breath, he asked the Lord to make him brave enough to do what he knew he had to do.

And to please let Casey-Fitz forgive him for breaking his promise.

The desk beneath his arms had become a pulpit…the pulpit at the Fifth Avenue Church. Solid and sturdy oak, softened and aged by the oil of human hands throughout the years—preachers' hands….

No longer did Jess sit in the library, at his desk. Now, in this strange dream that he somehow knew to be a dream, he stood at his pulpit in the sanctuary, speaking to the congregation….

The pews were crowded with people. His people. The flock placed under his shepherding care. His to teach, to guide, to comfort. To shepherd.

Streams of morning sunlight flooded the sanctuary, bathing the heavy oak doors, the pews, every corner—even the ceiling—with light. Golden light, as warm as a touch.

With his Bible at his fingertips, Jess opened his mouth to preach the Word, the Good News that they were a beloved people, beloved of the Father God, the sheep of His pasture.