Paper Roses (34 page)

Eva had no such qualms. “Come with me, Thea,” she said, grabbing the younger child’s hand. “Miss Kaltheimer promised us something special.”

“Be a good girl,” Sarah admonished her sister, though there was little need. Thea was rarely fussy now. Just as Mary had predicted, Thea had adjusted, and if the appreciative looks Gunther was giving Olga were any indication, so had he. Only Sarah was still plagued by an emptiness deep inside her, an emptiness that seemed greater than ever today. She couldn’t explain it, but she kept picturing her mother, her normally smiling face wet with tears.

Sarah took a seat in the far corner of the last pew, hoping no one would sit near her, for she wasn’t certain she could manage even a casual greeting. Though she rose with the rest of the congregation to sing a hymn and knelt for prayers at the correct time, Sarah moved by rote, only dimly aware of her surroundings.
Oh, Mama
, she cried inwardly,
you should
have lived. I need you. Thea needs you.
Sarah clenched her fists, fighting back the sorrow and anger that enveloped her whenever she thought of her parents’ deaths.
How could
you?
she demanded of her father as she had so many times before.
Didn’t you know that killing is a sin?

As the congregation settled back into their pews, Pastor Sempert took his place behind the pulpit. Sarah had always considered the tall, spare man with gun-metal gray hair and a face creased by wrinkles to be a grandfatherly figure. He opened his Bible and inclined his head. “Today’s sermon is based on Exodus 20:12, one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Which one is that?” Sarah heard the woman next to her whisper. A few other parishioners stealthily paged through their Bibles, searching for the reference.

The minister nodded, as if he knew that his congregation was trying to guess which commandment he’d chosen, before he intoned words Sarah had memorized as a child. “The Lord God has commanded us, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.’”

Parents. Sarah cringed. Was it coincidence, or had Pastor Sempert somehow sensed her thoughts and decided to direct his sermon at her? Would he single her out by name as she’d heard some preachers did?

“It is not by chance that I chose today, the first day the youngest members of our congregation are not with us, for this text,” he said, easing her worries. This was not a spontaneous sermon, but one he had planned. Thankfully, the pastor had not read her mind.

He leaned forward, his expression as open as if he were speaking to friends, and Sarah felt her tension begin to ease. That was one of the things she liked about him. Unlike the minister in Philadelphia, Pastor Sempert did not shout and thump his pulpit, nor did he act as if he were superior to the congregation. Instead, his counsel and guidance were delivered in a conversational tone.

“All too often when we hear this commandment, we believe it applies only to our children. It does not.” Pastor Sempert paused for emphasis. “Many of you are already parents. Some of you have not yet reached that stage of your life; however, we all are children. We are God’s children and also the children of earthly parents.”

The pew creaked as the woman next to Sarah leaned forward to nod her agreement.

“Our Lord commands us to honor him,” the minister continued. “That is his first commandment. But he also singles out our earthly parents, telling us to honor them. Why does he do this, and what does he mean?”

Sarah’s heart began to thud. She did not want to think about parents and honor, not when her own father was so undeserving. No one—not even God—could expect her to honor a man who had killed.

“When a child is born, we often say that God has blessed the parents, that the infant is God’s gift to them.” A few people murmured their agreement. “We may not realize that the parents are God’s gift to the child. Parents are his surrogates on Earth. They care for us; they nurture us; they teach us; they discipline us. They are the earthly manifestation of our heavenly Father’s love. How often do we thank him for these gifts?”

Pastor Sempert’s gaze moved from one pew to the next as he sought the answer from his congregation. When his questioning eyes approached her, Sarah lowered her head, lest he see her confusion. How could she—how could anyone— thank God for a murderer?

“For most of us, the answer is ‘not often enough,’” the minister concluded. “How do we honor our parents? We begin by thanking God for them.”

Sarah bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. Pastor Sempert was wrong. He didn’t understand what had happened and why she could not thank God for her father.

“Our earthly parents are not perfect. Only God is.” The minister continued his homily. “Sometimes we see our parents’ imperfections and believe they are not worthy of our honor or our love. How wrong we are! If our heavenly Father loves us—and we know he does, for he gave his Son so we might have eternal life—surely we should follow his example. We should forgive our parents their imperfections. We should love them for what they are: God’s children, his creation and his gift to us.” Pastor Sempert bent his head. “Let us pray.”

In the distance Sarah heard the minister’s voice as he led the congregation in prayer. Dimly, she was aware of the woman next to her saying “amen,” but nothing else registered. Instead, Pastor Sempert’s earlier words echoed in her head, each one sending shafts of pain through her. She had been wrong, so very wrong. Though she’d labeled them hypocrites for their self-righteous judgments, she had been worse than the parishioners in Philadelphia. She’d judged Papa, calling his sin unforgivable, acting as if she were spotless. She was not. She was a sinner, a worse sinner than Papa, for she’d broken one of God’s holy commandments, not twice as Papa had, but countless times. Not only had she not honored her father, but not one day had passed when her heart had not been filled with anger toward her father—anger and worse: hatred.

When the service ended and the parishioners began to file out of the church, Sarah remained huddled in the corner of the pew, her head bowed as if she were praying. How would she ever lift her head again? Surely her shame was branded on her face. How could she continue to raise Thea when she was such a sinner?

“My child, you appear troubled.” Pastor Sempert stood at the end of the pew, his voice low and filled with concern.

Unable to face him, Sarah murmured the words that haunted her. “I am the worst of sinners.”

“Come with me.” He placed his hand on her arm, urging her to rise, then led her to his study. The small room held a desk, a bookcase, and two comfortable chairs. Almost Spartan, the room had no rug on the floor, no curtains at the window. The walls were bare, save for a crucifix. Unlike the rough-hewn cross in the sanctuary, this silver cross and porcelain figure of Jesus had been crafted by skilled hands. “Rest a moment,” Pastor Sempert said when Sarah was seated.

The tears she had been holding back began to spill. “How can I rest when I know how much I’ve sinned?” She looked at the minister, expecting condemnation. Instead, she saw only concern.

“We’ve all sinned,” he said.

“But my sin is unforgivable. I judged my father for his imperfections. I knew what he had done was wrong, and I . . .” Sarah lowered her voice, not wanting to admit the depth of her wrongdoing. “I hated him for it. I even prayed he would burn in hell.” She covered her face, trying to hide her shame. “I’m the one who will burn, for I’ve broken God’s commandments too.”

Pastor Sempert reached for her hands, holding them in his. He waited until she met his gaze before he said, “Our Lord forgives us. All he asks is that we be truly repentant.”

“I want to believe that. I do.” But how could anyone, even God, forgive her sins?

“When I’m troubled, I lay my burdens at the foot of the cross. That is where Jesus gave us the most precious gift of all. He died so that we could be saved. Accept that gift, Sarah. Open your heart to him.”

Could it be that simple? Sarah closed her eyes, then opened them again. Pulling her hands free, she slipped from the chair and knelt, but instead of bowing her head, she fixed her eyes on the cross.
Oh, Lord, forgive me.
She stared at the figure of Jesus, crowned with thorns, his arms nailed to the crossbeams, his feet pierced with a spike. Crucifixion was a horrible way to die, and yet Jesus had gone to his death willingly, obeying his Father’s command. Jesus had borne the suffering, the humiliation, the agony, and he had done it so all sinners could be saved. All sinners, even Sarah. Though she was unworthy, he had died that she might live.
Thank
you, Lord.
Tears streaming from her eyes, Sarah bowed her head, accepting the gift he had given her, and as she did, peace filled her heart.

She wasn’t certain how long she remained there, but when she rose, she turned to the minister. “I feel different.”

His smile was warm and comforting. “You are different,” he said. “You’ve given your life to Christ. That changes everything.”

Sarah nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words. The Sarah who had entered this room was not the one who would leave. “I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and yet one remains.”

Pastor Sempert raised his eyes to the cross. “Our Lord bids us to forgive others, even as he asked his Father to forgive his executioners. Sometimes that seems the most difficult thing in the world, but it’s necessary if we’re going to find true peace. Anger and hatred hurt us, not the person we direct them at.”

He was speaking of her father. She knew that. “I don’t hate him any longer.” She’d laid that burden at Jesus’ feet, and he’d taken it from her. “I’m worried about my father’s soul. I know God would forgive him if he repented, just as he forgave me, but what if Papa didn’t?”

The minister nodded slowly, acknowledging her fear. “Do you remember the criminals who were crucified next to Jesus? The one repented, and Jesus promised, ‘Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise.’ We don’t know what was in your father’s heart in his last moments on Earth. We can only pray that he, like the crucified man, found peace.”

“Papa was a good man, except for that day.”

“Our Lord knows that. He hates the sin but loves the sinner. Can you do the same?”

Closing her eyes, Sarah began to pray for her father, and as she did, images rose before her eyes. She pictured him holding her on his lap, reading a story to her. She remembered the pain on his face when the doctor had predicted Sarah would never walk again and the joy he’d shown the day she’d taken her first steps.

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, “I love you. I pray that you are with Mama in heaven.” As she pronounced the words, Sarah felt a warmth enfold her. The last weight was gone, and so was the emptiness that had filled her heart. The morning she had thought so miserable had become the best day of her life, for she had found what was missing from her life: her Savior’s love.

16

Sarah’s heart brimmed with happiness. If she hadn’t experienced it, she would not have believed the sense of lightness that had enveloped her the moment she’d given her life to Christ. The emptiness was gone, replaced by the conviction that she was not alone, that she would never again be alone. The changes, she suspected, were more than internal, for Zach had given her several piercing looks yesterday afternoon, as if he’d discerned a difference but was reluctant to pry. She would tell him tonight, once she’d seen Isabelle. Since Isabelle had been the first to speak of faith and the difference that becoming a Christian made, it seemed right that she be the first to know.

When she’d finished writing the next assignment on the blackboard, Sarah walked to the door, intending to watch the children play. As she opened the door, her heart sank. Though she ought to be at work, Isabelle was approaching the school, her eyes red-rimmed, a handkerchief in one hand, ready to catch the next spate of tears.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said as Sarah led her back inside the schoolhouse. Her voice was listless, her shoulders slumped. Even the day Sarah had found Isabelle crying in the mercantile had not been like this. She had been upset then; now she was despondent.

“It’s Léon, isn’t it?” For the past week, Sarah had overheard mothers discussing the increased frequency of thefts in Ladreville. Without exception, everyone blamed Léon.

Isabelle nodded. “There were two more robberies last night. Michel came to the store first thing this morning and demanded to see Léon. He was already at the Friedrichs’, but Michel searched his room. Now he’s gone out to the farm to find Léon. Oh, Sarah, I think Michel’s going to arrest him.” As tears began to flow again, Sarah wrapped her arms around Isabelle, trying to comfort her.

Isabelle looked up, then scrubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief. “I know Léon couldn’t have done it, because I heard him snoring all night. It was so loud, it kept me awake.”

Sarah forbore mentioning that Michel might claim Isabelle had dozed long enough for her brother to leave the house. “Did Michel find anything when he searched?”

“No, but one of Léon’s buttons was in a house that was robbed. That’s why Michel’s so sure he is responsible.”

“Was the button one of those fancy gold ones?” It was common knowledge in Ladreville that Léon’s Sunday coat sported unique buttons.

Isabelle nodded.

“It must be a coincidence,” Sarah said firmly to assuage her friend’s fears. “I noticed one of the buttons was loose when I saw you after church last week, but I forgot to say anything. The button probably fell off when Léon was visiting them.” The Rousseaus, like many Ladreville families, paid social calls on Sunday afternoon.

This time Isabelle shook her head. “I wish it were that easy. The problem is, the button was found inside the Henkes’ house. Léon has never been there.”

Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for wisdom, for she did not like the direction her thoughts had taken. “If it wasn’t coincidence—and it doesn’t sound as if it was—putting the button at the Henkes’ must have been deliberate.” And that changed everything. Simple theft had suddenly become something much more sinister. “I imagine the button fell off elsewhere, maybe even in the churchyard, and someone saw it as an opportunity to blame Léon.” Before this, there had only been rumors and suspicions; now there was evidence, even if it had been planted. Though she was confident she knew the answer, Sarah had to ask, “Do you have any idea who would do something so underhanded?”