~~
Pastor David Langley understands six-year old Caleb Holsheyer -- what it feels like to be damaged and alone. His family killed in a fire, and his body severely burned, David grew up in an orphanage, ridiculed and shunned. He couldn’t let that be Caleb’s fate.
When adoption plans fall through, David is desperate to find Caleb a new home. But in the midst of the Great Depression, most families are barely getting by. No one seems willing to take on the responsibility of an extra mouth, especially one belonging to a crippled child.
Except for Sadie Miller, the town spinster. In Sadie, David sees the answer to Caleb's needs. But Child Welfare doesn't agree, and demands other arrangements be found, or the boy be returned to the orphanage.
David and Sadie team up, determined to find a home for an orphaned child, but while searching, might they find a family instead.
From Orphaned Hearts
How do you destroy a child?
Take
away all that he loves. Promise a new beginning. And just as he reaches to take
hold, yank it from his grasp. That's what he was about to do.
After
thirteen years as a minister, David should know how to comfort those in grief.
But, for the life of him, he could think of no words to wrap around the news
and ease its delivery.
I'm sorry, son. Your new family has changed
their mind. You have no home after all.
One
more loss for a child who'd lost everything; his mother, his father, his sister
-- his arm.
David
propped his elbows on the oak desk and buried his face in his hands. There had
to be a better way. Something he could do!
He
rubbed his weary eyes and looked to the clock on the far wall, its pendulum
swinging within the glass cabinet. David watched, hoping that somehow its
hypnotic effect would draw forth an answer.
Through
blurred vision, he made out the time -- 3:58. Caleb's train would arrive at 6:30.
In an hour he'd have to leave for the station in Winslow. Should he buy a
return ticket and rent a hotel room so he could send the boy back to Van Buren
on the early morning train? It would be cruel to bring Caleb into the town that
was 'almost home' and then send him away. He should probably call Mr. Murphy so
he could meet the boy and take him back to the orphanage in Fort Smith, where Caleb
would most likely remain for the rest of his childhood.
"Lord,
I can't... I just can't."
Exhausted
by the overwhelming burden, David sighed and leaned back, scraping the desk
chair's legs into the floor.
The
squeals of happy children playing outside on a warm summer day drew his
attention to the window. David rose and paced across his small office inside
the church.
Across
the field, the Carson children played on the schoolyard. Twin little girls,
Christine and Caroline, dressed alike as usual, bobbed up and down on the
seesaw, and their pigtails bounced along with them. Their older brother, Marcus
-- maybe eight or nine now -- hung upside down from a tree branch, and Mrs.
Carson sat on a park bench with her youngest son -- what was his name... Daniel,
playing at her feet. The toddler's back was to David, and he scooted a toy
David couldn't see along the ground. Mrs. Carson called out to Marcus to be
careful.
A
mother and her children, a beautiful sight. Soon she'd take them home and cook
dinner. When their father arrived from work, the children would rush to greet
him, hugging his legs as he entered the house. Then the family would sit down
together to eat and talk about their day. David pictured the scene with
clarity. A family as it should be. A family like Caleb used to have.
David
wasn't sure which was worse; to be old enough to remember your family and have
to endure the pain of losing them like Caleb had or to be spared that pain
because you were too young when they died. Like himself. He may have escaped
the pain of loss, but, throughout his childhood, he'd wondered how it felt to
be loved.
Even
so, he'd recovered.
Perhaps
his own story could comfort the six-year-old boy? David tried to imagine
Caleb's face as he heard the tale.
"You see, Caleb, I was orphaned when I
was two. I had a mother and father and a sister, just like you -- so I was
told. But they all died and I went to live at the children's home, the same one
as you. Good people came into my life there. The person I best remember was a minister,
Brother Rice. He visited every Sunday with his family. He's why I became a
minister and why I come to the orphanage to see the children and try to find
homes if I can."
"Did you ever find a home?"
the boy would ask.
And
then he'd have to answer. "No, son.
I didn't."
David
loosened his collar, feeling the edge of the hideous scarring that covered the
right side of his body -- evidence of the only memory he carried from his life
before the orphanage. A memory that only surfaced during his sleep -- flames
searing his skin, smothering, and someone calling out, "I'm coming, David!"
He
could hear the panic in the voice he believed had been his mother's. Sometimes,
he tried to imagine how she might have sounded if she were singing a soothing
lullaby or simply laughing. But just when he thought he could grasp hold, the
memory vanished like vapor. His burn extended over his chest, shoulder and
back, and up to the base of his neck, where it fit the collar pattern of the
clothing he'd worn. Clothing that had served as fuel. It wasn't visible under
his daily attire of a button up dress shirt, necktie and jacket, and he never
spoke of it. No one in the congregation knew, but he'd been unable to hide it
from the children he grew up with at the orphanage, and it was a constant
source of torment. Monster... Frankenstein... Leper... even the caretakers
seemed afraid.
Perhaps
that explained why he felt so desperate that Caleb not be let down. He had to
find him a family. A home. Someplace where he'd not be subjected to such
cruelty every single day. If he didn't, who would?
He
knew what it was like to be damaged, for people to look at you with pity before
passing over in favor of a more appealing choice. He could remember like it was
yesterday. Hopeful parents browsing through the orphanage on a shopping spree
for a child, though it was more likely they were looking for free labor. But it
was still a home.
Sometimes
one of them would pause and ask, "What's your name?" But then the
social worker would proclaim that he was not 'normal,' and pull up his shirt,
showcasing his defect. Eyes would widen, heads would shake, followed by the
smile of pity -- he detested pity -- then on they would move, in search of a
'normal' child.
With
only one arm, Caleb's damage was far more apparent than David's. He didn't even
get a, "What's your name?" That's what had made the Sheldons so
special. They had wanted him anyway.
"Brother
Langley?"
David
turned to see Sadie Miller standing in the door.
"I'm
sorry. Am I interrupting?" she said.
"Sadie,
how can I help you?" David shoved his memories into the closet and
straightened his suit jacket as he approached his desk.
She
stepped into his office, a brown paper bag in hand. "I wanted to thank
you. Your words about my father were so kind." She held up the bag.
Moisture from its contents seeped through, spotting the bottom and sides.
"I baked you something. It's not much. But, I wanted to show you my
appreciation for such a lovely service."
"That's
very thoughtful of you." He reached for the bag. "This wasn't
necessary, though. Your father was a beloved member of the flock. My words were
heartfelt. They don't require a thank you."
David
opened the bag and inhaled the aroma of freshly baked oatmeal cookies.
"However, I will graciously accept these." He smelled them again.
"I'm
sorry about the presentation. I didn't want you to have to bother with
returning a dish."
"Presentation
isn't important when it comes to food." David rolled up the bag and set it
on his desk. He looked at Sadie, who stood in front of him, hands clasped,
worn-out smile. She tried to appear cheerful, that was her nature. She just
wasn't doing very well today.
Her
drawn-in features and the dark circles beneath her eyes, suggested that she
likely wasn't eating or resting well in the wake of her father's death.
"I
know it's hard, Sadie. Is there anything I can do to help?"
She
sighed. "No, I don't suppose. I'm getting by. It's just... the quiet. It's
hard to get used to."
"I
understand."
"Don't
get me wrong. Papa was never demanding, yelling for this or that. He mostly
slept. He really wasn't any trouble at all." A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Of
course not. You loved him very much. We all know that."
Sadie
brushed the tear away with a gloved hand. Then she tucked her bun at the back
of her head. "It's more the feeling of being alone. I guess that's what I
mean by quiet. The house has always been Mamma's and Papa's house. Now, there's
just me."
David
nodded and sat on the edge of his desk. He motioned to the chair next to her,
indicating his willingness to listen.
Sadie
took the cue and sat. "It feels so empty," she continued. "I
have all of this time and I just look around and see myself as a child, sitting
on Papa's knee at Christmas, or baking cookies with Mamma. I suddenly miss her
so much. It's been twelve years since her passing. I don't understand it."
"Grief
manifests in all sorts of ways, most of which are hard to understand."
She
wiped another tear, and then another.
David
opened his jacket and pulled a white hanky from the inner pocket. "Here,
it's clean, I promise."
Sadie
took it and blew her nose. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "I'll wash
it and return it."
"Keep
it. I've got plenty."
Gazing
at the window, Sadie sighed. "Look at those children. Not a care in the
world."
David
watched again as one of the twin girls -- he didn't know which -- joined Marcus
in the tree, and Mrs. Carson pushed the other daughter in a swing while
balancing Daniel on her hip.
"I
find myself thinking that I've wasted my life," Sadie said. "I feel guilty
for feeling that way because Papa needed me."
David
opened his mouth to offer words of comfort. Caring for her father wasn't a
waste in God's eyes. But something about the way she gazed at the children on
the playground -- with longing -- made him pause.
Sadie
had been labeled the town spinster for as long as he'd known her, five years,
but he had no idea how old she actually was. He'd never thought to ask.
He
studied her as she looked out the window. Her pale face and lined eyes spoke of
fatigue more than years. Her hair and clothing were that of an older woman, but
with all of her time and energy focused on caring for her father, it was
understandable that such things took low priority. Could she be younger than
him? It was possible. If so, there was still time.
Even
he, at thirty-five, held some hope for a family -- though his situation created
a difficult challenge to overcome. Not just any woman could deal with his true
appearance.
But
Sadie was 'normal.' David looked past
her fatigue, with a smile gently tugging at his lips. Lovely blue eyes
continued gazing out the window, and a faint sprinkle of freckles covered an
adorable up-turned nose. Sadie might even be somewhat pretty.
David
noticed a few wisps of hair had escaped her bun and curled into tight ringlets
over her ear. Did she have curly hair? He'd very much like to see her wear it
down. He'd always thought curly hair on a woman was quite beautiful. Wearing it
loose might help to catch a man's attention. If she was hoping to marry.
"Sadie,"
he said, deciding to trust his instincts. "You could still have a family.
If that's what you want."
"Oh,"
she dropped her head, laughing the saddest laugh he'd ever heard. "I had
my chance. It wasn't meant to be."
David
remembered several years earlier, before Sadie's father was completely
homebound, he stopped in to have a talk. David first assumed it was about some
pressing matter, but Sadie's father proceeded to tell him how Sadie's fiancé
went missing during The Great War. And how Sadie, never being certain of his
death, had clung to hope far longer than she should have. Then upon her
mother's death, she devoted herself to caring for him.
Her
father went on and on about Sadie's strength of character, dependability, and
how she cooked just like her mother. David never understood his point. People
usually talked to their preacher when facing a crisis, be it of conscience or
circumstance -- though Sadie's father had never expressed either. David
concluded his need to voice pride in his daughter indicated an underlying guilt
over her devotion to him. Her father would have wanted her to find someone to
share her life with.
"Don't
give up on the possibility of finding someone, Sadie. Your father wouldn't want
that."
She
dabbed her eyes and smiled. She had a lovely smile.
"It's
all right, Brother Langley. I accept God's will for me. Being alone is just
going to take some getting used to." She stood and pulled at the fabric of
her full calf-length skirt. "I actually thought I might offer to be of
assistance to you -- in tending to the needs of the congregation."
"Well,
I appreciate that very much. But I think you need time first. Allow others to
tend to you for a change."
"I
wouldn't know how to respond to that." She glanced out the window once
more, another sigh escaping her lips. "I suppose I've taken enough of your
time. Thank you for listening."
"Of
course." David escorted her to the door of his office. "If you need
anything, please don't hesitate to ask."
He
closed the door and walked back to the window. Outside, Mrs. Carson leaned
forward, shaking a finger in Marcus's face, while Christine or Caroline, which
ever had been hanging from the tree with her brother, cried.
David
watched Sadie as she passed the school, walking toward her house several blocks
away. It was unfortunate that she was resigned to being alone. She would make
someone a wonderful wife, and she'd be a good mother.
Purchase:
