Had Papa known, when he sent her here, that she would tumble straight into love? But loving him wasn’t enough. Not when his absence sent her back into this abyss.
Rosie tipped up her chin. “Where is your rest, child? In who?”
Nowhere. In no one.
Her lips parted, ready to echo those words so obviously true. Had she anyone to give her such a thing, any place in which to find it…
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
She heard Him, heard Him call her. Heard it in the silence, in the whisper within, the murmur that pulsed with a light from which the darkness fled. Inch by inch, the next flash of lightning seeming to strike within her.
Blessed Lord, let me climb up near to Thee…
“Oh, dear Jesus.” Tears blurred her eyes, and she made no attempt to blink them away. They magnified the truth before her. When the Lord blessed her, she needed to rejoice and praise Him, recognizing that a gift had been given, one so thoroughly undeserved. And when loss came, as it always did, then hers was not to rail, was not to succumb to the dark waves. Hers was to focus her eyes on Him and walk across them. Not just to weather the storm, but to trust Him to still it. To breathe peace into the night.
To be her rest, if she would but go into His arms. His, that would never let her go.
“Did you hear what Emmy was reading this morning?” Rosie urged her up and steadied her when her knees wobbled.
Gwyneth shook her head. Since Thad left, the days had run together like watercolors.
“I didn’t figure. You was more focused on your drawing than anything else.” She slipped an arm around Gwyneth’s waist and led her toward the bed. “She read that part in Mark four where Jesus was asleep in the boat and the storm came up.”
Gwyneth stood still while Rosie positioned the pillows against the headboard and pulled back the blankets.
“There, now. You sit and have your pudding right here.”
Pudding in bed. Shaking her head, Gwyneth sank onto the mattress and leaned back upon the feather pillows.
Rosie fetched the treat from the tray on her vanity and brought it over. “While she was reading, something jumped out at me that never did before. Now, the disciples, they were right scared of that storm.”
A roll of thunder punctuated her words. But it sounded more distant now, muted. Gwyneth spooned up a bite. “They woke Jesus up, frantic. They asked Him if He cared that they were perishing.”
“That’s right. And do you remember what Jesus did?”
She let the sweet taste of the pudding dissolve on her tongue and then swallowed. “He chided them for their lack of faith and spoke to the storm, commanding it to be still. And it obeyed.”
“Close.” Rosie grinned and patted her knee. “He rose up and rebuked the storm first. Then He spoke to the men who ought to have had faith enough to know that the Son of God wasn’t going to be killed by no random weather. He calmed the storm, child. He calmed the storm first, because His friends were scared and asked Him to. He calmed it so that they would be at peace. And then He could speak to them of faith.”
Calm my storm, Father God. Please Lord, calm my storm. Still my fears. Be my rest. Though she spoke not aloud, she heard her prayer as a cry within her and felt it shudder the very foundations of her being. That shaky, fractured foundation so desperate to be shored up.
You are shattered. Broken.
Yes. She smiled into the hiss as she let her eyes slide closed. She was shattered. Broken. And she was His. She had only to put those pieces into the Potter’s hand and let Him make her into a new vessel.
The weight was lifted from her hands as Rosie took the dessert dish, and Gwyneth snuggled between her soft sheets. More, the weight was lifted from her soul, and she climbed up into the lap of the Father who had never been any farther away than a whisper.
Twenty-Five
The sweet sound of sails snapping in the crisp wind brought a smile to Thad’s lips. He raised his spyglass and scanned the horizon. As with every other time he had done so since weighing anchor at the break of dawn, he breathed a prayer that those waters would remain clear. That no British ships would follow him out of Bermuda, that no new ones would appear. That he would make the Chesapeake free and clear, and that the Lord would provide a quick way back into the bay.
Home. Home to Gwyneth, who had yet to fade more than a shade from his thoughts since the Lord brought him to his knees last night. To his family—Philly had been heavy on his mind this morning too. And to Tallmadge, who would be eager indeed for the news he carried with him.
“If the wind stays with us, we should make it home in less than a week.” Michaels stepped up beside him, his eyes alight. “Though part of me would as soon stay out on open water. There are plenty of British ships begging to be harassed.”