“There are no more concerts—remember?”
“We don’t need a concert. We’ll make our own music. At least we can go out to dinner—or picnic, or for a walk. Something. Anything.”
She nodded. He must have seen the nod in the semidarkness, for he whispered, “Good. I’ll call you.” Christine watched him walk away with a light step before she gently closed the door.
It was quiet in the house. She flicked off the porch light and proceeded up the stairs to her room. Her head was whirling. What was happening? In some ways he seemed so serious. In others so . . . so casual. She wasn’t sure just how to interpret his manner, his intentions. She had a lot of thinking, a lot of praying to do before she could know her own mind.
She turned on the light to her room and began preparations for bed, but her mind was still totally preoccupied. She had to carefully think some things through before her emotions came into play. She had made a bad mistake before in a relationship. She did not wish to go down that kind of path again.
He does have faith in God
. That was the place to start in her inventory. She would never allow herself to be involved with a nonbeliever again. But what else did she really know about him?
Henry liked him
. That was another big plus. She trusted her big brother’s judgment of people.
He seems to have love and respect for his family
. That was good. Family was very important to Christine.
He has a sense of humor
. She supposed that was good, though she sometimes found it difficult to know if he was serious or teasing.
He’s from a well-established, probably wealthy, family
. That was not a plus in Christine’s thinking. That part scared her. She could picture a mother, prim and sedate, lips tightly pursed, daring some slip of a girl to try to take her son away from her. She could imagine a stern, money-driven father, hands folded over an ample chest, peering out with cold eyes at another young gold digger out to get her hands on a share of the family wealth. It was not a pretty picture. Christine shook her head. She wanted no part of it.
Hastily she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt to say her evening prayers. But she found it hard to concentrate. She liked Eric Carlton, she really did, but she was afraid of his family’s wealth and prestige. How could she ever live up to the expectations that his family likely would have for her?
She said “Amen” but wondered if she had really talked to God with her rambling, troubling thoughts, or had she simply repeated by rote things she had been saying for many nights?
She turned out the light and climbed into her bed, her thoughts still in turmoil.
I don’t know why I said he could call,
she chided herself.
This little charade can go nowhere. I must find
the courage to tell him so when he phones
.
And with her mind firmly made up, Christine pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to quiet her troubled heart so she could sleep.
Uncle Jonathan summoned Christine to the phone. When she lifted the receiver to her ear and said hello, the first word she heard was, “Dinner?”
“Eric?”
“Actually, this is Bob.”
She recognized his voice. Had she thought more quickly— and dared—she could have responded, “Bob, I’ve been waiting for you to call. I’d love to.” Just to give him a bit of his own medicine. But Christine was not one for that kind of joking. She merely flushed and felt confused.
“It’s Eric,” he said in a more serious tone when she had no reply. “How about dinner?”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight—if possible. If not—at your earliest opportunity.”
“Not tonight. I have plans.”
“Tomorrow?”
She was tempted to tell him that tomorrow would not work either. In fact, she expected to be busy for the rest of her life. But she knew she had to explain to him in person that there was no hope for a relationship. She dreaded the thought. She’d rather just run away and never need to face him again. But that would be the coward’s way out.
“I . . . yes . . . I guess so. Tomorrow will work.”
He must have known from her voice that she was hesitant, but he did not make comment.
“May I pick you up at six?”
“Six will be fine.”
“Would you like fine dining—or something more relaxed and contemporary?”
“I . . . I really don’t know . . . about the contemporary, I mean. What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a new café on the south side where the younger crowd goes. It is quite casual.”
“That sounds fine.” She really didn’t wish to wear the same suit two dates in a row.
“Great. See you at six.”
Christine was troubled as she hung up the receiver. Was that really the way one was supposed to feel when accepting a date? She picked up her sweater and called to her aunt and uncle, “I won’t be late,” and left the house. The streetcar ride was not nearly long enough to quiet her jangled nerves. She entered Hope Canteen still feeling jittery. Jane, one of the other volunteers, was there to meet her. She seemed excited and grabbed Christine by both shoulders. “They’ve done it. They’ve done it,” she said.
Christine could not imagine what had been done.
Just then Paula raced up with a broad, happy smile.
“Finally,” she said. “Finally it has happened. We’ll get some real direction here.”
Christine stepped back, disengaging Jane’s hands. “What are you two talking about?”
“They have hired a chaplain—finally,” Paula enthused.
It
was
good news. All the volunteers had been praying for a full-time chaplain to run the program. They felt that to really do an effective job of ministry, they needed leadership.
“Is it one of the pastors who has been volunteering?” asked Christine.
“No. No, this is someone entirely new.”
“When does he start?”
“He’s here—now. He’s already got a little office. He’s been talking to the volunteers. He says he wants to discuss things with each of us—just to get the feel of the place. You know. What’s been done. What we hope to see accomplished. How we view the ministry. All that.”
At last Christine smiled. It really was wonderful news. That was what they had been hoping for—praying for. A solid ministry— not just a coffee service.
“He’s talking with Tommy right now.”
Oh no. Not poor Tommy
. Did Tommy even know what was going on? Surely this new chaplain would understand that Tommy really was an asset to the ministry. It was true he took occasional teasing from some of the young fellows, but once they got to know him, they seemed to accept him for who he was in spite of his handicaps.
“He wants to see you next.”
Suddenly Christine felt nervous butterflies winging to and fro in her stomach. She couldn’t have said why, but she felt even more uncertain than she had when she had gone for her job interview. She was to be next. What if this new chaplain decided she wasn’t a good fit for this work? What if he took them on a path they were not willing to follow? What if he was expecting to run a coffeehouse instead of a ministry of hope? Could she continue to offer her services where all that was handed out was comfort foods and idle chatter?
For the first time Christine realized just how at home she had become in this ministry. She still grieved that the world was at war, but it had been some time since she had struggled with whether she was one who should go overseas. Without her even realizing that it had happened, God had put her mind at peace. For the moment, she was right where she should be. She was serving just as she should serve. This was a wondrous revelation, one that brought a surge of joy to her heart. She should, all along, have trusted Him to lead her. She had prayed for His direction, hadn’t she? Then why should she be surprised that He had led?
“Not all of God’s leading comes with detailed
instructions or great fanfare,”
she remembered hearing a pastor once say.
“Sometimes it is that still, small voice. And perhaps—
just perhaps, we are not even aware of the voice. Just the sense of
peace.”
And that was exactly what had happened to Christine. That beautiful sense of God’s peace. God’s presence. God’s acceptance of where she was at in her life and what she was doing.
“The absence of an inner conflict is one of life’s richest blessings,”
the pastor also had said.
“And it comes only from the hand of
God.”
That was it. She
could
trust Him. She could. As long as she honestly sought to walk in His paths—she could trust Him.
So why am I fretting now about this new chaplain?
she asked herself.
Isn’t God in charge here too?
Christine took a deep breath and moved forward to take up her evening responsibilities and maybe even bring some encouragement, new faith, to someone in the crowded room.
As usual, she breathed a prayer, “Lord, lead me tonight to someone who has a heart open to you. When I make that connection, give me the right words to speak. May I speak with wisdom and love. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
She had just carried a tray of coffee to a group of noisy young men when Jane ran up to her. “It’s your turn. He wants to see you now. He’s in the room we used to use for storage.”
Christine ignored those butterflies trying to get their wings in motion and walked toward the former storage room. It wouldn’t make much of an office.
The door was closed. She rapped and heard a man’s voice bid her enter. He had a journal of some sort spread out before him, and he was busily writing in it. At the sound of her step, he lifted his head, then lowered it again to check his notes. “Miss Delaney, I believe.”
She nodded. He was awfully young. Much too young to give proper leadership to such an important ministry. They had hoped for someone experienced. Someone solid. Older.
She swallowed and nodded her head again.
He smiled, stood, and extended his hand. “I’m Tim—Timothy Marcus,” he said.
She was surprised at his firm handshake and open manner. She could feel calluses in the palm of his hand.
Straight off the
farm
was her unexpected thought. She wasn’t ready to say if that was good or bad. Would he be able to build rapport with all these young people? Then she remembered that many of them were straight off the farm too.
“Won’t you take a seat,” he invited, and Christine sat down.
She hardly recognized the former storage room. It had a fresh coat of light paint, making it look larger, more inviting. She could see that the desk was well used, but it too was freshly painted. A small chest with four drawers served as a filing cabinet, and the three chairs in the room were unmatched but looked serviceable. He even had a picture on the wall, of Jesus walking on the water. The caption read, “He can calm any storm if you’ll let Him in your boat.”
Christine clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“I just had the most delightful conversation,” he said, a smile playing about his mouth. “Thomas. Tommy, he prefers. You’ve worked with him.”
Christine nodded.
“Such a wonderful young man. So open—so honest with God. So eager to share his faith. He was a . . . an . . . actually, I felt like God sent him to me to verify that this is where I am meant to be.”
Christine could only stare.
“He has such . . . such simple . . . passion. I pray that God might make me more like him.”
More like Tommy?
Some segments of society labeled Tommy a retard. Crazy. A dolt or a fool. To be more like him seemed an unusual prayer. Christine now watched the young chaplain with new interest.
He turned back to the pages before him. “You’ve been here some time now.”
Christine nodded. He leaned back in his chair, toying with the pencil he held in his broad hands. “Consistency is good for any ministry,” he noted.
It was much more like a warm, informal visit than an interview. Christine was surprised at how quickly she was able to relax and share her heart. This young man really was there to serve, and he intended to do so with his whole being. With all the resources available. Young men and women were going off to war. They needed the assurance that God was with them.
That they had made peace with their Maker through the sacrifice of His Son, the Savior. It was a matter of spiritual life and death.
Christine could not believe how long they talked. They shared many of the same thoughts and feelings. The same dreams and goals. The same sense of commitment. By the time she left the little office, she felt that surely God was going to raise the ministry of Hope Canteen to a new level.
“So what do you think of him?” Jane was quick to ask when Christine took her place back in the kitchenette.
Christine felt flushed with inner joy. “I think he’ll do fine. His heart certainly—”
“A dreamboat like that and you’re thinking of his heart?” Paula cut in with a giggle.
Christine turned and stared. What in the world was Paula talking about? She hadn’t even noticed if he was good-looking. What difference did that make? The important thing was whether or not he would throw himself into the work of Hope Canteen as an important ministry. His looks had little—nothing, actually—to do with it. She picked up the soda glasses she had just filled and took them out to the tables.
Christine was not looking forward to her next date with Eric. There was no way they had anything in common. There was no hope for any future relationship to develop—so why was she even going through the motions? It was ridiculous.
But she had made a commitment to herself to let him know this in person. She would see it through.
He arrived right on time at six. He was dressed in slacks and a casual shirt opened at the neck and sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. He looked even more handsome than he had in his expensive-looking suit.
“Bob—at your service,” he kidded when she opened the door. Then he openly appraised her full skirt and pink sweater and nodded. “You look great.”
She did mumble a courtesy thank-you.
“I hope you like this place,” he said as the car moved away from the curb. “It’s a bit noisy at times. A lot of young servicemen go there. So, as you might well imagine, there’s quite a collection of the young ladies from town as well.”