Chapter Thirteen
Sunday morning came hard and fast. Before Beth even opened her eyes, she could feel that the aches in her feet and back had traveled to all of her extremities. She did her best work behind a desk at a computer, not in a field hauling branches bigger than her.
She rolled over and let out a slight groan.
“Stinks to be out of shape, doesn’t it?”
Beth opened her eyes to find her sister standing in her room with two steaming mugs of coffee that smelled like heaven.
“What are you doing up so early? And in my room? And dressed up?”
“It’s Sunday. Church.”
Beth rolled over. It had been their tradition for as long as she could remember, but somehow she’d thought she might get a free pass today—she wasn’t sure she could move.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
Obviously her sister had other plans.
Ever since Beth had moved back in with their mom, Molly had insisted on coming over early every Sunday morning. Even when their mother was nearly immobile, they found a way to cart her to church.
“I think I’m staying home today,” she said.
“My eye. Mom’s up and ready. We leave in half an hour.” She set the coffee on Beth’s nightstand. “Jesus is waiting for you.”
“How do you know He’s not waiting for me on the back porch?” She threw a pillow at her sister but missed.
The fact that Molly had this much energy and Beth felt like she’d been hit by a Mack truck was one of life’s greatest injustices. She sat up and took a sip of coffee, determined not to rush around. Molly appeared again in the doorway, that hurry up look on her face.
“I’m coming,” Beth groaned.
As she made herself presentable—a task that proved to be more challenging than usual—she imagined herself sitting in the church pew. She’d consulted God in every decision she’d ever made. Michael. College. Working for her father. She’d accepted that Michael had had his own free will, and though he’d broken her heart, she didn’t blame God for that.
Her latest failure? She was having a bit more trouble being gracious with that one. She’d prayed every single day before going against her father’s instructions. She’d taken a risk, but she had been certain it would save the company money.
She’d asked God to stop her if it was a bad decision.
But He hadn’t.
And look what had happened. She’d never messed up like that before. And worse, she’d covered it up, and it had cost Beth her job.
Her dad had taken the blame for her error in judgment, but obviously there was still some trace of it or Darren never would’ve found out. He said he’d keep it to himself, but if it ever came out, nobody in business would ever take her seriously again.
Her dad had died before she’d had a chance to make him proud again.
He’d died because of the stress she’d caused.
She had to believe God could’ve given her a heads-up. Something—anything—to keep her from making the wrong decision. She’d let everyone down. Why hadn’t He stopped her?
It had been a long time since she’d really heard God’s voice, yet for some reason that day, as she finished putting her mascara on, she felt like maybe she needed to break the ritual. Church was a tradition, but maybe she’d been going through the motions.
Maybe she needed to do something different today. She’d never really believed you could only find God at church, after all. How many times had she heard His still, small voice on her walks with Mom? Or in the shower or the car on the way to work?
She emerged from her room with time to spare, poured more coffee into a travel mug and met Molly in the driveway.
“You go ahead, Mol. There’s something I need to do this morning.”
Molly studied her, but uncharacteristically chose not to press. “Will we see you at church?”
“Maybe not,” Beth said.
She frowned. “Is everything okay? You know we have these people to thank for a successful Community Work Day yesterday.”
That was true. People would expect to see them there. Beth had built a life out of other people’s expectations. Today, she needed to do something for herself.
“And we’re partners, so you can thank them.” Beth opened her car door and smiled at Molly as she got in. A part of her felt a little rebellious. Maybe she should do whatever she wanted more often.
Acres of newly planted corn and soybean fields stretched out on either side of the highway as she drove toward Fairwind Farm. In high school, she’d never appreciated the tremendous amount of work that went into making those crops grow. She’d never seen the beauty of the earth providing everything needed to create something new. Back then, she’d had only one goal: get out of Willow Grove.
The thought niggled at the back of her mind as she pulled into the parking lot at Fairwind and parked near the main barn. She hadn’t done the one thing she’d set out to do. She’d missed the mark. She hadn’t gotten out of Willow Grove, and now she’d made a decision that would anchor her to it for years to come.
She hadn’t signed anything—she could still back out. But then, where would that leave Molly? Beth couldn’t do that to her.
“Sometimes you have to live with the mistakes you make, Beth,” Dad had told her when he’d finally found out what she’d done. “There’s no getting out of it. You just get through it.”
She could still see the look on his face. He’d been so disappointed. She could only imagine what he’d say now as she faced another potential disaster.
Was Fairwind something else she’d have to get through?
She stepped out of the car and walked around the large barn, impressed by how much better the place had already started to look. A patio at the back had been weeded and power washed and now looked like a passable place for a social gathering. Maybe not a fancy one, but something casual, like a birthday or graduation party.
Beth stopped to admire a row of lilac bushes that filled the air with their sweet fragrance. She inhaled the scent. How had she not noticed these yesterday?
She continued walking, drinking in the morning, almost forgetting the tired ache of a body that had been pushed to its limits the day before. The property they now owned seemed to stretch on forever. And she’d thought her parents’ yard was big.
Instead of wondering who would take care of it all, she chose to focus on the beauty of it. The morning sunlight streamed through the trees, illuminating the path in front of her.
Off to the right was the orchard—rows and rows of apple trees, different varieties that all looked surprisingly healthy, not that she would necessarily know if they weren’t.
Up and to the left was the Christmas-tree farm. Acres of various-sized evergreens stretched out in front of her, and she was instantly transported back to a simpler time when they’d all packed into the minivan, decked out in full winter garb. As soon as they’d pulled into the parking lot, even Beth, a moody teenager, had felt that Christmas excitement as clearly as the chill in the air.
All six of them had made their way past the barns and up toward the trees, determined to find one bigger and better than they’d had the year before. She could still hear her father’s voice as he steered them toward the one her mom wanted, knowing that Lilian would defer to the kids. He’d always been so intent on making her happy.
That may have been the last year they were all together to go pick out the tree. Things had been easier then—why had she been in such a hurry to grow up and get out?
She walked up a hill near the end of the evergreens, and as she reached the top, something stopped her. Up ahead across a clearing, a small church building nestled back into the trees, almost hidden out of sight. She’d never had much freedom when they’d visited Fairwind Farm, so she’d had no idea it even existed. She stared at it for a few long moments. Standing like a lighthouse for weary travelers, it seemed to hold some secret promise for those who stopped long enough to pay attention.
Is this why You wanted me to come here today?
Despite its chipping white paint and obvious disrepair, the forgotten church shone like a beacon. She closed her eyes, and an image of what the church could be flashed through her mind as clearly as an actual photograph.
Walking around the church, she let her dream run off by itself for a minute.
She’d start with a fresh coat of white paint and then figure out what needed to be done to restore the steeple. She wanted it to stand tall and proud through the trees, the way it must have when the church was first built. She’d put window boxes on each of the windows—two in front and three on each side. Then she’d plant a lilac bush or two around the back to match the ones on the side, just because she liked lilacs. In the spring, their fragrance would fill the small chapel if the windows were open.
She walked through the brush toward one of the windows, cupped her hands around her eyes and peeked inside. Particles of dust floated through the air, caught by the sunlight streaming through the windows.
How many prayers had been whispered inside these four walls?
She made her way back to the front and walked up the few steps, stopping at the door. She pushed it, but it didn’t budge. She pushed again, this time using her shoulder, but still couldn’t get the door open.
How long had it been since anyone had been here?
Instinctively, she ran her hand along the top of the doorframe, surprised when something small and metallic fell off and clinked on the ground. A key. She bent and picked it up, turning it over in her hand.
A climbing vine had wound its way up around the old door, hiding the lock from view. She brushed it away, careful not to cut herself on the greenery, and forced the key inside the lock. Her tired muscles screamed at her as she attempted to push the door open. Finally, it gave, and she tumbled into the little chapel.
Light filtered into the small room from the skylight above and three windows on each side. She left the door behind her open and took a few steps inside.
Quiet filled the space.
Beth admired the exposed wooden beams overhead, still strong after all this time. She walked down the center aisle, rows of simple wooden benches on either side. At the front of the room, a small pulpit stood one step above the floor.
She sat on the front row and took a deep breath of silence. Somehow, in spite of it having been forgotten all these years, Beth sensed a holiness in the little chapel.
She knew only bits and pieces about Fairwind’s former owners. She knew they’d lost their daughter. She knew the mother was said to have died of a broken heart. She knew the tragedy had pulled Willow Grove out of its utopian mind-set, putting everyone on high alert for too many years.
Sad how people were so willing to hurt each other.
She hadn’t thought about it in years. But now, standing in the place they’d probably prayed desperate prayers, she could think of nothing else.
Beth stood and walked over to the small piano in the corner. She wished she’d learned to play. Her hands slid across the instrument, wondering how long it had been since it had made music. Whose piano had this been? What would this space sound like filled with worship?
She lifted the lid on the bench and saw a stack of sheet music, a hymnal and a little black book inside. She pulled them out, one by one, mesmerized by the history she held in her hands.
Fairwind had been owned by Harold and Sonya Pendergast, and before that, the farm had belonged to Harold’s parents. They’d been the ones to turn it into a tourist destination. Harold and Sonya had carried on that tradition, working in the family business. Beth knew the pressure of that. How had Harold felt when he’d been unable to keep it going after his family died?
She’d never considered that. He had simply become a sad old man—a town fixture with a reputation that kept everyone away.
But his heart had been broken. Could any of them blame him for not being able to pick up the pieces?
She looked around, wondering how old the chapel was. She didn’t know who’d owned the farm before Harold’s parents—what if this building dated back to the original owners? Had they married here? Been buried here? Had they celebrated and mourned inside these four walls? Had Sonya stood in this very spot begging God to spare her daughter?
God, why didn’t You spare her daughter?
Beth leafed through the hymnal, stopping to admire the lyrics of “How Great Thou Art,” the melody floating through her mind. She set the hymnal down and picked up the little black book.
She opened it and quickly discovered it was some sort of journal. On the first page, someone had written an inscription:
Fill these pages with the prayers of your heart, for there is One who hears. One who listens. One who answers. If you find this book, you’re welcome to use it, to capture the prayers whispered inside the chapel at Fairwind Farm.
As she carefully turned the pages, she saw each entry started with “Heavenly Father” or “Dear Lord,” and not all entries were in the same handwriting.
It was more than just a journal—it was a prayer book.
She held in her hands the prayers of generations. How many people had taken the time to record their requests in this journal? How many tears had been shed over it—tears of joy and sorrow?
Beth sat on the old piano bench and started to read, feeling like she’d just entered a sacred chamber and praying she was welcome there.
Each entry had been signed and dated, and from what she could tell, the book had been left in the chapel, open for anyone who wanted to use it.
And it was well used.
Dear Lord,
How do I thank You for bringing us here? For giving us this land? For bringing us neighbors to help raise the barn? We are so blessed to have good crops and strong bodies to reap the harvest. Thank You for hearing our prayers, for sending the rain. The earth drinks in Your goodness, and so do we.
Your child,
Sarah
Beth read a few others but quickly became curious about the last entry. She flipped through the pages until she found a blank one and stared at the words on the page before. It was dated twenty years ago.
Dear Heavenly Father,
She’s gone. Our little girl has been taken from us, and her case seems to have gone cold. Harold says he’ll keep searching, that justice must prevail, but Lord, I know in my heart my daughter is with You. I don’t know why You’ve allowed this to happen to us, but I will continue to praise You and believe in Your goodness and your mercy. I beg You to fill my husband with peace, as we may never know what happened to our Jessica. He is too intent on finding the truth. I’m worried about him, and I know I need to trust You. Bring us the closure we so desperately need, and if it’s Your will, bring something to light so we can properly mourn the loss of our beautiful girl. Only one person can give us the answers we need, but perhaps he is too fragile to remember. Send peace to him, Lord.
I don’t have the strength to carry on, not without Your help. Please be my source. I give Fairwind to You and ask that it will be what You’ve always wanted it to be—a place to restore families and remind people of Your goodness.
I’m sad and my heart is broken, but my life is now and always will be Yours.
Sonya
A small newspaper clipping had been stuck to the last page—an article about the missing girl, Jessica Pendergast. Beth tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
They’d been the same age, but Jessica had been homeschooled, and if it weren’t for the photo in the article—a snapshot of the nine-year-old girl—Beth wouldn’t have remembered what she looked like. She’d been taken from the property, but that was all Beth knew, thanks to overprotective parents who’d shielded them from the truth. She didn’t know any details about what had become of her—no one did. The case had never been solved.
Now, reading Sonya’s prayer, Beth wondered if anything she’d heard about the previous owners had been true.
Everyone said Mrs. Pendergast had died of a broken heart, but her words were peaceful, as if she’d accepted the outcome and reconciled her feelings with God.
Beth marveled at the idea. She’d been so heartbroken over Michael, so devastated by her own shortcomings, she’d been holding this grudge against God for years. How had Sonya Pendergast kept the anger away after the tragic loss of her only daughter? Beth had been angry at God for allowing her to fall in love with a cheater—Sonya had to have been angry at God for allowing her child to be taken from her own property, never to be seen again.
Hadn’t she?
Beth’s own betrayal, her heartache—they seemed so trite and pointless by comparison.
She ran a finger over Sonya’s handwritten name, suddenly intrigued by the woman who might’ve sat in that very spot and poured out her heart to a God she trusted and loved, in spite of everything.
Beth wanted to live that way, certain of God’s goodness and without a shred of doubt. She wanted all the anger and confusion to disappear, and she wanted her life to mean something. Even if she still lived in Willow Grove.
It was all she’d ever wanted. It was why she worked so tirelessly. Surely God saw the countless hours she put in to make sure she did her very best. That kind of dedication had to count for something—and yet, it never seemed to be enough. There was always more work to be done, always something else to prove—to herself, to her dad, to God.
It was like something deep down, some child trapped inside her, was asking, Are you proud of me yet?
But the person she’d wanted to please most had spent his final days trying to dig them out of the mess she’d made.
“I worked so hard to make sure you were always taken care of,” her dad had said. “You know that, Beth. You’ve never done something so reckless before.”
He was right. She hadn’t. She’d never let him down so badly, and still, he’d never told a soul. Not even her mother.
As she sat there in the stillness of the old, holy chapel, two words echoed in the corners of her mind.
Trust Me.
And for a few welcome moments, all the stress of her situation, all the wrestling to figure out her next move, all her doubt and fear and worry and the staggering need to succeed fell away.
“It’s not You I don’t trust,” she said. “It’s myself.” She was, after all, the one who’d picked the wrong man to give her heart to, the one who’d made the wrong business move. How could she ever hope to trust her gut instinct again? How could she trust that she was actually hearing God’s voice when she’d been so wrong about hearing Him before?
Trust Me.
“I don’t know how, Lord.” The words shamed her. She should know this by now. She’d had twenty-nine years of practice. And yet, trust didn’t come easily to her.
You know what to do.
Did she, though?
Her heart and head were at odds with each other.
She stilled, hands wrapped around the small black journal. There were so many emotions inside its pages—grief, gratitude, forgiveness. She could draw strength from the women who had gone before her. Even if the task of restoring Fairwind Farm seemed daunting. Even if she didn’t know what she was doing. Even if she failed. Again.
Was it crazy that a part of her wanted to try?
At times, the fear was crippling—could she ever overcome that?
“Lord, I cannot fail again.”
And yet, as she whispered the words aloud into the darkness, an inexplicable peace settled inside her. She had to believe that whatever decision she made, it would be okay. God wouldn’t abandon her for making the “wrong” one.
Neither her head nor her heart had proven trustworthy, so what choice did she have but to follow Sonya’s lead and turn all of it—every scary, overwhelming bit of it—over to God?
But as she left the little chapel, book carefully placed back inside the piano bench, Beth kept thinking the same thing: I have no idea where to begin.