Free Light From Heaven by Jan Karon Page B

days.”
    Agnes was pensive for a time, sipping her tea.
    “I suppose you lost your wonderful automobile ...”
    “Indeed, God protected it! He knew how we would rely on it for years to come, and it rode through that dreadful storm with barely a scratch.
    “My gracious,” she said, suddenly contrite. “I’ll wear you to a frazzle going on like this!”
    “Can’t be done. Not when there’s a good story at hand!”
    “I’ve talked far too much about Agnes Merton. What are your plans, Father, for Holy Trinity?”
    “We’ll have our hands full, getting things up to speed. I’ve just been making a list.”
    “A list!” She removed a pair of glasses from her sweater pocket. “And what’s on it, may I ask?”
    “Everything but the kitchen sink. A stove. A pulpit. A lectern. Fair linen. The whole nine yards. Kneelers. Prayer books. Hymnals ...”
    “Thirty-seven prayer books are on the shelves of our old school.”
    “You don’t mean it!”
    “Do you use the 1928?”
    “I grew up on it, but haven’t used it in years. I’m certainly willing, however.” He’d long wanted to refresh his knowledge of the much-venerated 1928 edition of the Book of Common Prayer.
    “And hymnals.We have forty-one of those.”
    “Forty-one!”
    “They were bought only months before the church was closed; they’re in lovely condition.”
    “Now, don’t tell me you have a pulpit and a woodstove.” He was jesting, of course.
    “The pulpit is stored in our loft; Clarence waxes it every fall, to keep it from drying out in winter; he made it from oak off the mountain. And the stove is in our back room, which used to be the infirmary. It only needs oiling.”
    “Agnes . . .”
    “Yes, Father?”
    “Is this a dream?”
    “It certainly seems a dream to me. There were times when Clarence and I had given up utterly, but God always encouraged us. It’s hard to wait.”
    “Very hard.”
    “What are you waiting for, Father?”
    He reflected, but only for a moment.
    “For Kenny Barlowe to be found.” God forbid that Sammy might be lost yet again.
    “Kenny Barlowe. I’ll commit to wait and pray with you.”
    “Thank you, Agnes. Now, look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and made things easy for your new vicar.”
    Smiling, she put on her glasses, and peered at his open notebook. “What else is on your list?”
    “Fair linen.”
    “In my bottom bureau drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. They say tissue keeps linen from yellowing.”
    “A thurible.”
    “I don’t know what they’d think of that. We were always low church here.”
    “One less item to round up! As for getting our services under way, I believe the first Sunday in May would be realistic. That gives us time to collect ourselves.”
    Agnes appeared thoughtful.
    “Where will they come from, Agnes?”
    “I can’t honestly say. Only three remain in these parts who know anything of the Anglican form of worship. Two are elderly, but wise and sweet, and still get about. They’ll be so happy. And perhaps we’ll get some of the Baptist flock from below the creek. Their church burned to the ground last Christmas, a terrible thing. Clarence will take ’round a note from me, and we shall see whom the Lord appoints to grace this nave.”
    Why did he suddenly feel like a child who had been rescued? Tears welled in his eyes.
    “I feel very moved. Very . . . amazed.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “And very grateful.”
    “Perhaps God has asked you to do something smaller than you’re accustomed to doing. Or perhaps He’s asked you to do something greater ...”
    He nodded.
    “. . . and thereby your wonder has been stirred.”
    Yes! His wonder.
    “Let’s walk over to the schoolhouse,” she said. “I’ll refill our thermos and find us a bite to eat.”
    “Agnes,” he said, on impulse, “do you know anything about . . .” How could he possibly ask this?
    “About what, Father?”
    “Cutting hair?”

    His wife leaned forward and squinted at