Free Honor in the Dust by Gilbert Morris

“Would you like that, Son?”
    Stuart’s face glowed for a moment, and then a thought passed through his mind and he dropped his head. “I did wrong, poaching on Mr. Hyde’s land.”
    â€œThat you did, Son, but it turned out all right.” Claiborn reached out and clasped him by the shoulder. “Mind you, I believe it’s just like stealing a man’s money when you steal his game. Poaching is bad business. But we won’t do any more of that, though, will we now?”
    â€œNo, indeed!”
    The two continued to load the cart, with Stuart putting in two or three chunks of peat to his father’s one. As they worked, Claiborn suddenly said, “You work too hard, Son.”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t mind it at all.”
    â€œYou need to have more time for the things that are fun.”
    â€œOh, I go fishing and hunting, and I go to the village when there’s a festival.”
    Claiborn was conscious of failing in some way.
He’s missing his childhood. He seldom gets to have fun with the other boys his age. When I was eleven I was in every kind of game and sport there was. I must find a way to help him and Grace!
    â€œWell, that’ll do enough for now. Let’s go in and see what your mother has for us to eat.”
    Stuart at once took the tongue of the cart and dragged the wagon free. He was strong for his age and moved it easily over the hard ground.
    Claiborn’s mind was working hard, thinking of the future. The crippling blow he had taken had thrown his dreams out of order, and he could not see how they would make it. Money was scarce, and the payment on his debt would be due very soon. And Rolf Hyde was not known for his mercy.

    Grace sat beside a flickering candle that threw dim yellow light over her needlework. She made a little money by sewing fine things for the wives of the wealthy men of the village. It was not much, but every little bit helped, and as she sat there stitching, she thought how different her life was now from the one she had had before marriage.
    In all truth, she had led an easy life as a young girl. There were no pressures on her to do anything except learn the things a young woman ought to learn. While her father was gruff and showed little affection, her mother had been a loving woman; until her death, she and Grace were inseparable. It was her mother who had taught Grace how to sew, and she remembered their cozy parlor, a roaring fire in the hearth, candles all about the room. Here it seemed there was a chill to her home the year round, and with winter closing in, it would become even more of a battle to ward off the cold.
    Now, as always, when thoughts and doubts and fears came, she called out to God in her spirit.
Jesus, forgive my dour thoughts. You are the mighty Savior! Watch over us and keep us!
    It was little prayers like this that she prayed almost every hour. She could not understand those who at the end of the day when the body was tired and the mind was fatigued, could offer only a mumbled devotion, usually a memorized piece. To her, faith was a living, active, vital thing, and she had learned to send up little prayers many times a day rather than saving it all up.
    Her neighbors had learned this about her. When one of them said, “Grace, I want you to pray for my son,” they perhaps expected that she would go to church to pray, but Grace never waited. She would say, “Of course I will. Let’s pray right now for James.” And she would bow her head and often take the hand of the woman who had spoken to her. God did answer many of those prayers, but the act of spontaneously praying startledthose who had asked. Yet it was a blessing to them, and she encouraged others to adopt this method of prayer.
    She heard the sound of voices and put the sewing down. Opening the door, she saw Stuart and Claiborn pulling the cart full of sod. The wind was blowing, and the temperature was dropping.