Free Sweet Sanctuary by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page B

people lived to one another, a simple illness could turn into an epidemic.
    The task finished, he walked to the dirt-streaked window and looked out onto the street. Things here were so different from his own small hometown. The sky nearly blocked by towering buildings, grass only growing in parks, people constantly teeming . . . There were times Micah longed for the open spaces and blue skies of Texas. Yet he knew he was exactly where God wanted him to be, and he would stay until God uprooted him.
    Micah had never planned to live in a big city, but when he’d volunteered for service in Schofield, everything had changed. The attack at Pearl Harbor, specifically, had brought the change. One of the injured men had said, in gratefulness for Micah’s care, “Boy, we could sure use you back in Queens, Doc. You’re a great doctor.” The simple statement had refused to leave his mind. When he’d read about the immigrant population and how many of them were without medical care, his heart had ached over their plight. As soon as he’d finished his duty at Schofield, he’d packed his bags and come directly to New York to work at this medical clinic established by a missions group. The elderly doctor running the Queens Free Clinic had willingly handed the reins of service to Micah. The mission paid him a small but decent salary, and he’d been right where he needed to be to assist Jeremiah in his work. God had known what He was doing when He planted Micah in Queens.
    Local doctors who believed in the work of the clinic—those with flourishing practices and homes in Brooklyn, away from the industry and noise—offered supplies, medicines, and occasionalmonetary donations to keep the clinic running. Micah suspected a few of them supported him to prevent the immigrants from coming to them for help. Whatever their motivation, Micah was grateful for their offerings, as they allowed him to treat the people who needed him most.
    He was also grateful for the three volunteers who rotated through each week to help with cleaning and to give rudimentary first aid. He frowned, checking his watch. In fact, Stan should have arrived an hour ago. He sighed. Stan was notorious for being late. He’d show up eventually.
    A young boy paced outside the open window. He held a stack of newspapers under one arm, and with his free hand he waved a paper above his head. “Island of Saipan falls to U.S. forces! Another victory for our brave fighting men! Island of Saipan falls! Read all about it!” Two men traded coins for papers, and the boy moved on, continuing to shout his message. Micah watched him go, wishing for the hundredth time for a headline that didn’t bring immediate images of death and destruction.
    Lord, keep Your hand of protection on Jeremiah.
    As much as Micah abhorred the war and all its evils, it had brought about one positive: jobs. Ten years ago, he’d heard, grown men haunted New York’s street corners, shining shoes for a nickel a pair just to get by. But factories had sprung up across the country and manufactured everything from rubber to airplane parts. If a body was willing to work, there was something waiting to be done.
    Women, whose men had left to fight, were even taking up tools and working in factories. Micah couldn’t help wondering what would happen when the war was over and the men came back. Would the women be reluctant to relinquish their positions? What kind of domestic battles might be waged when this ugly war was finished?
    His attention turned to a cluster of boys who dashed from an alleyway to the street. They quickly organized a ball game, using a rock and a wooden slat in place of real equipment. He shook his head. So many of New York’s children went unattended during the day while their mothers worked and their fathers fought overseas. It broke his heart to see them using a dirty street or sometimes the roofs of their apartment buildings