A field of wheat, it beckons me
To come and lie, to simply be.
Her tender voice, it sounds the cry
A church bell peals across the sky,
Angelic choirs, sweet cherubim,
They woo me now to enter in.
Her heart, I find, an open book,
I chance to take a second look,
And reading there, am blessed to see,
A glimpse of our eternity.
My heart now beats in steady time
My life composed in perfect rhyme
For now we two are truly one
All praise to Father, Spirit, Son.
When he finished, the room was eerily silent. Then, despite her best attempts to the contrary, Belinda began to cry. Not just cry, really. Wail might be a better word for it. Before long, all the women on her side of the stage were a blubbering mess. The mayor leaned forward and patted George on the shoulder.
“You’ve got a real gift there, George,” he whispered loud enough for only those onstage to hear. “Never knew you to be a poet.”
“Well,” George whispered in response, “writing the story of your heart is easy when you know the subject as well as I do.”
Belinda’s heart swelled with joy as George took her by the hand. As the reverend pronounced them man and wife, she melted into her husband’s embrace, enjoying his sweet kiss.
The audience came alive with applause, and Belinda felt her cheeks turn warm with embarrassment. Not that she planned to stop kissing George anytime soon. Oh, no. Standing here, at center stage, with the lights beaming down on them, how could she help but play the scene for all it was worth?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
After the service, Belinda and George made their way through the crowd, greeting everyone. Just when she thought they’d said hello to each and every guest, the mayor came bolting toward her.
“Belinda, I have to speak with you at once. I’m sorry to bother you on such a special day, but it cannot wait. The strangest thing has happened.”
“O–oh?” She looked at him, her heart rising to her throat. “Pray tell, what is that?”
“A woman named Lena has just arrived in town, claiming to be my future wife. What do you have to say about that?” The mayor paled and looked as if he might faint dead away. Of course, if he did, Sarah Jo would sweep in with her smelling salts and construct a scene worthy of such an event.
“Well, Mayor, did you or did you not say you wanted a wife?” Belinda crossed her arms at her chest and stared him down.
“Well, yes, but...”
“And did you or did you not look through those newspaper advertisements with me some time ago?”
“Certainly. But you told me that you would pray before sending out a letter. I had it in my mind that you would also inform me, should you choose to do so.”
“Well, I did pray, Mayor,” she said with a nod. “But I was counting on the Lord to tell you the rest. I can say as a firsthand witness that hearing it from Him is better than hearing it from anyone else. You must trust me on this.”
“But, Belinda, I haven’t had time to think this through, and now she’s here. Peter told me she checked into the hotel and told everyone she saw that she was here to marry the mayor. I–I’m the mayor.”
“Well, at least she’s got the right man.” Belinda gave him a knowing look. “Could be worse.”
He slapped himself in the head. “Well, if I have an incoming bride, perhaps you’d better tell me about her.”
“It was all in the advertisement. Don’t you remember? Her name is Rena Gebhardt, and she’s from Maine,” Belinda said, her heart quite full. “She sent several references. Rena is a widow, happy to remarry and settle in a small town.”
“Not that our fair town is small these days,” the mayor said, sounding a bit nervous. “Hope that part doesn’t bother her.”
“I’m sure it won’t.” Belinda smiled, finally able to relax, now that the mayor seemed to be adjusting to the idea. “Best of all, I understand she wants an authoritative man, one who has no trouble speaking his mind.”
He grinned. “I am that sort of man.”
“You are. And on top of that, she is looking for a man who loves the Lord and loves his community.”
Mayor Mueller puffed his shoulders back. “Well, now. Is that so? There’s not a soul in Kaufman County who loves his community more, and my love for the Lord is the primary focus of my life.”
“No debating that fact.” Belinda patted him on the arm. “Oh, and by the way, I should tell you that I met Rena face-to-face when George and I fetched her from the train station yesterday afternoon. We found her to be lovely, both inside and out. I’m sure you will agree. If you will just turn around, that is.”
“W–what?”
Belinda took him by the shoulders and pointed him in the direction of the woman in question. The mayor gasped as he clamped eyes on the beautiful brunette with the winning smile and curvaceous physique headed their way.
“Oh my.” Now the man looked genuinely ill.
“Indeed.” Belinda nodded. “I couldn’t have put it any better myself.” She leaned in and whispered, “Now, go and fetch her before someone else does, Mayor. I have it on good authority that Jake Farris is looking for a bride. You don’t want him to steal her out from under you.”
“Jake Farris! That scoundrel! Over my dead body!”
Belinda giggled as the mayor sprinted in Rena’s direction. Just then, George drew near and looked at the town’s newest couple with a crooked grin. “So how did that go? Is everyone happy in paradise today?”
She looked at the mayor and Rena then offered her husband a smile. “I daresay, everyone is quite happy.” She turned to face him, slipping her arms around his neck. “Oh, but George, I am the happiest of all.”
“I could dispute that, but I won’t.” He smiled. “Let’s just say we’re both delighted and leave it at that.”
He pulled her into his arms, planting half a dozen kisses along her hairline. “You’ve made me the happiest groom in Poetry,” he whispered.
“And I am the happiest bride,” she responded.
“Speaking of brides and grooms, I do hope things slow down soon,” George said. “I’m getting a little tired of wedding cake.”
Belinda giggled. “I know. I’ve put on five pounds in the last four months alone.” She glanced at the mayor and Rena, who seemed to be getting along well. “On the other hand, what would it hurt to see more folks happily matched? Do we not wish them the same joy that we ourselves share?”
George laughed. “Of course. If only we can avoid some of the mismatches along the way.”
“I cannot promise that,” Belinda said with a smile. “I can only promise to pray ahead of time, as always. The rest, of course, is up to the Lord. Only He knows the next line to each person’s poem. He, alone, sees the whole picture.”
“You are right, as always.”
As George leaned in to kiss her once again, Belinda was suddenly reminded of the beautiful verse he had recited during their ceremony. She longed to ask him about it. Had he actually penned those remarkable words himself? If so, then she had married a poet, one that could rival Peter Conrad any day.
In that moment, the perfect idea hit. If George could be compelled to write such a beautiful verse for his bride, perhaps he could be persuaded to write a few lines to include in letters to the town’s incoming brides, as well. It was the least he could do. Right?
Caught up in the most glorious kiss she’d ever experienced, Belinda decided that question could most certainly wait for another day.
Town Description
On Highway 175 East, about halfway between the Dallas–Ft. Worth Metroplex and the tiny town of Eustace, where my mom once lived, you will find the town of Terrell, Texas. In this part of the country, you are far more likely to see cows and horses than skyscrapers and bumper-to-bumper traffic. And if you venture about six miles north of Terrell, you will stumble acr
oss a bend in the road that was once the town of Poetry, Texas. Poetry was established in 1837 by Elisha Turner and initially went by the name of Turner’s Point. The name was later changed to Poetry. Some say the town got its moniker because it was as beautiful as a poem in the springtime, but no one knows that for sure. By 1904 the population of Poetry was about 234, and in its heyday it boasted a hotel, a hall, a grocery store, a post office, multiple churches, a cemetery, and several saloons. Today, one can find mostly green, rolling fields covered in tiny purple flowers known as vetch and dotted with oak, elm, and pecan trees. When I visited Poetry, I felt as if I’d stepped back in time—and that’s exactly how I hope you felt as you read this whimsical tale.
—Janice Thompson
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
The heroine in this story wants to “better” her town. Have you ever tried to “better” someone or something?
This is a “Hello, Dolly” sort of matchmaker story. Have you ever tried to match up two mismatched friends or acquaintances? If so, what funny antics occurred?
Have you ever witnessed a little poetic justice in your own life?
Belinda Bauer, the heroine, gets ahead of God in her matchmaking attempts, but He uses her bloopers and blunders to work a miracle in her life. Think of a time when you messed up but God used your blooper to His glory.
Belinda is from a small town, where everyone knows everyone. Have you ever lived in a small town? What are the pros and cons of knowing everything about everyone?
George Kaufman, the hero in this story, doesn’t realize he has feelings for Belinda right away. Have you ever been in a relationship with someone where the feelings grew from friendship to something more?
This story takes place at the turn of the century, presumably a quieter, simpler time. However, it’s clear things weren’t always so quiet...or so simple! What were some of the challenges of turn-of-the-century living?
Several of the women in this book came from other places to live in Poetry. Have you ever moved across the country to start a new life?
Belinda sets out to bring more women to her town because there’s a deplorable shortage of women. Jump ahead a hundred years to the present. Would you say there’s still a shortage of women, or have the tables turned?
George has a hard time seeing what’s right under his nose. What about you? Do you sometimes miss the most obvious things?
Belinda struggles with pride issues. In fact, she doesn’t like to admit when she’s wrong. What about you? Is that an issue in your life, as well?
Belinda sets out to make her town a thing of great beauty, but in the end it’s her life that God makes into a thing of beauty. Have you come to appreciate the “thing of beauty” God has made of your life?
Christmas at the Crossroads
Book Three in the Deep in the Heart of Texas Series
By
Janice Thompson
With one hand Maricella Alvarez clutched her beloved husband’s letter to her breast. With the other she attempted to brush loose tears from her cheeks. Why she bothered, she couldn’t say. Certainly, no one could see her here in this dreary little boarding house, so far from the one she loved.
“Joseph, Joseph.” She rocked back and forth in an attempt to bring comfort, but her aching heart wouldn’t be silenced. Not yet. Not with the news so fresh.
Her tears tumbled down onto the page, smearing his carefully chosen words—so neat, so tidy, as always. She read them over again to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood. Even through the smudges, the truth rang clear.
At that moment, the baby stirred within her, and Maricella jolted. The letter slipped from her hand and took flight, tipping this way and that in midair. Its slow and unpredictable movement held her captive and reminded Mari of her own life—at least thus far.
Had she not left her precious family in Laredo when her husband’s railroad employment led them to Houston? Had she not transitioned from her familiar Spanish tongue to English, in an attempt to blend in upon arrival? And had she not silenced her fears as Joseph traveled up and down the line from Houston to Dallas, often leaving for weeks on end?
Yes, she had surely endured it all—and with little complaint. But this she couldn’t bear. Not coming home for Christmas? Impossible. Not with their firstborn just weeks from arrival.
Maricella ran an open palm over her expanded midsection, tears coursing. “Joseph, you promised.”
As she whispered the words, shame flooded her soul. How could she blame her husband when he worked so hard? And clearly, judging from his carefully penned words, his disappointment greatly exceeded her own.
“No es justo.” It’s not fair. She struggled as she reached down to pick up the letter, her ever-widening girth presenting a growing dilemma.
A rap at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Mrs. Alvarez?”
Mari wiped the dampness from her cheeks, knowing full well the persistent Mrs. Everson would not let up until she responded. She forced her voice to sound as normal as possible. “Yes?”
“Dinnertime.” The woman’s brusque voice had an authoritative ring to it. “No point in staying holed up in this room any longer. Not when I’ve got an excellent meal prepared downstairs.” The motherly boarding house owner paused, as if to define her next words. “You need the nourishment, my dear. And the baby does, as well.”
Maricella dabbed the moisture from her nose with a handkerchief and gave a little sniffle. “I’ll be down shortly.”
“We’ll not say grace until you come.”
The click of Mrs. Everson’s high-button shoes against the wooden stairs stirred something in Maricella. “I should go down to dinner,” she whispered. “It will do me good.”
She went to the dressing mirror and pressed a bit of powder on the tip of her shiny pink nose. As she gave her eyes one last swipe with the hankie, Mari stared at her somber reflection. How could Joseph consider her his “little Spanish beauty” now, when she looked so miserable?
She made her way down the stairs to the large dining room. Familiar faces lined each side of the table. Elderly Mr. Jenkins, who stayed in the room across from hers, gave a polite nod. Mrs. Overstreet, a young widow, seemed distracted with scolding her two little boys and didn’t seem to notice she’d entered the room. Ida Nordstrom, the shy schoolmarm, flashed a silent smile. And Mrs. Everson greeted Maricella with the gusto due an approaching royalty.
“Ah, my dear! You’ve graced us with your presence as I knew you would. Must’ve been the smell of my pot roast and potatoes, eh?”
Maricella forced a smile as she sat. “Yes’m.” In truth, the food smelled heavenly.
They bowed their heads and Mr. Jenkins led them in a heartfelt prayer. Mari listened to his words but could scarcely understand their depth. How could this loving God of whom he spoke separate a man from his wife and child, particularly in a season such as this?
The clinking of knives and forks replaced her lingering questions, and Mari ate as if she might never have the opportunity to do so again. At some point along the way, she found herself distracted by the decorations Mrs. Everson had placed about the room. Bright red napkins lined each spot at the table. A colorful Christmas wreath hung above the stone fireplace. Swags of greenery wrapped the stair railing and a sprig of mistletoe hung above the doorway nearby.
Somehow she couldn’t get beyond the mistletoe.
After dinner, Mari revisited her room and her situation. Perhaps a decent night’s sleep would do her good. Surely everything would look better in the morning. And perhaps Mr. Jenkins’ God would see fit to perform the miracle she longed for.
She wrestled with the bed sheets for hours, wondering if the ache in her heart would ever dissipate. A seemingly impossible idea presented itself somewhere between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning and she could not let it go.
If Joseph couldn’t come to her for Christmas, then perhaps—just perhaps—she and the baby could go to him.
The idea grew like a seed firmly planted
in Maricella’s mind. She fell into a fitful sleep sometime before 4:00, and a rap on the door awakened her just three hours later.
“Breakfast, Mrs. Alvarez. You need to keep up your strength.”
The thought of food offered a temptation, to be sure, but another plan, far superior to eating, gave her cause to reconsider. Maricella slipped out of her nightgown and dressed in clothing suited to traveling, then quickly put together a little bag of personal belongings. “Just enough for a week or so.”
She looked over the tiny room, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything of consequence. “Ah, yes.” She reached into the hand-carved jewelry box and pulled out the tiny roll of bills. “Wouldn’t want to forget this.”
Then, as if she had been planning this excursion for ages, Maricella tiptoed out of the room, down the stairs, beyond the bustling dining room, and out the front door.
Once outside, she shivered against the cold and the child inside stirred, finally awakened to the day’s activities.
“Good morning, little one,” Mari spoke aloud as she laid a hand against her belly. “We’re going to see Papa.” Just speaking the words aloud gave her courage.
She pulled her cloak taut about her shoulders and set out on her way. She caught the Harrisburg streetcar to the busy Houston train station, where, after a slight debate with the ticket master over the risks of traveling in her delicate condition, she purchased a ticket to Dallas. The train would leave promptly at 10:15, which left two hours to spare—two agonizing hour, contemplating the seeming foolishness of her decision.
Have I lost control of my senses? Should I turn around and go back home? The thought would not give her leave.
By the time the “all aboard” rang out, Maricella had very nearly changed her mind. However, something about the rumble of the train made her long for Joseph even more. With some assistance from the porter, she boarded the iron horse and sat in a section near the back—a car filled with squirming children, tired mothers, and a handful of folks who looked more like vagabonds than world travelers.