Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

It is well, it is well with my soul.

It is well

It is well with my soul, with my soul,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

        “Baptist?” Joe queried as he and Rachel strolled up the walkway and through the open doors of the church. It was Mother’s Day, and the nave was full of pastel, canary-faced women, wet-headed men, children in their Sunday best.

“If I bother at all, I usually go to the Presbyterian church where I always went with my parents,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’d get pitied to death if I went there today. Besides, since they died I’ve become a more generic sort of Christian. And today I’m in the mood for Baptist. They have the nicest music.” She took Joe’s hand and led him through a narrow passageway, up a winding stair, and into the small balcony at the back of the church. “The view’s better from here,” she whispered as they sat down in a shadowy corner. They’d both dressed up for the occasion. Rachel wore an iris blue skirt, an azure blouse, and a straw Easter hat, Joe a nut brown oxford and a pair of fawn corduroys, both of which were now too big for him. They looked as if they had traded colors for the day.

When Joe had balked at the idea of church, Rachel had dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Suit yourself,” she’d said. “Spend the morning slobbering in your bed, like you do every other Sunday, gobbling down sausages, dragging your ass around ’til noon. I’m going to church.”

“Why? You hardly ever go to church.”

“Because it’s Mother’s Day,” she’d said, and he had suddenly remembered the look on his sister’s face as she worked her knuckles through their mother’s vow-heavy rings.

From the balcony they listened to the drone of the sermon and grew as drowsy as babies in the sun. They sang, sharing a hymnal, and Joe had to admit that the choir sounded fine and the songs themselves were sweet.

I come to the garden alone,

While the dew is still on the roses;

And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,

The Son of God discloses.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own,

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

None other has ever known.

He recognized a couple of selections—the Doxology and “Holy, Holy, Holy”—from the Christmases and Easters of his childhood. He sang “Amazing Grace,” unconcerned with the vagaries of his voice, until the grief in Rachel’s eyes closed his throat. And then, when he thought that the service was at an end, the preacher smiled down upon his flock and said, “I have a special surprise for you. A busy man, preaching and teaching in Philadelphia. An important man with little time to spare. But he’s back here in his hometown for a visit, and I know you’ll be glad to see his face again and share his wisdom. The Reverend Gerald Cryers.” He opened his arms to a pudgy man who was making his way up to the pulpit. “Welcome home, Gerry.”

“Thank you,” said the Reverend Gerald Cryers. He grabbed the front edge of the pulpit with both of his sweating hands and leaned scowling toward the congregation.

“It’s true,” he finally said. “I’ve been away for quite a while. And many things are different around here. Little things, like a house that’s changed color or a tree that’s died. New faces, older faces, new children.” He paused to bat his eyes at a little girl in the front pew who was drawing a camel on the back of an offertory envelope. “But some things never change. Like the sanctity of motherhood,” he announced, quite predictably, since it was Mother’s Day and the sermon had already reminded everyone of that fact. “You women who have brought children into this world have received God’s blessings in a most tangible way. He has given each of you a part of him, blessed you with his love, made you a tool … a conduit … a vessel to carry his most precious gift.

“Mothers!” the preacher suddenly thundered, the sweat quivering on his lip. “There is another gift He has given you. When you look upon your children, remember the giver of the seed. Remember the protector, the provider, the man who took the world upon his shoulders that you might bear your young in peace.”

As the preacher paused and focused his glare, Joe was startled to hear Rachel suddenly make a small retching sound. She didn’t look sick, but there was a certain twist to her mouth that Joe had seen before. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered to himself.

“Close your eyes!” the preacher commanded. “Bow your heads and close your eyes. Close them as tight as oysters, and consider where you would be without fathers for your children, without bread upon your table, without a strong shoulder to lean on and a sturdy paddle in the storm.”

Joe looked down upon the congregation and was amazed to see that nearly every member sat with bowed head, men as well as women. Only the smallest children, watchful as owls, disobeyed.

“Consider, on this Mother’s Day, the blessings granted you by the Father of us all, and by the fathers who walk this earth with one perfect rib long since surrendered. Who look into the hard, scowling face of the world with dry eyes. Who look upon their women and children and see before them the grace of God embodied.”

At this point, Rachel made as if to rise up out of her seat. But then, inexplicably, she checked herself, tamped herself down, and put her hands into her lap.

“Raise your hands,” exhorted the preacher. “Mothers! Mothers! Raise your hands. Let your open palms wave like flags of gratitude, emblems of praise for your stalwart husbands, the fathers of your priceless children. Raise your hands if you know, in your deepest heart of hearts, that without them lies poverty and sorrow and fear.”

As if from a