Twenty

Theo slipped into church and listened intently as the music swelled around him. He rarely joined the faithful in their singing, choosing to mouth the words rather than ruin the harmony with his squawking.

Today, however, he added his voice to the mix, swept into the words of the song like he’d fallen into the river just ahead of Niagara Falls.

“Oh, what peace we often forfeit. Oh, what needless pain we bear. All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer!”

While the rest of the congregation went on with their singing, Theo stopped right there. He’d been walking around all week shouldering his worries and hadn’t even thought to leave them at the cross. That’s not true. He’d thought about it; he’d been afraid of the answers he might get if he asked the questions.

Ever since he and the reverend had parted company last Tuesday, he’d been miserable. Worse, every time he took his troubles to the Lord, He said the same thing, so Theo had just quit.

Stay. Be patient.

Stay? Be patient? Stay where? Be patient about what?

Best as he could tell, he’d figured it went like this: He wanted to go—soon—and yet the Lord was telling him he ought to take his time in leaving. He feared God might even be telling him he ought not go at all. Worse, he felt the strongest urge to have a talk with Clothilde Trahan about her need to leave Latagnier.

Of course, a logical man would know that none of these things made sense. He’d head for Canada soon, and Cleo, well, she’d be in New Orleans before fall. That’s just the way life worked.

Still, he had the nagging feeling the Lord was pushing him in one direction while he stubbornly continued to try to go in another.

Knowing what he wanted to do and what he ought to do were two different things, so Theo elected to do nothing but mope all week. Well, mope and take out his frustrations on several pounds of nails and a good portion of the schoolhouse.

At this rate, he’d be finished with the work out there and ready to hit the road again come the end of April. Maybe sooner.

Rather than let that thought ruin a beautiful Palm Sunday morning, Theo focused on catching up to the rest of the parishioners.

“Jesus knows our every weakness. Take it to the Lord in prayer.”

He finished the singing with the rest of the faithful, then sat down between his papa and Alphonse to listen to the preaching. Expecting a message on Jesus’ ride on the donkey or some other Palm Sunday topic, he was surprised to hear the Reverend Broussard begin to tell the tale of an itinerant carpenter who made his living working for the less fortunate in Canada.

As the story of songwriter Joseph Scriven unfolded, Theo listened with particular attention. Seemed as though this fellow spent his days doing odd carpentering jobs and taking little or no payment in return. When his mother fell ill back home in Ireland, Scriven wrote her the poem that eventually became the song the congregation had sung that very morning.

“Think on that, ladies and gentlemen,” Rev. Broussard said. “Just as the Lord used a lowly animal to carry His Son on the day we now call Palm Sunday, so He also used a regular man to carry a message that lasts.” He paused to lean over the edge of the pulpit and point out into the crowd. “How many of you regular men and women are being called today to do something, and you don’t know why? Maybe you don’t even want to do it, eh?”

A few murmurs circulated through the room. Beside him, Theo’s papa nodded while Theo squirmed.

“Do you think that donkey knew he was carrying the King of glory? Did he know why he was supposed to plod through the city gates with that man on his back, and on his day off at that? And what about that Canadian carpenter? Do you think he knew that a poem he wrote to his ailing mama back home in Ireland was going to be sung in our little church in Latagnier today?”

Again the crowd answered softly or nodded in quiet agreement. Theo saw his mama jab his papa, then watched them share a smile.

“So the next time you think you know what God wants you to do, do it, even if it doesn’t make any sense to you. That carpenter, he fixed things for widows and the poor. He wasn’t a fancy poet. That donkey, it probably didn’t have much claim to glory, either, being as though that particular species of the animal kingdom is not exactly exalted.”

Rev. Broussard paused to shake his head. “Brothers and sisters, it all comes down to obedience. Promise yourself that in light of the nature of this upcoming Holy Week, you will settle yourself into a pattern of obedience. Now stand with me while we sing the last verse of that song one more time.”

The next time Theo sang about taking his worries to the Lord in prayer, he barely got the words out for the lump in his throat. Knowing he wouldn’t like what the Lord was telling him, somewhere midweek he’d stopped going to Him in prayer altogether.

He’d have to remedy that today. This time, he’d listen if the Lord spoke. And as much as it put grit in his craw, he’d obey.

He’d obey even if it killed him.

Funny how he felt he had more in common with the lowly donkey than with the poet-carpenter. While the carpenter knew what he was doing when he wrote that poem, that poor donkey just put one hoof in front of the other and walked all the way to Jerusalem.

Later that afternoon, while the house lay still, Theo slipped away to go back to his thinking spot—the log beside the bayou. There he met the Savior and had a good talk.

It was a one-sided conversation, to be sure, but near the end, when he’d spoken his piece and knelt waiting for a response, Theo felt the Lord’s presence.

He hadn’t said a word, audible or otherwise, and yet Theo knew He was there. “Sometimes just knowing You’re there is enough,” he whispered.

Returning home, he felt a renewed spring in his step. While he might have to do something he didn’t want to do this week, he at least hadn’t been asked to do it yet.

He did have something else in mind, however, something he’d like to do if the Lord and the Reverend Broussard didn’t disagree.

❧

Easter Sunday loomed large on Cleo’s calendar, circled in red and noted with a star. Now the big day stood just one day away, and she had things to do. Important things.

Over the past week, she’d learned to press past the worries of when the Lord would act and how He would act and to just be patient and know He would act. Of course, this didn’t make the waiting any easier, so she’d thrown herself into a flurry of activities.

She’d cooked and washed and starched and ironed. Cleo had even volunteered to go and participate with the quilting circle.

Listening to the married ladies cackle and go on about their husbands and children turned out to be fun. Hearing the love in their voices gave Cleo hope that she would one day have what these women already possessed.

Such was her enthusiasm for keeping busy that today she’d volunteered to clean the entire sanctuary in anticipation for tomorrow’s Easter services. She collected her supplies and reached for the bucket’s metal handle. Making the church sparkle and shine would be her small contribution to the Lord’s Day, and she eagerly anticipated being alone with Jesus in His house as she worked.

Tomorrow would dawn early, with sunrise services being held in the churchyard beside the bayou, then preaching at half past ten in the sanctuary. The entire congregation would break bread together afterward with a spectacular Easter Sunday dinner on the grounds.

Cleo smiled. Easter Sunday had been the same ever since she could remember. Only the pastor’s name had changed over the years, and even then there had been only two other preachers besides the Reverend Broussard to grace the pulpit.

There was something to be said for permanence and stability. Some might look at the long and uninterrupted cycle of life in the bayou country and call it boring or backward. Theo Breaux struck her as one of those folks.

Others praised the predictable daily routine as good and comfortable. Cleo wondered if she might better fit in the second category.

Perhaps when she was older, she would know for sure.

Older like Theo Breaux.

She shook off thoughts of the carpenter. Ever since she had her talk with the reverend, she’d placed Theo in a carefully guarded spot in her heart and left him there—at least most days.

But on random occasions, the carpenter managed to sneak out of his confinement and dance across her mind. Well, not actually dance. When thoughts of him arrived, it was more like the infantry storming through.

Nevertheless, the idea of Theo Breaux dancing did produce a chuckle. She allowed herself that single silly thought, then tucked it away with the others and headed for the church.

Funny how she’d listened to the pastor’s sermon and immediately thought of herself. Now, as she passed very near to the place where the carpenter had kissed her, she thought about how Rev. Broussard’s words might apply to Theo Breaux.

Here was a man who couldn’t read but who had been called on to rebuild a schoolhouse so that others could learn. She knew enough of Theo’s history to know he’d left home young and stayed gone until recently, when his papa broke a leg. How difficult it must be for a wandering soul to be confined.

She sighed. “Just another reason why he and I were not meant to be.”

Pausing in the middle of the path, she let her feet turn her toward the bayou and the log where she had sat with Theo Breaux. To her surprise, the giant fallen tree trunk was gone.