Down to the Potter’s House. Annette Valentine

either from the cold or the lengthy invitation.

      “That’s very nice of you, Simon. And thank you, too, for the wonderful chocolates.” I was ever so comfortable with the name Simon, and I felt quite stunning myself, clinging to his arm under a spectacular sky.

      “Simon . . .” I could feel his arm stiffen as if he were about to hear unwanted news.

      “You need to understand that I have very high aspirations. Becoming a missionary is not a calling I’m taking lightly.”

      “Calling? As in a voice from the blue—”

      “You’re not taking me seriously. Perhaps you have plans, too, once this economic depression ends. Go back to school? It’s difficult nowadays to get an education, but you could do it. Your father’s certainly in favor of higher education.”

      “He is. Definitely. He’s worked hard to get what he’s got. I know that better than anyone.”

      We’d reached the end of the block. Simon walked us around the street lamp. Slowly, we were making our way back. The cold seemed irrelevant.

      “Dad owns two thousand acres, and his farm is self-contained. The man deserves a lot of credit. I sure as heck don’t expect to lean on him. Never have, Gracie. Never will. My brother Raymond and I are working on the particulars of opening a tire business together.”

      I felt Simon relax. It was all I could do to keep up the pace. Thankfully, his stride slowed.

      “Want you to meet Raymond. He’ll be at church on Sunday. Would you at least promise that one? It would absolutely make my Christmas.”

      Millicent’s house was just a few feet away. The evening was about to end, and nothing about me was anywhere near ready. “I’d love to do that, Simon.”

      “So, are you saying ‘love to do that’ as a yes to learning the Charleston on Saturday night, Providence Methodist Church this Sunday, and New Year’s Eve next week?”

      Simon looked like a puppy awaiting a treat as we stood on the last step back at the house. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You’re funny.” I let go of his arm and took hold of the doorknob. “Alright, then. I’d love to do those things.”

      Simon was beaming. “Merry Christmas, Gracie. I’ll ring you up on Thursday.” He tipped his hat and waited on the step until I was inside. After I’d waved to him through the glass frame in the front door, he turned and walked to Jim’s old truck parked at the curb.

      Chapter 8

      I awakened to the melodious sound of a familiar carol coming from the radio in the parlor at Sister’s house. It couldn’t have been much past seven o’clock, and the morning after Christmas was pushing its way into my room by way of the fresh fragrance of cedar. It came past the door that creaked as it opened, wafting over to the very spot where I had been sleeping ever so peacefully, enjoying the luxury of extra time beneath warm covers with no responsibilities to roust me out of bed.

      “Aunt Gracie?” The whisper worked itself into my dream the way that voices and events do, and I rolled over with the images of Henry and Father outside on the porch at Emma’s house, smoking their cigarettes, puffing black curls into the air, arguing about nothing. And Francine was whispering to my eldest sister in distasteful tones, a witch-y finger pointed in vigorous gestures at Emma.

      “Aunt Gracie, wake up! Don’t you want to talk to Flossie Flirt?” Louise, unrestrained, stood by my bed. Her new doll was propped up beside me.

      I stretched my mouth wide open in oversized yawns and forced my eyes to open, blocking the glare of a sunbeam forcing its light through a slant in the window blinds.

      “Good morning, Louise!” I sat up in bed and pulled my robe from the bedpost. “Of course! May I please talk to your cute doll?”

      “Oh, Aunt Gracie, she’s much more real than a doll! Flossie Flirt says ‘Ma Ma’! Why are you still in bed?”

      “Louise, honey! We were going to let Gracie sleep. Remember?” Millicent chastised from the doorway.

      “I need to be up anyway,” I said, hoping to reassure them both with a theme of forgiveness. But having turned in late last night, tied to the emotions of yesterday’s family gathering, reminiscing about the good times and anticipating the future, reflecting on the uniqueness of the single Christmas spent down at the potter’s house and recounting the changes in my life since that time, it was a wonder I’d slept a wink. And I’d dreamed of food but woke up hungry.

      Breakfast made me grateful for what I had, but I prayed with a deep awareness that went beyond the oatmeal and butter on the table in front of me to the many hard-hit people adapting to new economic circumstances. To the people whose lives had made a difference in mine. To the Willoughbys—Marcus and Lucy and Chester—whose home was open to me when there was no place else to go. To the opportunity for education when all around the living conditions had worsened and farmers had come to the brink of losing their land in these difficult times of our nation’s depression, hard times. “Amen,” I said aloud.

      “You always pray by yourself so long, Aunt Gracie?”

      “I’m not alone, honey. God’s beside me. Listening.” I tried to grab and tickle little Louise, but barely got my knuckles to her ribs before she skipped away. “Guess Jim was out early this morning,” I said to Millicent.

      She sat down at the table, coffeepot in hand. “I thought yesterday went well. Emma makes it all look so easy. And Henry was pleasant. Certainly avoided Francine, it seemed.”

      “Yes, it seemed so. Did you think my dinner for Simon was perfectly horrid, Sister? Did you?”

      “Cooking takes practice, Gracie. It was fine. Fine. You know Jim’s going into the store no matter what. I doubt many folks will be in, but who knows?”

      “Simon, maybe? Was he going to work today? I didn’t think to ask him, but he is going to telephone me today. I know so little about him, Sister. It might not be right, after all, to see him too much . . . with my leaving in May and all. I’ve promised to be with him three times in the next several days. What do you think?”

      Millicent stirred her coffee, poured in a dribble of cream, and slowly stirred again. “I’m not one to stand in your way. Africa’s a mighty long way away and—”

      “Oh, but I’m not referring to my leaving. There’s no question about my going where I think God can use me. I’m trying to be like clay in His hands, trying to let Him shape me as He sees fit . . to help the people He wants me to help.”

      “I know, Gracie. I know your heart, too, I think. But it is . . . interesting that the two of you have come back to Todd County pretty much the same time. Simon’s a good man. Good family. Good sense of humor. Very handsome. I’m just saying, you can be clay in God’s hands anywhere.” She offered a warm smile, and her sisterly advice felt sweet. And then she laughed out loud like she loved to do. “You don’t have to be foreign clay!”

      The telephone rang two short rings, loud and clear from the nook in the hallway.

      “Something to think about before that telephone rings off the hook and you go changing your mind about seeing him,” Millicent said with a prissy little simper. “That’s going to be for you, Gracie. Why don’t you go ahead and answer?”

      It rang again before I could get there. “Carver’s residence,” I said. “Gracie Maxwell on the line.”

      “Go ahead, Mr. Hagan,” came the operator’s reply.

      An awkward silence seemed liked forever, and then I heard Simon’s familiar deep voice, first in the form of a cough, then a huff-laugh. “Gracie! Please excuse me! I have a small, unanticipated audience for this call. Let me turn myself around here and see if I can duck behind one of Jim’s storage