The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (8 page)

We had unexpected visitors just before dinner today, a
party of four of our neighbors, two men and two women. They were stony faced
and I knew we were going to be tested.

Breona showed them into the parlor (our nicest room at
present) where Joy, Grant, and I received them. I am grateful for your wisdom,
Lord, for it took all we had.

Mr. and Mrs. Brewster were solemn and mostly quiet. A Mr.
Haney and Miss DeWitt did most of the speaking: “We represent the interests and
concerns of the neighborhood,” “It is rumored that you have opened an
establishment for ‘soiled doves’,” and lastly, “This neighborhood is not zoned
for boarding houses” were their main points, as I recall.

Joy was simple and direct, explaining that the girls had
been forced into prostitution but, by God’s grace, were no longer so engaged.
They were, at present, either working at or seeking honest employment.

I may be exaggerating when I say that Miss DeWitt’s eyes
nearly fell out of her head when Joy calmly used the word “prostitution.”

Of course, dear Lord, I remember how difficult it was at
first for us to use words such as brothel and prostitute. I suppose I am not as
sheltered from the harsh realities of the world as I once was.

Grant clarified that we do not operate a boarding house
but rather a small vocational school. He showed them our charter and proceeded
to tell them of our training in fine household furnishings and the culinary
arts. God bless Arnie for applying for such a variance from the city! Of course
Mrs. Palmer’s influence was instrumental in its approval.

Lastly, we took the group on a tour and introduced them
to our little family. Everyone in our household dresses so practically and the
house itself already has such a sweet, homey atmosphere. Marit and Gretl were
in the kitchen preparing dinner and all the while Will was laughing and banging
his little cup on his highchair when we passed through the kitchen.

We invited them to stay for dinner, but they declined
very graciously, I must say, so we sent them on their way bearing plates of
Marit’s Swedish ginger cookies. Perhaps they will become regular customers!

Oh, I know I am being glib, Lord. We only hope that they
will not stir up trouble against us. Mr. Wheatley handed the ladies down the
porch steps in true gentlemanly fashion.

He reported that Miss DeWitt wasn’t quite won over and
began complaining almost immediately that Mr. Haney had not been forceful
enough. That is until Mrs. Brewster responded (quite firmly, Mr. Wheatley
insisted), “Cora, do hush up. I declare you have the compassion and
intelligence of a fruit fly.”

—

 “Now that we are settled in, shouldn’t we ask the Lord to
direct us to a church?” Grant asked at breakfast Sunday morning. “It has been
weeks since we left Corinth and our little church there.”

No one responded at first. A few of the girls looked nervous
at the proposition, and it wasn’t hard for Rose or Joy to understand why. It
had been less than three months since some of them had left their past
profession. How would a new church receive them?

Rose spoke carefully. “Perhaps we should ask Emily’s pastor
to pay us a visit. He does know of our work here, of course. We could discuss
how to best approach finding a church home.”

Grant nodded, and the tension at the table relaxed.

—

 “Rose, may I introduce Pastor Jamison? Pastor, this is Mrs.
Thoresen,” Emily said formally the following Wednesday.

“Mrs. Thoresen, so pleased to finally meet you,” Pastor
Jamison said while holding her hand and smiling kindly. He was tall, gray
haired, and a bit stooped. He may have been older than Rose, but his eyes, even
while over shadowed by bushy, white brows, were young and lively.

“Thank you for calling on us,” Rose replied. She immediately
liked the man’s steady voice and clear eyes. “Would you care to take tea or
would you like to see the house first?”

“Oh, I enjoy my tea very much, ma’am, but I confess I have
been looking forward to seeing your progress! It has been many years since I
have been here.”

“Then we will see the house first,” Rose answered, smiling
at both him and Emily. “This is our parlor,” she said, showing them to the left
side of the house. “We will take tea here when we are done.”

Rose escorted them through the downstairs, taking them next
to the great room, dining room, and kitchen. On the second floor she showed
them the empty rooms but only one of the girls’ bedrooms before advancing to
the third floor.

“We respect each other’s privacy,” Rose explained. “Sarah
and Corrine granted permission for me to show you their room today.”

She did not mention the small row she’d had with Tabitha
earlier in the day. “I don’t want some stranger looking at and touching my
things!” Tabitha had raised her voice to Rose and attached a descriptive curse
word to the word “stranger” before Rose had even had the opportunity to assure
the girls that she would guard their privacy.

“Please tell the young ladies for me that I appreciate their
kind regard,” Pastor Jamison replied.

On the third floor she showed them Billy and Marit’s tower
room, the unoccupied bedrooms, and the old servant quarters. Eventually they
ended at the six steps leading to the attic.

“The attic door is locked,” Rose murmured. “We have not yet
opened it.”

Pastor Jamison’s brows drew together and he replied softly,
“I do understand. Perfectly.”

Rose did
not
understand, but tucked his comment away,
determined to ask Emily about it later. She escorted her guests back to the
parlor and Breona appeared straight away with their donated tea service. The
tray also held Marit’s ginger cookies and a plate of steaming scones.

“Wonderful!” Pastor Jamison exclaimed, observing the goodies
with gusto.

After Rose had served the tea, she broached her subject.
“Pastor Jamison, I confess I had a purpose in mind when I asked Mrs. Van der
Pol to bring you to meet us.”

“Yes? Please do feel at ease to ask me anything.” The gentle
old man took another bite of ginger cookie, obviously enjoying himself.

“Well, we, as a household, are in need of a home church,”
Rose answered. “Since we are a company of 15, 16 if we include Mr. and Mrs.
Evans’ little one, our arrival would surely not be overlooked and would, I
believe, engender questions . . .”

She cleared her throat and took a sip of tea herself. “I
suppose I am asking if we would be welcomed at your church, given the, shall we
say, unorthodox history of some of our household.”

Rose looked to Emily who nodded encouragement to continue.
“While curiosity is perfectly normal, we would not wish to . . .
offend any of your parishioners, nor would we wish our girls to be the
recipients of any . . . judgmental comments or harshness.”

Pastor Jamison set his cup down and folded his hands on his
knee, and he nodded that he understood.

“I pray I am not being too forward,” Rose pressed on, “but
frankly, several of our girls are not yet Christians and have never been to
church. We would not wish them to experience . . . a cool
reception . . . rather than the presence and power of Christ.”

Pastor Jamison continued to nod, but his brows pulled
together in serious contemplation. “Mrs. Thoresen, please do not fret yourself;
I perfectly understand your concerns. I wish I had better tidings regarding our
church—but perhaps I am getting somewhat ahead of myself.

“You see, I had a sense that you might approach me on this
very topic, and I brought you something I read but lately. Read and wept over,
I am afraid. Have you heard of the
Soiled Dove Plea
?”

Rose and Emily both shook their heads.

“May I be permitted to read a portion of it to you? Sadly, I
believe it sums up perfectly the decidedly unwelcome
culture we find in
many of our churches.”

This time Rose and Emily nodded. Both were curious.

“Before I read this passage I will tell you
that it is the true closing argument of an attorney who represented a young
woman accused of prostitution.” He paused and looked earnestly at Rose and
Emily.

“I pray you do not fault me for using such a
word? I must be so careful not to offend the sensibilities of many, even in my
own church!” He huffed a little. “How we speak of bringing the gospel
to
the lost but cannot abide speaking
of
the lost is beyond me!”

He stopped again. “Dear me. Off on a tangent.
Please do forgive me. I will read but several lines and leave the copy with you
to
read in full
later.”

He read quietly,

“Gentlemen of the jury: You heard with what
cold cruelty the prosecution referred to the sins of this woman, as if her condition
were of her own preference. The evidence has painted you a picture of her life
and surroundings.

Do you think that they were embraced of her
own choosing? Do you think that she willingly embraced a life so revolting and
horrible? Ah, no! Gentlemen, one of our own sex was the author of her ruin,
more to blame than she.

Then let us judge her gently. What could be
more pathetic than the spectacle she presents? An immortal soul in ruin! Where
the star of purity once glittered on her girlish brow, burning shame has set
its seal and forever.

And only a moment ago, they reproached her
for the depths to which she had sunk, the company she kept, the life she led.
Now, what else is left her? Where can she go and her sin not pursue her?

Gentlemen, the very promises of God are
denied her. He said: "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden
and I will give you rest." She has indeed labored, and is heavily laden,
but if, at this instant she were to kneel before us all and confess to her
Redeemer and beseech His tender mercies, where is the church that would receive
her?

And even if they accepted her, when she
passed the portals to worship and to claim her rest, scorn and mockery would
greet her; those she met would gather around them their spirits the more
closely to avoid the pollution of her touch.”

His voice trembled at the last. Rose and Emily had clasped
hands as he read, their eyes filling with tears.

“You see, dear Mrs. Thoresen, I am in a quandary, for this
reading so aptly describes many of my own congregation—and I, their shepherd,
am so deeply grieved to tell you so.”

Rose murmured quietly. “Thank you. Thank you for being
candid. I appreciate you coming to visit today.”

“I hope I did not discourage you too severely,” he said,
straightening. “For while your girls would likely receive a cold welcome from
my congregation, I can direct you to where they will be warmly received.”

Rose looked up. “Indeed? Please do tell where, Pastor
Jamison.”

“Near to the infamous houses of Denver, a fine young man has
begun a good work. He reaches out to the lost—those bound in chains of alcohol
and opium, as well as those described in this reading.” Pastor Jamison took a
card from his breast pocket and scrawled on it.

Smiling again, he handed the card to Rose. “This pastor’s
church is young but thriving. He will welcome you and your young ladies. I have
heard him speak the truth of the Gospel in love and with hope for the lost. You
need not fear receiving a cold hand of fellowship from him.”

Rose grasped the card eagerly. “Thank you! I thank you
truly, Pastor.”

~~**~~

Lord, thank you! Yesterday Joy and Grant visited the
little church, Calvary Temple, recommended so highly by Pastor Jamison. They
shared their report at dinner last evening. How pleased and enthused they were!

Grant, in particular, spoke highly of the young minister.
His name is Mr. Isaac Carmichael. As he described Pastor Carmichael’s ministry
he certainly had the attention of all of us. The pastor preached from Luke
19:10, “For the Son of man is come to seek and save that which was lost,” and
had a good crowd of lost souls who came to listen.

During the service a man gave his testimony, sharing how
the Lord had set him free from drink after 13 years of bondage. An older woman,
too, shared how Jesus forgave her shameful past and removed her guilt. Grant
described her so clearly, and I believe I saw hope flicker in the eyes of some
of our lost girls! Thank you, Father, for giving us these young women to love and
to share Jesus with.

I posed the question after Joy and Grant finished their
report, should we attend this church on Sunday? Of course a few, Tabitha being
the most vocal, do not wish to go at all; however, I reminded everyone that we
will attend church as a family—we have only to decide in which church the Lord
wishes us to plant us.

And so we will attend Calvary Temple this Sunday! I am
eager to see this work in action. And although we have some hard, hurt hearts
in our family, I am trusting you, Lord, to heal those hearts! I believe you
have led us this far and will guide us forward.

—

The remainder of the week passed slowly for Rose. She was
impatient for Sunday to arrive so the household could attend this new church.
She was eager to see this work with her own eyes.

During the week the Lord reminded Rose of her early days in
RiverBend, how he had called her and won her heart, and how important her
church had been to her. After she had surrendered to Jesus, Rose had longed to
share her new faith with other women in their little town—women who were as
hungry for the Savior as she had been.

She and Vera Medford had started a home Bible study that led
many of these women into a relationship with the Lord. Recalling this time,
Rose was again fired with seeing “her girls,” as she now thought of the young
women in Palmer House, find Jesus in the same powerful way she had so many
years ago.

When Sunday at last arrived, nerves were taut, particularly
in the girls who had never attended church before. Several had preconceptions
of the expected fashion standards and worried their clothing would not measure
up.

Rose and Joy downplayed dressing “up” for church and set an
example by appearing at breakfast in good quality but moderately trimmed
outfits.

“We may all feel a bit of trepidation this morning,” Rose
suggested gently. “I don’t know, any more than you, what to expect. As this is
a new church located near the, ah, red light area of town, I have a sense that
it will be different from what I am accustomed to.”

She added, “And, since it is located in that area of town, I
do wish our mode of dress to distinguish us from the ‘working girls,’ so that
none of you risk being, ah, approached as such.”

She colored a little. “To be clear, we must be careful for
each other’s safety. Please, let us keep together at all times. Agreed?”

She received a chorus of ‘yeses’ and nods in response.

The church was housed in a brick warehouse, high and
cavernous, but already filled near capacity. The seating was the most eclectic
hodge-podge of seats Rose, Joy, or Grant had ever seen in a church. Whatever
could be sat upon was put to use including dining chairs, sofas, boxes,
benches, and cast-off church pews.

An usher wearing a checkered shirt and suspenders found them
seating in three rows, five to six of their group in each row, so that they
were seated together. Crowded around them, all standing and singing, was a
crowd comprised of every segment of society: Caucasian, Negro, Chinese,
Mexican, poor, middle-class, wealthy.

And the singing! The singing struck them all. A large organ
on a platform at the front of the room played song after song and the voices
raised with it were loud, filled with unrestrained joy and uninhibited praise.

No one led the singing; the organ played and the congregants
sang, and sang with all their being. Rose could hardly bear the sweetness of
the worship. Her thirsty soul opened wide to receive as the presence of God
came down in that hall.

Praise
ye the Lord,
the Almighty, the King of creation!
O my soul, praise Him,
for He is thy health and salvation!
All ye who hear,
Now to His temple draw near
Join me in glad adoration!

and

Blessed
assurance, Jesus is mine!
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood!

This
is my story, this is my song
Praising my Saviour, all the day long
This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Saviour, all the day long

and

What
a fellowship, what a joy Divine
Leaning on the Everlasting Arms
What a blessedness, what a peace is mine
Leaning on the Everlasting Arms!

After thirty minutes or so, a young man walked onto the
stage. He was ordinary looking, slender but not tall, with light brown hair and
a strong chin. The singing tapered off and the crowd hushed and settled in
their seats as he prepared to speak. The man’s voice, unaided, carried to every
corner of the lofty warehouse.

“And,
behold, a woman in the city,
which was a sinner,
when she knew that Jesus sat at meat
in the Pharisee's house,
brought an alabaster box of ointment,
And stood at his feet behind him weeping,
and began to wash his feet with tears,
and did wipe them with the hairs of her head,
and kissed his feet,
and anointed them with the ointment.
Now when the Pharisee
which had bidden him saw it,
he spake within himself, saying,
This man, if he were a prophet,
would have known who and
what manner of woman this is
that toucheth him: for she is a sinner.”

He laid his Bible down. “The Pharisee of Jesus’ day is like
unto a religious man of today. He was willing to welcome Jesus into his house,
but he did not understand Jesus or his calling,” the preacher said. “In his
private thoughts, the religious man wondered why Jesus would allow a sinful
woman to touch him.”

Isaac Carmichael looked earnestly at the congregation.
“Friends, let us be clear. The sinful woman of this passage was what we call a
soiled dove, a prostitute. And the religious man truly believed that Jesus
should have known better than to let a fallen woman touch his holy feet.”

He strode across the platform and gazed out at the crowd
again. “Are any of you here today willing to say, ‘I am like that woman. I am a
sinful, fallen woman?’”

A murmur rippled across the room, and Rose saw some of her
girls go quiet and still with shock.

Pastor Carmichael continued. “I have good news for you.
Jesus heard the religious man’s thoughts. He turned to the man, whose name was
Simon, and answered his question!” In a clear voice he read,

“And
Jesus answering said unto him,
Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.
And he saith, Master, say on.

“And Jesus told Simon this parable:

“There
was a certain creditor
which had two debtors:
the one owed five hundred pence,
and the other fifty.
And when they had nothing to pay,
he frankly forgave them both.
Tell me therefore,
which of them will love him most?

“Simon
answered and said,
I suppose that he,
to whom he forgave most.
And he said unto him,
Thou hast rightly judged.

“And
he turned to the woman,
and said unto Simon,
Seest thou this woman?
I entered into thine house,
thou gavest me no water for my feet:
but she hath washed my feet with tears,
and wiped them with the hairs of her head.

“Thou
gavest me no kiss:
but this woman since the time I came in
hath not ceased to kiss my feet.
My head with oil thou didst not anoint:
but this woman hath anointed
my feet with ointment.”

His voice softened. “You see, Simon, the religious man, did
not see himself as a debtor to God, a sinner. He did not feel he owed God
anything! Because he had led a
respectable
life, he did not feel sinful!
And because ‘he owed little,’ he had never experienced the strength and power
of forgiveness. You see, he had never acknowledged his own need to be forgiven!
Dear ones, to not recognize one’s own sinfulness is a dangerous place to be.”

The preacher paused. “But the sinful woman? She knew. Oh,
yes, she
knew
she was a sinner. And she loved Jesus because he knew her
for what she was
and still
he forgave her.

“Are you a sinner? Do you know how far you have fallen from
God and what you owe him? Be sure of this: You cannot repay what you owe. No
effort on your part can repay the debt you owe. No effort on my part can repay
the debt I owe! Only Jesus can pay the debts we owe. And here is good news,
dear friends. Jesus said,

“Wherefore
I say unto thee,
‘Her sins, which are many, are forgiven;
for she loved much:
but to whom little is forgiven,
the same loveth little.’
And he said unto her,
‘Thy sins are forgiven.’

“Your sins are forgiven! Do you want to be like this woman,
forgiven and received by Jesus? Do not wait another day. No matter what your
sins, no matter what you owe, come to Jesus today. Come right now.”

Repentant souls, wealthy and poor, streamed to the altar to
confess their sins and receive forgiveness. The power of that moment was beyond
anything Rose had ever experienced, beyond what Joy or Grant or any of Palmer
House had ever witnessed. Around them, people fell to their knees to pray. Rose
joined them and poured out her heart to God.

The organ played softly and gentle singing accompanied it.
No one closed the service. Pastor Carmichael and others prayed with those at
the altar and eventually the congregation began to disperse.

The walk back to Palmer House was quiet. Rose could not
speak; her heart was still too overwhelmed by what she had seen, had
experienced.

—

The shop was modest in size but the location was all Joy
could have hoped for. She and Grant paused before following the landlord
inside. The narrow brick building faced a bustling street. Quality shops of
many types lined the avenue, and motor car and foot traffic were plenteous.

Inside the shop it was plain to Joy and Grant that the
previous tenant had been a dressmaker and that her taste in interior design had
run to the decidedly feminine—overly fussy and froufrou in Joy’s opinion, but
that could be remedied.

They followed the landlord through the shop, which included
a small showroom in the front, two fitting rooms in the rear, a tiny parlor,
and an office. A sewing room ran the length of the side of the building.

“The folks as live upstairs are gone during the day,” the
gentleman explained, “and I never heard no complaints of disturbances from the
last folks as let this place.”

Joy and Grant nodded, both engrossed in envisioning how—or
if—the shop would fit their needs. Grant pointed out that the fitting room
walls were new additions and could be removed. However, even if they knocked
the walls out and joined the fitting rooms with the showroom it would not be as
large as what they had discussed and determined they needed.

Their warehouse in Omaha still held a large amount of fine
household articles and furnishings. Grant did not remember selecting and
purchasing them during his fateful trip to Boston. He did not recall having
them shipped to Omaha, just before he boarded the
Richmond
on his
way to England. He was obliged to take Joy’s word for it.

“Mr. Benson, I’m afraid we need a larger showroom than what
this shop affords,” Joy admitted, considerably disappointed.

She sighed and walked to the front windows. It was such a
perfect location. Across the way and down the street she glimpsed a park, its
lawn beckoning with a pleasant emerald glint. Couples strolled by and knots of
shoppers chattered as they paused to stare into neighboring windows. Fine
carriages and motor cars passed back and forth in front of the store.

“Joy,” Grant offered hesitantly, “What if we were to also
open up the sewing studio? Not knock down the walls, of course,” he hastened to
assure the owner, “but perhaps construct two graceful arches where the existing
doors are.”

He gestured with his arms where he had the locations of the
archways in mind “By doing so, our customers would feel invited into the room
and could pass through and out the other archway into the rear of the
showroom.”

He rubbed his face, something Joy noticed he did when
thinking hard, as though the effort tired him. “Perhaps . . .
Joy, could you envision the front of the shop as parlor furnishings, the rear
as dining, and the side area through the arches as bedroom suites?”

Joy walked into the long sewing room and immediately grasped
his idea. “Yes. Yes!” She turned to the owner. “Would you have any objections
to us opening up the doorways as my husband described?”

An hour later Joy and Grant left the building with a signed
lease and a set of keys. Joy stopped on the sidewalk and turned to stare at the
shop windows. They were tall, wide, and framed the door on either side. She was
already planning how to dress the windows.

“It’s not at all like our store in Omaha,” she mused. “Do
you remember it even a bit? Rough planked floors that creaked and ‘clunked’
with a lovely hollow sound; long, wooden counters that gleamed with the wax Mr.
Wheatley rubbed into them?