A Whisper of Hope: A Measure of Faith

By Loralyn Reynolds

This story offers the reader what it so states, a whisper of hope, a measure of faith. For ordinary people, caught in a darkness they did or did not bring on themselves, what is first needed, is a whisper of hope. They are so convinced that the darkness will never go away. It may be the darkness of grief, the darkness that comes from abuse and neglect, the darkness that fighting disease brings, the darkness of addiction, the darkness of depression. They need to know they are not alone.
The stories of hope are told through the eyes of John Krayle, a retired Methodist Bishop, who is writing his memoirs in tribute to his beloved wife, Marti. These are fictional people whom I have met time and time again in my little span of time called my life. In this story, set in their early years of their ministry while John was still a Baptist Preacher, John and Marti strive to bring hope into the lives of the people of this community. They want to make a difference. And they do. There is humor sprinkled here and there, and a little romance, but generous on the seeking of hope and the clinging to a measure of faith. In no way do I mean to reflect negatively on my Baptist friends or the Baptist church and hope it is understood by my readers.
The setting of the story is rural southern Indiana in the late 1930s and 40s, a time in which the shadow of war became a reality, and the peoples of this small community as well as the rest of the nation needed more than ever the flicker of light of the whisper of hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456768140

Loralyn Reynolds

Loralyn Reynolds is a retired social worker/teacher who has always been interested in history, especially family history. She is a mother, grandmother and great grandmother. This is her fourth book that reflects some aspect of her family history.

Book preview

Contents

The Old Heathen

Grace’s Grace

Grace, Grace,

God’s Grace

Visitation

Thursday

Friday And Saturday

Sunday

Jake

My Model A

Our First Christmas

At Sinai

A New Year Begins

Seven

Lent

Becky

Grandma Jones

Continuing Learning From The Saints

On The Farm

Annual Evaluation And The Forgotten Woman

Taking Inventory

Wisdom From The Winter

One More Story

Marti

The Day That I Die,

But Until Then

(Marti’s Memorial Service)

Note From Author

DECICATION AND THANKS

This simple story is dedicated with thanks to all who have helped me through my days of darkness, who have given me a whisper of hope. They include family and friends and the list is way too long to list everyone by name. And I might forget someone. I hope you know who you are. But special thanks to my children, Christy, Clay and Daniel and to my grandchildren, Darby and Devin, who have always shed their own special light in my life, and to my brother, Danny and his wife, Jean who have been there for me over and over again, and to my mother, Nora Elizabeth Detamore Reynolds Westover Neal Ernstes, whose laughter, love and support is one of life’s gifts, and to the man who gave me his name and a share of his strengths and weaknesses, who taught me how to work and believe in myself, my father, Wilbur A Reynolds. Both parents gave me a very special grandparent with whom I bonded, Lavina Ziegler Reynolds Randall ( whose picture with her parents and brother appears on the cover) and Percy O Detamore. Then there are the numerous uncles and aunts and cousins, an extra thanks to the Cousins 7 and my Uncle Raggs, Phillip Detamore, who always made me feel loved and cherished.

I am mentioning only six friends by name, because three urged me to publish, Thank you, Sheila Kellar and Jean Turner and Betty Johnson, and the two who helped with the technology, my friend and cousin, Patty Robertson, and my daughter-in-law, Krysta Melvin. The drawings in the book are the creative genius of my daughter, Christiana Caldwell. Krysta helped with the cover. And to Cheryl Money, who helped with the proofreading, I owe you untold thanks.

Final thanks to my seven other mothers who didn’t give me birth but have nurtured me for some fifty years and with whom my mother graciously shared me: Evelyn Beesley, Betty Wilds, my Aunt Elizabeth Robbins, Ann Dixon, Marie Tempest, Hallie Bryant, and Alice Brock, and thanks to their families who allowed me to be a part.

I have been so blessed! There are so many who have touched my life! I hope you know how much you mean to me and how grateful I am to be able to count you as friend, even if your name is not listed above. It is listed in my heart, and you are one of the reasons I can write and share this little book and these words of hope and faith. May all who read be encouraged!

THANK YOU FOR THE JOURNEY

Thank you for the sunshine.

Thank you for the rain.

Thank you for mountains high

And thank you for the plains.

Thank you for the airplanes

And thank you for the trains.

Thank you for the rivers that I had to cross,

And the little streams that taught me much.

Thank you for the ocean so deep and wide

That I flew across to the other side.

I met a lot of people; I saw a lot of places.

I learned that there

is bad and good in all of the races.

So, thank you for the journey.

Thank you the rain.

Thank you for the airplanes.

Thank you for the trains.

Thank you for the pain

You knew I had to do.

And thank you for being there

To always see me through.

Thank you for your love.

Thank you for your peace.

Thank you for the portion

Of life you’ve given to me.

Thank you for the happiness.

Thank you for the tears.

Thank you

for always being near.

Thank you for the loss

And thank you for the gain.

Thank you for the night

And thank you for the day.

Thank you for your forgiveness

I know I have failed you,

I pray your Holy Spirit

Come and fill me anew;

Fill the empty places I’ve kept from you.

And keep me remembering

That each morning starts anew.

Keep me praising you.

Oh, thank you for the winter.

Thank you for the spring.

Thank you for the sunshine

And for the summer rain.

Thank you for the autumn.

Its my favorite, too.

And thank you for friends

Who journey with you, too.

So, thank you for the journey.

Thank you for the rain.

I will always be glad

I caught the train.

THE OLD HEATHEN

Marti and I stood looking at each other in bewilderment. Our suitcases and trunks stood in disarray about us in the cold, unfriendly room. We had been picked up at the train station by the grinning, back-slapping, hand shaking deacon, Gus Graton, and a few minutes later, dumped here at the parsonage with a wave and a brief explanation that went something like this:

Sorry, folks, I know the place needs work, but it is harvest time and not a man can be spared. We know you all can make do till we get you fixed up. I think Moss Neal is bringin’ a load of wood for you tomorrow and you got enough firewood for the night. We would have told you to hold off in coming for a few weeks but were afraid another church would snatch you up. See you soon. With a word to his horses, he was off with a wave.

I’m sorry, Marti. I, who was supposed to be so articulate, groped for words. I would never have brought us here if I had known the house provided by the church looked like this. They promised housing equal to the majority of the members including furnishings.

Marti looked at me intently, and then burst out laughing. I had to follow suit and then we were holding hands and just smiling foolishly into each others’ eyes. Let’s go see what the rest of the house looks like, she said.

We began our tour. The furnishings were sparse and appeared to have come over on the Mayflower, but Marti took it all very calmly until she lifted the faded quilt off the lumpy mattress and gave both a sniff. With that her gray eyes snapped, and she declared adamantly, I will make do with everything else, Rev. Krayle, but I will not sleep on that mattress. We may well have members who sleep on straw mattresses or even ticks stuffed with grass or leaves and maybe even ticky bedding, but I will not sleep on something that was obviously stored in a farmer’s barn for the last five years when it should have been burned seven years ago. With hands on her hips, she stood there, slender and lovely to look upon, with a small feather, from her pert gray hat, falling over her forehead. She wore a matching gray traveling suit and appeared as neat as she had when we had left the city that morning.

I opened my mouth, hoping that something that would sound comforting, would come out, but before my mouth obeyed my brain, we heard a loud, Howdy, folks, where are you?

We both hurried to greet a large, florid woman wearing a blue printed cotton dress and a baggy gray sweater. Her hair was gray and short and curly, becoming to her round, friendly face but an unusual style for the day.

She did not wait for our greeting, but announced by way of introduction, I’m the Old Heathen, and then chuckled. It’s the name one of your deacons, Sam Dorsey, gave me when I first came, eight years ago it was, and the name stuck. You see, I’m a Methodist, and she gave a huge wink, as she engulfed both our hands in her huge ones. But I’ll be the best neighbor you’ve ever had. Now, I reckon those damn Baptists didn’t leave you bedding, food or set you a fire?

It was more of a statement than a question, as we stammered something.

Well, you will go home with me tonight. I’m just three doors down. There is plenty of room, and don’t worry, I don’t cuss more than once a month. No, she held up a hand as we protested, it’s a done thing. I’ll put the fear of God in that bunch tomorrow, and you’ll soon have a snug house. May have to stay with me more than a night though. You’ve got some fine folk in that church, but they don’t hold the reins. You know what I mean. With that she lifted one eyebrow and hoisted a suitcase and shuffled toward the door. The tremors of her arms were especially noticeable. We followed with bags in hand and followed suit as she flung our bags in an old cart.

This is Pearl, she said, nodding toward a dark gray horse flecked with white, who looked as old as her mistress. Our rescuer hoisted herself up into the seat, and taking most of the room, looked at me with a lopsided grin. Well, Reverend, pick up that pretty thing and set her right here. You just walk beside us. I know you can walk faster than Pearl.

I could indeed, but paced myself to