Magnolia Square: Book 3 from the Series the Trinity Promise

By Pamela J. Lantz

After accepting an invitation to rescue children in Brazil, Lila, and her Israeli friends set out on an adventure of a lifetime. A mission compound far from the wealthy tourist district had been established by the Crow family. This would be Team Operation Set Captives Free headquarters for the duration of their stay. Aptly named Magnolia Square for the abundance of Magnolia trees that lined the property, where impoverished children are loved, taught, and fed during the school week. On Sunday the church’s mission bell rings, calling everyone to gather for worship. It’s a humble work, important and lifesaving.

The Crow family had been given permission to repurpose several city lots in the Warehouse district that neighbored the city dump. Homeless children, many with disabilities, were in want of medical attention, clean water, proper nutrition, and an education.

Overwhelming needs for sure, but as of late, change seemed to be in the air. The Holy Spirit was on the move, He had called and they had answered. In short order, Team OSCF and the Crow family realized they were not the only ones that had been requested to attend His party. An afternoon visiting the inhabitants of the city dump brings the team in contact with a peculiar young man. Father Jude, a thirty-something Anglican Priest from England who had made Brazil his home and the residents of the landfill his people. Jude’s Council members had told him to expect help to come from the Holy City and that when it arrived, Dunamis Belem would ignite. It was time.

The Holy Spirit was wooing and brooding, breathing fresh wind into souls and spirits and explosively empowering His church.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664275492

Pamela J. Lantz

Pamela J. Lantz writes a short distance from the sandy shores of West Michigan. While attending Taylor University she met her husband and at present they happily share three married children and eight remarkable grandchildren. Pam delights in the whispers of her Lord. It is her sincerest hope that her readers will desire to know His voice as well.

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Copyright © 2022 Pamela J. Lantz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc. TM. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, a Division of Tyndale House Ministries, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7548-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7550-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7549-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915160

WestBow Press rev. date: 09/07/2022

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

To Magnolia McKinley and all the future little ones who

may arrive after the printing of this book. And to my eight

grandchildren, who inspired the character names. May you

seek to know and love the Lord all the days of your life.

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to Richard, my husband and friend. Your encouragement during the writing of The Trinity Promise Series has been immeasurable.

Preface

This is the final book in The Trinity Promise Series. Just Let Them Love You, Selah, and Magnolia Square are works of fiction, birthed from a word that landed on imagination. The characters, events, and timelines serve to carry the story of a God who promises to set us free and love us forever.

The idea for the setting of Magnolia Square originated from a family’s missionary assignment in Belem, Brazil, in the year 1950. Reverend Crow and his wife, Flora, now reside in their heavenly home, but my dear friend Susan (their daughter) and her siblings live on.

As one who imagines, I can hope they know they have played a part in allowing the reader to step into the book of Acts to meet the Holy Spirit.

After an eventful few years, Lila, Patty, and their Israeli friends find themselves on a whole new adventure. By invitation from the Holy Spirit, Team Operation Set the Captives Free journey to Belem, Brazil, and eventually up the Amazon River and to the ends of the earth.

The Holy Spirit and His never-ending and exciting ways are their focus this time around. You are invited to join, and if you let yourself, you too might find Him utterly irresistible in the best possible ways!

Pamelajlantz.com

[e-mail]

Chapter

ONE

Flora stood by her kitchen window and watched the children gathering in the distance. The iron gate was locked nightly, securing the walled compound around the church and mission house. Jon, her preacher husband, had designed the perfectly square mission compound on a paper napkin in a local café one Saturday afternoon, shortly after their arrival in the bustling Brazilian city. The cinder block church squatted and tanned in the far corner. Its hollow wooden steeple was washed in white, towering in glaring contrast.

A bell. It needs a bell, said Susan, during a breakfast of grits and eggs. How else will the people know when to come?

She had a point. The Crow family’s adopted land didn’t seem to be constrained by clocks and watches and other conveniences that spoke of changing time and seasons. So requests were made, and children from their home state of Alabama took on the charge. After no time at all, the children had gathered enough coins and paper bills to purchase a bell. Dressed in taffeta and white stockings, bow ties and suspenders, the Sunday school class presented their offering one Easter morning in early spring. Enveloped in a bubble-wrapped cocoon, the bell arrived unscathed.

Photos of the Easter-morning service where the children had presented their offerings were included with the brass bell. The children stood shining, polished, tall, and proud. The stark contrast of worlds was not lost on any of the family. Even Susan, whose feet had only touched America’s soil a scant few times, and who knew of another world of fancy and ruffles, spun around as normal as could be.

Grateful for the gift and compelled to see it to completion, Jon cut a hole through the peak of the steeple and built a brace on which to hang the bell and its frame. He threaded a rope through the pulley and let it drop down through the center of the steeple until it hit the floor of the church. Now, the ringing of the bell marked the beginning and ending of each day, and it punctuated the Sabbath with an extra burst of joy.

Jon’s concern for his family was the reason for the solid concrete block wall that surrounded the mission compound. It consisted of one square acre and had been aptly named Magnolia Square, for the white-flowered and waxy-leaved magnolia trees that lined the streets and offered intermittent shade over the mission house, church, and surrounding land. The locked iron gates were to protect his family, yet their forbidding appearance still troubled him. He was not trying to keep people away—certainly not. Most people anyway. Unfortunately, just the mere fact that they were Americans and the assumption that they were wealthy because of their land of origin marked them as targets for thieves and dangerous sorts.

He had hired a local crew to plant flowering vines and bushes to soften the edges. He had also planted rows of greens, peppers, tomatoes, tomatillos, and squash outside Magnolia Square’s gate, free for the picking. Mango and avocado trees stood opposite the magnolia trees. The trees’ fruit had become equal parts food and weapons as the children often pummeled one another or a passerby.

Flora planted colorful succulents, cacti, vegetables, and greens in a corner of the backyard, for both beauty and function. The raised garden beds resembled framed quilts, composted and fitted with soaking hoses in order to ensure a harvest even through the harshest of summers. There she would prod greens with fish emulsion and cover them with canopies in the heat of the day. Tomatoes, peppers, corn, sweet peas, onions, and summer and winter squash tendrilled up trellises and over fences.

Jon hung a tire swing and built a playground on the grounds between their home and the church. Woven grass mats sat under palms, where daily the children would sit and listen to teachers speak of letters and numbers and of angels that rode on the currents from blowing winds.

This was home. They tended to its square borders and lovely people as best they could. Some funds were certain, as they had been set by the mission board. Other resources came through letter campaigns and fundraisers. But for Jon and Flora, this was not enough. Just caring for their own needs was not why they had come to Belem. They could do that anywhere. No, they had to establish themselves as working people, creating their own income and teaching others to do the same.

They needed to immerse themselves in the culture and community, making friends with leaders, politicians, local school officials, and police. It took some time, but through the years, the tall, fair-skinned couple learned perfect Portuguese and could throw down an authentic meal cooked straight from their own garden, just like their neighbors.

The throngs of flies that hung on strings of fish and slabs of meat in the outdoor market hardly bothered Flora anymore. Enough heat in the oven and pan will kill any germ that tries to tag along, she would say as she carefully washed all produce purchased from the market-stall vendors. She had also learned to gather corn and flour from the middle of the market’s sacks of grains. She had learned to strategically drop purchases on her walk home, not wanting to cater to the beggars, for her safety, but wanting to contribute to the beggars just the same.

Flora and her girls could cook a traditional seafood stew without a second thought, even impressing other women who came to work at the mission. Flan was a family favorite and always the dessert of choice when they entertained, served with strong coffee flavored with sweetened, condensed milk that had been boiled right in the can.

The familiar ache in Flora’s heart returned as she placed the last breakfast dish in the cupboard. She ran her fingers over embroidered magnolias before hanging the dish towel to dry over a wooden dowel rod. She laughed at the irony of it all. A true southerner trained in the domestic arts sent to the slums of Brazil. When she took her marital vows, she had meant them with all her heart. Where you go, I will go and will serve the Lord faithfully all the days of my life.

Jon had accepted the call to Belem with her blessing, with the understanding that her children would be sent to the finest school they could find and that their china dishes and crystal goblets would be waiting for them when they arrived. He agreed. How could he not? He adored his grand, beautiful southern lady.

Her raven hair seemed providentially selected for her married last name of Crow. Flora Crow stood tall and slender among the shorter, darker Brazilians. Red Chanel lipstick popped off her fair skin, and red #10 nail lacquer graced her fingernails. She was who she was, and she saw no reason to change just because she had moved south of the equator to a land of lizards and flies.

Shoo … shoo … scat! She swished the lizard over the threshold with her broom and quickly closed the screen door behind her as she walked out to the morning sun. The air was already heavy with suffocating moisture. Flora had taken a liking to lightweight, sleeveless dresses cut from cotton. She drew patterns onto a newspaper, taking care to make the skirt full enough to capture a breeze. On this particular morning, there was no breeze, not even a blush. She walked over to the patio set, sat down under the umbrella, and fanned herself with a waiting palm branch.

Susan, her youngest at eight years old, had taken it upon herself to deliver a fresh one every morning. Flora loved watching her little sergeant take charge. She watched as Susan’s soldiers gathered at the courtyard gate. How could someone so tiny be so mighty?

Susan had dug in her heels the first month of kindergarten. She absolutely, positively did not want to go to school with the non-Brazilian children. I am Brazilian. I don’t want to go to that school. Mom can teach me at home, and then I can teach my friends, she had said with a stomping of her feet, a crossing of her arms, and just the right tilt of her chin to let them know she meant business. The school where diplomats and foreign workers sent their children was not for her. After weeks of tears and determined, lengthy petitions, Jon and Flora gave in—not because they were weary from the battle but because the realization that something bigger than they could see at the moment was at work through their little prophet.

Susan had an advantage that Flora and Jon’s other children didn’t. She had been born in Brazil and easily adapted to the neighborhood children. It was natural for her. Jump rope, hopscotch, and kick-the-can were spoken the same wherever you lived.

Jon had taken care to steep the tea just right. He had left the pot on the patio table along with her favorite cup and saucer before leaving for the day. The tea had chilled to tepid, normally not to her liking, but today it cooled her and was welcomed. She took another sip and clinked the cup back onto its saucer, causing a loud ping. Susan looked up at the bell and then back at her mother and waved. The teachers would be arriving soon. She had a few blessed moments of peace before the day’s activities began. She was glad that Jon had positioned the house at the far end of Magnolia Square. She needed these times of solitude and reflection before championing on. She couldn’t help it; again, it was who she was—an introverted extrovert, if that was even a thing.

She thought back over her morning conversation with her husband. Should she be concerned? Jon had risen earlier than normal after a fitful night’s sleep. He told her over tea and toast of his dreamy-state battles with wicked, dark creatures that bared sharp teeth. He told her of thick vines that his machete struggled to cut through. He told her that the quicksand under his feet had sucked him clear up to his neck. He told her all this without thinking of who he was leaving behind to carry on without him.

He had paused and asked for forgiveness. Perhaps his drive for souls was selfish and foolish, not to the ones he ached to reach but to his family—a wife, three daughters, and a son. Flora had gently wisped the hair away from his sleepy brow and poured him more tea. He looked thin, she thought. She lit the stove and cracked an egg, then another, into the frying pan. Her Jon was tender and compassionate, sometimes to a fault, but truly she wouldn’t have it any other way. It had taken time to get used to his generous displays of affection he lavished on those around him. She, being an only child who had been raised by a reserved couple, found such displays difficult at times.

His hugs and quick laughter with the locals, especially the children, came easily to him. She preferred to observe from a distance, sharing her affections and love through hospitality, service, and kindness. She shared his call, just walking it out in her own way. Their call. She had heard all about the call while attending missionary training school. Had she been called? Had he? Had they sacrificed their family for others? These were common questions, the seasoned saint who had led their training assured them. Were they called to risk life and limb, possibly leaving their children without a father?

She scooped the eggs out of the frying pan and poured the remaining oil on top. The more fat and calories, the better. She buttered more bread and spooned on some preserves and sliced some avocados and mangoes, placing them on a rose-patterned china plate.

Honey, I cannot possibly eat all this.

She looked at him sternly without saying a word.

He tucked the napkin in his shirt collar and picked up his fork. But I shall try. Thank you, love.

Flora sat down, smoothed out her skirt, and scooted her chair in toward the table.

Now, about these dreams. Worry is not from God, is it, Jon? Jon nodded, took a bite, and chewed slowly. He swallowed hard and took another bite. He was determined to eat every last morsel on his plate. Are you worried, Jon? Are these dreams from God? Do they bring a warning and caution, or do they originate from your soul or from unseen forces trying to thwart God’s plans? Flora put up her hand. Think hard before you answer, she said with a southern accent mixed with a Portuguese edge.

Risks in the Amazon could come in many packages, the least of which would be stings and bites. But there were more dangers to consider: broken bones, engine failures, loss of radio contact, getting hung up on a sandbar, roaming bands of thieves, and murdering drug traffickers, to name a few.

She could hear Susan talking to her dolls in the back bedroom. David, Libby, and Janet had already left for school. Jon put down his fork and bowed his head. I can’t shake it, Flora.

Shake what, Jon?

The weight. The precious weight of souls. They are in my pores, my lungs. I love people I don’t even know and haven’t even met.

Flora stood and walked over to her husband, partner, and friend. She removed his napkin from under his chin and picked up his silverware and plate. Well, we have our answer now, don’t we? You have a lovely day. Susan and I have our own work to do.

Yes, thought Flora, I have my own work to do. She took another sip of tea until something out of the corner of her eye gave her pause. The tenacious lizard she had scooted out of the house came back for a visit. He scurried around the base of the patio table, scaled the umbrella stand, and popped through the hole in the center of the table. He rested his elbows on the table, cocked his head, and winked. Flora froze and then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Yes, the lizard was still there, casually hanging around in a cocky, confident kind of way. Well, good morning, kind sir, Flora goaded the pesky reptile. He chirped, hopped out of the hole, and ran down the other side of the table, up the wall of the house, and over the roof.

Yes, yes, my little friend. I must get moving as well.

Chapter

TWO

Jon left early for the office. He was preparing for a trip deep into the interior of Brazil. This time he would go with another missionary, preaching the gospel and planting churches under a canopy of trees. He would be gone for several weeks. That would leave just two weeks after his return to get ready for the team arriving from Israel. Flora couldn’t think about that just yet; there was too much to do at the moment to get so far ahead of herself. First things first. She needed to make sure Jon was adequately packed and supplied for his journey.

In the past, she and the children had floated with Jon up the Amazon on safer waters on safer routes. They had chartered a houseboat equipped with a kitchen, bunks, and, if you stretched your imagination, a bathroom. True to Jon’s word, he had carefully packed Flora’s china and table linens into the limited storage compartments in the galley kitchen, thinking it best to leave the crystal glasses behind.

He didn’t ask questions or tell her she was silly. He knew she had her way of doing things and had come to welcome the gentleness of it. He tended to get down to the fiery end of truths far too quickly and bypass the simple grace of friendship.

Never underestimate the power of freshly brewed tea and a delicate crumb on a cake to share the love of the Lord, Jon. Of course, she was right. He could see that on their first missionary voyage on the big, snaking river.

Villagers scattered along its shores looked forward to their visits. Flora would slip off her shoes and step out of the boat onto the silty soil to greet them. The children would carry their mother’s embroidered linens, card tables, and china to flat ground, where she would boil bottled water over a camp stove and measure out herbs for the tea. Janet and Libby would slice and plate the cake, taking care that everyone received a cloth napkin for their laps.

There they would sit—the tall, fair, and elegant alongside the short, tanned, and rugged—chatting about the things most girls do. She would pour more tea, and her daughters would serve more cake while Jon set up the generator and projector to show them a come-to-Jesus film one more time. David would climb to the highest tree branches with the other boys, and Susan would be fast at work organizing the children into groups for another round of red-light-green-light.

It was on these trips to the interior that Flora honed her Portuguese and various adaptations of the language and settled her toes into the soil of her adopted land. The common language of mom-to-mom and kid-to-kid was the most universal language on earth. It was where the foreigners and natives merged into just plain ol’ people who cared about the same things, desiring similar outcomes on their day-to-day walk over shared loam and continent. It was where she unknotted her heart strings from her homeland and tied them to a new one. It was where she bowed her knee and head and gave her Lord full permission to bury her bones in a land other than her birth, and she meant every word with all her heart.

It was also where she realized that beauty and art are appreciated everywhere by everyone. On the first trip down the Amazon, the women were quite taken by her embroidered linens. They examined them closely. Enthusiastically chattering, they flipped the towels over and commented on the knots.

On Flora’s return visit, she brought embroidery hoops, embroidery cloth stamped with a simple design, and just enough embroidery floss not to be wasteful. She taught her new friends how to pull the fabric through the hoop, taking care not to stretch it too tightly but taut enough to make a proper stitch.

She showed them how to prudently choose their colors and how to use their embroidery floss as paints and their needles as a brush. The women took this very much to heart and examined their choices closely. Nature was their muse, and shades of blues, whites, and sometimes grays formed sky and water and occasionally the tip of a flower. They painstakingly held the array of floss against a leaf or bloom, or held it up to the sky to choose just the right shade.

Jon took an abundance of photos of the rapidly spreading jungle churches and included them in their missionary newsletters. It didn’t take long for the request to blow south.

Do you think if I paid your new church ladies, they could embroider a Christmas tablecloth for me? I would like a rectangular one—big enough for a table of ten, mind you. Poinsettias in shades of red and burgundy. The letter accompanied a package containing white gloves, several blank tablecloths and napkins, large wooden embroidery hoops, and enough embroidery floss to string a clothesline across Brazil. The package also included a substantial check to pay for the labor, far above and beyond what this woman would have paid for a tablecloth in a store in the States.

At first glance, Flora and Jon were not sure if they should be insulted or delighted. After all, it was quite presumptuous of the lady to just assume people she did not know would take on such a task, as if they had nothing better to do just because they lived in simple huts and often didn’t wear shoes.

On the other hand, they knew this woman quite well. She was wealthy but also kind. She came from a long line of self-made millionaires, and she herself was not averse to hard work of the volunteer kind.

And these white gloves, Flora. What are these for? They are not dirty people just because they sit on grass. Jon was protective of his jungle church congregants, as any good shepherd would be.

Flora giggled, her lighthearted chuckle easing his concern. Oh, Jon. I have seen it done before, and truthfully, maybe it isn’t a bad idea. The oils in our hands can stain a fabric over time. Frankly, the girls would have to take great care with the white cloth not to stain it with wood soot or grass and dirt.

"Oh, yes.