Dear Readers,

I recently read a novel by a "new" author, Linda Nichols, and was intrigued by her skillful use of her gifts to put a "light" on the path of repentance and recovery through her invented world of characters, place, plot, etc. The novel I read was titled At the Scent of Water, the title being taken from Job 14:7-9 ("For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stump thereof die in the ground; Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.")

The main character in this story, Annie, has been living in the far northwest for five years, having fled her home circumstances after the tragic, accidental death of her four-year-old daughter. She is brought home again to the mountains of North Carolina through further circumstances, and the scene below--at a crucial point in Annie's story--was touching and beautifully written. I send it below as a "reminder" that (as Amy Carmichael puts it) " . . . the present order (here on earth) is not eternal".

Grace and Peace,
Elaine

p.s. As I was recovering from a recent sinus infection (which lasted weeks), I discovered that I had an abscessed tooth and in the last week have had a root canal procedure performed on the infected tooth. The tooth was under a partial permanent bridge and during the procedure the bridge came off. After a subsequent visit to my dentist I learned that I have to have a new bridge. Prepping for the new bridge (including impressions, etc.) is my next appointment on the 19th, then another appointment to place the bridge and finish up. I am feeling better generally, and this all seems "trivial" in light of so many circumstances of others, but the pain and other attending symptoms were very real and it is very wearying to have so many days in a row when you don't feel well. I ask that (in the words of the old gospel song) "When you pray, will you pray for me; will you mention my name in your prayers?".

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The following is from pp. 322-324 of the novel At the Scent of Water by Linda Nichols, published by Bethany House Publishers, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 2004.

The family gathered on the porch. . . . She...sat in the dark and creaked the swing along, just slightly out of time to the music.
As she listened to Sam's aunts and uncles sing, she had an image of waking up at her grandmother's to the smell of fatback or bacon frying and the sounds of J. D. Sumner and the Stamps Quartet, the Imperials, or the Blackwood Brothers on the small radio.
She listened to them sing and realized the ones who had written those songs knew what it was like to be weary. To lose loved ones. To feel so tired and heartsick you could barely put one foot in front of the other, and she felt, as she always did, that they were singing just for her. They understood. Sam's uncles and aunt sang song after song, finishing one and running into the next, and Annie let the words and the music wash over her. She lost track of time.
"Let's finish up with the 'Eastern Gate,' " Eldon finally said in his gravelly bass.
Valda played the notes of the introduction, regular and steady, and even then Annie felt a sharp stab of tenderness spread outward from her heart.
"I will meet you in the morning, just inside the Eastern Gate," they promised in their full-throated voices, not just the quartet this time, but everyone in unison as if, despite their distances and differences, on this one thing they all agreed.
"I will meet you in the morning, I will meet you in the morning, just inside the Eastern Gate over there."
It was an appointment they looked forward to, a promise that wouldn't be taken away, a meeting place already arranged. She felt the tears rolling down her face and didn't try to stop them. She took one deep breath after another, held each one for a moment and tried to let it out quietly. She pictured a small lovely face and thought of the joy she would feel if only she could rest her eyes on it again.
Valda sang the next line by herself in her deep, full-throated voice. "If you hasten off to glory, linger just inside the gate."
And then, for the first time, Annie caught a glimpse of death as they all seemed to see it--not as a sad, sick exit or a violent snatching away, but a hasty entrace. An apologetic leave-taking for a joyful destination.
"For I'm coming in the morning," Valda promised, "so you'll not have long to wait."
Not long to wait? She had a moment of shock, for she saw now that that was exactly what she had been doing. Waiting. Just waiting, with the days and seconds of her life seeming to stretch out for an unbearable eternity. Not long to wait? For the first time she wondered if they could be right. Perhaps it wasn't long. Not if she looked from the right angle, standing above time, looking over the vast spread of history. What was a few seconds from that vantage? A lifetime?
They sang together, broke into parts, then joined back again. The high tenor's voice sounded plaintive, as if to ask, When? How long will I have to wait? Does anyone hear me crying? A few steady beats followed, pulses of the bass fiddle, then the other voices answered his cries in sweet harmony, as if saying, Soon. We know. Anyone would feel the same. Then the low voices, steady like a big man's heartbeat, comforted. Everything is hard, they seemed to murmur in her ear, death and sickness and pain, and seeing people you love taken from you. But look here, they all seemed to remind her in chorus. Listen. That's not all. They joined together, unanimous and emphatic. "I will meet you in the morning," they repeated. You need to hear it again? You just listen. We'll sing it as many times as you need. It's the truth, they seemed to promise. This can be your North Star, the appointment you aim toward. Annie wiped away her tears, glad it was dark. . . .
The quartet was finishing now, winding down, and she was losing it, she thought. She was losing the tight control that had kept her world together these last years. Little by little it was going, evaporating into the moist night, invisible bits of it rising up to join the glittering sky full of stars.