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Tabitha

By Vikki Kestell

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Prologue

But where sin abounded,
grace did much more abound.
(Romans 5:20b, KJV)

July 1911

Rose Thoresen sighed and folded her hands upon her desk in the great room of Palmer House. Her account books, filled with sums and figures waiting to be worked, lay neglected before her. It was late morning but already Rose’s bones were weary of sitting.

I never used to tire so easily, Lord.

Shaking her head, she reflected on her sixty-three years and how quickly they had seemed to pass . . . how odd it was to gaze into a mirror and view a stranger: a woman aging gracefully, but not the figure of youth she expected, the young woman who still resided in her heart.

Rose rubbed her arm where, not many months before, a bullet had torn skin and broken bone. The bone was healing, but her arm often ached. Its ache reminded her that the man who had shot her had meant to kill her—and had failed.

“I thank you again, Lord, for your many mercies,” she whispered.

Rose leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes. She listened. The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Too empty.

Most of the young women of Palmer House were away for the day, gone to their places of employment. Even Rose’s daughter Joy had departed the house this morning, surprising them all. Joy had left the house in the watchful company of her employees, Sara, Corrine, and Billy, to catch the trolley into downtown Denver.

Tabitha had accompanied them.

Tabitha has been Joy’s caring shadow during these dark weeks, Rose acknowledged.

Unable to return to nursing school in Boulder until the onset of the fall term, Tabitha had stayed close to Joy. She had seen to it that Joy ate enough and had helped Joy navigate the treacherous and painful road of mourning and loss. Not that anyone could walk that road for another. Nevertheless, Tabitha’s steadfast presence had eased many of Joy’s burdens.

Yes, with chin lifted and mouth set in resolute lines, Joy had marched out the front door to resume management of the fine furnishings store she owned—the store she and Grant had established and poured their hearts into together.

Grant! Gone to Jesus now these many weeks.

And baby Edmund. Still missing.

Mr. O’Dell. Absent from Denver, working himself into the ground to find and retrieve Edmund.

So many losses.

Rose turned her head and heeded the creaks and groans of the stately old mansion they called Palmer House.

Marit and Breona, Palmer House’s cook and housekeeper, were about the day’s business, but they moved with soft footsteps and spoke in subdued voices—as though the noise and bustle of daily activities might violate the holy hush that persisted in the house.

Even Mr. Wheatley puttered noiselessly about in Palmer House’s expansive yard, his dear old face creased with the weight of grief they all carried in one measure or another.

Rose massaged her throbbing arm, and her heart ached in tempo with the knitting of her bones. The absence of baby Edmund’s coos and gurgles made the empty echoes of the old house all the more difficult to bear . . . even though more time had passed without him in their lives than the scant three months he had been with them.

Lord, I am always grateful when Mei-Xing returns from work in the evening with our little Shan-Rose, Rose prayed.

Mei-Xing’s daughter, coming up on a year old now, was a blessing they all cherished—even though her very presence underscored Edmund’s conspicuous absence.

Father God, Rose entreated, I ask you to fill our hearts and this house with happiness again, because we cannot bear this sorrow. I pray for Mr. O’Dell who is searching so diligently, so earnestly, for our little man. I pray that you would fill him with strength and courage. In all these things I trust you, Father God, for in you, the lost are found.

Rose huffed and glanced down at her accounts. Just as she took up her pen, the front door of the house opened and she heard the patter of footsteps. Seconds later she glimpsed Tabitha’s flaming hair as she crossed the entryway.

Rose stood and went to meet her. “Tabitha! Are you home so soon?”

The young woman, perhaps age thirty and the eldest of their “girls from the mountain,” turned and entered the great room at Rose’s question. The two women placed their cheeks together in warm greeting.

“What I know about fine furnishings would not fill a teacup,” Tabitha laughed, more than a little chagrined, “and, truly, Joy does not need me at the store. Sara, Corinne, and Billy are more than enough staff for their customers’ needs.”

She stared at the floor. “I am so glad Joy has returned to work. It is an important step for her. But I am afraid I find myself at rather loose ends right now.”

“Ah.” Rose studied Tabitha, admiring the woman’s brilliant green eyes edged with dark auburn lashes, admiring the thick, fiery locks Tabitha pinned upon her head in such a practical manner. “How many weeks remain before you return to school?”

“I have counted three times,” Tabitha confessed, “but it is still nine weeks. I fear I shall go out of my mind if I do not busy myself with some productive work in the interim.”

“Perhaps you could volunteer at the hospital?” Rose suggested. “With the training you received during your first term at nursing school and the practical experience you gained nursing all of us during last winter’s influenza, surely they could find use for your capable hands?”

“Yes, I did think of that. I even spoke to Dr. Murphy and he is willing to write a recommendation to that effect.”

Tabitha broke off and frowned, and Rose wondered where her thoughts had turned.

“What is it, dear?” she inquired.

“I find it odd that, just as I make up my mind to go down to the hospital, I balk at doing so. It is as though . . . as though I am supposed to be doing something else, yet what that ‘something else’ might be eludes me.”

Rose pursed her lips and breathed a silent prayer. “Tabitha, I have something I have been praying over, but, well, perhaps we could speak of it over a cup of tea?”

Tabitha’s brows lifted. “I should be glad to hear your proposal.” She hurried off to make a tray for them.

Rose’s eyes followed Tabitha. I doubt that my suggestion will make you glad in any respect, dear girl, but if my idea is from God and is for his glory, he will speak to your heart and do the convincing.

Rose finished the sums she had neglected and tidied up her desk while she waited for Tabitha to return. Perhaps ten minutes later, Tabitha entered the great room with a tray set for two.

They sat in worn but comfortable upholstered chairs, facing each other across a low table. Rose poured the tea and handed Tabitha her cup.

Tabitha looked to Rose. “Can you tell me of your idea now?”

Rose blew on her own steaming cup. “Yes, but perhaps we should pray first?”

Again Tabitha’s brows levered upwards, but she did not answer. Instead she nodded her agreement. The two women placed their cups on the table between them and joined hands.

“Father, thank you for the fellowship Tabitha and I share in Jesus Christ. We ask that you guide our conversation. And we ask that you move our hearts to follow yours, wherever you may lead us. Amen.”

“Amen,” Tabitha echoed. She picked up her cup. “Now I am very curious!”

“Yes, well . . .” Rose paused and then dove in. “I have been praying about some of the young women at Palmer House writing small books, personal accounts that would contain their . . . testimonies. The accounts would not be for public consumption, but for the benefit of newcomers to Palmer House, now and in the future.”

She glanced at Tabitha to see how she was receiving her words.

Tabitha’s forehead puckered in puzzlement. “Testimonies? I am not familiar with that word.”

“Hmm. What I mean to say, Tabitha, is that your testimony—the account of what God has done in you and for you—could aid other women, women whose past lives are similar to yours but who, perhaps, have not experienced similar redemptive outcomes. Not as yet anyway.”

She wet her lips with a sip of tea. “I am asking you to consider writing the story of your journey to the Savior.”

“The story of my j-journey?” Tabitha stuttered over the last word.

“Something of a memoir, dear. So that others, other women such as yourself, can come to know Jesus and his saving power in the same way you have experienced it.”

“You want me to write about . . . before?”

Their eyes met.

Rose’s steady gray eyes did not blink as the two women searched each other’s heart. Rose wanted to be honest with Tabitha.

“I believe the Lord would have you write about the choices you made and their consequences, Tabitha. Yes, you would write about the sin that ensnared you but—and this is much more important—you would also write about the grace Jesus extended to you. How he sought you, found you, and redeemed you from your choices and sin.”

Rose sipped her tea and added, “We do not wish to glorify sin or dwell on the past. However, every follower of Christ should anchor his or her testimony in what we were before he saved us so that our great God receives the glory that is due him, and so that others can receive hope—hope for their own lives. The Apostle Paul said it this way, Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.”

Tabitha swallowed and the anxiety that radiated from her was palpable. Her cup and saucer clattered together as she set them on the table. “I-I am not sure I could do that, Miss Rose. I do not wish people to know . . .”

She said “people,” but in her mind’s eye she fixed on one individual in particular: Mason Carpenter, a man whose esteem she did not wish crushed by a detailed account of her past with all its ugliness. Although Tabitha had discouraged Carpenter in the most unmistakable manner, the man continued to call upon Palmer House—ostensibly to provide support for the house’s ministry, but also to pay informal court to her.

He has been a tremendous blessing to us, Tabitha admitted. His financial gifts and other services had kept Palmer House solvent through the recent turbulent events—the attack on Rose and abduction of baby Edmund in April and, not long after, Grant’s death.

When Carpenter had first expressed an interest in her, Tabitha had not spared his feelings. No, she had been blunt. Severe. She had, with dispassion, recounted the origins and purpose of Palmer House—including her own reasons for living in the house. In fact, she had done her best to revolt him, to shock him into retreating!

But Carpenter had not been the slightest bit dissuaded—not from supporting the house’s ministry and certainly not from asking after her frequently. He had taken care not to push in or make himself unwelcome to her, but he had lately begun attending services at Calvary Temple, the same church the family at Palmer House attended: Calvary Temple, the unconventional Denver congregation that met for services in a former warehouse.

No, Carpenter’s unhurried, steady attentions showed no signs of abatement, and Tabitha had no wish to wound or shame him.

Rose responded, “Your story would be available only to the women the Lord asks us to love back into wholeness—not to the general public. No copy would ever leave this house.”

Tabitha nodded, but her expression reflected worry.

“I understand how difficult telling your story might be, which is why I thought, perhaps, we could do it together,” Rose added.

Tabitha wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. “Do it together?”

“Yes. If you felt you could speak openly to me, then I would take notes and write the first draft of the manuscript.” She paused and then shrugged, “Who knows? Perhaps the recounting of your journey would be cathartic and would bring God’s grace toward you into sharper focus.”

Tabitha glanced away, clearly conflicted. Rose allowed her to think in peace as she sipped her own tea. They remained in silence for a long while.

As she waited, Rose prayed within herself. If this is of you, Lord, then you will show us the way. I fear nothing in this world anymore, with one exception: I fear not following closely after you. If it is Tabitha’s decision not to share her testimony at this time, then you will open another young woman’s heart to do so. I trust in you, my Lord.

Tabitha was lost in her own thoughts for so long that Rose began to gather up the tea things, including Tabitha’s cup of very cold tea.

At last Tabitha whispered, “Do you think . . . do you think my testimony might help another girl not to make the mistakes I made?”

Tabitha turned toward Rose and tears glistened in her eyes. “I can scarcely bear to consider what my own willful nature—and my unbridled temper—cost me.”

“My darling girl, I am much less concerned over the choices and mistakes you made years ago than I am with how our Lord Jesus saved you out of all of them. It is human nature that we rarely care about our great God of grace until we, personally, see that we have a need for him, no? Jesus came to seek and save those who are lost—and I care a great deal about the lost who might see themselves in your story. I believe your testimony will cause the hearts of many women like yourself to turn to him.”

Rose hesitated. “It will not be easy, Tabitha, remembering and talking of the life you lived before Jesus rescued you.”

Tabitha stared at her hands. “I would only need to tell you? You would write it out?”

“We would do it all together, dear. Every part.” Rose hesitated. “We have nine weeks. I do not know but that it may be the work of more than nine weeks, but we can be well begun in that time.”

Tabitha swallowed again and nodded. “I . . . suppose that I am willing to at least try.”

Rose took her hands. “Then let us give this to our Lord and trust him for the outcome. Nine weeks will give us a good start—and let us start today, now, while our determination is fresh.”

They cleared away the tea things and Rose selected paper and pen.

“Where should I begin?” Tabitha asked.

“Perhaps we should start at the place where you made your first wrong choice?”

Tabitha hmmed. “Yes. I know exactly when that was.”

“Very well. Take a moment to compose your thoughts and then begin.”

Tabitha shifted and looked around the room as though she wanted to flee the memories in her head. “I . . . well, I should say that my name is Tabitha Kathrine Hale.”

“I did not know your middle name.” Rose smiled. “It is beautiful and suits you.”

“Thank you, Miss Rose.” Tabitha rested her chin upon her folded hands.

“I suppose I should begin, then, when I was fourteen . . .”

~~**~~

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