A Silver Trumpet Calls

Puffs of dust flew up behind Zeke, our new Morgan. My younger brother, Milton, reached for his hat and then urged the horse on faster, so we wouldn’t be late to meeting for worship. Milton didn’t seem to mind that my best dress was getting covered in grime. In fact, he seemed thrilled to have a valid reason to push Zeke faster than usual. Under my bonnet, I rolled my eyes. Maybe this was the price I had to pay for dilly-dallying with my new book of poetry on a First-day morning.

I coughed and brushed off my skirt, hoping to stay presentable as we flew along the dirt road toward Elm Grove. Mother had left home earlier with our older brother David to talk with the other elders before worship began. She’d be disappointed if I showed up at meeting looking like I’d just come on horseback from the back forty. Being the daughter of a recorded minister had its constraints.

The rest of our family was scattered this First-day morning. My younger sister, Lizzie, had buggied over to Greensboro yesterday to the Templar picnic and stayed the night with Cousin Debbie, but she’d assured Mother they’d see us at Elm Grove this morning. Our middle brother, Jonathan, was likely rooted to the chair in the front parlor catching up on The Atlantic Monthly. He’d been read out of meeting when he accepted the draft four years ago and vowed he’d never set foot in a Quaker meetinghouse again. And our youngest sister and her husband would likely take their baby to meeting at Carthage, where his family were members and more young people attended.

The left buggy wheel hit a bump in the road, jostling me back to our predicament.

I gripped the seat handles to keep from flying out and scowled at Milton. “I don’t mind thy speed, but get us there in one piece.” He just grinned.

One more corner and we’d arrive and be expected to settle into the quiet and wait for God’s voice, regardless of the hazards of our journey.

I heard a rooster crow from a nearby farm. The gathered Friends didn’t speak to my condition, but that rooster surely did. Like him, I wanted to crow loudly, only in frustration. Why didn’t God answer me?

My personal journey had plenty of hazards, too, these days. I’d been stewing about the latest for days. Ever since Lizzie’d been asked by Indiana Yearly Meeting to go south to teach the freedmen, I’d been out of sorts. Lizzie was invited, but I wasn’t even approached!

“Maybe thee wasn’t asked because thee’s still grieving, and Lizzie isn’t,” Mother had said.

That could be true. It’d been almost a year since Joshua’s death had shattered my hopes of being married. And while Mother was right that my heart still ached, that wasn’t all. I was still angry that Joshua had enlisted, even if it was to help ameliorate the condition of the oppressed. And in truth, I was even angrier that God had let him die in that effort.

But even if I could let go of the anger, being completely ignored by the committee was too much. Not when I was the real educator in the family: the one who’d attended Friends Boarding School. The one who possessed impressive teaching skills; at least, that was what everyone said: not Lizzie. She taught just to fill the time between all her social events, and because Mother had been a teacher. Lizzie hadn’t a leading to teach, like I did.

When Milton steered the buggy into the side yard at the old meetinghouse, Mother was nowhere in sight. He tied Zeke’s reins to a tree branch, and I climbed down. I took a deep breath, dusted off my skirt, and stepped inside the simple frame building.

Mother had already settled herself on the facing seat. She sat with her eyes closed and a slight smile on her face, always a figure of manifest composure. Even though Lizzie wasn’t here and Jonathan and Father never would be again, Mother sat in complete peace, waiting upon the Lord. No wonder she was so highly regarded.

“Will I ever have her composure and faith?” I wondered and sighed. Likely not.

My mind tended to dwell in unprofitable places, when I could get it to settle.

I glanced around at the few Friends who had gathered. Most were old and white-haired, founders of the meeting, as Father had been. How I missed him and his wise counsel! The elders sat, heads bowed in silence, waiting upon the Lord to speak to their condition and perhaps move them to share a message. I saw Milton slip into the back row with David, opposite the women, and I gathered my skirts to slide onto a bench.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to center myself. I let my shoulders sag and folded my hands in my lap. I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Lord, help me be open to Thy will. Give me guidance,” I prayed.

I tried to listen, to quiet my mind to hear a voice, but before I knew it, my fingers twitched and my heel began tapping on the plank floor. I pressed down on my knee to steady it, but my mind strayed again. I bit the inside of my lip, remembering Isaiah Stout’s visit.

The elder from Richmond had shown up on our front porch wearing his wide-brimmed Quaker hat, asking me if he could talk to Lizzie about going south to teach the freedmen. My mouth hung open in disbelief. After recovering my manners and calling Lizzie and Mother, I whirled away and left the three of them in the parlor to discuss the details.

Amidst all the conversation at supper that night, it occurred to me that I could volunteer to go south with Lizzie. Why not? I’d been teaching the free Blacks near Elm Grove for several years. Plus, I had more experience teaching than Lizzie did. And I certainly was more responsible than she was. I’d never dream of frolicking at a Templar picnic, even in the name of temperance. But go south without being invited? Would that be horning in on Lizzie’s commission? Or thinking I knew better than the elders of Indiana Yearly Meeting?

“Way will open, Mary Jane,” Mother assured me after supper, but I wasn’t so sure. I could barely speak to Lizzie. My mind told me it wasn’t her fault that she’d been asked instead of me, but I couldn’t let it go.

By Fourth Day, I’d pushed away some of the hurt, but I was still irritated. I knew I had options. I could stay home and teach again during the winter term, as I’d done for countless years. Or I could seek out Friend Stout and risk embarrassing myself, Lizzie, and our whole family if the committee declined my offer.

Usually, when Friends experienced a dilemma, they called a clearness committee, but there was no way I would invite weighty Friends to help me examine my heart and hold me in the Light. Not when I was so irritated and confused, and the adult daughter of a recorded minister who shouldn’t have such problems with her faith. That wouldn’t reflect well on Mother. No, I’d have to find my own answers.

I’d been wrong to judge the girls. How could the Lord—or anyone—object to such heavenly words and voices lifted together in worship? Perhaps all things did work together for good!

A breeze stirred my sleeve, reminding me that the meetinghouse doors were left open for stragglers or newcomers interested in waiting on the Lord. I heard a rooster crow from a nearby farm. The gathered Friends didn’t speak to my condition, but that rooster surely did. Like him, I wanted to crow loudly, only in frustration. Why didn’t God answer me?

A rustle at the door interrupted my inner rant: Lizzie and Cousin Debbie suddenly appeared with two of Debbie’s friends. All three of the younger girls were in the newest fashions, albeit tamed down to just skirt the boundaries of Quaker plain dress practice. Debbie’s tightly belted waist made Lizzie’s and my pointed front brown shirtwaists look frumpy and dull. And the colors the girls wore–bright green and shades of pink!

Well, that was Cousin Debbie. The only daughter of older, wealthy Quaker parents, she was much indulged and little restrained. She’d even taken singing lessons last spring! I was sure she would break out in song at Elm Grove and mortify the whole family one of these days.

“Other meetings allow hymn singing, Mary Jane,” Cousin Debbie reproached me when I scolded her for flouting our Quaker traditions, even though those Quaker ways weren’t serving me well in this season of challenge.

As Lizzie walked up the aisle, her color was high, flushed from arriving late and being amidst such a lively group. All four women scooted themselves down the empty bench in front of me. No one sitting on the facing seat minded their late arrival. They just smiled. Everyone loved Lizzie.

I tried to let go of my emotions and focus on my situation, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the girls’ dresses. The skirt of the girl nearest me had crimped ribbons edging tiers of brown ruffles. It was done so cunningly that even the eldest Elm Grove Friend would have trouble objecting to its style. But it was not very Quakerly in my estimation!

“Judge not . . ,” I scolded myself. I shook my head and tried to center down again.

The young women settled themselves, too, for a few minutes. Then they began to nudge each other and whisper.

“These young women are too old for such nonsense,” I thought, still judging. And Lizzie was right in the midst of it! I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to pray to push away the distractions.

Then, without any warning, Debbie stood up and began to sing, softly at first but gradually gaining volume and confidence. The other girls rose and joined her. It was a simple tune, sung in their clear, warm voices. Every word of the hymn blended in notes perfect for praise:

O day of peace and gladness, O day of joy and light,
O balm of care and sadness, Most beautiful, most bright.

A smile crept into the corners of my mouth, and my eyes softened as I listened to their words. If only this were a day of peace, inner peace that was long overdue. That was what I longed for.

The sweet harmony of their voices, alien to this simple place built for silence and meditation, swirled in my head and pushed the anger from my heart. The distractions of dresses and roosters and teaching floated away, as if on a puffy cloud. My heart and head were light and calm.

I’d been wrong to judge the girls. How could the Lord—or anyone—object to such heavenly words and voices lifted together in worship? Perhaps all things did work together for good!

I lingered in the perfect union of their voices, letting it envelop me. Was this the Inward Light? “Lord, is this thy message to me? What would Thou have me do?” I asked.

The girls’ final verse seemed to answer my prayer:

Today on weary nations, the heav’nly manna falls, 
To holy convocations, the silver trumpet calls, 
Where gospel light is glowing with pure and radiant beams, 
And living water flowing with soul-refreshing streams.

As the girls smoothed their skirts and sat down to a silent audience, I was clear:

I would go south with Lizzie. Whatever it took, I would find a way to answer the silver trumpet calling my name. I would use the gifts that I’d been given to bring living water to people who had been denied an education, just as my dear Joshua had hoped to do.

My ears barely registered an objection to their singing by one of the elders on the facing seat. I saw Mother tip her head lower and tighten her lips, but I was too busy making lists in my head, mentally packing for our trip southward, to take on that concern. Elm Grove would have to fend for itself.

No matter what Lizzie or Isaiah Stout had to say, I was bound for Mississippi.