Peter Benton escorted Uncle Robert to the car where Jennie waited for them. The day before, he had decided to take time from work to drive Jennie and Uncle Robert to an old inn up in Vermont for lunch. He knew there was nothing either of them would enjoy more and understood that more than any other friend, Uncle Robert would be the most comfort to Jennie at this time. His courage, so apparent, his gentleness and strength combined with his strong faith in God were making an enduring impression on Jennie. These attributes added to his disarming sense of humor would help her through this difficult time.
The early morning sunlight was streaming in the windows as Uncle Robert climbed into the front seat of the car. They drove along enjoying the brilliant sunshine as it began to melt the snow from trees, sending small rivulets running down the sides of the streets. Her father was discussing a difficulty he once faced in the past. With sincerity Uncle Robert turned to them, speaking in his southern accent.
"Peter, the hardest thing to do is to hear something said about yourself that isn't true and not try to correct it." After pausing a long moment, he turned and looked at Jennie, no doubt remembering something in the past. Then he continued, "I've been over that road many a time." He seemed to have such deep, strong understanding. He hesitated a moment, then added, "Each of us has his own way of showing courage."
Jennie thought about that as they drove on. To stand in the face of criticism when you knew you had done your best and not let it destroy the peace in your soul would take character, a closeness to the Lord. She reflected that for her, courage was sometimes going to the meetings with a smile on her face, as if nothing were wrong. How hard it could be to just go on as if everything were normal, and not show that her heart was breaking.
At last they arrived at the inn—a yellow, ivy-covered building sitting back from the road. It had a bright red door which extended a cheery welcome as they came up the path. Attractive lanterns on either side of the brick walk would cast a subdued light as darkness fell. The dead vines stood stark and flowerless; that is, they seemed dead. In just a few more weeks, they would be slowly coming to life. That was one thing which was certain. There would always be another spring, another summer, a promise of resurrection. If only she could apply that to the dark times in her life, knowing the Lord would bring her joy again when He saw the time was right.
Looking up, they could see the guest rooms with their many tiny-paned windows, the sheer, white curtains letting in the sunlight. They climbed out of the car and walked along the brick walk to the entrance.
Just as they had expected, Uncle Robert was charmed with the old inn. Entering the large hallway, they spotted a fire crackling in the fireplace of the main room. A graceful, curving stairway with dark, polished banisters led to the guest rooms upstairs, while a bright carpet completed the cozy entryway. The three were deeply engrossed in conversation when a waiter escorted them to the dining room beyond.
Jennie and her father stepped back, insisting Uncle Robert lead the way to the table. Jennie had seldom seen him so happy, and realized there was no better way to forget her own troubles, than to be doing for someone else.
The crackling fire added a warmth to the inn. She didn't think it could possibly snow on this bright day, but as they sat at a small round table, she looked beyond Uncle Robert to see snow falling! For a few moments she reflected on what a delightful experience it would be to be stranded here for the night. There were plenty of guest rooms upstairs. She pictured her father and Uncle Robert sitting around that bright fire, with a blizzard blowing outside, telling stories, and at last each of them walking up the old, creaking stairway to a guest room.
As if he could read her thoughts, Uncle Robert burst into a grin, "I don't think you need to worry about the snow, Jennie. This isn't going to stick!"
As they waited for their lunch to be served, he took a deep breath and a big smile crossed his face. Something on the menu reminded him of how much his brother-in-law disliked goat. "You have to be very careful," he said intently, "when dressing a goat. Otherwise you get that bad taste in the meat." His mind was going back through the years to those happy days on the farm when his wife Molly was still alive.
Someone had told Jennie that when the Carters were entertaining, all the plates would often be set by Uncle Robert. Carefully he would carve the meat, placing a slice on each plate, passing one to each guest.
He was continuing his story, "If goat is done properly, it can be very tasty. I remember a time on the farm when we didn't have much lamb, there wasn't enough to go around. My brother-in-law simply couldn't bear to eat goat." His eyes sparkled, remembering.
"Well, what do you think we did?" he asked. "Having no choice, we killed a goat and dressed it painstakingly. I was determined that for a few moments at least that goat was going to pass for lamb. We carved it and set out two platters. I passed the platter of goat to him, saying nothing."
Just then the waitress came with the large pewter plates of steaming seafood and set them down in front of them. After she left, Uncle Robert added, "He ate that goat and never knew the difference."
"Did you ever tell him?" Jennie questioned.
"Oh yes, of course I told him. He could hardly believe it."
In spite of hard times, his sense of humor must have been a factor in making life more bearable. As a family, the Carter's also enjoyed the rewarding times of giving shelter and hospitality to the Lord's people. Jennie felt an inner conviction that a great deal of those years he wouldn't have changed. Her thoughts were back at his farm, forming a picture of it in her mind. How she would love to go there... just once!
Later during the meal, he said thoughtfully, "Today would have been our fifty-first wedding anniversary, if Molly were alive." He seemed sad.
"Tell us about your wedding and how you started life together," Jennie suggested, genuinely interested.
"We were married very simply," he began. "We really didn't want a big wedding. You see, before the wedding, after we became engaged, Molly's father asked me if I would like to farm the old place. I was thrilled. So I came to the farm six months in advance to learn how to run it. During that time, I built a small apartment onto the house for Molly and myself to live in after we were married."
He paused, thinking back through those long years. "There was a nice fireplace to keep us warm, so I stacked up a large supply of wood. Then one week we just decided not to wait any longer to get married. We had, of course, been engaged several months by then. The meetings were held in the old farmhouse, and very few came out during the week. We decided that we wouldn't say a word about the wedding and whoever happened to come to the meeting, would have the privilege of coming to the wedding afterward."
Jennie was overcome. How many young people today would think of being married like that! She couldn't imagine it that way and yet something about it was tastefully simple, so sweet.
"Did your wife have a wedding dress?" she asked, having given much thought to the one she hoped to wear someday at her own wedding.
He smiled, remembering. "Yes, Molly wore a lovely dress for the wedding. It was blue, pale blue. Her sister made it for her and she wore it with a veil.
"After the meeting was over, we announced there was going to be a wedding. The news was startling. You can be sure a lot of folks who hadn't come out that night were going to be disappointed. When the wedding was over, we took the horse and carriage and drove off to a small town nearby, where we had a short stay and then returned to our own apartment to begin married life."
He turned from them, gazing out the window. It was no longer snowing. Even though lunch was finished, he seemed to want to linger and talk, each of them aware that soon their paths would part again.
"Did you ever get to take any trips?" Jennie asked.
He was thoughtful a moment, returning in memory through the years. "Yes," he said slowly, "yes, we did. There were three small gatherings fairly close to one another and we visited back and forth. Many times we went up to a farm in Virginia where the Putnams lived."
They leaned back in their chairs, following with interest the reminiscences. "The Putnams," he explained, "were a family of eleven, with nine children. How we enjoyed going there and eating out on the large sun porch where they ate, summer or winter."
"Wasn't it cold in winter?" Jennie interrupted.
"No," Uncle Robert answered, "there was a coal stove in the corner and it kept the porch warm. Mrs. Putnam served two large meals each day, at noon and in the evening." He looked intently at Jennie. "You were there on the dot of twelve noon or there was trouble," he explained, a serious note in his voice.
"They kept those children in order, every one of them. When they were very young, their mother would spank their legs with a small switch. Most of the little tots learned to obey at such an early age, they can hardly recall having to be disciplined. And in addition to the faithfulness, there was a great deal of love between the parents and the children."
Chuckling, he recalled that one of the humorous things about mealtime was the fact that the floor was slanted on the porch. If one of the children spilled a glass of water, which often happened, the ones sitting on the low side would jump up to escape a sudden shower.
"They had an old grain bin," he continued. "The Putnam children enjoyed taking our children out there, climbing up into the wheat, then sliding down. They loved to go into the haymow looking for eggs, where hens stole away and made their nests."
"Did they have a large house with lots of room for company?" Jennie asked, thinking of her parents' large home.
"Yes, four bedrooms upstairs and a couple downstairs. The guests always slept downstairs. At night, we adults would sit around a large wood stove in the kitchen and talk after the children went to bed. We weren't aware of the fact that upstairs they were lying across the floor, their ears to the grate that let warmth up from the stove, listening to our conversations. More than once they went away in tears, as they heard us express our concern over the troubles they were having."
He seemed lost now in numerous memories. These friends kept a special missionary box and encouraged the children to drop in a few pennies whenever they could. They spent one night a week as a family, mailing out tracts.
The waitress came and removed their plates. They walked into the lobby, standing a few moments by the bright fire. He looked lovingly at them both with tenderness in his smile. "You folks will never know," he told them, "what your love and care for me has meant through this long winter. I appreciate it so much."