Page 44 of Hometown Girl

Instinctively, she ran her hand along the top of the doorframe, surprised when something small and metallic fell off and clinked on the ground. A key. She bent and picked it up, turning it over in her hand.

A climbing vine had wound its way up around the old door, hiding the lock from view. She brushed it away, careful not to cut herself on the greenery, and forced the key inside the lock. Her tired muscles screamed at her as she attempted to push the door open. Finally, it gave, and she tumbled into the little chapel.

Light filtered into the small room from the skylight above and three windows on each side. She left the door behind her open and took a few steps inside.

Quiet filled the space.

Beth admired the exposed wooden beams overhead, still strong after all this time. She walked down the center aisle, rows of simple wooden benches on either side. At the front of the room, a small pulpit stood one step above the floor.

She sat on the front row and took a deep breath of silence. Somehow, in spite of it having been forgotten all these years, Beth sensed a holiness in the little chapel.

She knew only bits and pieces about Fairwind’s former owners. She knew they’d lost their daughter. She knew the mother was said to have died of a broken heart. She knew the tragedy had pulled Willow Grove out of its utopian mind-set, putting everyone on high alert for too many years.

Sad how people were so willing to hurt each other.

She hadn’t thought about it in years. But now, standing in the place they’d probably prayed desperate prayers, she could think of nothing else.

Beth stood and walked over to the small piano in the corner. She wished she’d learned to play. Her hands slid across the instrument, wondering how long it had been since it had made music. Whose piano had this been? What would this space sound like filled with worship?

She lifted the lid on the bench and saw a stack of sheet music, a hymnal and a little black book inside. She pulled them out, one by one, mesmerized by the history she held in her hands.

Fairwind had been owned by Harold and Sonya Pendergast, and before that, the farm had belonged to Harold’s parents. They’d been the ones to turn it into a tourist destination. Harold and Sonya had carried on that tradition, working in the family business. Beth knew the pressure of that. How had Harold felt when he’d been unable to keep it going after his family died?

She’d never considered that. He had simply become a sad old man—a town fixture with a reputation that kept everyone away.

But his heart had been broken. Could any of them blame him for not being able to pick up the pieces?

She looked around, wondering how old the chapel was. She didn’t know who’d owned the farm before Harold’s parents—what if this building dated back to the original owners? Had they married here? Been buried here? Had they celebrated and mourned inside these four walls? Had Sonya stood in this very spot begging God to spare her daughter?

God, why didn’t You spare her daughter?

Beth leafed through the hymnal, stopping to admire the lyrics of “How Great Thou Art,” the melody floating through her mind. She set the hymnal down and picked up the little black book.

She opened it and quickly discovered it was some sort of journal. On the first page, someone had written an inscription:

Fill these pages with the prayers of your heart, for there is One who hears. One who listens. One who answers. If you find this book, you’re welcome to use it, to capture the prayers whispered inside the chapel at Fairwind Farm.

As she carefully turned the pages, she saw each entry started with “Heavenly Father” or “Dear Lord,” and not all entries were in the same handwriting.

It was more than just a journal—it was a prayer book.

She held in her hands the prayers of generations. How many people had taken the time to record their requests in this journal? How many tears had been shed over it—tears of joy and sorrow?

Beth sat on the old piano bench and started to read, feeling like she’d just entered a sacred chamber and praying she was welcome there.

Each entry had been signed and dated, and from what she could tell, the book had been left in the chapel, open for anyone who wanted to use it.

And it was well used.

Dear Lord,

How do I thank You for bringing us here? For giving us this land? For bringing us neighbors to help raise the barn? We are so blessed to have good crops and strong bodies to reap the harvest. Thank You for hearing our prayers, for sending the rain. The earth drinks in Your goodness, and so do we.

Your child,

Sarah

Beth read a few others but quickly became curious about the last entry. She flipped through the pages until she found a blank one and stared at the words on the page before. It was dated twenty years ago.

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