Paul turned from the telephone and let out a war whoop loud enough to
break the sound barrier. He grabbed Maureen and they pulled Grandpa
between them and went dancing around the kitchen table, lifting their
knees high, bugling like wild horses. It was a free-for-all frolic.
Grandpa was suddenly himself again, spry-legged and bellowing.
Grandma laughed in relief. She dropped her spoon in the pancake batter
and half ran to the organ. Recklessly she threw back the lid and, with
all stops open, made the notes thunder and throb as she sang in her
full-bodied voice:
"Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
His truth is marching on."
Around and around the table marched the three Beebes. Skipper burst
into the house, joining the dance, howling to the music. At last
Grandpa had to sit down, and Paul and Maureen fell limp and exhausted
on the floor.
Grandma turned from the organ, her eyes crinkled with joy. She clapped
her hands for attention, then chanted:
"_Come_ day, _go_ day;
God send _Sun_-day.
And where do we go today?" she asked.
"To Pocomoke!" Maureen burst out.
"But before that, where? And who do we thank today?"
"Misty!" Paul shouted. But he grinned as he said it, knowing what
Grandma had in mind.
Grandpa twisted uncomfortably. "Me and him," he said, scratching
Skipper behind an ear, "we got to clean out the truck and do a passel
o' things. We'll jes' do our churchin' while we work."
"Clarence Beebe, you'll do no sech a thing! Today is a shining special
day and we won't argify. To church we go. _As a fambly!_"
Promptly at nine forty-five the truck, now clean as water and soap
could make it, rattled out of the yard with Grandpa and Grandma sitting
dressed up and proud in the cab, and Maureen and Paul in back, feet
dangling over the tailgate. The sun was shining for the first time in a
week, and the sky was a luminous blue.
"Seems almost like it's Easter," Maureen said. "Seems different from
other Sundays. Wonder why?"
"'Cause we're wearing shadow rolls over our noses, just like race
horses."
Unconsciously Maureen felt of her nose.
"Can't you see, Maureen? We're not even looking at the houses with
their porches ripped off and mattresses and things drying in the sun.
We're seeing bigger."
"Like what?"
Paul looked up. "Like that flag flying over the Fire House, painting
stars and stripes on the sky. And the sea smiling and cheerful as if
it'd never been nasty-mean."
Maureen nodded. "And even if the houses _are_ all bashed in, Paul, you
hardly notice them for the clumps of daffydils."
It was true. The world seemed reborn. The blue-green water of the bay
was unruffled and washing softly against the drift. Gulls were gliding
on a seaward breeze with scarcely a wing-flutter. And here and there
in all the mud and muck, hosts of yellow daffodils were nodding like
spatters of sunshine.
Up in front Grandpa and Grandma were feeling the same joy. "The storm
sure bloomed the place up," Grandpa said.
Grandma sighed in deep contentment. "Takes a wrathful storm to make us
'preciate bonny weather, don't it?"
As the Beebe family took their seats in the rapidly filling church, the
men of the Coast Guard filed into the front rows.
"Paul!" Grandpa whispered loud enough for the whole congregation to
hear. "There's Lieutenant Lipham. He's the one rescued you the day you
snuck over to Assateague and your boat drifted away."
The lieutenant turned around, smiling broadly. Paul's cheeks reddened.
Maureen had secretly brought the birth announcements to church so that
she and Paul could fill in the hour and date, everything except the
name. But they never even opened the package. From almost the beginning
of the sermon, they leaned forward, listening with every fiber.
"The earth is the Lord's," the deep voice of the preacher intoned. "He
hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods."
And just by listening to the resounding voice, Paul and Maureen could
see God commanding Noah to build the ark, big and flat-bottomed, and
they could see the flood waters rising and the animals marching in, two
by two.
"God is in the rescue business," the preacher's words rolled out, "and
every believer is a member of His rescue force. Today we pay special
tribute to the United States Coast Guard. In the sight of God, men who
do not know the harbor of His love are like men lost at sea, grasping
for something or someone to save them. The Church is God's rescue
force, just as the Coast Guard is the government's rescue force."
The preacher half-closed his eyes. "On Thursday night," he said, "when
the last of the refugees staying here in our church had been taken to
their homes or to the mainland, I walked down the streets and saw the
havoc and the emptiness of our once lovely island. Yet no Chincoteaguer
had lost his life, and I paused to thank God.
"Then I came back to the parsonage. All was dark and quiet. I was
alone. Darkness was all around. Then a flash across the sky! The only
light left shining came from the old lighthouse on Assateague Island.
It was spreading wide its beam of hope and guidance. So it is when the
lights of this old world are snuffed out, and the storms of life would
destroy us, the steady light of God's love still shines. As our great
Coast Guard keeps the light flashing from the lighthouse, so it is our
task to keep our lights burning here at home.
"Let us sing."
Paul and Maureen were almost sorry when the sermon ended. They rose
with the congregation, and sang as lustily as Grandma. Even Grandpa
made his lips move as if he knew the words:
"Brightly beams our Father's mercy
From His lighthouse evermore,
But to us He gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore."
Just as the final "Amen" faded, the preacher was handed a message.
He read it to himself in apparent pleasure. Then he stilled the
congregation.
"Friends," he said with a smile, "I have an important announcement." He
cleared his throat and glanced at Paul and Maureen before he began. "On
this day, in a stable in the city of Pocomoke, a foal was born--a tiny
mare colt." He paused. Then he added, "And her mother is Misty."
There was a rustle as everyone turned to look at Paul and Maureen, then
smiles and murmurs of "Misty ... Misty" from every pew.
Quickly the congregation moved out into the bright sunshine. Preacher
Britton was greeting the members, and Paul and Maureen, blushing in
embarrassment, were standing beside him. Everyone was shaking hands
with everyone else. Hands that all week had lifted and scrubbed and
prayed now clasped each other in joy.
"It's the happiest news to reach Chincoteague in a week of terror!"
"The very happiest."
For once Grandpa didn't bolt for home as if his house were on fire. He
shook hands heartily with the preacher. "Reverend," he said, "ye jes'
put up one o' the greatest sermons I ever heerd!"
"Come oftener," the preacher replied with a grin.
_Chapter 20_