While the task before her seemed daunting, she would embrace this new role and do her best to craft a legacy of love that defied the cruel twist of fate.
Annie Cumberland enveloped her in a warm, comforting embrace. “I’m so grateful you requested Pete to speak today.”
Pete’s contributions to Thunder Mountain went far beyond his pastoral responsibilities at Moose Chapel. He was esteemed not just as a spiritual guide but also as a trusted confidante, an insightful counselor, and a cherished friend to both his congregation and the broader community of Thunder Mountain. Alongside his wife, Annie, Pete managed the Rustic Pine Tavern, affectionately referred to by him as his “other church.”
Pastor Pete stepped forward, his presence commanding a gentle silence among the gathered mourners. Clearing his throat softly, he opened his Bible and began, “In times of sorrow, we often find ourselves searching for understanding, for a sign that there’s a greater plan at work.” He paused, allowing his words to resonate with the quiet assembly before continuing. “The scripture tells us in John 3:8, ‘The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.’”
He looked around, his eyes reflecting the depth of his empathy. “Much like the unpredictable path of the wind, the sudden tragedy that called Michael and Kayla Dorsey back to their Creator reminds us of life’s fragile and unfathomable nature. We may not understand the why of it all, but we can find solace in trusting their Maker, whose movements are beyond our comprehension but always purposeful. Let us remember them not for how they left this world, but for the love, joy, and spirit they contributed to it—and to the life of their son, Lucan, who remains a living testament to their legacy.”
Pastor Pete’s words, steeped in faith and compassion, offered a beacon of hope, likening the incomprehensible paths of life and death to the mysterious but always meaningful ways of the Spirit.
Pete gently closed his Bible, his eyes meeting Reva’s. “Mayor, would you like to share a few words?”
Reva felt the weight of the moment, a deep sense of responsibility urging her to speak. Yet, when she attempted to articulate her thoughts, words eluded her.
Sensing Reva’s distress, Lila gracefully intervened. Clutching a rose, she moved to stand beside Reva in a gesture of solidarity. “Let’s bow our heads,” she suggested softly.
“Lord, we thank You for the lives of Michael and Kayla Dorsey. We pray for Your blessings upon their little boy as he grows. Infuse his life with joy, happiness, and profound purpose. Guide Reva as she nurtures him, providing him with a loving home until You unveil Your next plan. Amen.”
The prayer was followed by a chorus of amens, floating gently through the crisp mountain air, a collective whisper of faith and hope. Then, in a poignant ritual of honor, each person present approached the caskets to lay down single roses, a silent symphony of grief, love, and solidarity encapsulated in the simple yet profound act.
As the final rose was placed, Reva’s gaze softened on Lucan, who had succumbed to slumber in her arms, his plump hands gripping her suit lapel with innocent trust. She inhaled deeply, fortified by the collective support of those around her.
When the service concluded, she followed the others back to their cars, carrying the sleeping child.
“It was a lovely service,” someone muttered.
“Yes, it certainly was,” came a soft answer.
At her car, she bid her girlfriends a quick goodbye, then bent to fasten Lucan safely in his car seat. The buckle clicked, and she checked to make sure the strap was snugly in place, then shut the door and reached for the handle on the driver’s side.
The day had been hard, as expected—yet Pastor Pete’s message helped put everything in perspective.
Before stepping into her car, Reva paused to take in the surrounding scenery. In the distance, the sun filtered through the pines, casting soft, golden light over the cemetery—a promise that even in the darkest times, there was hope on the horizon.
18
Reva jolted awake, feeling every ache in her bones and muscles—a testament to the night she spent in the new rocking chair cradling Lucan.
Charlie Grace had emphasized the importance of a consistent bedtime routine, yet Reva found it impossible to ignore Lucan’s forlorn gaze from the crib. The idea of leaving him there, so visibly yearning for comfort, was unthinkable. She rationalized that Lucan, surely missing his parents deeply, needed the added reassurance of her embrace to drift into sleep. However, this tender ritual often led to her own unintended slumber as well.
On this particular morning, Lucan sat on her lap wide awake watching her.
“Well, good morning little punkin.”
His dimpled face broke into a wide grin.
Raising a child was like witnessing the unfolding of a delicate miracle right before her eyes. Each day brought a new discovery, a fresh challenge that somehow managed to tighten the bonds of love she felt for this little guy even more.
She’d always suspected motherhood was wonderful, but she had underestimated the powerful emotions that accompanied the job.
There was this indescribable joy in the simplest moments—seeing his sleepy smile first thing in the morning, hearing the uninhibited laughter that bubbled up over the smallest things, or feeling the tiny grip of his hand in hers. It was a journey of constant amazement, where the mundane became magical.
Despite the sleepless nights and the endless worries, the privilege of caring for a young life, of being their constant, their teacher, and their haven, filled Reva’s heart with a love so profound it was almost overwhelming. This journey, with all its ups and downs, was a beautiful, bewildering adventure she wouldn’t trade for the world.
Of course, the urgency of her other responsibilities could be a tyrant.
A swift glance at the bedside clock confirmed her fears; she was alarmingly late. So late, in fact, she decided to momentarily abandon her steadfast rule against eating outside the kitchen.
