MISTER Chapter III

Chapter Three - 1973

I was sitting as polite and still as possible after our evening devotions. Usually we Younger Girls had to go right up to our rooms after the group devotions with the Older Girls in the living room. Tonight, though, Mister and Missus were sitting on the couch together while most of us girls languished on the rug, playing with each other’s hair, waiting expectantly for the reason we weren’t dismissed to go wash and brush our teeth.

A year or two before, we were told that we couldn’t call them Mister and Missus anymore because it didn’t sound respectful. Thus, they had been renamed Mr. and Mrs. Beal for some time, now, but to me, they were still just good old Mister and Missus.

Missus smiled, tucking a long, stray, white wisp of hair back into her bobby-pinned roll at the nape of her neck as she began to speak. Absentmindedly, I noticed her everyday hairstyle’s similarity to Charlie Brown’s Lucy. I wondered if Lucy’s hair was half-way down her back when it was undone,too. Missus was explaining something about love being ‘for keeps’, but I was lost in a memory of being in her bedroom, watching her carefully brushing her long, snowy white hair and rolling it up with her fingers as she prepared for the day. Mister and Missus’ bedroom was off-limits, and it was rare treat when Missus invited me in.

“But we don’t want you to go!” one of the girls cried. My seven-year-old brain snapped to attention as I scanned the faces around the room. Some girls were quietly staring, some were distracted and others had a look of concern. My eyes settled on Mister and Missus. Exhibiting reassuring smiles, they explained that it will be a little while before they are gone, and we can always find comfort in knowing that love is ‘for keeps’, whether we are near or far.

My eyes began blinking rapidly. Inching closer to Lisa, searching her face, I realized she appeared to not be affected one way or another, so I followed her lead, taking it all in while nonchalantly tracing an invisible pattern on the rug. Lately, conversation at The Home had turned more and more to the upcoming departure, and I wasn’t really sure when we were first told that Mister and Missus were leaving. It probably hadn’t seemed real at the time – just something that would happen far off in the future. For the first time tonight, I realized the only parents I had ever known were really going away.

Thoughts began racing through my head and heart as I began to grasp what I just heard. “What does this mean? Why are they leaving us? Why are they leaving me? This is our home, we are all a family". Some girls and staff had come and gone, but some of us had never been apart. Not since I could remember.

After more matter-of-fact explanations and question-answering, Lisa, Robyn and I were ushered upstairs to begin the bedtime routine. We went through the motions and acted like we weren’t affected one way or another knowing that life would never be the same again. I thought about the storybook I’d read earlier about Chicken Little panicking because the sky was falling.

Mechanically, my heart breaking, I brushed my teeth in silence, feigning indifference in an effort to avoid exposing my inner anguish.

The light was turned out after bedtime prayers. Lisa and I usually giggled and fooled around enough to be told at least twice that we were going to be punished if we didn’t settle down. That night, though, Lisa was quiet and I could see the outline of her head on the pillow with a halo of moonlight shining on her through the window. I stared at her form long enough to burn her picture into my vision and closed my eyes to see how long I could still see her in my eyelids. Her silhouette faded after a while and I repeated the process and again, willing myself to sleep. Finally, I whispered softly to her in case she was still awake, like me.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

“Sure,” she mumbled, in a fake, sleepy voice.

I crawled into her twin bed a few feet away. Our nightgowns barely touching, we lay there silently on our backs, staring at the ceiling, thinking our own thoughts until at last, our eyes closed off the night around us.

The next morning, and for many mornings after, I kept my eye on Mister. He still strode though the house whistling and singing, teased the girls with a twinkle in his eye, lifted me to his lap, letting me comb the sparse gray hair around his ears and the back of his head, and did all the deliciously, wonderful things he ever did. Words were said here and there about retiring, but Mister had a store he built that sold Christian books and Bibles in another town. He spent more and more time there each day before joining the rest of us for supper and evening devotions.

I loved to hear him on the telephone placing book orders, and at night, I was sometimes allowed to sit with him at his table while he ‘figured’ his numbers. I was always quiet and sat very still, secretly admiring every move he made.

I began watching for him in the morning, and if I saw him reach for his fedora, I begged to go with him, relishing the trip, wherever it would be. I was usually pretty sure he was on his way to the Wholesalers to buy food for The Home, or to the bookstore. Most of the time, he let me tag along, offering me a piece of tangy Dentyne gum in the car.

Each day seemed the same, until I heard the word, “tomorrow”. Everyone was still acting like nothing was happening, except for one of the girls who often blurted out her emotions. Sometimes I secretly admired her for being able to tell people how she felt.

“I wish you were my parents!” she cried. I held my breath, waiting to hear how Missus would reply, because I, too, wished they were my parents, but never dared to tell them. My ears wanted very much to hear Missus say, “I wish you were my daughter,” but instead, she explained that she would never want to take the place of anyone’s mother or father, and that we are in God’s family, so in a way, we are related through Him. I had never even seen this girl’s mother, and I didn’t remember what my own looked like, though I thought she visited once or twice a long time ago, so I doubted it would be any problem at all to take her place.

My father visited us sometimes, and he even brought my sisters and I to the apartment he had set up with his new wife in Brokton, Massachusetts. We were instructed to call her “Maum”. Dad had a loud, dark voice and talked all the time, but not really ‘to’ us unless he was upset. He swore and yelled a lot, and I was afraid of him. Once, he came to visit The Home and brought us all into the den to tell us that he was not my sisters' ‘real’ father - only mine. Since he made me feel small and nervous, I wished he wasn’t my real father, either.

The girl who had wished Missus was her mother turned to me, smiling. “Liz, you are my Sister-In-Christ! We are all in God's family!”

That may have been all well and good for her, but it didn’t console me one bit. If we were all in God’s family, that would include people all over the world I didn’t even know. Adding strangers to our family took away all the meaning! Who wanted to be in a family who didn’t love each other, or really know anyone? This home, these girls were my ‘real’ family, and Mister and Missus were my parents. Weren’t they?

Looking for some time alone, I asked if I could walk our new dog, Benji, but was told I could sit in the cellar with him instead, to keep him company. Making sure no one could hear me, I poured out my heart to him, going on and on about how frightened and lonely I felt, not even really sure why.

I sat Indian-style on the floor, my back pressed against the uneven, mini-boulders that served as the cellar walls, as Benji nipped at my fingers, trying to entice me to play tug-of-war with a tattered towel he’d found. After a while, he seemed to sense my mood and curled up in my lap with his head on my leg. Eventually, running out of words, I rose to my feet and kissed my dog‘s fuzzy brown muzzle, avoiding his wet nose with my lips.

Was he really anyone’s dog? I wasn’t sure, and was just beginning to realize for the first time that I was living in a home for girls. Everything I thought was mine, every photo, every toy, my own bed and even my second-hand clothes, weren’t really mine, after all, were they? It had all been a dream. This big beautiful home was not my home. They were just letting me live here, that’s all. I slowly took the stairs one-by-one to the first floor. A pitch black fog of loneliness descended over me, chilling my seven-year-old heart.

‘Tomorrow’ came, whether I liked it, or not. The talk at breakfast was about Benji taking ill in the night, and what time were Mister and Missus leaving? At some point, the last of their belongings were loaded into the car as the girls thronged around them. I hung back, feeling invisible, wishing I was bubbly and cute enough to demand their attention as they shut the doors, rolling down the windows to finish their good-byes.

“Remember, love is for keeps!” Missus reminded us all. Sensing that I wouldn’t be able keep my emotions from spilling out and ruining everything, I retreated back into the house to the Music Room where I could fall apart in solitude. Helplessly resting my chin on the windowsill, I watched as the car inched slowly out of the driveway, blinker on, waiting for traffic to let them in. I counted up to twelve blinks before Mister’s car pulled onto the busy street.

Blankly staring at the vacant driveway, tears began streaming down my face and my whole body melted with emotion. The girls began filing back into the house and after a few minutes, the head staff worker poked her head into the doorway, finding me alone on the chair, willing the road to magically deposit Mister and Missus back in our driveway.

“What’s the matter, Liz?” she asked, “Everything is going to be ok - you‘ll see.”

“I’m sad about Benji,” I lied. My hurt was so deep, I didn’t want to share it with anyone.

“Benji will be just fine. Dogs get sick all the time. It’s time to eat, now - come on out and join the rest of us,” her voice faded as she collected girls throughout the house.

I stole one more hopeful glance out the window. Seeing that Mister and Missus were not coming back, I wiped my nose and eyes on my sleeve, sighed deeply to try to get rid of my crybaby-hiccups and bravely made my way to the dining room to join what was left of my family.

MISTER - Chapter II

Chapter Two - Summer, 1971


Mister was preaching for what seemed like forever. He had his Bible open, but always quoted most of his sermon verses from memory, just like at home. He was telling the congregation about The Boylston Home for Girls, a ministry of WCTU and Child Evangelism Fellowship, which housed ten or more of us girls at any given time, finding ourselves at The Home for many different reasons. We all had one thing in common. We weren’t able to live with our parents. Beyond that, our stories were all drastically our own. At five years old, I was the baby of the group.

We girls were supposed to be good ‘examples’, and didn’t get to play with the visitor pencils or draw on the church bulletins like the other kids, so my vision glazed over at the stained glass windows, as I conjured up my favorite Sunday sermon daydream.

Looking down, I spied my very own white, fluffy invisible dog patiently lying in the church aisle next to my pew with a parrot on his head. The parrot hopped onto my lap, then up my arm to my shoulder. It was a very tame bird and tickled my ear with its beak. The minutes ticked on and on as my imaginary bird kept me company with his tricks. My knee-sock was slipping down my right calf, causing me to absentmindedly use the toe of my other shoe to inch it up my leg as I began to wiggle and fidget in the pew, and Missus glanced down to give me a stern look. Suddenly, I realized I was supposed to bow my head. I didn’t know how long Mister had been praying, but church would be over soon, so I lowered my bird down to the dog’s head. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said the dog smiled at me.

People rose to sing, and my fluffy white dog stood too, patiently waiting for me. I tried to figure out which people in the congregation knew all the words to each song, even in the second and third stanza. It was a tie between an older woman across the aisle and an even older man in the row in front of me. Earlier, the man must have really known the hymn, because he just held the closed hymnal in front of himself the whole time while he sang. For this one, though, I caught them both peeking at the words to catch up in-between verses.

I knew the service was officially over when I heard Mister say, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” The dog, bird and I followed Missus to go stand with Mister in the back of the church. When our foursome reached him, he effortlessly scooped me up into his arm, handing his Bible to Missus so he could shake hands with the congregation as they meandered past us, two-by-two. My animal friends disappeared into the crowd. I was sure they would be waiting for me when I came back tonight for the evening service.

Mister’s hand was warm. It enveloped my own, blanketing me to my forearm. His fingers were rugged, knuckles dotted with black and gray hair, holding me as people shuffled past, smiling, thanking him for his sermon and asking if the cat had my tongue. I relished the crowd, the tickle of fearful shyness tamed because I was safe in his arms.

“Great message, Pastor Beal! I’ll bet this little one talks your ear off at home, doesn’t she?” a dark-haired lady with her hair pulled severely into a bun helped herself to my knee, playfully pinching it as she sidled up to Missus.

Missus smiled, “Not really. She’s normally a quiet child.”

The lady leaned in closer to Missus, “It’s a shame she isn’t up for adoption. Which ones are her sisters again? That middle one is so striking with her dark hair and pretty blue eyes. The blonde - she’s the oldest? Why don’t their parents just let them go, or at least give up this little one?”

“Elizabeth came to us when she was only eight months old, and we’ve loved her ever since,” Mister said in response to the lady, who was now smoothing my dress over his arm. “When we first met the Bennett girls, we were so thankful we could keep them all together, and that continues to be our desire.”

While the lady continued to pepper Mister and Missus with questions, my skin shrank under my ruffles at her touch. I thought she was nosey, and whatever adoption was, I was very glad I wasn’t up for it. Finally, the lady moved on after commenting on my pin-straight brown hair, and the crowd grew sparse. Mister put me down, but I remained close at his side.

The other girls were gathering in the vestibule, some vying for attention, some whispering secrets to each other, all hungry and ready to go. Today we performed Jesus Loves Me in Spanish and the dwindling congregation offered praise to each girl they met as they made their way out of the church.

I held on to Mister’s finger as we walked to the station wagon, where he lowered the armrest in the front bench seat, letting me sit on it between Missus and him. I loved being next to him, tall enough to peer out the front windshield, away from the other girls. Sometimes, I had to crouch on the floor at someone’s feet or sit on a lap when we were all together, but this day, there was enough room for us all. We traveled a few miles, down Cilly Road, which, when you said it right was pronounced “Silly Road”, past the brick houses that lined our street, and pulled into the driveway of The Home.

As we all scrambled out of the station wagon like clowns from a buggy, I stretched my neck to see whether there were any black crows perched on the roof of our three-story home. The big, white house seemed like the tallest building in the world to me with its 1800’s Victorian ceilings, steep staircases, wide banisters and cement cellar. Though it was the only home I’d ever known, it still held mystery and the promise of an ever-elusive-trap-door-that-must-lead-to-a-secret-tunnel-somewhere. I had never found said trap-door, but imagined it was hidden so secretly, it would probably take years to discover.

My sister, Lisa, raced past me, stubbing her toe on the porch step, then planted herself on the ground and began to howl as the Older Girls swarmed past her into the house. Lisa and I, at seven and five years old, respectively, were members of the group called the Younger Girls. Our older sister, Robyn, age nine, was a Younger Girl, too, but got to do things with the Older Girls, sometimes. Ade, who was almost a grown-up, helped Lisa to her feet and ushered her inside.

Bible and Sunday School papers put away and hands washed, I made my way to the table, leery of what I might find. Sunday dinners weren’t usually too bad, in my estimation, but they usually included a vegetable that came from one of those big, silver, government-sized cans that Mister got down at the Wholesaler’s. My eyes spied canned carrots - the kind that have a brownish circle in the middle and turn to mush if you press on them with your fork. I snuck into the kitchen to ask Missus if I could have raw carrots with my dinner instead, but she was talking to one of the Older Girls, and I was taught that it wasn’t polite to interrupt a conversation. I ducked back into the dining room to see what else was on the table. Not finding anything interesting there, my eye caught Lisa, rolling around on the enormous braided rug in the living room. Giggling, I ran to her, begging her give me a pony ride while we kept out of the big peoples’ way. Obliging, she crawled as fast as she could with me on her back, whinnying and snorting with laughter as I held on for dear life to the back of her dress.

“Gir-rls. Din-ner,” Missus’ sing-song-y voice rang out from the dining room. Lisa and I made our way to one of the long tables as chairs scraped in and out, taking on the girls and workers of The Home. We all bowed our heads to pray as Mister’s booming voice gave thanks for the food.

I surveyed my plate, deciding what to eat first. Lisa and I had many previous discussions about how to approach a meal with both good and bad bounty. We always agreed that we should eat the unpleasant food first, then eat the best food last as a reward, but, as most days, I filled up on the delicious mashed potatoes first, then the meat, and finally, faced the remaining orange and brown mushy carrots.

“You’d better eat those while they’re warm,” some distant voice across the table warned, “or they’re going to taste worse when they get cold.”.

I held my stare, watching the steam from the vegetable slowly fade to nothing, then touched one of them with my finger. Right. They were cold.

Mister began his departure by stating that he’s ‘sufficiently sufficed’, excusing himself. We all held our breath, wondering if we were ‘it’ today.

“Would you be so condescending, stoop so low and be so bending, to excuse me from the table, Missus, Ann, Ade, Paula, Mary, Carol, Darlene, Shirley, Rosemary, Robyn, Elizabeth - and Mable?”

My sister, Lisa, let out an indignant squeal of delight. “I am NOT Mable!!”

We all laughed as Mister flashed a grin at Lisa, patting her head on the way past, and exited the dining room. Others followed suit, politely excusing themselves and clearing dishes off the table as they went. Soon, I was alone at the table, with only the cold carrots to keep me company, the once melted butter forming a yellow, spotty film on each one. If I could just slink away when no one was looking, I might make it to the second floor Den, where Mister was already watching something on the old T.V.

Pots and pans banged in the kitchen among the cheerful chatter and banter of some of the Older Girls. I made my move, sliding my chair out in slow motion so it wouldn’t screech across the bare floor. Walking backward into the living room, I knew my best bet was to go up the front staircase, avoiding the creaky stairs next to the kitchen. Past the living room, I raced through the front entryway, up the stairs, into the Den and hopped up on Mister’s lap. He was my ‘goals’, like at recess. Having safely reached him, I knew I would only get one or two disapproving looks later from whichever worker or Older Girl found my abandoned plate of vegetables.

I nestled in and placed my ear over Mister’s heart, listening to each beat. I liked how my head raised and fell as he breathed deeply and slowly, peacefully watching Shirley Temple call out for “The Grandfather” on the television set.

Eventually, I was found and told it was time to rest. We always rested after dinner on The Lord‘s Day. Usually I engaged Missus in a discussion about what resting means, and what if I couldn’t actually sleep - what would I do then? In vain, I explained the dread of complete boredom, and how long would I have to TRY to rest, and what time is it now, and will she remember to come get me because I won’t know what time to come out of my room, and what if she forgets and I stay in my room until bedtime - will I have to stay in bed for the whole night, too?

Resigned, I was ‘resting’ in the front Guest Room on Second Floor, which faced the road, excited to realize a parade was heading up the street toward the house. I hoped no one knew I was standing at the window, because rest time meant I had to lie in bed, whether I was tired or not. The drum of the marching band beat in my chest and I spied a clown or two and a Girl Scout troup. Coming up the road, I saw a beautiful woman in a gown with a white sash slowly being driven in a convertible car, waving to a small group of people a few feet beyond my view. Suddenly, she looked up to my window and waved at me, smiling. I fought the urge to look behind me to see if the wave was meant for someone else, and pressed my hand to the window, allowing one side of my mouth to curl up into a half-twitchy grin. I just knew Missus must have seen her wave to me from the music room below, so I dove onto the bed.

Now positive that I was much too excited to sleep now, I lay there counting as high as I could, breathing in at one, out at two, in at three, on and on past one hundred. Somewhere around one-hundred-thirty-six, my breathing became deeper and I slipped into a sunny day-nap dream of crickets and daffodils under a blue sky. If anyone was not as content and peaceful as I, on this day, I was blissfully unaware.

MISTER - Chapter I

Life has certainly been full of fleeting days and my schedule seems to have me by the throat more often than not.  I want to write, and yet the joy, the confidence to share lessons learned seems to wax and wane.  As the Lord and I work together on 'whatever lies ahead', I have decided to timidly share a story with you.  This story is one I have already committed to paper, and a tribute to the greatest man I have had the pleasure of knowing in my lifetime.  I knew him as not just a pastor, as a 'houseparent', as a friend to many - I knew him as the father of my heart.

So as I work on aligning my work priorities and time constraints with my Heavenly Father's plan (or even learning what that plan might be), let me share a few chapters of tribute to Earl Beal, my foster-father.

MISTER

November 26, 1995

Breathing shallow and barely audible, his eyes were fixated on something only he could see on the far, blank wall of his room in the nursing home. The damp cloth folded in thirds on his feverish forehead dwarfed his drawn face, his lips slightly parted as though he had no energy left to hold them closed. I was surprised that I felt no fear, no worry, no dread.

Instinctively, I walked around to the other side of the bed and drew up a chair to sit beside the greatest man I had ever known. The man I first knew simply as ‘Mister’. Over the years, he became “Grampy” to me – not just a name, but a graduation of belonging, offered by him to settle the question of whether we were family or not. As far as he was concerned, I was his. And that was all that mattered, as far as I was concerned.

“Hi, Grampy, I came to see you today”. It was the basic, simple greeting I entered with each time I stopped in. Not usually at a loss for words, I always felt a little uncomfortable initiating contact upon arrival, unsure of how to greet someone who is rapidly succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease. ‘Hello, there, remember me?’ just never seemed quite right when he didn’t appear to recognize me most days, hence the use of his name in an effort to somehow reassure him that I knew who he was, even in the most confusing moments.

Today was the day I had often pre-played in my mind, wondering if I would be able to bear the implications of a future without him in my life when the time came. I had received the call only 48 hours ago that ‘Grampy has pneumonia, and it looks like he isn’t going to pull through’, and spent the last two days alternating between visiting him and falling apart. This morning, I was relieved I didn’t have to just stand by the bed and talk to whomever else was in the room at the time when, what I wanted more than anything, was to spend some secret time alone with my hero. This morning, I found my opportunity, entering Grampy’s solitary presence with a deep sense of reverence and respect for the frailty of life. The room was dark and hushed as my husband left us to ourselves to walk the corridor with Michael, our restless, energetic toddler.

I slipped a tape into the old tape recorder on the nightstand next to his bed, hoping the soft music might reach Grampy somewhere deep inside. George Beverly Shea softly crooned out an old hymn or two in the background. Wanting desperately to connect, I began gently stroking Grampy’s forearm, remembering hearing somewhere that the sense of touch is the last to go. Or was it hearing? Sense of smell? No matter, I felt the need to touch him, to reach him somehow, hoping my gesture was as soothing for him as it was for me.

In my heart, I knew this would be the last time I would ever be able to express how much he meant to me. For a man who had lost the ability to walk, to talk, and at the last - to even eat, I wanted him to somehow know that his life had been exceptional, marked with untold sacrifice which didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated, to hear that his love had changed history. That he mattered.

“Grampy, you’re going home, soon. I can’t thank you enough for giving yourself to me and loving me when you could have easily walked away. You are the father of my heart, and you and I have always known that, haven’t we?” A tight, hiccuppy laugh was followed by a heavy, rolling tear.

“You have meant so much to so many of us girls when we needed reassurance that there really were decent people in the world who would go to great lengths to protect and comfort us.” My mind went back to the day I found out that, when there were years of lacking funds for three little girls left in his care, Grampy supported the siblings with his personal bank account. I was one of those little girls.

“I remember how you used to preach about Joseph in the Old Testament – how he loved his brothers, no matter what. You were always moved by his emotion and forgiveness, and your sensitivity touched me. Well, Grampy, you’re going to see Joseph soon, and the apostle Paul, Stephen the martyr, King David. Just imagine – you will see your own baby Roger, just like you always said you would, and your mother, too!”

“Most importantly,” I whispered, “Jesus is waiting for you.”

Grampy’s breathing halted for a moment, then resumed with an uneven cadence. For a moment, my mind refocused to George Beverly Shea richly singing Amazing Grace on the tape player, a fitting hymn for such a spiritual and intimate marker in time. I chose to be silent for a moment, in an attempt to respect and absorb the full essence and present unspoken connection between us.

The music swirled gently around us, enveloping us in a soothing embrace.

…Through many dangers, toils and snares…

Recalling a sermon I heard Grampy preach on the topic of heaven years ago, I leaned in closer with a gentle whisper, “Grampy, I remember you preaching about the first funeral you ever officiated.”

…I have already come…

“The little boy was only two years old, and only had a few words in his vocabulary” …’

...Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far…

“Right before he took his last breath, the little boy pointed up toward heaven and exclaimed, ‘Pretty!’”

…and grace will lead me home…

“Grampy, it’s going to be so pretty!” My words floated out more like a breath than a statement.

Somewhere between the solitary rolling tear and the present dampness covering my entire face and neck, the music player clicked to a loud halt. Grampy’s eyes had moved from the distant spot on the far wall. He was looking up.

Having re-entered the room at some point I hadn’t been aware of, my husband coaxed me out of the room, whispering something comforting into my hair. “He is ok. He is not here anymore. He is home.”

Gathering my coat around my shoulders, hating to leave him there, my grieving thoughts drifted back through time to the old Boylston Home for Girls where I had spent the first seven years of my young life, with ‘Mister’ and ‘Missus’ as the directors and house parents. I longed for those simple, wholesome days when life made perfect sense, yet I was thankful to have been able to love and be loved by such a great man and his wife.

Making my way down the silent hallway and bracing myself for the raw November chill, common in our little New Hampshire town, I felt the instant blanket of grief settle on my shoulders. Though it was oppressive and weighty, this sadness was somehow mingled with a keen awareness that our next meeting would be more joyous than anything I could possibly imagine.

A gusty blast of clean, frigid air confronted me instantly as the heavy glass doors opened to the outside world. Ears and nose stinging, I paused to close my eyes against the brightness of the sun, allowing myself to drift back to years gone by, and the memories that swelled my heart with an aching wistfulness…