Ruth and Kid went down through Tennessee on their way to Arkansas territory.
Kid turned 19 in the beginning of February somewhere between Knoxville and Nashville. They marked it with a cake Ruth had made that managed to be tasty even with their limited supplies, socks she had somehow secretly knitted for him, and with a private celebration that left him very satisfied that it was his best birthday in memory.
"I want to worship somewhere today," Ruth declared one Sunday.
"Ain't that what we've been doing?" he asked with an amused look. "Worshiping?" Ruth never failed to conduct a service on Sunday even if it was the two of them. They sang together, prayed together, read scripture together. The only thing missing was the pews and they even had those in the back of the wagon.
"Oh, what you and I do is fine more than fine. Where two are gathered. I've just got a hankering to worship with other brothers and sisters in Christ is all."
"Well, don't look like we're near a town, but we can stop and ask for directions to a church, I reckon."
He stopped in front of a plantation house about an hour later. It was still early morning.
They went to the front door and a middle-aged black man answered it. He seemed to sneer down his nose at them, his own clothes being finer than theirs. Still, his tone was polite, albeit cold, as he asked them what they wanted.
"We'd like to speak to the gentleman of the house," Ruth informed him.
He didn't invite them in but left them standing outside while he went to get the said man.
A white man came to the door sans butler and adjusting his cravat. He saw the words Sister Ruth's Revival plainly on the wagon and surmised what they were there for before they'd even said a word. "My slaves practice Christianity already. They're having a church service as we speak."
"I'm glad to hear it. Then you won't have any trouble with us going and joining in, will you?"
"The misses and I are about to head to church ourselves. If ya'll are looking for a place to worship, our church makes room for all classes of people," he said condescendingly though it was plain to see the slaves weren't included in that number. "The negroes tend to get a bit rowdy in their worship."
"That's okay. I tend to get a mite rowdy too," she said honestly, her eyes sparkling with humor.
He gave her a look that said he believed it. "I see no reason to object," he said with a shrug. "I've had Baptist and Methodist pastors who've wanted to preach at them before. It does them no harm. I assume you're the reverend," he said, looking at Kid and his dark clothing.
"You would assume wrong. My wife is the missionary. If there's any preaching to be done, she does it."
"Hmm, well again you both have my blessing. They need all the religion they can get."
"You won't join us then?" she invited sweetly.
He scoffed. "No, ma'am, I won't. Now if you'll excuse me," and despite the polite words, he shut the door in their faces.
"He's the one you should be preaching to," Kid commented.
"Yeah, well, I can't drag him to a service kicking and screaming," she said with a smile. "I don't think he'd hear anything I'd say anyway."
It wasn't hard to find the slave cabins. Their singing voices carried in the wind, so they simply followed the sound.
"Brother, lend a helping hand
Sister, help to trim that boat
Jordan stream is wide and deep
Jesus stands on the other side
Michael, row the boat a-shore, Hallelujah!
Then you'll hear the trumpet blow, Hallelujah!
Then you'll hear the trumpet sound, Hallelujah!
Trumpet sound the world around, Hallelujah!
Trumpet sound the jubilee, Hallelujah!
Trumpet sound for you and me, Halle—"
It was a joyous noise, which fizzled to a sudden quiet mid hallelujah at the sight of the white couple out in front of their cabins.
"We want to worship with you all, my brothers and sisters. Ya'll got a preacher?" Ruth asked.
They stared at her as if they didn't know what to make of her. It wasn't that whites had never spoken to them about religion, but it was certainly the first time a white lady had ever done so and done so as if she thought they were equal in status. The white ladies they normally ran into would rather pretend they were invisible.
A man stooped with age and a lifetime of hard work stood up at last and spoke for them. "I usually lead through song and the stories we've been told, but we don't none of us read, so we'd be mighty glad to hear you read direct from the Word."
She smiled and opened her Bible to Jeremiah 23 without giving it a second thought. They listened with an eagerness of people who'd been deprived of water. There were lots of enthusiastic amens throughout. Kid had never heard so many amens.
She finished the passage by adding, "I read this to you all because I've heard of the lies that are given to you folks that you are less than others even by those in the pulpit. You must listen to the Lord's voice and not to men who claim to be His mouthpiece. This Bible I hold in my hand is the only source of absolute truth and I tell you all that it says we are all made in the image of God and that in Christ there is neither Greek or Jew, male or female, slave or free as we're all part of the same body. He loves us all equally. God will not suffer His people to stay in bondage forever, like the Hebrews the time will come that He will help you all be free, but He cares more about our spiritual bondage than our physical. Have you found freedom in Jesus? Christ is the Branch who will execute justice and judgment on the earth. We must pray for those who persecute us and pray that men and women whatever their race, color, or creed come to the One who will cover us with His grace. I wonder if I could get my husband to give his testimony?"
Kid froze in his seat. He'd promised to help her with her ministry, but he hadn't expected to do it in this fashion. He wasn't good at speaking in front of crowds least of all when it came to personal things. "Lord, give me the words," he prayed, not willing to disappoint the eager crowd or his wife.
He went to the front and she sat down. "I grew up in church. I believed in God and His love and mercy until my life was turned upside down. I—I shot and killed my brother when I was 16 in a hunting accident. I fell into a life of sin shortly after: women, booze, gambling. It was effective for a time in keeping me from feeling, keeping me from thinking on heavenly things, but God wasn't through with me. Sister Ruth came into my life with a message from Him that He is in the business of redeeming people like me who are as low as they come. She's not one of the false pastors. You can believe what she tells you about what's in the Bible. Well, that's all I got to say."
It was enough. 2 people came to Ruth to ask her how they could give their lives to Christ. They were saved and a lake nearby allowed them to be baptized them then and there. Then Ruth asked for the sick and infirm. There was a decided quiet again bringing the cries of hallelujah to a halt.
"You don't think the Lord who made your body can heal you if you claim His promise and it's in His will for your life?" Ruth asked. "Have faith, friends. Believe in His mighty power."
A few of the ones with ailments came to her and were healed. There were new shouts and cries of joy as they watched one by one healing take place in all of the cases but one and the excitement grew. If either Kid or Ruth had suggested they storm the plantation house at this moment, they would have gladly followed. Instead, she led them in the hymn "Amazing Grace". It was a familiar song but somehow took on a different life and vitality when sung by these people. Kid, who didn't often weep happy tears, felt emotion as he listened to the beautiful words.
The service ended and Ruth went around greeting everyone from the elderly to the babes.
"Bless you, Sister Ruth," were a lot of the responses she got with the Sister came out a little hesitantly, having never called a white person by so familiar a name.
Ruth collected hymns. She didn't leave without asking the old man that usually led about the song. He patiently sang the lines as she wrote down the words and corresponding shape notes on paper to keep until she could commit it to memory.
As they headed for the wagon, he grinned. "I bet your regular church crowd would throw a fit if they knew you were bringing them a song created by slaves."
She smiled. "Good music is good music, especially when the songs are sung to God, and it's my belief both God and music can help break down barriers."
"I've decided that I am going to try and see them, my family," he announced as he helped her up into the wagon. "I can't carry this burden around anymore."
"Good. It's about time you handed over that particular burden to God," she answered as he climbed up beside her.
A few minutes of quiet went by and then Kid asked, "What if they refuse to see or hear me? What if they can't forgive me?"
"Then that'll be on them, between them and God to work out. You'll have done your part."
A few more Sundays passed and a flat boat took them across the Mississippi River.
"You'd be right at home if we kept on going; we'd hit mountains again, but it won't be long now."
"What does your family grow?" she asked.
"Not corn and wheat and apple trees like yours. Just plain old cotton unless you count the kitchen garden."
"I don't know much about growing cotton. I'm interested in learning more about it."
"I know more about it than I ever wanted to know. I don't think I could ever go back to planting cotton but never say never, I guess."
It wasn't long after this conversation that he brought them to a stop in front of a small cemetery. It was a cold day in early March.
"I reckon it's only fitting that I see Ben first," he said.
"Do you want to go alone?" she asked.
"No," he answered immediately. "I wouldn't have had the strength to come here at all if it hadn't been for you. I need you."
She followed him to the grave marker. 3 years had passed and already time had begun to wear away the sandstone. The name and dates were still plenty visible though and the site well taken care of. No moss or ivy had been allowed to grow.
Kid's heart constricted with old and new grief. He had watched the funeral from a distance, not feeling he deserved to be a part of it and not wanting to add to his family's pain. Then the next day, he had left. Never even stopped to tell them he was leaving. He had run and kept on running, at least until he had run into Ruth.
He heard screams, his own right after the gunshot, his mother's when she'd seen Ben's body; he saw blood lots and lots of blood. He hadn't ever been so close to the grave and the reality of his loss hit him harder than it ever had. Tears slipped down from the corners of his eyes as the memories rose to the surface.
Her warm hand slipped into his, bringing him back to the present and reminding him that he had a reason to live in the present and a reason for peace that extended beyond the woman beside him, peace in the forgiveness he had found at the cross.
"You would've liked him," he said. "You and he were a lot alike in some ways."
He expected her to tell him something like he would see his brother again or Ben was experiencing perfect joy, true and comforting words but words that could belittle a person's grief. She didn't, however, she somehow understood that her presence at his side was all he needed at the moment and she only gently squeezed his hand with affection.
"Well, if it isn't the prodigal son," said a gravelly, hard voice.