Photo taken by Shelly Thompson on one of the country roads catching the sunrise.
From the Journals of Clara Whitmore, November 1, 1895 - Walnut, Iowa
The day unfolded with a quiet sweetness I had not expected, the kind that settles gently on the heart like the autumn sunset…soft, steady, and somehow full of light.
The morning began crisp and bright, the sort of cold that nips at the fingertips but also sharpens the senses. Fall is showing signs of winter ahead. The children arrived at the schoolhouse bundled in their thickest scarves, their breath puffing in little clouds as they excitedly chattered about helping at the Webster place. Their eagerness warmed me more than the small stove in the schoolroom ever could. I was reminded of the verse, “And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works.” Today felt like a day for good works indeed.
After lessons, we walked together toward the Webster farm, each child carrying a small bundle, some with sandwiches, others with apples or jars of pickles their mothers had packed for the picnic. The barn frame stood tall against the pale sky, its beams reaching upward like hands in prayer. The men were already hard at work, their breath rising in steady rhythm with the swing of hammers.
Among the men, I spotted Josiah.
He stood near the south wall, lifting a heavy beam with two other men. His physical strength was evident, but it was the quiet strength that he carried, that made me fond of him. He worked without hurry, without complaint, his movements sure and deliberate. When he noticed us approaching, he set the beam down and offered the children a warm smile that softened the stern line of his jaw.
The children adored him. I watched as he knelt to help little Henry tie his mitten, his large hands surprisingly gentle. He listened as Ethel proudly recited a verse she had memorized for the occasion…”Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” Josiah nodded, eyes bright with something tender. I felt it too.
We spread our picnic on a quilt near the fence line. The children played a few simple games…tag, marbles, and a round of “Fox and Geese” in the crisp autumn air. Their laughter rose in the air, and even the men paused now and then to watch them, smiles tugging at tired faces. I sat with Mrs. Webster for a time, helping her pour cider. From her kitchen window, I noticed Josiah working with the men on the barn. There was something in the way he carried himself…a quiet humility, a strength tempered by sorrow that touched my heart.
As the sun dipped low and the children grew sleepy, I walked them back toward town. By the time I returned to the boarding house, the lamps were already lit. I found Josiah there, washing the dust from his hands at the pump. He had stayed later than the others, finishing a task he said “ought not wait for morning.”
We ended up sharing another late supper in the kitchen, just the two of us, as has happened more than once now. Mrs. Harrow had left a pot of stew warming on the stove, and the room glowed with a soft, golden light. We spoke mostly of the children, their eagerness to help, their small kindnesses, their laughter. But I noticed Josiah’s voice grew quieter as the meal went on, his gaze drifting now and then to some place far beyond the walls.
I knew where his thoughts had gone.
He spoke only once of them, his wife and little girl. “They would’ve loved a day like this,” he murmured, fingers tracing the rim of his bowl. “My Eveline…she always said children’s laughter was the nearest sound to heaven.”
There was a silence then, gentle but heavy. I did not try to fill it. Instead, I prayed silently that the Lord would comfort him, that He would bind up the brokenhearted as He has promised. “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” I hoped Josiah felt that nearness tonight.
When he finally looked up, there was gratitude in his eyes…quiet, unspoken, but unmistakable. We finished our meal in companionable silence, the kind that feels like a shared prayer.
Now, in the stillness of my boarding room, I think of the barn rising beam by beam, of hearts being mended in much the same way. Slowly. Patiently. Under the steady hand of a faithful God.
I do not know what the Lord is shaping in these days, but I sense His presence in each small moment…in children’s laughter, in shared labor, in quiet suppers, in the gentle strength of a man learning to live with loss. “He restoreth my soul.” Tonight, I feel that so deeply.
And that is enough.
As I sit here now, the lamplight soft on these pages, my thoughts drift unexpectedly to my beloved Beaty Creek…those quiet Arkansas hills where my great‑grandmother Esther Mae first taught me what it meant to serve with gladness. Days like this would have pleased her. I can almost see her now, apron dusted with flour, calling me to help carry baskets filled with food to a neighbor in need, her voice warm as she quoted, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
Those memories feel like a thread the Lord keeps weaving through my days here in Walnut, a reminder that the same God who walked with Esther Mae along the creek banks walks with me now along these Iowa roads. The same faith that steadied her hands steadies mine. And perhaps, in His kindness, He is stitching together something new in this place…in the rising of a barn, in the laughter of children, in the quiet strength of a man learning to hope again.
Tonight, before I close my journal, I offer a prayer for this town the Lord has set upon my heart…
Father, let Your peace rest upon Walnut. Bless the hands that labor, the hearts that grieve, the children who grow beneath these wide skies. Strengthen the weary, comfort the broken, and guide us all in Your ways. Make this little town a place where Your light is seen, even in the smallest kindness. Teach us to love one another well. And let Your Word be the lamp that leads us forward. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
The wind has quieted outside. The lamp flickers low. And I feel, deep in my spirit, that the Lord is near.
The day unfolded with a quiet sweetness I had not expected, the kind that settles gently on the heart like the autumn sunset…soft, steady, and somehow full of light.
The morning began crisp and bright, the sort of cold that nips at the fingertips but also sharpens the senses. Fall is showing signs of winter ahead. The children arrived at the schoolhouse bundled in their thickest scarves, their breath puffing in little clouds as they excitedly chattered about helping at the Webster place. Their eagerness warmed me more than the small stove in the schoolroom ever could. I was reminded of the verse, “And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works.” Today felt like a day for good works indeed.
After lessons, we walked together toward the Webster farm, each child carrying a small bundle, some with sandwiches, others with apples or jars of pickles their mothers had packed for the picnic. The barn frame stood tall against the pale sky, its beams reaching upward like hands in prayer. The men were already hard at work, their breath rising in steady rhythm with the swing of hammers.
Among the men, I spotted Josiah.
He stood near the south wall, lifting a heavy beam with two other men. His physical strength was evident, but it was the quiet strength that he carried, that made me fond of him. He worked without hurry, without complaint, his movements sure and deliberate. When he noticed us approaching, he set the beam down and offered the children a warm smile that softened the stern line of his jaw.
The children adored him. I watched as he knelt to help little Henry tie his mitten, his large hands surprisingly gentle. He listened as Ethel proudly recited a verse she had memorized for the occasion…”Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” Josiah nodded, eyes bright with something tender. I felt it too.
We spread our picnic on a quilt near the fence line. The children played a few simple games…tag, marbles, and a round of “Fox and Geese” in the crisp autumn air. Their laughter rose in the air, and even the men paused now and then to watch them, smiles tugging at tired faces. I sat with Mrs. Webster for a time, helping her pour cider. From her kitchen window, I noticed Josiah working with the men on the barn. There was something in the way he carried himself…a quiet humility, a strength tempered by sorrow that touched my heart.
As the sun dipped low and the children grew sleepy, I walked them back toward town. By the time I returned to the boarding house, the lamps were already lit. I found Josiah there, washing the dust from his hands at the pump. He had stayed later than the others, finishing a task he said “ought not wait for morning.”
We ended up sharing another late supper in the kitchen, just the two of us, as has happened more than once now. Mrs. Harrow had left a pot of stew warming on the stove, and the room glowed with a soft, golden light. We spoke mostly of the children, their eagerness to help, their small kindnesses, their laughter. But I noticed Josiah’s voice grew quieter as the meal went on, his gaze drifting now and then to some place far beyond the walls.
I knew where his thoughts had gone.
He spoke only once of them, his wife and little girl. “They would’ve loved a day like this,” he murmured, fingers tracing the rim of his bowl. “My Eveline…she always said children’s laughter was the nearest sound to heaven.”
There was a silence then, gentle but heavy. I did not try to fill it. Instead, I prayed silently that the Lord would comfort him, that He would bind up the brokenhearted as He has promised. “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” I hoped Josiah felt that nearness tonight.
When he finally looked up, there was gratitude in his eyes…quiet, unspoken, but unmistakable. We finished our meal in companionable silence, the kind that feels like a shared prayer.
Now, in the stillness of my boarding room, I think of the barn rising beam by beam, of hearts being mended in much the same way. Slowly. Patiently. Under the steady hand of a faithful God.
I do not know what the Lord is shaping in these days, but I sense His presence in each small moment…in children’s laughter, in shared labor, in quiet suppers, in the gentle strength of a man learning to live with loss. “He restoreth my soul.” Tonight, I feel that so deeply.
And that is enough.
As I sit here now, the lamplight soft on these pages, my thoughts drift unexpectedly to my beloved Beaty Creek…those quiet Arkansas hills where my great‑grandmother Esther Mae first taught me what it meant to serve with gladness. Days like this would have pleased her. I can almost see her now, apron dusted with flour, calling me to help carry baskets filled with food to a neighbor in need, her voice warm as she quoted, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
Those memories feel like a thread the Lord keeps weaving through my days here in Walnut, a reminder that the same God who walked with Esther Mae along the creek banks walks with me now along these Iowa roads. The same faith that steadied her hands steadies mine. And perhaps, in His kindness, He is stitching together something new in this place…in the rising of a barn, in the laughter of children, in the quiet strength of a man learning to hope again.
Tonight, before I close my journal, I offer a prayer for this town the Lord has set upon my heart…
Father, let Your peace rest upon Walnut. Bless the hands that labor, the hearts that grieve, the children who grow beneath these wide skies. Strengthen the weary, comfort the broken, and guide us all in Your ways. Make this little town a place where Your light is seen, even in the smallest kindness. Teach us to love one another well. And let Your Word be the lamp that leads us forward. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
The wind has quieted outside. The lamp flickers low. And I feel, deep in my spirit, that the Lord is near.
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Shelly Thompson, Owner of an 1875 historic Bank Building in Walnut, Iowa, that housed the Boarding Rooms in the late 1800's.
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Shelly Thompson is the Publisher for The Notebook Cafe -- Inspired Words for the Journey, and owner of Millie McKeever's Vintage & Home Decor and Coffee Bar located in the quaint historic town of Walnut, Iowa. 'The Gathering Room' offers a place where women gather to share a time of fellowship, devotion, and a tour the circa 1875 historical bank building restored by Shelly and her husband. Shelly is the author of two books. Entwined; now in its fourth printing; and Heart of a Warrior - A Legacy of Faith; in its sixth printing. Her current writing project is 'The Boarding Room Journals'. Taking a giant leap of faith Shelly left the corporate world in 2015 to pursue a dream God gave her of developing a monthly inspirational faith based online reading café of words and encouragement. Today, The Notebook Café reaches over one million people each month. Shelly has also developed The Notebook Cafe Annual Woman's Conference and women's retreat. In addition to operating The Notebook Cafe shop, Millie McKeever's Vintage & Home Decor, Shelly and her husband, Dave, spend time with their family and many weekends working on home renovation projects…that thankfully never seem to end.
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