From the Journals of Clara Whitmore, October 10, 1895 - Walnut, Iowa
This evening, as the sun slipped behind the walnut trees and cast long golden ribbons across the prairie land surrounding Walnut…a view I have from my small boarding room window…I felt a stirring in my heart to write again. The past several days have been filled with such labor, such sorrow, and yet such unmistakable evidence of God’s hand, that I fear if I do not put pen to paper, the memory of it will fade like smoke on the wind.
The morning after the Webster barn fire, the whole town seemed to rise with a single purpose. Before the rooster crowed, men were already hitching teams to wagons, gathering tools, and heading toward the Webster farm. Women packed baskets with biscuits, jars of preserved peaches, and strong coffee boiled over their kitchen stoves. Even the children came, carrying small pails or simply offering their eager hands.
I walked the dirt road with Mrs. Harrow and young Anna, our skirts brushing against the tall prairie grass still wet with dew. The air held that crisp October bite, the kind that makes one grateful for a wool shawl and a brisk pace. When we reached the Websters’, the sight before us nearly brought tears to my eyes.
The barn…what remained of it…stood like a blackened skeleton against the morning sky. Smoke still curled from the charred beams, and the ground was littered with ash, broken boards, and twisted iron hinges. Yet amidst the ruin, there was movement everywhere…neighbors working shoulder to shoulder, their breath rising in white puffs as they cleared away the debris.
And there, in the thick of it, was Josiah Montgomery.
Quiet, steady Josiah, whose grief has carved deep lines around his eyes, worked with a diligence that seemed almost beyond human strength. He lifted heavy beams with the other men, his jaw set, his shirt damp with sweat despite the cold. He said little, but his presence spoke volumes. I watched him pause only once…just long enough to wipe soot from his brow with the back of his sleeve…before returning to the work as though he were carrying out a sacred duty.
I could not help but think of the verse from Galatians: “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” How beautifully Josiah lived that truth today.
There was a moment of unexpected commotion when dear Florence Malloy…from the church…realized she had lost her purse somewhere in the rubble. It was a small leather tooled purse, worn slightly with age, containing little more than her spectacles, a handkerchief, and a few coins. Yet she fretted over it terribly, for it had belonged to her mother.
Half the women began searching at once, lifting charred boards and sifting through ash with their aprons tied up like makeshift baskets. It was Josiah who found it at last, tucked beneath a fallen beam near the old feed trough. When he placed it gently into Mrs. Malloy’s trembling hands, she wept with relief and whispered, “The Lord is kind to remember even the smallest things.”
Her words settled over me like a warm shawl.
By midday, the debris was nearly cleared. The men spoke of plans…of hauling lumber from the sawmill, of cutting new beams, gathering again for a barn raising before the first snow. The women laid out lunch on a long plank set across two barrels consisting of cold ham, fresh bread, pickled beets, and apple butter. Children ran about with soot‑streaked faces, laughing as though the world had not burned this generational barn to the ground.
And through it all, I felt the unmistakable nearness of God.
It is a strange thing, how ruin can reveal His presence so clearly. As I watched neighbors labor together, as I saw the Websters’ hope rekindled, as I witnessed Josiah’s quiet strength, I felt the truth of Isaiah’s promise: “They shall build the old wastes, they shall raise up the former desolations.” God was already rebuilding what the fire had taken.
This morning at the schoolhouse brought its own weight of tenderness.
The four Webster children were absent, of course…needed at home for chores and comfort. Their empty desks felt like small griefs scattered across the room. The other children sat unusually still as I explained, as gently as I could, what had happened. Their eyes grew wide, some brimming with tears, others filled with a seriousness far beyond their years.
Little Henry Parker raised his hand and asked if God was sad when barns burned. I told him that while sorrow touches this world, God’s love is never diminished by it…that He draws near to the brokenhearted and works even in ashes. Several children offered to bring eggs, or a loaf of bread, or to help gather kindling for the Websters. Their willingness…so small in measure, yet so large in heart…moved me deeply. Children understand compassion in a way adults sometimes forget.
Later this afternoon, after returning from the schoolhouse, I felt compelled, as I often do, to reach for my great‑grandmother Esther Mae’s journals.
The leather cover is cracked with age, and the pages smell faintly of cedar and time. I untied the ribbon around the pages and opened to an entry written in her careful hand, dated years ago, where she described a storm that destroyed their small homestead shed. She wrote, “The Lord sometimes allows the winds to take what our hands have built, only to show us what His hands can restore.”
Those words steadied me. They felt as though they were written for this very week, for this very fire, for this very town.
This afternoon, as we walked back toward town, the sky blushed pink with the setting sun. The air still smelling of smoke and damp earth, but also of something new…something like promise. Josiah walked a few paces ahead of me, his shoulders tired but his steps steady. I wondered what thoughts filled his mind…whether he felt the same quiet assurance I did, that God is working even in the ashes.
Tonight, as I sit in my small room with the lamplight flickering softly, I feel a deep peace. The barn is gone, yes. But faith remains. Friendship remains. God remains.
And I believe…truly believe in my heart…that what rises in its place will be a testimony to His goodness.
Before I close this entry, one verse rests sweetly on my heart…
“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it.” Psalm 127:1
How comforting to know that the same God who watches over sparrows watches over barns, families, widowers, schoolteachers…and small towns like Walnut.
May His hand continue to guide us.
Clara Whitmore
(As imagined by Shelly Thompson)
**Interesting facts about the journal entries. My great grandfather was Milton Webster McKeever and my great grandmother was Sarah McKeever. The Barn that burned in this journal entry belonged to Milton and Sarah Webster. I used their first names with my great grandfathers middle name as the last name of the family in the journal entry. They also had four children, including my grandmother Millie McKeever, that our shop is named after. There are many hidden things within these journals.
This evening, as the sun slipped behind the walnut trees and cast long golden ribbons across the prairie land surrounding Walnut…a view I have from my small boarding room window…I felt a stirring in my heart to write again. The past several days have been filled with such labor, such sorrow, and yet such unmistakable evidence of God’s hand, that I fear if I do not put pen to paper, the memory of it will fade like smoke on the wind.
The morning after the Webster barn fire, the whole town seemed to rise with a single purpose. Before the rooster crowed, men were already hitching teams to wagons, gathering tools, and heading toward the Webster farm. Women packed baskets with biscuits, jars of preserved peaches, and strong coffee boiled over their kitchen stoves. Even the children came, carrying small pails or simply offering their eager hands.
I walked the dirt road with Mrs. Harrow and young Anna, our skirts brushing against the tall prairie grass still wet with dew. The air held that crisp October bite, the kind that makes one grateful for a wool shawl and a brisk pace. When we reached the Websters’, the sight before us nearly brought tears to my eyes.
The barn…what remained of it…stood like a blackened skeleton against the morning sky. Smoke still curled from the charred beams, and the ground was littered with ash, broken boards, and twisted iron hinges. Yet amidst the ruin, there was movement everywhere…neighbors working shoulder to shoulder, their breath rising in white puffs as they cleared away the debris.
And there, in the thick of it, was Josiah Montgomery.
Quiet, steady Josiah, whose grief has carved deep lines around his eyes, worked with a diligence that seemed almost beyond human strength. He lifted heavy beams with the other men, his jaw set, his shirt damp with sweat despite the cold. He said little, but his presence spoke volumes. I watched him pause only once…just long enough to wipe soot from his brow with the back of his sleeve…before returning to the work as though he were carrying out a sacred duty.
I could not help but think of the verse from Galatians: “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” How beautifully Josiah lived that truth today.
There was a moment of unexpected commotion when dear Florence Malloy…from the church…realized she had lost her purse somewhere in the rubble. It was a small leather tooled purse, worn slightly with age, containing little more than her spectacles, a handkerchief, and a few coins. Yet she fretted over it terribly, for it had belonged to her mother.
Half the women began searching at once, lifting charred boards and sifting through ash with their aprons tied up like makeshift baskets. It was Josiah who found it at last, tucked beneath a fallen beam near the old feed trough. When he placed it gently into Mrs. Malloy’s trembling hands, she wept with relief and whispered, “The Lord is kind to remember even the smallest things.”
Her words settled over me like a warm shawl.
By midday, the debris was nearly cleared. The men spoke of plans…of hauling lumber from the sawmill, of cutting new beams, gathering again for a barn raising before the first snow. The women laid out lunch on a long plank set across two barrels consisting of cold ham, fresh bread, pickled beets, and apple butter. Children ran about with soot‑streaked faces, laughing as though the world had not burned this generational barn to the ground.
And through it all, I felt the unmistakable nearness of God.
It is a strange thing, how ruin can reveal His presence so clearly. As I watched neighbors labor together, as I saw the Websters’ hope rekindled, as I witnessed Josiah’s quiet strength, I felt the truth of Isaiah’s promise: “They shall build the old wastes, they shall raise up the former desolations.” God was already rebuilding what the fire had taken.
This morning at the schoolhouse brought its own weight of tenderness.
The four Webster children were absent, of course…needed at home for chores and comfort. Their empty desks felt like small griefs scattered across the room. The other children sat unusually still as I explained, as gently as I could, what had happened. Their eyes grew wide, some brimming with tears, others filled with a seriousness far beyond their years.
Little Henry Parker raised his hand and asked if God was sad when barns burned. I told him that while sorrow touches this world, God’s love is never diminished by it…that He draws near to the brokenhearted and works even in ashes. Several children offered to bring eggs, or a loaf of bread, or to help gather kindling for the Websters. Their willingness…so small in measure, yet so large in heart…moved me deeply. Children understand compassion in a way adults sometimes forget.
Later this afternoon, after returning from the schoolhouse, I felt compelled, as I often do, to reach for my great‑grandmother Esther Mae’s journals.
The leather cover is cracked with age, and the pages smell faintly of cedar and time. I untied the ribbon around the pages and opened to an entry written in her careful hand, dated years ago, where she described a storm that destroyed their small homestead shed. She wrote, “The Lord sometimes allows the winds to take what our hands have built, only to show us what His hands can restore.”
Those words steadied me. They felt as though they were written for this very week, for this very fire, for this very town.
This afternoon, as we walked back toward town, the sky blushed pink with the setting sun. The air still smelling of smoke and damp earth, but also of something new…something like promise. Josiah walked a few paces ahead of me, his shoulders tired but his steps steady. I wondered what thoughts filled his mind…whether he felt the same quiet assurance I did, that God is working even in the ashes.
Tonight, as I sit in my small room with the lamplight flickering softly, I feel a deep peace. The barn is gone, yes. But faith remains. Friendship remains. God remains.
And I believe…truly believe in my heart…that what rises in its place will be a testimony to His goodness.
Before I close this entry, one verse rests sweetly on my heart…
“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it.” Psalm 127:1
How comforting to know that the same God who watches over sparrows watches over barns, families, widowers, schoolteachers…and small towns like Walnut.
May His hand continue to guide us.
Clara Whitmore
(As imagined by Shelly Thompson)
**Interesting facts about the journal entries. My great grandfather was Milton Webster McKeever and my great grandmother was Sarah McKeever. The Barn that burned in this journal entry belonged to Milton and Sarah Webster. I used their first names with my great grandfathers middle name as the last name of the family in the journal entry. They also had four children, including my grandmother Millie McKeever, that our shop is named after. There are many hidden things within these journals.
Make sure and follow all The Hinckley Boarding House Journals. A place where long‑forgotten journals come alive, vintage pieces find their stories, and a quieter, simpler way of living unfolds on every page. Click here if you've just found this page and would like to read from the beginning.
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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