From the Journals of Clara Whitmore, October 24, 1895 - Walnut, Iowa
The cold has settled more firmly over Walnut these past few days, the kind that makes the breath rise in small clouds and turns the fields a muted gold beneath the pale sky. There is a stillness to the mornings now, a kind of hush that feels almost reverent, as though the earth itself is holding its breath. The children arrived at the schoolhouse this morning bundled in scarves and heavier coats, cheeks pink from the wind, their laughter carrying a brightness that felt like a blessing after so many heavy weeks since the Webster barn fire. I felt something loosen in my chest at the sound…a small, unexpected warmth. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Their cheerful voices felt like a morning I had been waiting for without realizing it.
The Websters’ barn continues to rise, slow but steady. Each afternoon, after lessons, I walk the children home and linger a while to see the day’s progress. The men work later now, racing the early dusk, their lanterns glowing like small stars against the unfinished beams. Watching them, I felt a strange ache…not sorrow, exactly, but something close to longing. Perhaps it was the sight of so many hands working together, each man giving what he could. “Let us not be weary in well doing…” It seems the whole town has taken that verse to heart, and I find myself wishing I could give more than my small offerings of time and presence.
Earlier today, I stopped by the Branan Blacksmith’s on my way to the schoolhouse. The clang of hammer on iron rang out into the street…measured, patient, almost solemn. There is something grounding in that sound…as though each strike steadies the world a little. Mr. Branan was forging nails for the barn, each one shaped by hand. He said the Websters deserved a barn built to last, and that such things ought not be rushed. Watching the sparks leap and scatter, I felt a quiet stirring inside me…a reminder that strength is often made slowly, deliberately, one small piece at a time. I wondered if hearts are mended in much the same way.
This evening, I stayed longer than usual at the Websters’, helping Mrs. Webster gather the last of the tools and sweep the sawdust from the porch. By the time I started back toward town, the sun had dipped low, leaving the road dim and quiet. I had not gone far when I heard footsteps behind me…unhurried, familiar.
It was Josiah.
He fell into step beside me without comment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The lantern light from the barn had caught on him as he approached…his broad shoulders dusted with sawdust, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the faint outline of long hours of labor visible even beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. Something in me stirred. His stride was easy, unforced, and I found myself matching it without thought. There was a steadiness in him that felt like a balm quieting my longing sometimes for my sweet Beaty Creek. The home I left to come here where I know the Lord has surely called me.
We walked in companionable silence for a time, the only sound the crunch of frost‑stiffened leaves beneath our boots. When he asked about the students, I felt that new found warmth rise again…the joy of speaking of the children, of their small triumphs. Ethel’s careful sums, Henry’s newfound patience with his letters. He listened with rare attentiveness, the kind that makes one feel seen without being scrutinized. I wondered, not for the first time, if grief and loss of his wife and daughter had shaped such gentleness in him.
When we reached the boarding house, Mrs. Harrow ushered us into the kitchen with her usual bustling kindness. The room was warm, lamplight soft on the walls, the scent of stew lingering in the air. It felt like stepping into a pocket of peace. We ate quietly at the small wooden table. Josiah thanked her with a sincerity that made her beam, then turned to his meal with a gratitude that seemed to come from somewhere deep.
At one point, he paused, spoon resting against the bowl. His gaze drifted toward the window, though I sensed he was not seeing the street beyond. “My wife used to make a stew like this,” he said softly. “And my little girl…she’d sit on my knee and steal the carrots right from my bowl.”
The words settled between us like a fragile thing. I felt them in my heart…the weight of them, the tenderness. I did not ask for more. Some griefs are not meant to be touched directly. Instead, I offered the only gentleness I could, and he gave me a faint, grateful smile. I found myself silently praying he felt the Lord’s nearness, even if only as a whisper.
After supper, when he carried the dishes to the washbasin, he said, “It’s good to have a place where the light stays on a little longer.”
I wasn’t sure whether he meant the boarding house or something else entirely. But his words lingered with me. Some lights are small, but they hold back more darkness than one might expect. The Lord is faithful in all things.
The boarding hallway upstairs was dim when I climbed up the stairs later, the single lamp at the far end casting a narrow golden path along the wooden floorboards. The doors to the other boarders’ rooms lining the hallway. Simple wooden doors, each with its own small brass number, each holding its own quiet stories behind it. A few faint sounds drifted through the stillness…the creak of a bedframe settling, the soft thud of someone setting down a pair of boots.
My room, though modest (see photo above for how the Boarding Rooms currently look), felt especially comforting tonight. The quilt on the bed held the faint scent of lavender from the sachet Mrs. Harrow tucks beneath the pillowcases. The small writing desk beneath the window bore only my lamp, my journal, and a single vase with the last of the autumn asters. The walls, plain and unadorned, seemed to hold warmth all the same, as though the room itself understood the value of quiet refuge. I whispered a small prayer of thanks, remembering “Having food and raiment let us be therewith content.”
Tonight the quiet felt deeper than usual. Then I opened my great grandmother Esther Mae’s journal, seeking the comfort of her steady hand across the page. Her words, penned in her recognizable handwriting touched my heart…“The Lord often rebuilds a heart the way a carpenter mends a beam…”, felt like they were written for this very night. For Josiah. For the Websters. Perhaps even for me.
I do not know what lies ahead. But I feel its presence, steady and unhurried, like a lantern lit in the dark. “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”
And that is enough for now. I see God working each day in this place He has called me to…Walnut, Iowa.
The cold has settled more firmly over Walnut these past few days, the kind that makes the breath rise in small clouds and turns the fields a muted gold beneath the pale sky. There is a stillness to the mornings now, a kind of hush that feels almost reverent, as though the earth itself is holding its breath. The children arrived at the schoolhouse this morning bundled in scarves and heavier coats, cheeks pink from the wind, their laughter carrying a brightness that felt like a blessing after so many heavy weeks since the Webster barn fire. I felt something loosen in my chest at the sound…a small, unexpected warmth. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Their cheerful voices felt like a morning I had been waiting for without realizing it.
The Websters’ barn continues to rise, slow but steady. Each afternoon, after lessons, I walk the children home and linger a while to see the day’s progress. The men work later now, racing the early dusk, their lanterns glowing like small stars against the unfinished beams. Watching them, I felt a strange ache…not sorrow, exactly, but something close to longing. Perhaps it was the sight of so many hands working together, each man giving what he could. “Let us not be weary in well doing…” It seems the whole town has taken that verse to heart, and I find myself wishing I could give more than my small offerings of time and presence.
Earlier today, I stopped by the Branan Blacksmith’s on my way to the schoolhouse. The clang of hammer on iron rang out into the street…measured, patient, almost solemn. There is something grounding in that sound…as though each strike steadies the world a little. Mr. Branan was forging nails for the barn, each one shaped by hand. He said the Websters deserved a barn built to last, and that such things ought not be rushed. Watching the sparks leap and scatter, I felt a quiet stirring inside me…a reminder that strength is often made slowly, deliberately, one small piece at a time. I wondered if hearts are mended in much the same way.
This evening, I stayed longer than usual at the Websters’, helping Mrs. Webster gather the last of the tools and sweep the sawdust from the porch. By the time I started back toward town, the sun had dipped low, leaving the road dim and quiet. I had not gone far when I heard footsteps behind me…unhurried, familiar.
It was Josiah.
He fell into step beside me without comment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The lantern light from the barn had caught on him as he approached…his broad shoulders dusted with sawdust, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the faint outline of long hours of labor visible even beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. Something in me stirred. His stride was easy, unforced, and I found myself matching it without thought. There was a steadiness in him that felt like a balm quieting my longing sometimes for my sweet Beaty Creek. The home I left to come here where I know the Lord has surely called me.
We walked in companionable silence for a time, the only sound the crunch of frost‑stiffened leaves beneath our boots. When he asked about the students, I felt that new found warmth rise again…the joy of speaking of the children, of their small triumphs. Ethel’s careful sums, Henry’s newfound patience with his letters. He listened with rare attentiveness, the kind that makes one feel seen without being scrutinized. I wondered, not for the first time, if grief and loss of his wife and daughter had shaped such gentleness in him.
When we reached the boarding house, Mrs. Harrow ushered us into the kitchen with her usual bustling kindness. The room was warm, lamplight soft on the walls, the scent of stew lingering in the air. It felt like stepping into a pocket of peace. We ate quietly at the small wooden table. Josiah thanked her with a sincerity that made her beam, then turned to his meal with a gratitude that seemed to come from somewhere deep.
At one point, he paused, spoon resting against the bowl. His gaze drifted toward the window, though I sensed he was not seeing the street beyond. “My wife used to make a stew like this,” he said softly. “And my little girl…she’d sit on my knee and steal the carrots right from my bowl.”
The words settled between us like a fragile thing. I felt them in my heart…the weight of them, the tenderness. I did not ask for more. Some griefs are not meant to be touched directly. Instead, I offered the only gentleness I could, and he gave me a faint, grateful smile. I found myself silently praying he felt the Lord’s nearness, even if only as a whisper.
After supper, when he carried the dishes to the washbasin, he said, “It’s good to have a place where the light stays on a little longer.”
I wasn’t sure whether he meant the boarding house or something else entirely. But his words lingered with me. Some lights are small, but they hold back more darkness than one might expect. The Lord is faithful in all things.
The boarding hallway upstairs was dim when I climbed up the stairs later, the single lamp at the far end casting a narrow golden path along the wooden floorboards. The doors to the other boarders’ rooms lining the hallway. Simple wooden doors, each with its own small brass number, each holding its own quiet stories behind it. A few faint sounds drifted through the stillness…the creak of a bedframe settling, the soft thud of someone setting down a pair of boots.
My room, though modest (see photo above for how the Boarding Rooms currently look), felt especially comforting tonight. The quilt on the bed held the faint scent of lavender from the sachet Mrs. Harrow tucks beneath the pillowcases. The small writing desk beneath the window bore only my lamp, my journal, and a single vase with the last of the autumn asters. The walls, plain and unadorned, seemed to hold warmth all the same, as though the room itself understood the value of quiet refuge. I whispered a small prayer of thanks, remembering “Having food and raiment let us be therewith content.”
Tonight the quiet felt deeper than usual. Then I opened my great grandmother Esther Mae’s journal, seeking the comfort of her steady hand across the page. Her words, penned in her recognizable handwriting touched my heart…“The Lord often rebuilds a heart the way a carpenter mends a beam…”, felt like they were written for this very night. For Josiah. For the Websters. Perhaps even for me.
I do not know what lies ahead. But I feel its presence, steady and unhurried, like a lantern lit in the dark. “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”
And that is enough for now. I see God working each day in this place He has called me to…Walnut, Iowa.
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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