“COUNT UP YER MARCIES, ‘ZEKEL.”
By Willamette J. Preston
It must be confessed that Deacon Lawson was in an unusual frame of mind this Thanksgiving morning. He had started the fire at four o’clock, a full hour earlier than usual, and bustled about until quiet Mrs. Lawson caught his uneasiness and hastened her preparations for breakfast. But the deacon could not eat. “Can’t ye put up a basket o’ pies an’ fixin’s fur the Ellises?” he asked, pushing back from the breakfast table. “I’m actooly a-feared they hain’t much in the house fur dinner.” Mrs. Lawson looked at the deacon in wide-eyed wonder. Was he sick? She never knew him to change his mind before. She had wanted to send some things over yesterday, but the deacon had peremptorily forbidden it. Crops had been smaller than usual, and the deacon felt proportionally poorer. He stood by the table and watched his wife as she packed the basket. “Guess ye might as well put in that chicken pie—we sha’n’t need it overmuch with turkey; and fill up the chinks with yer seed cakes, now.” “It must be ‘cause Deacon Elkins is away, and he’s got to lead the meetin’,” thought Mrs. Lawson, as she watched her husband drive out of the yard. Then she returned to her morning work, singing one of her favorite hymns. A load was taken from her mind with the heavily laden basket. She had not finished her preparations for dinner when the deacon returned. “Be ye going to the sarvice?” he inquired anxiously. “Of course I am,” replied Mrs. Lawson. “What would folks say not to see me, the deacon’s wife, there? It’s few enough chances we have for worship, anyhow.” “I wish Deacon Elkins had stayed to hum. I do, sartin!” exclaimed the deacon, fidgeting uneasily in his chair. “I don’t feel equal to it, nohow.” “Then why don’t you hunt up some one to preach regular?” inquired his wife. The deacon could endure it no longer. He jumped up and left the room, slamming the door behind him, and strode off to the barn. An hour passed by, then another. Mrs. Lawson had finished her work and had dressed for the day. The huge turkey was roasting in the oven. Ten o’clock, half past ten, quarter of eleven, and no deacon appeared. It was well that Mrs. Lawson was acquainted with his eccentricities, having patiently borne with them for the last thirty years. She put on her bonnet and shawl and sat down by the window. Five minutes of eleven; at that instant the deacon drove up to the door. Mrs. Lawson hurried out; the deacon snapped his whip, and they were off.10 The service was to be held in the schoolhouse, a half mile distant. There had been a flourishing church here years before; but the leading members had moved away, some had died, and it became almost impossible to support a pastor. Finally, as a climax to their misfortunes, the church and parsonage had been destroyed by fire. The two deacons had regarded this as a final catastrophe, and had not tried to revive the interest of the people. Fast day and Thanksgiving were always observed, and occasionally a traveling minister would speak to them upon the Sabbath. This Thanksgiving service was a special trial to our good deacon. His friend and co-worker had gone away for a week, leaving him with all the responsibility. Yet even this did not account for his uneasiness of the morning. This had disappeared before he reached the schoolhouse door. The room was almost full. Mrs. Lawson slipped into a seat by the door between two of her neighbors. The deacon, looking neither to the right nor left, marched down to the platform. He gave out a hymn, which was sung with a will, after which he called on another brother to lead in prayer. Just then Mrs. Lawson started in alarm. She had forgotten to bring the volume of sermons from which they had, the evening before, selected an appropriate one. What a predicament they were in! She was sure the deacon couldn’t think of a thing to say. She wondered if she ought to send little Salma Tucker back to the house for it. At that moment the deacon arose, and began to speak. His face was pale, his eyes were flashing with suppressed excitement. “Brethren and friends,” he began, his voice trembling with emotion, “I meant to have read ye a first-class sermon to-day, but it’s been borne in on my mind that I’d better tell ye my experience for the last twenty-four hours. The Lord has appeared to me, and showed me what I really was. P’rhaps ye’ll think it’s a queer thing to say Thanksgiving day, but I’ve never felt so small an’ mean in my life as I do to-day. An’ I thank the Lord for it. Ye all know that crops ha’n’t been first rate this year, an’ I thought I must pull in somewhere, an’, of course, I wasn’t going to pinch myself, so I thought I’d give up something else, where I shouldn’t feel it. Wal, I did, no matter what it was, I should be ashamed to tell ye; but when I got down to read over the discourse that I’d chosen fur ye to-day, the words stuck in my throat. I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep, an’ the Lord seemed to come close an’ hold a reckonin’ with me. “‘Count up yer marcies, ‘Zekel,’ he seemed to say. ‘Count up yer marcies, ‘Zekel.’ An’ then I thought of the things I had to be thankful fur. Why, what I’d lost in one way was made up in another. What if the oats didn’t more’n half fill, it was made up in the hay; an’ so it went. Then there was some special marcies, only I’d thought I’d kind of earned ‘em. “The Lord jest opened my eyes, ‘n’ gave me a good lecture. I could see plainly that I’d been shirkin’ my dooty, lettin’ things get so here. We ought to have a church ‘n’ preacher of our own. Why, what does the word ‘thanksgivin’ mean but givin’ thanks? An’ shall we give the Lord what costs us nothin’, just the leavin’s that we can’t use? “I tell ye, I’ve had my eyes opened. ‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,’ the Good Book says. An’ now let’s each of us count up our marcies, an’ then give accordin’. P’rhaps we should get enough to hire a preacher fur a year. Squire Haskell, let’s hear your idees.” The deacon sat down, and wiped the perspiration from his face. It had been hard for him to speak of his failings. The ball was set rolling, however, and all were willing to give it a push. The usual hour of service lengthened to two—such a service as the little town of Deweysburg had never known. At its close a subscription paper was drawn up. The deacon’s quaintly-put advice, “Count up yer marcies,” headed the paper. What matter if the turkey was done to a crisp, and dinner itself was an hour later? Not one of the little company would have missed Deacon Lawson’s forceful remarks. All through the village the report of the deacon’s words spread like wild-fire, and aroused an unusual interest. “Count up yer marcies, ‘Zekel,” came to be their watchword, and each gave as the Lord had prospered him. Those who could not spare money, gave timber or work. Even the children gave their hoarded pennies toward a new church. When spring came, it did not take long to complete the church. The first Sabbath in July it was dedicated. A young minister offered to stay a year for a very small salary. “I declare, wife, every time I count up my marcies, I feel like giving more and more,” exclaimed the deacon. “I believe we can do it yet.” Do it? Of course they could, and did. “Count up yer marcies, ‘Zekel,” with the remembrance of the deacon’s quaint but forceful remarks, tided them over many a hard place, and enabled them to make many improvements. “An’ it all began with that Thanksgivin’ dinner for the Ellises,” remarked Mrs. Lawson for perhaps the twentieth time.—Willamette J. Preston, in Congregationalist.