But they had an audience—Henry’s wife, Marie, and Andrew’s parents. So rather than approach the topic that weighed heavily in his thoughts, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Beth got that commissioned cardinal scene finished, and it’s a beauty.”

Both Uncle Henry and Aunt Marie smiled, their pleasure apparent. Equally apparent was Mother’s worry and Dad’s disapproval.

Dad cleared his throat. “One picture doesn’t make a career, son. Don’t put too much stock in it.”

The cherry pie lost its appeal. He pushed the plate aside. For as long as he could remember, his father had discouraged his interest in artistic endeavors. How many times had he been told in a thundering tone that a man couldn’t make a living with pictures, that he needed to set aside such foolishness and choose something practical? More times than he could count. The only reason Dad tolerated his time at the studio now was because during the winter months he wasn’t needed as much on the farm. Yet Andrew knew that even when spring arrived he’d want to be in the studio. Unlike his brothers, his heart wasn’t in farming or hog raising.

Mother put her hand on Dad’s arm. “Andrew’s doing Beth a big favor by helping in her studio.”

“I know that,” Dad countered, his gaze fixed on Andrew. “And I’m not telling him he shouldn’t help her out. It’s a Christian thing to do. We’ve all offered Marie’s girl assistance in that undertaking of hers. I’m glad she’s enjoying it and doing well. But neither should he start thinking that one commissioned stained-glass art piece is going to lead to a career that could take care of a family, which is what Andrew needs to consider. I want him to think.”

Mother’s hand gave several pats before she pulled it away. She sent Andrew an apologetic look. Andrew gave her a slight nod to show his appreciation for her attempt at support, but he knew any further talk would only lead to an argument with his father. He’d endured enough of those in the past. Didn’t need one now.

Pushing his hands against the edge of the table, he said, “May I be excused?”

Mother nodded, her expression sad. As Andrew headed for his bedroom, he admitted having his mother’s sympathy was a small consolation for the constant disapproval he received from his father when it came to using his talent. His God-given talent. . .

Andrew paused in his bedroom doorway, absorbing the phrase God-given talent. Didn’t the Bible say that God gave gifts? And didn’t the Bible say man should not squander what God had given? Why couldn’t his father see past the end of his sunburned nose and recognize his way wasn’t the only way?

Too restless to turn in, Andrew reversed direction and returned to the dining room, where the four adults still sat sipping coffee and chatting. “I know Beth has plans for that February craft fair at the mall in Salina. Since she’s spent so much time on the cardinal piece, she’s behind on cutting glass for the cross sun-catchers that sell so well. I’m going to head over to the studio and do some cutting—help her out.”

Mother’s lips pursed, no doubt a silent reprimand for him having interrupted the conversation. Dad’s lips pinched, too. Andrew knew him well enough to read his mind. Dad didn’t want Andrew involved in the world of art. And he didn’t want Andrew entangled in Beth’s world. But it was too late. Andrew’s interests were fully entrenched in art. . .and in Beth.

Before Dad could form an angry blast, Andrew turned and headed for the door.

Taken from Beginnings (Sommerfeld Trilogy:  Book 2).  © 2007 by Kim Vogel Sawyer. ISBN 978-1-59789-405-0.  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. 

Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683
www.barbourbooks.com.