The Strength of God

The Reverend Curtis Hartman was pastor of the
Presbyterian Church of Winesburg, and had been in that
position ten years. He was forty years old, and by his
nature very silent and reticent. To preach, standing in
the pulpit before the people, was always a hardship for
him and from Wednesday morning until Saturday evening
he thought of nothing but the two sermons that must be
preached on Sunday. Early on Sunday morning he went
into a little room called a study in the bell tower of
the church and prayed. In his prayers there was one
note that always predominated. "Give me strength and
courage for Thy work, O Lord!" he pleaded, kneeling on
the bare floor and bowing his head in the presence of
the task that lay before him.

The Reverend Hartman was a tall man with a brown beard.
His wife, a stout, nervous woman, was the daughter of a
manufacturer of underwear at Cleveland, Ohio. The
minister himself was rather a favorite in the town. The
elders of the church liked him because he was quiet and
unpretentious and Mrs. White, the banker's wife,
thought him scholarly and refined.

The Presbyterian Church held itself somewhat aloof from
the other churches of Winesburg. It was larger and more
imposing and its minister was better paid. He even had
a carriage of his own and on summer evenings sometimes
drove about town with his wife. Through Main Street and
up and down Buckeye Street he went, bowing gravely to
the people, while his wife, afire with secret pride,
looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and
worried lest the horse become frightened and run away.

For a good many years after he came to Winesburg things
went well with Curtis Hartman. He was not one to arouse
keen enthusiasm among the worshippers in his church but
on the other hand he made no enemies. In reality he was
much in earnest and sometimes suffered prolonged
periods of remorse because he could not go crying the
word of God in the highways and byways of the town. He
wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in
him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new
current of power would come like a great wind into his
voice and his soul and the people would tremble before
the spirit of God made manifest in him. "I am a poor
stick and that will never really happen to me," he
mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile lit up his
features. "Oh well, I suppose I'm doing well enough,"
he added philosophically.

The room in the bell tower of the church, where on
Sunday mornings the minister prayed for an increase in
him of the power of God, had but one window. It was
long and narrow and swung outward on a hinge like a
door. On the window, made of