He stopped and closed his eyes. The record ended and the needle scratched its rhythmic sketch on the ribbed vinyl. Untended. Ignored.
“I—”
“Fred?”
Now Dorothy stopped swaying and took his face in her hands. She couldn’t tell from the look of him whether or not she wanted to hear what he struggled to say.
“What Fred? What is it?”
He took a long breath, and with it the most serene smile spread across his face. In that moment, in the cool dark night, with a breeze ruffling the strands of hair that fell across his brow, she knew the next words he spoke would seal her future.
And they did.
“Darling girl,” he sighed, slipping his head sideways to kiss her palm that still cradled his cheek. “I don’t think there’s any place in this entire world I will ever want to be except here. With you. Wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing. That’s where I want to be.”
Somehow, in that moment, everything around her kept doing what they’d always done. The trees kept swaying, the moon kept shining, the night insects kept up their song, the Victrola needle kept skritchety-scratching. But Dorothy knew that from that moment nothing would ever be the same. Everything in her was newly born. Tonight for the first time in her life she knew that her heart was whole. Because he stayed.
Fred Chambers and
Dorothy Kinney, M.D.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IF I HAD BEEN HOME
March 1936
Letter to Dorothy’s sister
Dearest Marian:
Altho I will be writing to Mother and Dad, I wish you’d treat the following with strictest confidence. If I could have been home, this wouldn’t have to be written, but if I had been home it would never have happened—so I’m glad I’m here. I have debated whether to write now or later but decided that it might be too much of a bombshell if things go as they may.
I’m in love—I am afraid—really, deeply and overwhelmingly so. It is an entirely new experience and there is no other diagnosis I can pin on it. You may have read of the death about one and a half years ago of Irene Chambers, the wife of one of our missionaries out here—Fred Chambers. He is in the High School work in our mission at Jorhat. He is splendid, Marian, about my age, and one of the—if not the grandest man I’ve ever known. Marian, you know my longing for home and family. Do you think I’d be a shirker if I were to marry? There are so many, many problems in it with one who has been trained as I’ve been, and yet I’m still human and still a woman. Tell me honestly what you think.
We are spending our vacation this year in Shillong and shall see a good deal of each other, and I don’t dare to say anything about it at home until I know definitely how things are going to turn out. I think Fred feels toward me about as I feel toward him. Pray for me, Marian, that whatever I or we do may be the right thing and do let me hear from you.
She felt so wicked now. Unconscionably deceitful. Writing secret letters to her sister. Lying to her parents.
Dorothy forced herself to put aside conscience and look at her situation logically. It was only March of 1936. It wasn’t really lying. More like shielding the truth until it could be shared in a more congenial light.
Yes, that was it. A more congenial light.
She would drop a few very oblique hints in her letters home this spring, then escalate a bit in the summer so her parents had time to adjust slowly to the fact that she was truly going to marry.
Then in the fall of the year she’d outline a plan to be married by the end of the year. The very thought of it lit her face as she rolled a fresh page into her typewriter. Continuing her record of life and medical cases was paramount. She would—as she always had—write letters recounting her days in the hospital.
Just like normal.
April 1936
You will remember that I told you about a little four or five-year-old girl we have had in the ward for a long time. Finally despaired of her relatives calling for her so sent her over to the orphanage. About two weeks later the father came. Took her home and now about two weeks afterwards, he and a friend have come back.
The little girl’s father had left her here for weeks, and not once had a family member come to check on her. Dorothy stopped typing. It had gone well for this child, but for so many it had not. The casual way so many of these parents regarded their children no longer shocked her. But it would be very different one day, perhaps sooner than she thought, when she herself might be a parent. There could never be anything so casual in her own commitment to a child. But how did Fred feel about children? Could he disregard them so?
She needed to know, even as she already knew. He could never be so callous. She’d seen the way he stopped to chat in the children’s ward when she gave him a tour of the hospital. She’d seen in his eyes his genuine kindness and his respect for the little ones, and their immediate liking of him.
Dorothy slid the typewriter’s carriage slowly back to begin a new line of text and continued the child’s story. How blessed she was, how very fortunate, to know already that the man she was prepared to take as a partner for life shared her love for children.
And how blessed was this child that her father recognized the spark of something new and wonderful in his daughter and did not seek to stamp it out.
. . . They say that she has been singing and singing the four songs she learned while here, one of which is Jesus Loves Me, and has taught them to a number of the other children. The father said that he heard about the Christian religion when some of the folks from the hospital were out at a market day last year. He has not been happy since and wants to do differently. Wants to know more about Christ, and His teachings, and wants to bring little Habitri here and put her in school. He says that she has insisted on going to school with her brother, and in two weeks has learned to read three pages.
She has a good mind, and is a sweet youngster. I hope that things work out. There are no Christians in that village. “A Little Child Shall Lead Them”.
A sudden tear surprised Dorothy. There was so much happening here. So many changes in the hearts and souls of these simple, beautiful people. They were coming to know the God she had prayed to since she was large enough to sit on her mother’s lap with folded hands. They were learning about Jesus, His son. And time and again they would quietly give their hearts to Him.
April 1936
Saturday I took half of the nurses (Edna took the other half the day before) on a picnic down by the river. We found a place (rather Edna did the day before) where it was much like a beach at the side of a lake—clean white river sand, shady, and yet sunny. The girls roamed around, climbed up to inspect the water reservoir, etc. Then we had rice and curry. It was so good. They had big leaves that they had gathered at the compound before coming, washed them, and heated them—makes them soft and pliable. They used these for plates. We finished off with oranges. The sunset on the river was gorgeous—all cerise, gold and orange.
Monday morning I worked with the laundry almost all day, and we did about 200 lbs of washing–that is dry weight. We had all the clothes ready to hang up by eleven and most of them out on the lines. Would have had the others but ran out of line space.
We have a really big drying field to use during the nice weather. By one when the folks came back to work, the clothes were dry and ready to come in, and the other things were put out. I then showed them how to use the mangle (our version of an ironing machine with heated rollers), and it works quite well.
By five, everything that was to be mangled had been done, and all the other things had been folded and put away. We’re smart! Of course there are lots of things that we will have to learn by experience, and many tricks of the trade that are unknown to us as yet. However, our clothes are getting whiter and whiter.
Whiter and whiter. Even as their souls were discovering the purity of devotion to a Christian God.
But even as the locals came slowly to know about a Christian Go
d, they came even more quickly to know about the doctors in Gauhati who could save people from dying, who could repair a broken leg without leaving the victim crippled, who could bring both a mother and babe through a perilous childbirth.
Over the years the hospital’s reputation had grown, and grateful survivors had spread the word far and wide. Farther than even Dorothy dared to suspect.
April 1936
Last Saturday I went out on the village clinic trip, and got quite a thrill out of it. We saw over sixty patients and some very interesting cases. The little house at Rampur (where we had set up a small dispensary) seems to be doing a lot to stir up interest, and a former patient—a middle aged woman who came into the hospital with what we finally decided was hysteria several years ago, and who is now okay—is the chief assistant.
She is grand at chillowing (managing the people) and enjoys it.
We brought a little seven-year-old boy and a young woman back with us. A little girl of about four came in—tiny, chubby and pretty as a picture. Wasn’t at all afraid of us. Came (to the dispensary) because of a staphyloma of the right eye following small pox a year ago. Nothing to do for it just now, and no hope of the sight there.
She came expecting to be cured, and had her mother open up the car door and got in and sat by the little boy. Said she was going to Gauhati where they would make her eye well. It was rather heartbreaking all the way around.
Dorothy addressed and sealed the letter, reviving the pang of guilt over once again not having informed her parents of her plan to marry Fred Chambers, over lacking the courage to bring her love for him into the light of day. But how could she tell her father and still reassure him that she would not be abandoning her medical work? He was a missionary, too. He knew how things worked. He’d be shattered to think his daughter might make a choice that would so radically alter her life’s path.
The little girl she’d just written about had been more courageous than she. The child was so trusting, so confident that Dorothy could restore her eye that she had not a doubt in the world that she would get into that car with Dorothy and ride away half-blind and return whole. At four years old her courage and conviction were stunning. But more stunning was the way she handled her disappointment.
Some things were too poignant to write about, and so Dorothy just held them in her heart. No matter what words formed in her mind to tell the rest of the little girl’s story, her fingers could not manage to move on the typewriter.
It had nearly brought her to her knees having to explain to the child, then lift her out of the car to stand beside her mother, and then just drive away—after the little girl had simply smiled, bowed her head slightly, and whispered softly, thank you.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BEST LAID PLANS
May 25, 1936
This is strictly within the family and no mention must be made of it until I give consent—not even confidentially.
I hesitate to write in a way, until things are definite, and yet if I could be at home I would talk things over freely with you.
What would you say if I were to marry one of our missionaries out here? There is no engagement at present, but there may be. I am giving you a bit of warning so if it happens, you won’t have too much of a bomb shell. Also, I’m telling you, as I want your prayers that whatever comes may be the right thing in His sight.
Dad has met the man—Fred Chambers. Fred told me a while ago that he had a long chat with Dad at one of the summer assemblies in California several years ago—said Dad invited him to come down to his cabin.
I am learning to care very, very deeply for him. His first wife died about 1 ½ years ago. I am afraid that if he asks me to marry him I shall. Don’t think that either of us will go into it lightly. He feels very strongly about my work and feels that it must not be lost to the Mission. Fred is stationed at Jorhat at the High School there. They very much need a second doctor there and my going might solve more than one difficulty and would perhaps help Jorhat.
However, these factors have not entered into my thoughts and plans. I mean they are not influencing my thinking. I realize there are lots of problems to be settled and I don’t want anyone to think I am a piker. I’m a very human person and a woman and know my longing for a home and children. I told Dad of it but rather felt that he thought that single-blessedness was a price I must pay. I can’t think that way and I’ve never been able to think that way.
Of course, even if we decide to marry, it will be several months before it would be possible as I would have to give at least six months’ notice, etc. I know Mrs. McCarthy would understand as she told me very frankly once that if I ever wanted to do so, to be sure that she would give me her blessing and would not hold it against me in any way whatsoever.
It would be so much nicer if we could talk as I do want your reaction. When I came back to Assam this time, it was because I had a lot of faith that God knew and understood my desire for a home and family and that it was only “by seeking the Kingdom of God first” etc., that “these shall be added unto you”. I can’t help but feel that it is part of a plan.
I wish you both knew Fred. He is the most radiant person I know. I hope this may fill you with a joy like mine and not make you feel that perhaps I’m a quitter. Loads of love to the finest Father and Mother a girl ever had.
June 10, 1936
I seem to be walking on air most of the time these days, and it is hard to keep my feet on the ground long enough to get much of anything accomplished. The high spot of the day is the morning mail (Wink, I see where I have to apologize about what I said about not seeing how it was ever possible to write to the same person every day and find enough to say—I really never thought it would be possible but it is, and I am finding out that so many things that I always thought were impossible aren’t).
It seems queer that we have so many things in common with each other and yet never met until we came to Assam. He has taught in Denison, was student pastor at Boulder after Charles Thomas left for two years, then we got our degrees the same day at Mackey (His M.A. and I my M.D.). If you are interested you can find out something about him from the Sutherlands as he was a very good friend of theirs. Dad has met him, but may not remember him.
For the benefit of those of you who haven’t seen him, will simply say that he is taller than I by about two inches, maybe more, has light brown curly hair, very blue eyes, medium weight, rather on the slender side. There is only a few months difference in our ages.
He has one of the most radiant personalities that I have ever met—the most radiant. His Christianity is positively contagious. I know you think I am raving, but it is all true and you will find it out for yourself one of these days.
You will be wondering when the wedding is going to take place but I can’t tell you that yet. It probably will not be before the last of the year at the earliest altho I could wish it much, much sooner. As to whether we will be located in Jorhat or in Gauhati remains to be seen.
There is some talk of his taking over the student work here in Gauhati, but that is not to be mentioned. It will not be settled until after Dr. Howards’ visit out here this winter in all probability. His furlough (and therefore mine) will be due, I think, in the spring of ’38.
I know that Mother and Dad will be wondering about my work. That remains to be settled, but I am so convinced that this is the right thing to do that even if it meant giving it up completely, I would do it. It is all a part of a big Plan and of that I am absolutely sure.
Before I left home, before mother was taken sick, I was quite upset along several lines. One of them was that I felt that I couldn’t really live, even in my work, unless I could have a home, and that unless I could reach some sort of a solution to my problem, I couldn’t come back to Assam. In trying to solve that problem I came upon a verse in my reading one day that just sort of leaped out of the page at me. It produced a very decided effect on me, and I was convinced that the next step in accordance with God�
��s plan was to come back to Assam, and be patient.
I had absolutely not the faintest idea how or where or what was going to happen, but I was sure that it was part of the Plan. Things have fitted in like pieces of a puzzle, and I know that this is the right step and the next step. Fred feels the same way, but he has been very insistent that I face up to all the angles involved. He has been wonderful.
I am so gloriously happy that I couldn’t bear to have anyone be unhappy because of me. Fred will write after he has been down this month—when everything has been definitely settled. We know where we stand, but there are some things that neither of us want to write until we can say them first.
June 17, 1936
Just nine more days until Fred gets here. The days drag and fly at the same time. Do wish that you could all know him, but you will some one of these days. I can scarcely wait until he gets down here so that we can begin to get some plans made.
I am so happy these days that I sort of walk on air, and wish that you could all be here to share in the joy. Things have happened rather fast, as six weeks ago I was just beginning to think that perhaps something like this might happen. Margie and Mary are going to get a grand uncle as Fred is crazy about children. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man, particularly one that had none of his own, get along with tiny children or handle them any more beautifully than he does.
Dorothy posted her letters and hurried home. She knew she’d found the right words to prepare her mother and father. Now if only someone would spell out a plan for her, take the whole situation that could easily spin out of control and make sense of it. Not knowing exactly how her future was going to play out kept her on tenterhooks.
But today was no day for fretting. Fred had just arrived, and for the moment, nothing else in the world mattered one whit.
Dorothy reached the steps of the bungla just as Fred swung around the corner and jumped from his car. There was no holding back the fierce hug she gave him. Almost as fierce as the one Fred returned.
Courage in a White Coat Page 11