A Bride for Donnigan

by Janette Oke

  “Parents can be very protective,” said Donnigan. “A new mother will often give her life to save her young.”

  Sean nodded his agreement. He had seen new mothers protect their babies before.

  “Guess she’ll take good care of him, huh?” he commented as they prepared to leave.

  But Donnigan continued to ponder their conversation even after they had turned their mounts and were on the ride home.

  Reproduction? It was a strong drive. Animals risked their lives to fulfill the inborn command of God. And that was just to bring an offspring into the temporary world. How much more important that one reproduce spiritual children—children who could be taken to heaven for that eternal life that the Bible spoke of.

  That was his job—as a parent—and yes, he would be willing to give his life to see that it was accomplished—that his children not be barred from the heaven God had prepared.

  Yet, what he was doing—what he was struggling to accomplish—somehow seemed to be falling short. And Donnigan did not understand why.

  Of all of the children, Eamon seemed to need the tightest rein. Donnigan often felt at a loss as to how to properly guide the young boy. To discipline after the fact seemed like shutting the barn door after the horse got out. If he could only instill in his son a desire to do right. But how? Eamon seemed to thrive on controversy—on bucking authority—on testing his parents. Why? Why? Donnigan asked a dozen times a day. Why so much defiance in a child who was loved?

  Eamon was not all bad. In fact, he had many good qualities, and Donnigan and Kathleen continually pointed them out to each other and to the young boy, reminding themselves daily to keep those good points ever before them. But so often the rebellion seemed to struggle with the good.

  Another thing that caused Donnigan concern was small Timothy. He followed Eamon everywhere he went, copying the actions of the older child, taking whatever order Eamon cared to give.

  If Eamon said, “Here. Throw this rock at that old gobbler,” Timothy threw the rock. If Eamon handed him a stick and said, “See if you can hit hard enough to break that window glass,” Timothy broke the window glass. When Eamon was disciplined for telling Timothy to do such things, he became more clever. He began to say, “Do you think you can tie the goat up by her tail?” Or “Do you think you could make an A on the house with this red paint?” Of course Timothy always thought he could, and Eamon could stoutly declare, “I didn’t tell him to do it.”

  It was a bad combination and one that worried Donnigan and Kathleen.

  “Mama, come quick. Eamon is hurt!”

  It was Fiona screaming as she ran into the kitchen. Kathleen dropped the bread dough she was kneading and rushed to follow the young girl, her eyes wide with terror. What had happened?

  “He played in the fire,” Fiona shouted over her shoulder as they ran.

  The fire. Donnigan and a neighbor man were getting set to butcher one of the farm pigs. A tub of boiling water was needed for dipping the carcass so they could scrape away the tough bristles. All the children had been thoroughly warned time and time again to stay away from the fire.

  Kathleen found the boy in the garden shed, curled in a ball, trying hard to keep from screaming over his damaged hands.

  “Oh, dear God,” she said after taking one look. Then she turned to Fiona, “Go get your father. Quick!”

  She managed to get Eamon to the house. He had given up on being brave and was crying in pain by the time she laid him on the kitchen table. The palms of his hands were fiery red with smears of black soot across them. Kathleen could already see angry blisters beginning to rise.

  “Oh, dear God,” she cried again. “Both of them. Both of them.”

  Donnigan arrived and took over. Kathleen felt sick to her stomach. She moved along the table and tried to calm the boy by speaking to him, pushing back his unruly hair, and running her hand over his flushed, tearstained cheeks.

  The other children began to gather, eyes wide, voices one minute filled with excitement, then silenced by the enormity of the injury.

  “He’s hurt bad,” Kathleen heard Brenna whisper.

  “He shouldn’t have played in the fire,” responded the motherly Fiona as she wiped away her own tears.

  Timothy just stared—wide-eyed. Then he started to cry. He backed away from the cluster and ran sobbing to the boys’ shared bedroom. Kathleen wanted to go to him, but she felt that she was needed where she was.

  They cleaned up the damaged hands as best they could, applied some healing salve generously, and bound them with white strips of a sacrificed pillow case.

  “I wish he could see a doctor,” said Donnigan.

  “But that would take hours,” responded Kathleen.

  “Let’s just do the best we can,” said Donnigan, shaking his head. “I hope we can keep the infection out of them. If we see even a hint of it—we’ll have to take him to Raeford by stage.”

  Kathleen nodded. They would need to be most vigilant in watching the boy.

  The story came out later. Eamon had said to Timothy, “Do you think you could drop this big rock in the hot water?”

  Timothy had accepted the rock and taken the dare.

  But as Timothy approached the fire and its boiling tub of water, he had stubbed his toe on a piece of firewood left to stoke the flames.

  Eamon, who was near his side to watch what the boiling water would do to a stone, saw the younger boy fall forward. He lunged to push him aside, and in so doing lost his own balance, falling with his hands right in the hot coals.

  So it was Eamon who took the consequences of his own disobedience. And young Timothy saw firsthand the cost of defying orders.

  The hands were slow to heal. Donnigan worried. First, that the hands might not heal properly at all. Then, how the disobedient, rebellious boy would accept having his natural independence totally taken from him. He had to be dressed, he had to be fed, he had to be groomed and cared for. He could not so much as take himself to the outside privy.

  At first he found it very hard. Fiona hadn’t buttered his bread right. Brenna hadn’t cut his pancake the right size. His shoe came untied the way Sean had tied it. His bed had wrinkles. People were never there quickly enough when he needed them. He grumbled and complained about almost everything. Donnigan would just say quietly, “If you hadn’t damaged your hands, you could be doing things for yourself.”

  Gradually the boy seemed to settle into his circumstances and accept his temporary handicap as his own responsibility.

  “I’ll sure be glad when I get these bandages off,” he would declare, but he didn’t chafe and fuss as before.

  Kathleen, who daily changed the bandages and clipped away dead and damaged skin, watching closely for signs of infection, knew that she would be glad also.

  As Eamon waited for his hands to heal, his attitude changed considerably toward the other members of the family. There seemed to be some special bonding taking place between him and each of his siblings. Sean helped him with his clothes and did his farm chores while Eamon tagged along to supervise. Donnigan always insisted that Eamon at least go through the motions of choring. He didn’t want him sitting around sulking and being bored.

  Fiona took her nursing duties seriously, mothering the boy and making sure that everything that he needed was done just right. Brenna made little games of what she did. “Open your mouth wide so the bumble bee can come in,” or “Shut your eyes tight while I wash the freckles off your nose,” she would tell him, and then giggle when he obeyed.

  Timothy tried to help his older brother, but almost everything that he attempted didn’t turn out quite right. Timothy likely taught Eamon more about patience than any other family member. For Eamon did adore his younger brother, in spite of the fact that he often led the smaller boy into trouble.

  “When you get all better—” Timothy would often say, and then follow the words with some elaborate plan. Eamon would look at his damaged hands and his eyes would cloud. “I don’t think that’s
a good idea,” Kathleen heard him say on more than one occasion. “We might get hurt.”

  Kathleen figured that Eamon had experienced quite enough “hurt” for some time to come.

  By the time Eamon’s hands healed enough to use in some fashion, he seemed to be much quieter of spirit.

  “Maybe God has used this terrible accident to bring Eamon a—a miracle,” Donnigan dared to say to Kathleen as they prepared for bed one evening.

  “Oh, I do hope good will come of it,” breathed Kathleen as she slipped her long gown over her head. She moved toward the bed and threw back the covers.

  “But it is so hard—so hard to see his hands scarred like this,” she said with heaviness.

  “Better his hands than his soul,” replied Donnigan.

  Kathleen nodded her head in agreement.

  “Now,” she said to her husband, “what are we gonna do with Rachel?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Discovery

  Donnigan was poring over the Scriptures again. It seemed to Kathleen that he spent most of his evenings reading portions, scribbling down notations and cross-checking verses.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked him, using her teeth to bite off the thread that had just been sewn on a button.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Donnigan reminded her as he looked up.

  She nodded. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but the scissors were across the room in her sewing basket.

  “We’re missing something,” Donnigan went on in reply to her question. “I’m sure it’s here. I’m sure. If I can just get it all sorted out.”

  Kathleen made no reply so Donnigan went on, scanning down his notes as he spoke. “God made man—man sinned—so God brought in the Law. If man sacrificed the animals and tried to obey—God was pleased.”

  Kathleen nodded in agreement. Donnigan’s brow was still furrowed.

  “You don’t think we should still be making sacrifices, do you?” asked Kathleen, a bit appalled at the thought.

  “No—” replied Donnigan tapping his paper with the pencil. “Remember the verse that says, ‘Obedience is better than sacrifice.’ And Christ didn’t ask for sacrifice in the New Testament church.”

  “So all we need to do is obey?” responded Kathleen, somewhat relieved.

  “Yeah—but the problem is—none of us do.”

  Kathleen wished to argue that statement. “I do,” she said quickly. “At least—I try.”

  “That’s the point,” said Donnigan. “No matter how hard we try—we still don’t quite make it. Here in Romans it says, ‘For all have sinned.’ And again over here, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one.’ And the verse that really settles it is this one that says, ‘All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags.’ ”

  Donnigan laid down his pencil and looked at her. Kathleen’s hands had stilled in her lap. It sounded to her as if there really wasn’t much hope.

  “But something changed,” she reminded him. “All those verses about Jesus—why He came to earth—to die. Remember it said that He was the sacrifice—once—for all.”

  “That’s why we no longer need the lambs and bulls,” said Donnigan, nodding.

  “Then what’s missing?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Donnigan slowly, leaning back in his chair and gazing at the open Book before him. “I don’t know what’s missing—except peace. Why don’t I have peace, Kathleen? Why am I still struggling?”

  Kathleen did not reply. She did not have the answer.

  Wallis called—just at mealtime. Kathleen should have been used to it—in fact, she was—but it always managed to irk her just a bit when she had to leave the table and get another plate for the neighbor man and crowd the children even closer together.

  “Wondering how yer crops are doin’,” Wallis explained to Donnigan as though that were the reason for his visit.

  Kathleen lowered her eyes quickly to her plate so her irritation wouldn’t show.

  “Fine—just fine,” Donnigan replied. “And yours?”

  “Fine—just fine.” Wallis reached for the bowl of carrots.

  Wallis had never really gotten over Risa’s leaving. He didn’t seem as angry anymore and he had progressed to the point of weary acceptance. He knew she would never be back, as he had hoped for so many months—so many years.

  “God made the crops,” piped up Rachel. Then returned to her eating.

  “Ya sure got a nice-lookin’ bunch of spring calves,” Wallis said around a bite of warm biscuit.

  Donnigan nodded. They were nice.

  “God made the calves,” said Rachel.

  Wallis frowned and took a big bite of potatoes and gravy. After he had chewed for a few minutes, he lifted his head again.

  “Did ya get much outta thet rain shower last night? I figured it sure did come at the right time.”

  Before Donnigan could answer, Rachel said in a sing-songy voice, “God made the rain.”

  Wallis, dumbfounded, looked at the child. Then he turned back to Donnigan. “What do you do, Donnigan? Spend all yer time religioning yer young?”

  “Not all my time,” replied Donnigan evenly.

  The silence hung heavy in the room for several minutes. Even the children seemed to sense it and stopped their usual prattle.

  Donnigan was the one to break it. “You don’t seem to put much stock in religious training,” he said to Wallis.

  Wallis continued to chew; then he lifted his eyes and replied dourly, “It’s not I’m all agin’ it. My folks were plenty religious. I had more’n my share in my growin’ up—but a man can go too far with it, seems to me.”

  Donnigan would have liked to ask, “And how far is too far?” but his attention had been caught by Wallis’s earlier statement.

  “You’ve had your share? What? What were you taught?”

  Wallis shifted uneasily. He reached up and scratched his uncombed hair with the blunt end of the fork he held in his hand.

  “Well, I—I don’t know as I recall all the—the—You know the usual, I guess.”

  “Like,” prompted Donnigan, leaning forward in his eagerness.

  Wallis still hesitated.

  “Go on—please,” said Donnigan.

  “Well—you know the stuff. God made everybody and—”

  “We know that story,” called out Timothy. “It’s in the Bible.”

  “Then Eve et the apple—and she gave some to Adam—and he et a bite and then God sent them from the garden and told ’em never to go back.”

  All Donnigan’s children could have told those stories—likely better than the grizzled man.

  “Then—” prompted Donnigan.

  “Well, then ya got all those stories ’bout those other fellas, Noah and Joseph and Elijah and sech,” went on Wallis.

  With a look Donnigan silenced his children, who seemed about to explode with their own knowledge of those Bible characters. He was anxious to hear what the man had to say. Maybe he had the last piece to the puzzle.

  “And then ya get to the next part,” went on Wallis slowly. “Where Jesus is born.”

  “Go on,” said Donnigan.

  Kathleen had stopped eating. She leaned forward almost as eagerly as did Donnigan.

  “Well, He went about healin’ people and helpin’ the poor and trying to teach what was the right way to live an’ fergivin’ their sins an’—”

  “How?” broke in Donnigan. “Forgive sins—how?”

  “How?” Wallis sounded caught off guard. He also sounded puzzled. “How?” he repeated. “Guess God Almighty is the only one who knows thet.”

  Donnigan felt acute disappointment. But he refused to give up. “Did you ever have your sins forgiven?” he pressed the older man.

  Wallis blushed under his bearded cheeks.

  “Me? Not me,” he hastened to answer.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Well—sure—lots of folks.” Wallis sounded a bit put out. One wouldn’t have attended his church, with
his folks, without seeing a good number of folks praying for forgiveness.

  “How?” asked Donnigan.

  “Well—ya gotta go up front of the church—or wherever—sometimes it was at one of them there tent meetings, an’ kneel down and cry some, at thet—they call it an altar, I remember now—ya gotta go to the altar—an’ cry and ask God to fergive ya fer the bad ya done.”

  Donnigan eased upright in his chair. An altar. They did not have one. Kathleen met his eyes.

  “I wonder if there’s an altar left behind in that church,” she said aloud.

  “Oh, I’m sure they is,” said Wallis. “Church always has an altar.”

  Donnigan’s memory began to stir. The Bible spoke of an altar. When God gave the people the tabernacle, and later the temple, He spoke of the altar. The altar was where the sacrifices took place.

  “Did they—did they make sacrifices at the altar?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Sacrifices? Ya mean like slayin’ things? Naw. They didn’t do nothin’ like thet. Preacher said we was to give ourselves—a livin’ sacrifice.”

  “A living sacrifice? What does that mean?” asked Kathleen.

  “I don’t know. Preacher talk, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “A living sacrifice,” said Donnigan. “You know, there’s a verse that talks about that. I saw it again just last night. In Acts. No—no. Romans, I think.”

  Donnigan hurried away to get the Bible. He spent a few minutes turning the pages while the rest of the people around the table sat in perfect silence.

  “Here it is in Romans 12:1: ‘I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.’ ”

  Donnigan frowned—reread the verse, then shook his head.

  “It says ‘service,’ ” said Kathleen. “Do you think—?”

  “It must mean something about living to serve God,” said Donnigan, still studying the verse.

  Then he lifted his eyes again to Wallis.