by Janette Oke
“He’s never worked with dogs, and after what that bear did to him, I worry a bit. Hope a dog never threatens to attack him, or he might panic. Dogs can sense your fear. You have to handle them. . . .”
Henry went on, but Christine was not listening. She loved the dogs. Loved working a team. Loved the sound of the yips and yaps as they voiced their eagerness to run. Loved the squeal of the sled runners on the coldness of packed snow. The scrunch of the snowshoes. The miniature clouds of frozen breath that billowed out as one ran through the frost of a crisp morning. Does Henry miss all that? she wondered.
“I’d better let you go,” Henry was saying. “Don’t want you late at Hope.”
Christine knew he wasn’t very taken with the term “canteen,” and he always called the small mission center by the single word. But finding a friendly, open-sounding name was important in attracting young men and women.
Her fingers were trembling as she hung up the phone. Laray is going north. He said, “Just drop a note.” Does this mean. . . ?
She shook her head and started for the door, purse in hand. Don’t be foolish, she scolded herself. Many Mounties are sent north. Just because Maurice Laray happens to be one of them has nothing to do with you. Don’t go complicating things further.
Tensions ran high that night at Hope Canteen. The war in Europe had escalated, and news of the Allies was not good. A new wave of recruits was soon to be sent overseas. Though their excitement could be heard in their voices, Christine felt that, in their saner moments, fear filled those young hearts too. Several sought to find some kind of solid anchor before being shipped out.
Pastor Tim mingled with the crowd, passing from one table to another, greeting various ones as he went, slapping shoulders, shaking hands. Even getting involved in a game of darts. No bets—betting was not allowed on any game in the canteen. Christine watched as he flipped a chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on its back. Three young fellows in navy uniforms were leaning slightly forward, listening intently to whatever it was the pastor was saying. He was so casual about it. But she didn’t know anyone who could cut to the heart of a matter more quickly than this young minister. He didn’t just talk, though. He listened. He was listening now as one of the young men spoke. He’s very good, she thought. And very devoted. She admired him.
He’d be good in the North, she found herself thinking. He listens well. But he leads too. I wonder if he has ever considered a northern mission? Wouldn’t it be a wonder if God led. . . ?
She stopped. What reason did she have to think Pastor Tim might include her in any of his plans? Well, she had to honestly admit, he had shown some interest in her. Perhaps . . .
Christine checked herself. The direction her thoughts had unexpectedly taken brought a flush to her cheeks. Now, said an inner voice, you are not only wanting to plan your own life; you are mapping out the plan for others too. She felt humbled and chagrined.
She carefully guarded her thoughts throughout the remainder of the evening. Once again the group of volunteers shared experiences as they worked together on cleanup. Another young man had made a commitment to faith, and a second one had made an appointment to meet with Pastor Tim the next day. He hadn’t been quite brave enough to speak his heart with his buddies sharing the table.
Once again the young pastor and Christine fell into step and walked to the streetcar stop together.
“Are you as weary as I am?” he asked her.
Christine did not admit that she had gotten little sleep the night before and had been up extra early so she could search the Scriptures. Yes, she was weary.
“But it’s worth it,” he went on. “Just think—the angels are celebrating tonight. Another lost sheep has entered the fold.”
It was a wonderful thought. Christine smiled with him.
“I sometimes ask myself, ‘What do I do when this nightmare is over? When the troops are all safely home again—for those who come home, that is. Where will God lead me then?’ ”
Don’t you say it—or even think it, Christine scolded herself. For you to even suggest the North would be wrong. She bit her tongue.
“Well, I don’t need to worry about that,” Tim said comfortably. “He’ll show me. But it is rather exciting to think about what could be next. I never would have thought of serving here—but it’s been awfully rewarding. I can’t quite imagine being any other place. I guess that’s how it is—how it is supposed to be—when we are where God wants us. When we are in step, so to speak.”
Christine nodded. In step with God. That was exactly where she wanted to be.
The streetcar came and they boarded, talking about the day, the future, the horrors of war. So Christine was totally unprepared when he asked, seemingly out of nowhere, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes,” she answered easily, surprising even herself. “Yes, I am.”
He nodded. “I couldn’t imagine you not being taken,” he said with a wry smile.
But I’m not really taken, Christine wished to argue and was surprised by the feeling that, yes, she was. In a way, she was taken.
“Tell me about him,” he invited.
“He’s . . . he’s a doctor I met when my brother and his wife were in hospital.”
“A doctor?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“He’s very nice,” Christine found herself going on. “He grew up right here in Calgary.”
“Do you—have you reached an understanding?”
For some reason she did not resent his interest. It seemed perfectly in order.
“I’ve not noticed a ring on your finger,” he added, then said with a grin, “I did check, I admit.”
Christine flushed.
Suddenly she saw the man beside her not just as a very attractive young man, not as a ticket to her beloved North, but as a man of God. She half turned to him.
“I’ve felt . . . confused. You see, I almost made a bad mistake. I was engaged to a nonbeliever for a time. When that was over, it left me . . . scared. Doubtful of my own ability to . . . to know how to choose. I’ve asked—well, we’ve decided to take a week and each seek God’s will for our lives. For any future relationship. I . . . I really won’t be able to answer your question until the week is up.”
His eyes had become thoughtful as he listened. She lowered her gaze. There was silence.
“I admire you. Both of you,” the young minister said. “If every couple sought God’s direction, there would undoubtedly be stronger, more secure and happy homes. And fewer trips to divorce courts. Fewer children left blaming themselves over events beyond their control.”
Christine nodded. Those were the words she would have expected a minister to say.
But his next words were not. “Christine, I will seek to honestly pray for God’s will—not mine—to guide your life, knowing that His will might be in conflict with my own human desire.”
Her eyes widened. Was he saying. . . ? Yes, she feared he was.
She was glad his stop was approaching. “I’ll be praying— but I admit I’ll also be watching that finger,” he whispered with a wry grin as he got up to leave.
All through the week Christine spent her early mornings in searching the Scriptures and prayer, writing down in her notebook any truths that seemed applicable to her present quandary. Her heart and mind seemed to be no closer to her solution than before. Laray was going north. Pastor Tim might even be led of God to work in an Indian mission. She could envision him there. Yet it was Eric who had asked for her commitment. Eric who somehow was constantly in her thoughts. Eric who had endeared himself to her. She saw again his toying with her hair, his leaning over to kiss the single tress. It was like a gently given promise. But Eric in the North? She could not imagine it.
Christine felt panic-stricken. The week was drawing to a close. Eric would be calling her to hear her answer. What was she to say? She prayed that whatever it was she concluded to her search, he would be in agreement. What if she decided that they should continue the relationship an
d he decided it was over? What would they do then? Obviously it would end, and she’d be left again with a broken heart. Was that to be one of the consequences of her prior disobedience? Christine hoped not. Prayed not.
But she steeled her heart for the worst, yet hoping for . . . what?
CHAPTER
Twenty-One
On Saturday, only one day from their agreed deadline, Christine was getting desperate for an answer. She didn’t really feel any closer to knowing what God wanted for her.
I will stay in my room and read and pray until I hear from the Lord, she told herself. She breathed a short prayer, asking for God to give wisdom and understanding as she reached for her Bible.
She had worked her way through the book of Genesis, making notes as she went. But she did not feel that, other than general guidelines, Genesis had given her an answer to her particular dilemma. She moved on to the familiar stories of Exodus. The slavery of the people, the birth and miraculous protection of the infant Moses. His sin in killing the Egyptian that resulted in his flight to the desert. She had heard the stories in Sunday school, in family Bible reading, and had read them a number of times herself. She concluded that Moses’ flight really had little to do with Eric’s rightful place in her life.
She moved on to the account of the burning bush. Moses certainly had not been expecting to encounter the Hebrew God in the middle of the desert—and in such a strange, unheard-of way.
“Take off your sandals,” God said.
Christine stopped reading. “Take off your sandals.” What does that mean?
Certainly it was a cultural thing. But what was the significance?
Christine began to ponder the words, something she had not done previously with this passage. Sandals were necessary for protection in the desert. Moses needed them. But God told him to take them off, to lay them aside. Nothing Moses possessed of earthly connection or material goods prepared him to stand in the very presence of God. He was before a holy God, standing on holy ground. He was to show a proper humility of spirit.
Yet the very fact that God was there, speaking to him, was an indication that this holy, all-powerful God was willing to stoop down and intervene on behalf of His people. But before He could do great things, it had to be understood just who He was. “Do you know who I am?” He might have been asking. Through this seemingly simple action, God was confronting Moses. “Moses—I am God. I am your God.” And as Moses understood, he fell on his face.
After a few moments of contemplation, Christine read on about God giving Moses a task to perform. An awesome task. One Moses had not sought. Nor did he feel capable of carrying it through. “You’ve made a mistake here, Lord,” he seemed to be saying. “I’m not your man. They’ll never listen to me.”
Christine thought back to when she and Henry were children and loved to act out Bible stories. Henry had always made a very impressive Moses. He would strike his brow and stagger around, calling out, “Oh, not me. Not me. I can’t do it. They won’t listen to me. I’m on the lam. Don’t send me back, God. They might kill me. And I can’t even talk right.”
He would continue in this manner until they fell in a heap in a fit of giggles. She smiled now just thinking of it.
She always got to play the part of God, telling Moses there would be no change of plans. Once she had even whacked Henry on the leg, telling him to get up and get on with the task. That had not gone over well with either Henry or her folks.
“God didn’t hit him,” Henry had stated firmly, rubbing the spot.
“He should have,” Christine maintained. “He was acting like a baby.”
She thought of that now. “He was acting like a baby.” How often had she acted like a baby, she wondered, when God gave her directions?
“What is that in your hand?” she read next.
Did Moses wonder why God had to ask such a question? Surely He could see what Moses had in his hand. No, the question was not asked because God needed to know. Moses needed to know.
“A staff.”
He might have said, “My staff.” It represented most of Moses’ life. He was a shepherd. The staff was needed to protect himself and the sheep from marauders, to guide the sheep, to instruct the sheep. It was Moses’ tool of the trade. His money in the bank. His sense of security. When he was out alone in the desert, it was about all he had.
“Throw it on the ground.”
How well she remembered this part of the story. She had always felt so powerful, so totally in control when she ordered Henry to throw down his staff, which was either one of her mother’s kitchen spoons or a small stick from the firebox.
Henry reacted according to their own unwritten script. He would clutch whatever it was he was holding, close his eyes, and sway back and forth. “I can’t. I can’t,” he would moan and groan. “It’s mine. I don’t want to give it up. I want to keep it. Please. Please,” and he would fall on his knees, begging.
She smiled, then quickly sobered. It wasn’t funny anymore. Suddenly she saw a totally different picture. The staff was no longer a piece of wood. It was whatever one was clinging to that kept one from accepting God’s plan.
“Throw it on the ground,” God said. “Give it up.”
Tears began to squeeze from under Christine’s eyelids and roll down her cheeks. Was there something in her life that kept God from being free to lead her? Was it the sense of unforgiveness over her past mistake? No, no, she felt she could honestly say she had gratefully accepted His forgiveness.
Was it that she still wanted her own will in choosing her future mate?
No. As much as she admired Eric—perhaps even loved him—she had not been willing to go ahead with plans unless she felt God’s approval.
Suddenly, the thought catching her totally off guard, Christine saw what she was clutching tightly. It was the North. But surely He wouldn’t ask her to give that up. There was nothing wrong with the North. She loved it. She felt she could even be of service there. Surely that was not wrong. . . .
“Toss it at my feet,” she felt God whispering to her heart.
I can’t, Lord, she started to answer and then heard again her own voice of days past: “He’s acting like a baby.”
Christine gave herself a mental whack. Give it up. It’s not worth hanging on to it and missing out on God’s best.
But all my hopes, my dreams, my love?
“Throw it down.”
Christine opened her hand and held it upright—empty. Her admission—her agreement to let it go.
In spite of the tears that followed, she had never felt such overwhelming peace.
“Christine,” a soft voice seemed to whisper, “If I want you in the North, don’t you think I can take you there? You don’t need to work it out. Trust me. And if not the North, don’t you think I could give you contentment—peace—even joy—wherever I ask you to go?”
Christine nodded. God seemed so close. She wondered momentarily if Moses had felt the same sense of His presence as he tossed down his rod.
“Now,” God seemed to say. “What’s your hesitation in accepting this young man?”
To Christine’s amazement, she had no answer. There didn’t seem to be any reason at all. There was no reason why Eric, who shared her faith and her sense of God’s purpose for life, should be turned away simply because she could not see him as part of her North. He was a fine young man. One dedicated to his God, his family, and his patients. Not only that, but he had gained her respect—her heart, yes, her love—with his kindness and integrity. She couldn’t believe that she had struggled so long over something so simple. Perhaps the battle had not been over Eric at all but was, in fact, over the issue of who or what had priority in her life. Now that she had relinquished her own plans and dreams and was willing to allow God to control her future, she felt totally at peace. She had her answer.
Eric called the next afternoon. “I am free for the next four hours. Can we talk?”
Christine agreed, anxious to see him.
/> But she wasn’t without concern. She now knew how she felt. Had Eric reached the same conclusion? With a bit of a struggle, Christine was finally able to give up that question to God as well. If Eric had not, that was God’s plan and she would accept it. Somehow He would get her through the disappointment. She was His child. She would trust Him.
There was nothing about Eric’s demeanor that indicated his direction one way or the other. He was polite, as always, but not more intimate than he had been before.
“How about a walk along the river?” he suggested, and Christine agreed.
“You might want a sweater. There’s not much sunshine today.”
Christine went for her sweater, informing her aunt that she would be out for a while, and they set out.
“How did your week go?” There was more meaning in his words than a social question.
“I . . . I learned a lot.” She smiled. “Mostly from Moses.”
“Moses? My lessons were from the apostle Paul.”
He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. Christine remembered Henry doing that. He never seemed to be able to walk near water without skipping stones.
“I would love to hear all about your lessons. Shall we discuss them first—or after?”
“After?” queried Christine.
“After we decide if we are to continue seeing one another.”
He skipped another stone, not looking at her.
Christine was hesitant. “I . . . I’m not sure.” She wondered if they would still be speaking . . . after.
“Let’s wait until after. I’m rather anxious. . . .” He did not continue. Christine wondered if he felt as agitated as she did. He turned from the flowing water to give her his full attention. She could see a tightness in his jaw, and his eyes were serious.
“One thing I learned was about drawing lots,” he said.
Christine frowned. Surely he wasn’t suggesting they toss a coin to determine their future.
“Well . . . more like a vote than a lot perhaps.”