At last David straightened up, threw the pick down, mopped his face with a large clean handkerchief. “That should do it. Isaak, why don’t you ride home on Prince with me? You can tell your grandfather that it’s all finished. And thanks, Rob, for your help.”
“Don’t differ none. I’ll git along fishin’.”
“Yeah, Rob. Obleeged to ye.”
But when we reached the McHones, Uncle Bogg was not there. Opal explained, “It’s the hate spillin’ over, and him wantin’ to hand the spitefulness on to Isaak. He told Isaak to say out loud with every shovelful of dirt, ‘They killed my Paw.’ ”
Often the men killed in a feud were buried furtively, sometimes because the one faction did not want their enemies to know whether or not a particular victim had been killed or merely wounded. But Opal in the tender beginnings of her new-found faith refused anything secretive: she wanted “a real funeralizing” for her Tom with all the Cove invited.
David, on his side, was immediately wary of what Opal meant by “a real funeralizing” since he knew only too well what sentimental orgies the mountain funerals usually were. He had told me how helpless he felt before the highlanders’ attitude toward death. The idea was that if we really loved the dead, then we would show it for all the world to see. Therefore a proper funeral should last at least three hours, during which time the wilder and more prolonged the demonstration of grief, the greater the proof of love.
On these occasions the mountain parsons were expected to use a lot of “wind” to give a good performance, a minimum of an hour of preaching, usually with much exhorting of sinners to frighten them into the kingdom. Sometimes there would be several preachers, each one discoursing until exhausted, he fell by the wayside, at which time the next preacher would proceed. Often there would be no preacher around at the time of death, so the service would be held months or even years later, becoming a cumulative memorial for all who had died meantime. In that case, the services might go on for several days becoming also a sort of camp-meeting revival. Sometimes by then the widower would have remarried, so his second wife would attend the funeral of the first wife, weeping and wailing as copiously as the other mourners.
At the very least, such lamentations provided no comfort for the bereaved family and Opal and her children were in desperate need of consolation and help. Also there was good reason to suspect that the emotional orgies around the coffins helped to feed the fires of hate always smoldering under the feuds and now—with Tom’s murder—blazing again.
David had described with what mounting uneasiness he had watched the whipped-up mania of grief as it played from person to person, tears here and jerkings there, moaning and flailing of the arms, the heated feelings mounting, darting—like summer lightning playing from one mountain range to another. There seemed altogether too close a connection between this and the anger, the hate, the passion for revenge that could whip through a community, inflaming people to shocking group action which they never would have thought of by themselves or stooped to as individuals.
So David tried persuading Opal to make the funeral for Tom a different kind of service, quiet, victorious, comforting. But Opal had her own ideas. “Preacher, ye jest can’t stop folks from mournin’ their loved ones. I’ve got it all figgered. I want you to hold the meetin’. But, Preacher, I’m a-longin’ to hear Miz Henderson preach the Word. That way it’s bound to be a first-rate funeralizing.”
“Fine, Opal. That’s a great idea.” He seemed relieved that Miss Alice would share the responsibility.
Most of the Cove people were at the funeral, packed into the cabin, spilling out the doors onto the hard-packed earth of the front yard. They had worn the best and the darkest clothes they had. As usual, it was an odd assortment of mismatched trousers and coats, overalls, calico dresses, ancient watered silks, and faded shirtwaists. They were sitting on cane-bottomed chairs and makeshift benches, some of the women fanning themselves, sniffing, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.
According to custom Tom’s coffin was open, placed in the middle of the McHone cabin. Opal had covered the outside of the raw yellow poplar coffin with black calico, the inside with white muslin. With infinite care she had tried to make it fancy by fringing the edge with scissors. A little American flag and a badge reading, “God Is Our Trust and Confidence” had been pinned on one lapel of Tom’s “best” suit in which he had been dressed. Opal had tucked one of her aprons in at his feet.
It was the apron that hurt me most. I looked at that faded apron, and suddenly it became a symbol of the heartbreak of women in a man’s world where fighting and violence and vendettas and wars must always go on—and on—and on. For what? For a man’s compulsive inner pride, driven or ordered by what he calls “honor” or “integrity,” his own or his family’s or his nation’s, with the result that in every century and in every country women are stripped of those whom they most love. Then there is nothing left except to bow the head and to handle the grief and the emptiness as best they can. And—tuck an apron in at the feet.
The solemn-eyed children were gathered close around the coffin. Toot and Vincent and Isaak had been given front-row seats. All of the Allen children were there except Little Burl, who was still recuperating. Tiny five-year-old Vella Holt was sitting on the floor, her mahogany-colored eyes under their level brows looking as solemn as ever. There were the five Spencers, even fat-cheeked Lulu and Little Guy. I wondered why the highlanders insisted on exposing children to death in this way.
Uncle Bogg was pathetic to see. The heart seemed to be taken out of the old man. He had so far refused to talk to any of us about Tom’s death, and this withdrawing into himself was a bad sign.
I was sitting to one side on Opal’s cricket stool, the jut of a rough-hewn log built into the wall poking me in the back. There was not even enough elbow room to maneuver myself away from the jut.
I wondered what even Miss Alice could say to sustain Opal in a situation like this. My thoughts roamed back over the road my own meager faith had traveled so far, as if counting my resources, searching for any coin of the realm—real, not counterfeit, that would ring true—that I might use to cheer Opal.
By now I knew that my religion, inherited intact from my family, had been mostly rote. Little about it had penetrated to where I, Christy, really lived. Back home church services had all but anesthetized me; I had become wonderously adept at dialing my mind to “off” for every word that the minister said and all that went on in church services, and to “on” for whatever was more interesting to ponder.
Already my brush with the raw life of the mountains had blown away much fog. Either this Christianity was true—or it was not. That day in the Montreat auditorium Dr. Ferrand had inspired me to gamble a year or so of my life to find the answer. And that move had led me to Alice Henderson, to whom the inner world of the spirit—man’s and God’s—was more real than the bread she ate.
And now Miss Alice’s reaction to my talks about religion with Dr. MacNeill and David (as I had reported them to her) was challenging me further. The doctor and David were trying to be realists, but Alice Henderson was the first person I had ever known with a meld of idealism along with hardheaded realism. So she not only encouraged me to think, she demanded it. “Can you really suppose that you were given that incredibly wonderful instrument—the brain—and weren’t meant to use it?
“Go on, Christy,” she had said to me, “ask questions, never be afraid of truth. Ask questions of yourself and of me. Go back to David and to Neil and ask them more questions. Yes, and your schoolchildren too. You’d be surprised how much children can teach us ossified adults, if we’d only stoop to listen. And ask God. Ask Him ultimate questions—about the why of things: about your place in the world, about life—and death. Ask, Christy, ask. Seek. You’ll find. The promise is sure.”
So—I was asking now, sitting here in the McHone cabin staring at Tom’s body in his raw wooden coffin. Perhaps I looked calm on the outside, but inwardly my thoughts
were rebellious, tinged with bitter grief and skepticism. The facts of life are so brutal and the hearts of men so easily bruised. It seems all wrong, all out of proportion.
At least my thoughts were honest ones. On one thing I was determined: I was not going to hide behind any false piety. God—if You really are there, and this isn’t all a hoax—why did You let this happen? You could have prevented this, that is, if You have any power at all. Then why didn’t You? Only another three hundred yards and Tom would have made it inside the house. Why? Why? You’re supposed to be a God of love. That was the message Opal picked up from me—and believed—and moved on. This doesn’t look like love to me. Opal and Tom were trying so hard to do the right thing. Why didn’t You reward that?
Once I caught Miss Alice’s eye. She was sitting on the other side of the room with some of the older children around her. Today she was dressed all in white, an immaculate white mull dress, simple and beautiful. Her blonde braids (such a wealth of hair for a woman her age!) looked more than ever like a coronet. Her face was composed, so much so that her expression betrayed no hint of how she was taking all this. We would only know when it came time for her to speak.
The singing was beginning now. The hymns chosen by the family did not help my rebellious mood a bit: “Come and Lie with Me in the Old Church Yard” and then one that began:
He is gone, our precious darling,
They have laid him in the tomb . . .
We’re sad and we’re lone since you’ve gone away,
In our humble home we’ll miss you each day;
But still we rejoice with glory unknown,
To know you await at heaven’s bright throne.
Finally the singing was finished. David spoke briefly and then acknowledged Miss Alice. She came forward, smiling at the children, and they moved over to make a place so that she could stand at the foot of the coffin. She looked at Opal, her gray eyes tender, and then at each of the McHone children in turn, her gaze lingering longest on Isaak. The room was hushed, waiting for her to begin. When she did, it was the story of the raising of Lazarus, the account of Jesus’ friendship with Martha and Mary and their brother.
Forever and forever these people loved a story, so she had their attention immediately. She told about how Jesus had gotten hot and dusty and weary like the rest of us; how He was sometimes lonely, lonely enough to reach out for human friendship, so He had favorite friends and a spot He loved best—a particular home in the village of Bethany.
“When the Master had walked too many dusty miles and slept outdoors too often; when crowds had jostled Him and the sick and the ailing had tugged at Him until He was all but pulled apart; when He was too weary and tired to go on, then He knew that there would always be a welcome awaiting Him at this home in Bethany where Lazarus lived with his two sisters, Mary and Martha. There would be a quiet patio with its arbor of thick green leaves—and long shadows—and a breeze. There would be quietness—and His favorite dishes that Martha liked to cook. And after they had eaten, the four friends would sit around talking. It would be good talk, but it was always Mary who enjoyed it most.
“And so the two sisters and their brother came to love this Friend like no one they had ever known. The souls of four people were knit together. Somehow they knew that theirs was a friendship for life, yes—and for eternity too.
“But then one day when Jesus was several days’ journey from Bethany, a runner came with the news that Lazarus was dangerously ill. Martha and Mary had sent for their Friend. Their need was urgent. Would He come immediately?
“But the Scriptures say that Jesus did not rush to Lazarus’ bedside. He ‘tarried.’ So the runners went back to the sisters who were keeping the deathwatch, the women by then almost out of their minds with worry and grief. Day followed day. No Jesus. Their Friend did not come.
“The hours of the night came on. Their brother did not recognize them now. His breathing grew shallower, his pulse feeble. Once his eyelids flickered open. Then he was gone. Dead . . . Their brother was dead. Why had their Friend failed them? It was hard not to be bitter as they looked down at the quiet form.
“So now there was nothing to do except to prepare for burial this one whom they had loved so much. The body was wound round and round with linen bandages, layers of spices in between. They laid Lazarus in the family tomb, a cave made in the side of a hill, with a huge stone rolled up to the entrance.
“And then four days later, finally—when it seemed too late—Jesus came. The two sisters ran down the road to meet Him, first Martha, then Mary. In turn, each spoke words which carried a rebuke, ‘Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.’
“But Jesus did not accept the rebuke. For it had not been laziness that had kept Him from coming four days earlier—or because He had important business to attend to—or because He did not care.
“Gently He spoke to Martha one of the greatest promises ever to fall from His lips, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me, shall never die.’
“Yes, He cared, because now as He looked at Mary, in the eyes of this strong Man tears formed and glistened and trickled down His cheeks. And Mary—kneeling at His feet, looking up at Him—saw the tears. Her friends who had followed her down the road, saw too. ‘Behold how He loved him!’ they said with wonderment. ‘See—how He cared.’
“And He cares still. He cares about Tom. He cares about how unnecessary Tom’s death was. He cares about Opal and Uncle Bogg and Vincent and Toot and Isaak. He knows and He cares. And if our spiritual eyes were opened, we would know that He is weeping just at this moment with us too, now—in this cabin in Cutter Gap—just as He did with Mary and Martha and their friends in Bethany long ago.”
Now Opal was crying softly, her face hidden in her lap.
But Alice Henderson went on. “But friends, the Master didn’t stop there. That would be great—to care that much. That’s as far as you and I can go in our present state of understanding. When the Master had spoken to Martha about seeing the glory of God, He had meant that literally. So now He went on to fulfill that promise. Immediately Christ ordered, ‘Take Me to where you have laid him.’
“And Martha, always so practical, objected, ‘But Lord, if You have in mind what I think You have in mind, it’s impossible. You don’t understand. You’re being like all other prophets, impossibly visionary. My brother has already been dead four days. This is a hot country. Already his body has begun to decay.’
“But Jesus only looked at her in compassion. ‘Martha, trust Me. Didn’t I tell you before that if you would only believe, you would see the glory of God?’
“So He marched to the door of the cave and asked that the stone be rolled away. He prayed. And then loudly, boldly, He commanded, ‘Lazarus, come forth.’
“Try to imagine it. Suppose that I were able now to command Tom to rise up out of his coffin and to be reunited with his family. What kind of rejoicing do you think would be here in this Cove today? Wouldn’t we all go wild with joy?
“So Mary and Martha, close beside Him, breathing hard in their excitement, watched wide-eyed. Yes, there was a stirring inside the tomb. Yes, they could hear sounds. The two sisters rushed closer to the mouth of the cave. It couldn’t be true. But it was true. Their brother was struggling to stand upright.
“They dashed in, delirious with joy, at their heels their friends and neighbors. In the air around them was still the fetid air of the cave, the odor of decay. Feverishly, their hands all thumbs, they unwound the grave clothes, alternately laughing and weeping, weeping now for joy. Then they supported Lazarus, weak from lack of food, out of the cave where he stood blinking in wonderment at the sunlight.
“Then a mighty shout went up from the townsfolk—hallelujahs . . . hosannas . . . yells . . . songs . . . impromptu dances. And Martha, again the practical one, raced to the house to bring food to her brother.
“Jesus was no
longer crying now. He too was rejoicing with His friends, laughing. ‘Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldst believe, thou wouldst see the glory of God? You see, Mary? Understand now, Martha? My friendship is vindicated, isn’t it? I didn’t fail you. You have seen the glory of God this day. I shall never fail you, not ever, I promise you that.’
“Not then, not now. No, He doesn’t fail His friends, ‘Ye are My friends,’ He said. He would be friends with us just as He was with Mary and Martha and Lazarus. He would stop in our homes too and tarry with us. Ah, but there was a condition: ‘That ye do whatsoever I command thee . . .’ And this is His command, ‘that ye love one another.’ If we had loved one another, as He loves us, Tom McHone would be alive today.
“So I want you to carry two thoughts away from this service: First, the Master cares. He suffers with us. He weeps when we weep. He aches when we ache. He cares.
“Second, we can have His friendship only if we are willing to let go our resentments and our bitterness and our hating and our feuding and our name-calling and our shooting and love one another. Tom McHone will not have died in vain, if finally we can drop the quarrels based on false pride, the petty differences that bring us sorrow and are not worthy of our Master.
“You see, my friends, bitterness is like a weed with a strong root growing in us, like the Spanish needles that harass us here. If we allow that root to get started, soon it will take over the heart and contaminate us, mind and spirit and body.
“But that does not have to happen. We can trust our Friend. He will root out the bitterness and fill up the hole where the root came out with His love—if we will let Him. ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,’ He promised. It is a sure promise.
“Let us talk to Him now in prayer.”
It was easy to see that Miss Alice’s words had had an effect on the people. There was soft weeping—but nothing else.
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