by Lynn Austin
Josephine’s anger churned and swelled inside her until she couldn’t breathe. What was she doing here if she no longer believed any of it? As the congregation stood to recite the Apostles’ Creed, she pushed her way to the aisle and hurried out.
Fresh air! It smelled of hay and woodsmoke and horses, but at least she no longer felt trapped. She hurried down the church steps and away from the building, longing to walk all the way home. But it was too far and her shoes were in terrible condition. She would have to wait for the service to end.
A row of carriages stood parked by the hitching posts, the horses flicking insects with their swishing tails, the Negro drivers relaxing in the sunshine, talking quietly. Josephine decided to follow the path around to the rear of the church and visit the cemetery. The hinges on the rusted gate squeaked loudly as she opened and closed it. The air felt cool in the shade beneath the trees, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Some of the graves dated back a hundred years or more, their stone markers barely legible after a century of wind and rain. But there were far too many new ones, all casualties of the war. She knew that for every soldier buried here, two or three more young men had been laid to rest in cemeteries far from home, never to return. She followed the path to her family’s burial plot where Daddy and Samuel were buried alongside three generations of Weatherlys. She sat down on Granddaddy Weatherly’s blocklike tombstone with her back to the church, waiting for the service to end.
She had only been seated a few minutes when she heard the cemetery gate squeak open and shut behind her. Jo didn’t turn around, hoping whoever it was would have sense enough to respect her grief and leave her alone. She didn’t want to talk to anyone or explain why she had left the service. She waited, holding her breath.
“Are you all right, Miss Weatherly?”
She exhaled in dismay, recognizing the voice behind her. It was the Yankee. She had seen him as she’d hurried out of the church, standing against the rear wall near the door. He had watched her as she’d walked past him.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I needed some fresh air, that’s all.” He didn’t reply, but she could tell he was still there, standing a short distance away. “I would like to be left alone, please.” Instead, she heard him moving closer. He stopped and crouched down beside her. He wore a plain dark suit and white shirt instead of his Yankee uniform. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I would like to be alone.”
“I know. That’s what people always say when what they need more than anything else is someone to talk to.”
“Please go away, Mr. Chandler.” But she said it softly, without conviction.
He took it as an invitation and sat down cross-legged on the grass in front of her. “You promised to call me Alexander, remember?”
“I came out here to be alone . . . Alexander.”
“When I first came back from the war, I couldn’t bear to go to church, either. I felt as though I had no right to be there worshiping God. I had broken His commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and gone against all the tenets of my faith by taking up arms. Surely God would never welcome me back after I’d broken His rules. And I didn’t feel welcome in my congregation back home, either. But as you can see, I’ve finally made it through the door of a church again, even if I do stand alone in the back.” He paused, waiting, plucking up a clover blossom and tearing it into bits.
Politeness dictated that Josephine respond, but she was tired of being polite. She wanted to shock him into leaving. “I don’t believe in God anymore.”
“Why not?” He sounded curious, not shocked.
“Are you truly that dense? Look right in front of you! That’s my father’s grave, and that’s my brother Samuel’s. We lost the war! You have no idea how hard I prayed—how hard everyone in that church prayed—for protection for our loved ones, for victory over an enemy who had invaded our land. But does it look to you like God answered us? Or that He was even listening? Either there is no God, or else He doesn’t care about us and our needs. As far as I’m concerned, going to church, sitting in there, going through the rituals . . . it’s nothing but a sham.”
“Have you ever read the book of Job in the Bible?”
“Please leave me alone.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that any more than you could leave Harrison Blake alone when he wanted to kill himself.”
“I assure you that I do not intend to kill myself.”
“Maybe not in the same way that he tried to do it. But despair will have the same result, Josephine, if you let it run its course. You might still be walking around like the rest of us, eating and conversing, but you’ll be dead inside.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” But he was dangerously close to describing how she already felt. How did he know? And what right did he have to speak to her about it?
“I may not know much about you, it’s true. But I do know we were all created to love and serve God. He loves us deeply and passionately. And so any time one of His children decides to walk away from Him, it can only lead to despair. And spiritual death.”
“Should I sit in there and go through the motions, even though I no longer believe any of it? Wouldn’t that make me a hypocrite?”
“Not at all. It would make you His child. If you sensed that your real father was angry with you, if he stopped talking to you, stopped giving you things, wouldn’t you want to at least sit down with him and ask him why? That’s all I’m suggesting you do. Sit down with God and ask Him the reason for your suffering, the reason why He didn’t answer your prayers.”
“Am I supposed to expect a voice from heaven?” She couldn’t help sounding scornful.
“No, you probably shouldn’t wait for a voice from heaven.” He smiled as if she had been making a joke, not speaking sarcastically. “But—”
“If God never answered any of my previous prayers, what makes you think He would answer me this time?”
“Because now you would be asking the right questions. And while I’ve never heard an audible voice, God does speak to me through the words of Scripture—which is why I suggest that you read the story of Job. And He sometimes chooses to speak through your friends . . . and I beg you to consider me your friend. When we cut ourselves off from God and from other people, it always leads to despair. Isn’t that what happened to Harrison Blake?”
“He has even more reasons to be angry than I do. He lost his leg. He’ll never walk again.”
“And yet you’re trying to convince him to keep on living, aren’t you? That’s all I’m saying, Josephine. Give God another chance. He was gracious enough to offer me a second chance.”
The windows of the church were open, and Josephine heard music as the organ started up, then the sound of the congregation singing. The service was drawing to a close. “You need to leave, Alexander. We shouldn’t be seen alone together without a chaperone.”
“I understand . . . I’m the enemy, right?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you have the nerve to show up in church.”
“It’s difficult, I assure you. This is only the second time I’ve come. But I’m trusting that at least a few people will respond like Christians.”
“You may be disappointed.”
He sighed and rose to his feet. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Josephine. I hope we’ll have an opportunity to talk again.”
She watched him saunter away, hands in his pockets. She couldn’t help thinking that it was easier for him to believe he had all the answers since he had won the war.
Even so, Jo decided to take his advice. Later that afternoon she borrowed Mrs. Blake’s Bible and carried it up to her bedroom to read while everyone else napped, opening it to the book of Job. It was a heartbreaking story, one she couldn’t stop thinking about after she finished it. She felt angry and upset with Mr. Chandler and was anxious for him to return to the plantation. But he didn’t come on Monday. Or on Tuesday, either.
On Wednesday morning Josephine carried her se
wing box out to the front porch where the sunlight was bright to try her hand at sewing a seam. As she suspected, Harrison’s blood hadn’t washed out of her dress, but she had scavenged some of the lace and enough cloth to fashion a skirt. It couldn’t be much different than embroidery, could it? All she had to do was sew in a straight line.
She was making headway with her task when she looked up and saw Mr. Chandler riding up the road on horseback, his dark Yankee uniform stark against the green trees. She laid her sewing aside as he tied his horse to the hitching post and hurried down the steps to talk to him, unwilling to have Mrs. Blake overhear them. She saw a smile forming on Mr. Chandler’s lips as he swept off his hat, and she quickly said, “I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”
“Oh, dear. You don’t look very happy about it, either.” His smile faded. “Is it the workers? Aren’t they cooperating? I would have come sooner to check up on them, but I had to make a trip to Richmond and—”
“It has nothing to do with the workers. I’m angry about that story in the Bible that you told me to read.”
“You mean Job? What about it?” He looked as though he wanted to smile but was afraid to. He stood idly patting his horse’s neck.
“The Bible says that Job was a good man, a righteous man. God loved him and he loved God. So how could God stand by and allow Satan to take everything away from him? His wealth, all his children, his health. That’s horrible, Mr. Chandler!”
“Please, it’s Alexander—”
“Why should I trust in a God who is so cruel? Does He truly allow us to be pawns in a stupid contest?” Josephine felt so much pent-up anger, she could barely speak. “It’s a terrible story!”
He looked around as if the answer to her outrage might be found in the yard, then beckoned for her to follow him. “Please, let’s walk toward the barn as if we’re talking about the workers or something. You don’t want to risk being overheard talking to a Yankee as if we’re friends, do you?”
“I’m . . . I’m still not at all certain we are friends. I found the story you suggested very upsetting.” But she moved toward him just the same, and they slowly began walking toward the cotton field.
“Did you read the entire book, Josephine?”
“No. Some of it was incomprehensible—men arguing endlessly with each other. Job’s friends were supposed to be consoling him, but instead they condemned him. Who needs friends like that?”
“But I imagine you could relate to his suffering, couldn’t you? How he’d lost everything?”
“Yes. But so can Harrison—and he wants to die. Why shouldn’t we both be angry with a God who treats people that way?”
“Exactly! That’s why I advised you not to stop going to church or talking with God. People walk away and stop believing because they’re taught that it’s wrong to get angry at God. It isn’t wrong! Job takes his suffering straight to Him. He yells and complains and protests. He tells God it isn’t fair, just as it isn’t fair that you were forced to suffer even though you had nothing to do with the decision to go to war. What Job shows us is that it’s all right to argue with God. God understands our pain. He can handle our anger.”
“You expect me to argue with God?”
“Yes!” he said, laughing. “Just like you’re arguing with me.”
Josephine had no idea why he found that so funny. “I have been taught not to show anger toward those in authority over me, Mr. Chandler—”
“It’s Alexander.”
“—nor am I supposed to argue with them. Most especially, I am not supposed to argue with my father or with God. So for you to tell me to get angry with Him and argue with Him, it’s . . . it’s absurd!”
“You’re already angry with God, and He knows it. You may as well talk to Him about it.”
She halted when they reached the rail fence, but she refused to look at him. “I’m sorry, but yelling at God is not something I can easily do.”
“Prayer isn’t just about asking for things. It’s taking time to hear what God is saying, too, just like any good conversation. Once we finally stop talking and demanding and begging for things, it’s easier to hear what God is trying to say to us. Give it a chance, Josephine. And please read the end of the book.”
“I already read the end. God made sure that Job got everything back. Is that supposed to make him feel better? God even gave him a new set of children, but that won’t ease the pain of losing the ones he had. My mother is trying to get back everything she lost, too, and I’ve told her she’s expecting the impossible. Do you honestly believe God will give her a new husband to replace my father? Or a new son to replace Samuel?”
“No, of course not.”
“I think it’s asking too much to tell someone to keep on praying when none of her other prayers have been answered.”
“Josephine, I don’t know how to say this, or if I even should . . .”
“Just say it.”
“I believe I know why your prayers weren’t answered the way you wanted them to be.”
“Is that so?” She finally looked up at him, and he seemed older than his years, wiser than he had a right to be. He had an inner serenity and sense of purpose about him that she didn’t understand. She had seen him in action the day he had taken charge of Harrison, stopping the bleeding and riding into town for the doctor. Now he was gazing out at the field, at the newly plowed earth scored with furrows, at the men bending as they worked, and she believed he did know the answer—unlike Job’s hapless friends. “Tell me,” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure you’re ready to accept the reason yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to suffer even more before I’m ready to hear it? Or are you going to be like Job’s friends and tell me that I must have committed a great sin and this is God’s way of punishing me?”
“It has nothing to do with sin. We all sin—North and South, men and women, all of us.”
“Then why didn’t God answer my prayers?”
He finally turned to look at her. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I think is the reason. But I need you to promise that you won’t argue about it with me right now. Promise you’ll think about it for a few days, and then we’ll talk about it again. Promise?”
She reluctantly agreed. Mr. Chandler took her shoulder and gently turned her around to face the cotton fields. “Look. See those people laboring out there?”
Josephine saw Negroes plowing, raking, working. It was a familiar sight, one that she had seen countless times in her life. She grew impatient. “Of course.”
“What do you suppose they were praying for during the war—and even before the war began?”
She knew the answer he expected to hear, but she was too stubborn to reply.
He answered for her. “I think they were praying the same thing the Israelites prayed for when they were slaves in Egypt—they wanted to be free. They wanted their children to belong to them, not to their masters. They wanted hope and a future here on earth and not just in heaven. Don’t you think?”
Josephine had been taught that God created the Negro race to be laborers. The curse of Canaan was upon them, and they were destined to serve the white men. But that was before she had befriended Lizzie and Roselle, before she had worked alongside them and Mrs. Blake’s servants. Deep inside she knew that what she had believed all her life was wrong. “Probably,” she conceded.
“Now, God heard the prayers of those slaves and He heard yours. Can you think of any way at all that He could have answered both of you and given you both what you asked for?”
“So the South was wrong and God decided to punish us with defeat. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not at all. I’m saying there are reasons why God doesn’t answer our prayers the way we’d like Him to. Remember Jesus’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane? He didn’t want to suffer any more than we want to. But He said, ‘Nevertheless not what I will but what thou wilt.’ And it was God’s will that Jesus would die. G
od didn’t even answer His own Son’s prayer! But Jesus trusted that God’s will was better than His own.”
“So Jesus gave in to God’s will. Is that what I’m supposed to do? It was His will that we lost the war and my daddy died and my family and I have to suffer?”
“He didn’t necessarily want the South to suffer. But it is always God’s will that the people He loves are set free. It’s why He sent Jesus. So we’d have freedom from sin, freedom to be what He created us to be, freedom to serve Him. Of course it’s going to be His will to answer the slaves’ prayer. Since the Garden of Eden, it has been His plan to restore all things and all people to himself. Unfortunately for your father and brother, they opposed God’s plan and went to war. And when we go against God, we end up walking a very hard road. It was not God’s will for me to fight in the war. But I went against Him and my Quaker heritage and joined the army anyway. I can’t blame God for all I endured these past five years. It was my own fault for opposing Him.”
Alexander’s words seemed like heresy to Josephine. The way he talked about God seemed much too personal and direct, like an impertinent slave chatting and arguing with his master. This wasn’t the way faith was portrayed in her church. But then, her pastor had never given a reason why the congregation’s prayers had gone unanswered. And everyone continued to pray just the same after the war—except for Josephine. “But I don’t see how—”
“Wait. You promised you would think about it for a few days, remember? And by the way, I have something for you in my saddlebag. Walk back with me.”
She had to hurry to keep up with him as he strode back the way they had come. They stopped beside his tethered horse. Josephine couldn’t imagine what he wanted to show her and was stunned when he unbuckled the pouch and pulled out her hand mirror. The looking glass was in one piece again. “You . . . you had it fixed for me?”