by Lynn Austin
Tuesday, June 23, 1884—Aboard the S. S. Hibernia:
I was born to the sea! Everything about it from the salt in the air to the cry of the sea birds makes me feel more alive and invigorated than I’ve ever felt in my life! I longed to pitch in with the men and cast off the hawsers and weigh the anchors as the tugboats nudged us out of the harbor in New Jersey yesterday, but the captain knows that my father is a major shareholder in this steamship line and he was intractable. I argued that I had captained the crew team at Yale, winning the college championship for the Bulldogs two years straight (and sending those despised Harvard boys home in defeat), but he insisted that he would not allow me to do anything that would jeopardize my life or his job. I then warned him that I might one day run the company in my father’s place and I vowed to demote him to cabin boy, but he remained unmoved....
I laughed out loud and skipped ahead to the next entry:
Friday, June 27, 1884—aboard The S. S. (Satan’s Ship) Hibernia:
I hate the sea! Everything about it from the relentless rocking to the savage swaying makes me feel more nauseated and ill than I’ve ever felt in my life! Little did I know when the tugboats nudged us from the safety of the harbor in New Jersey four days ago that they were sending us into twenty-foot swells and gale force winds and a watery grave at the bottom of the sea! I long to pitch myself overboard and end my misery quickly, but the captain still won’t allow me to do anything that would jeopardize my life or his job. He handed me a bucket, threatened to lock me in my stateroom if I didn’t stay below deck, and assured me that I would live to see the port of Southampton, England, in two weeks’ time. If I live to see Southampton, heaven knows I will surely die there because I will never step one foot aboard another ship....
‘‘How did you ever get home again?’’ I asked Walter when I could stop laughing.
‘‘Here, let me see that,’’ he said from across the room. I handed him the diary, then knelt by his feet as he looked it over. ‘‘Ah, this is only my first journal. By the time I survived a derailed train in Europe and a deranged camel in Egypt, the sea seemed tame in comparison.’’
‘‘I didn’t know you could write.’’
‘‘I should hope so. I’m a Yale graduate, you know.’’
‘‘No, I didn’t know that, either. And you used to be the captain of a crew team? What else haven’t you told me about yourself?’’
‘‘The truth is all here in these journals. It’s the unvarnished record of the three years I spent running from the responsibilities of adulthood.’’
‘‘This sounds like good stuff,’’ I said, taking the journal from him again and paging through it. ‘‘Does it tell how you explored new worlds, tamed savage tribes, and rescued several foreign princesses from pirates?’’
‘‘Not that I recall, but your version sounds like it would make a great adventure novel. You should write it someday, Betsy. No, these diaries mostly tell how I was bitten by a variety of savage insects, ate a good deal of very bad food, and traveled by every imaginable conveyance from rickshaw to yak back.’’
‘‘Let’s read these together,’’ I said, settling comfortably against his legs.
‘‘What? And have you discover what a coward I really am? Not on your life!’’
I thought of the unfaltering courage Walter showed every day in the face of a slow, certain death, and my eyes filled with tears. I turned away so he wouldn’t see them. ‘‘You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, Walter. And we’re going to read these journals cover to cover. You’re going to take me with you to all these places because that’s the only way I’ll ever go there.’’
Walter was a gifted storyteller. As summer turned to fall, I joined him on his exotic adventures in the jungles of Africa, the rain forests of Brazil, the pyramids of Egypt, and the gold fields of Alaska. His journal entries triggered even more memories, and I quickly scribbled them down in my own brand of shorthand as he reminisced. When he sent for his collection of National Geographic magazines, I saw photographs of many of the places he’d described. I had once dreamed of traveling around the world like Nellie Bly—now I traveled the world with Walter in our little cottage by the pond.
I had been feeding Walter and shaving him ever since we were first married, but I’ll never forget the cold October day when I realized he could no longer move his arms. I had just read him one of the chapters I’d written, and when he told me it was superb I ran to his wheelchair and hugged him in joy. He couldn’t hug me in return.
‘‘I’m sorry, Betsy,’’ he whispered.
‘‘It’s all right. I know you love me. And I know you’d hug the stuffing out of me if you could.’’
His embraces had always been weak, but it was a small death just the same. I would miss his caresses and the warmth of his arms around me—and in the years to come I would miss him entirely. But I had already made up my mind I would never weep while Walter was alive. There would be time enough for tears all too soon.
I bought Walter a wooden music stand so he could prop up the books he wanted to read, and he learned to turn the pages by holding a rubber-tipped stick in his mouth. I would have gladly given up my novel-writing to spend every waking moment with him, but Walter refused to let me quit.
As the months passed, he eventually grew dissatisfied with the books on our shelves, new as well as old, and he asked for a Bible. He found such tremendous comfort in reading it that we began reading it and discussing it together, just as we had discussed so many other books. But I was angry with God for what He was doing to Walter, and I found no comfort at all in what I read. It took my husband’s patient explanations, his quiet, steadfast faith, to help me see what he alone saw on those sacred pages.
‘‘Listen to this, Walter. It says ‘whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.’ That means if we pray and believe that you’ll get well—’’
‘‘No, Betsy. God isn’t a genie inside a magic lamp whom you can pray to and get all your wishes. Jesus taught us to pray, ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’ That’s because in heaven the angels do God’s bidding without question. They rejoice to do His will, and we need to do the same.’’
‘‘But what if I don’t like His will? What if I don’t agree with it?’’
‘‘Well, God gave us free choice. We don’t haveto serve Him.’’ He leaned his head back against the chair and sighed. ‘‘You know, all my life I felt that way about working for my father. His will must be done, whether I agreed with it or not. I had to do his bidding without question. Our heavenly Father never forces us to serve Him...but do you know what? God really doesknow what’s best for us. He created us. His perfect will is perfect for us, whether we can understand it with our limited minds or not. Even so, He allows each of us to decide: Will we choose our own way or maybe society’s way—and end up settling for less than perfection? Or will we let God take us where He has chosen—and be amazed?’’
I stood behind Walter’s chair and rested my cheek against his hair. ‘‘I don’t like where He’s taking you.’’
‘‘Do you know why we constantly fight the notion of death, Betsy? I just read about that in Genesis the other day. It’s because God created us to live forever with Him in Eden. Death was not God’s choice; it was man’s. Death is unnatural, a punishment for sin. But God countered man’s choice with another perfect plan— He redeemed us in Christ so we could live forever with Him.’’
I moved around to the front of his chair and held Walter’s precious face in my hands. ‘‘And in the meantime? Here on earth?’’
‘‘We must pray, ‘Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.’ Promise me that you’ll always write, Betsy. Don’t let your father or anyone else impose his will on you. And don’t ever settle for any other life except the one for which God created you.’’
‘‘What about His will for you?’’ I whispered. I couldn’t speak any louder without weeping.
‘‘
The same thing,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll pray for God’s will to be done—whether it means that I live or I die. And we’ll pray that He’ll grant us the grace to accept it.’’
I kissed his forehead, his eyebrows, the knuckles of his hands.
‘‘Why did God have to make our lives so fragile and so short?’’
Walter thought for a moment before answering. ‘‘Because life is very precious to Him. He treasures each life He created and He wants us to treasure it, too—like fine porcelain china. God knows what it’s like to live and die in a frail human body like ours. His Son suffered physical death, Betsy, so that you and I can face it without ever being afraid.’’
Walter’s paralysis inevitably spread, just as the doctors had warned it would. He lost weight as it became more and more difficult for him to swallow. It required an enormous effort for him to talk, and his speech became so slurred, I would soon be the only person who could understand him.
‘‘I want you to write to Chicago and ask my father’s lawyer to come,’’ he told me one dark winter morning. ‘‘Then arrange for a local lawyer to meet with us at the same time. Do you know of any good lawyers in this area?’’
‘‘There’s John Wakefield, here in Deer Springs. He took over his father’s practice about ten years ago.’’
‘‘Good. Ask him to come.’’
I knew that Walter wanted to prepare his will, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the word out loud when I contacted the two lawyers. They met alone with Walter in our bedroom and it was one of the very few times I ever left his side. They talked together for about three hours, then John Wakefield emerged to ask Peter and me to come in and witness the signing. Of course Walter could no longer sign his name. I held back bitter tears as my oncevibrant husband held a pen between his teeth to draw an Xon the appropriate line.
‘‘Thank you, Betsy, for not leaving me alone to die,’’ Walter said as I held him in my arms that night. ‘‘Thank you for demanding your own way. I don’t know how I ever deserved your love...but I feel sorry for any man who has to die alone.’’
After the lawyers came and left, Walter no longer insisted that I work on my novel. It remained in the bedroom bureau drawer where I’d left it so that I could spend every last moment with him. As the snow piled in deep drifts outside our cottage windows one afternoon, he asked me to read the scenes from the Gospels that told of Christ’s death and resurrection. When I got to the part where Jesus met the disciples on the road to Emmaus, Walter interrupted me.
‘‘Do you know why they didn’t recognize Him?’’ he asked.
‘‘No, why?’’
‘‘Because Jesus’ body wasn’t ‘revived’ from the dead like Lazarus’ body had been. He was resurrected. They didn’t recognize Him because His resurrected body was as different from his physical body as an apple is from an apple seed. He was changed.
That’s what Paul meant in Corinthians when he wrote about the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown in weakness will be raised in power; it’s sown a natural body, but it’s raised a spiritual body.’’
Walter must have known by my lack of response, my failure to even debate the Scriptures with him, that my faith and hope were as paralyzed as his limbs. I watched him struggle, with what little strength he had, to find a way to help me see.
‘‘Look at those trees outside our window, Betsy. If you never saw spring before, you would lose hope, you would chop them all down, believing they’re dead. But spring will come again. They will blossom again and bear fruit. I’m in the winter of my life, and you’re looking at my dying body and seeing it like those trees, without hope. But in Christ, new life will come. Jesus said, ‘Whoever lives and believes in me will never die.’ This isn’t the end. You and I will live for all eternity.’’
‘‘That won’t stop me from missing you,’’ I said, battling my tears.
‘‘I know. When I left you last summer and went back to Chicago, I couldn’t see you but you were alive in my heart because I pictured you making your home in a new place, married and going on with your life. And even though you couldn’t see me, you imagined me living in Chicago, going to work each day, riding home in my carriage every evening. It will be the same after I leave you this time, too. You can keep me alive in your heart because I’ll still be alive in eternity. I’m simply making my home in a different place.’’
I lost the battle to hold back my tears. I lay down beside him on the bed and pressed my face tightly against his. ‘‘I’ll never stop loving you!’’ I wept. ‘‘Never!’’
‘‘Nor I you, for all eternity. Watch the trees, Betsy. When you see the blossoms you’ll know I’m with Christ...and that I’m alive forever. And some day these dry, dead limbs of mine will blossom with resurrection life.’’
A few short weeks later I knew the end was very near. Walter’s breathing had become painfully labored. It made my own chest ache to hear him struggle, but he never complained. I held him in my arms and talked to him, read to him, sang to him, keeping my own panic at bay so he wouldn’t suffer the terror of slow suffocation. The night before he died he strained to speak to me one last time.
‘‘Go into the orchard every spring, Betsy....Look at the flowers....They’re God’s promise that we’ll see each other again.’’
I was holding Walter in my arms when he drew his last breath. He held it for a moment, then simply exhaled, like a quiet sigh of relief. And he was gone.
The next morning I sent for John Wakefield. He told me that Walter had arranged with a local undertaker to ship his body home to his family. They buried him in Chicago. I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t watch them put Walter in that box and lower it into the cold ground.
I’d like to say that I handled Walter’s death well, that I was prepared for it and I didn’t grieve as those who have no hope. But it isn’t true. I sank into a dark place where no light could reach me. It was winter outside my window and winter deep in my soul. When my tears were gone I grieved without tears.
Lydia held me in her arms and tried to console me with her love, but it was as if she stood outside my shuttered cottage, peering through the windows in vain. I couldn’t open the door to her or anyone else.
And then on a warm spring morning the cherry trees blossomed, just as Walter knew they would. One day the orchard appeared dead and lifeless, the next day I looked out my window and didn’t recognize the view. The trees’ beauty beckoned to me, whispered to me, until I found myself outside, standing beneath clusters of fragrant pink flowers. At that moment I knew two truths with absolute certainty. Walter was alive. And God was here, with me.
I met God in the orchard that morning—not in a tangible form you could see or hear, but I felt His presence comforting me the way I could once sense the comfort of Walter’s presence when we sat in the same room, even with my back turned to him. God seemed to say, ‘‘When everything else is gone, I’m still here.’’
And I knew then that I wanted to do God’s bidding—on earth as it is in heaven—because I would never find the peace that Walter had found unless I did. I wanted to live my life according to God’s plan, not other people’s plans—to become the person He created me to be. God changed my name that morning. People think a woman who isn’t married, who lives with her father and writes books, and who wanders around in a cherry orchard talking to God must be crazy. Surely she has a few ‘‘bats in her belfry!’’ But I would be the woman God wanted me to be. And so He changed my name to Batty.
The first thing I did when I finally went back inside the cottage that morning was to open the bedroom drawer to retrieve my neglected manuscript. Except when I opened the drawer, it wasn’t there. Instead, I found a note:
Dear Missus Gibson,
I didnt steel this book frum you. Master Walter tole me to write this note and explane that he sent it to a publishur. He sed to tell you its reddy but he nos you wood never send it your self so he axed his lawyer to do it.
Peter
; PS-He sed to add I love you (frum him, not me) and to tell you to start writing another book.
About a month later, John Wakefield arrived at my door. I had closed up the cottage and moved back into the farmhouse with Father once Peter and his wife had returned home to Chicago.
‘‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Gibson,’’ John said, tipping his hat. ‘‘How are you today?’’
‘‘I’m fine, John. What’s all that stuff in the back of your wagon? You aren’t moving away from Deer Springs, are you?’’
‘‘No,’’ he chuckled, ‘‘This is your furniture, not mine. Where would you like it delivered?’’
‘‘Mine? What is it? Where did it come from?’’ I walked over to the wagon and lifted the tarpaulin to peer beneath it. Mr. Wakefield followed me.
‘‘According to the terms of your late husband’s will, he wanted you to have the desk and chair he used when he worked for his father. And he asked that I also purchase a typewriting machine for you.’’
The desk was made of cherry wood, with brass drawer pulls and a polished top that gleamed like a mirror in the sunlight. ‘‘It’s enormous!’’ I said.
‘‘Yes, it’s a beauty, all right. I wish I could afford a desk like that for my office.’’
The Remington typewriting machine looked incredibly complicated compared to a simple pen and paper. ‘‘Oh dear, John. I haven’t the faintest idea how to use that thing.’’
He smiled as he rested his briefcase on the wagon wheel and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. ‘‘Mr. Gibson said to tell you, and I quote—‘Learn how, Betsy. Your handwriting is atrocious’—end quote.’’
I laughed and wept at this message from Walter. It seemed to come from beyond the grave. ‘‘Were there any other orders from the boss?’’ I asked as I wiped a tear.