These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  “I understand.”

  “Can you understand that whatever faith I had in God was lost, too?”

  “Yes. It can happen like that.”

  “We pretty much stayed away from the nursing home where Granma Murphy lived—if you could call it living. One reason we didn’t go was because she never knew who we were.

  “Something about that bothered me, the staying away because she didn’t recognize us. But I was in school, and ever since the accident, school had been hard for me. There was a while when I didn’t think I’d make it to my senior year. I had plenty on my mind, so not going to see her didn’t trouble me too much. But something kept gnawing at me.

  “One day, I was out on my bike, and I stopped by a picnic area and I looked at those tables sitting there with no one around, and I thought of all the picnics my grandparents had taken me on, and I was overwhelmed with ... with grief, with something I had never allowed myself to feel. I thought I would die from the pain.”

  He let out a deep breath. “That was the best thing that could have happened to me, that I stopped and felt the pain.

  “I knew right then that I had to go see Granma Murphy, really go see her, look at her, touch her, tell her I loved her. I can’t tell you the urgency I felt.

  “We had put her in a nursing home about twenty miles away. I hardly remember that bike ride—twenty miles and I hardly remember it, something else was pumping those pedals. It was like I was divinely guided, given wings.”

  Scott Murphy’s face was beaming. “I slammed my bike down outside the door and ran down the hall and found Granma....”

  Tears streamed down the young man’s face, and he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, but he was still smiling. “And I kissed her face and her hands and told her I loved her, and that I would always love her.

  “I also told her I’d be back.

  “I could see she didn’t know me. And Father ... it was OK that she didn’t know me. A lot of people stop going to see someone they love because that person doesn’t recognize them. Right then, I thought, who cares if she doesn’t recognize me? One out of two people in this room knows their identity, and those odds are good enough for me.”

  “Yes!”

  “I went back twice a week, it was like the old days, like the beginning of summer—I couldn’t wait to go see Granma. I just believed that somewhere in there, behind the eyes that didn’t appear to see, and the ears that didn’t seem to hear, was a heart still full of love, a heart that still wanted to give and still wanted to receive.

  “You can imagine that I’ve told this story a few times in my work, and once in a while, people ask how some teenage kid knew to think like that.

  “I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t know how to think like that. I was just a tall, gangly, mixed-up kid like a lot of other kids that age. Something else was at work in me.

  “My parents started going, too. And somehow, we just began pouring love into my Granma, and talking to her as if she understood everything we said. My dad would tell her jokes, she always loved jokes, and we believed she could hear and was laughing somewhere inside. We just stopped doubting that she knew us and could hear us.”

  Scott paused and grinned.

  “Go on!” said the rector.

  “Today, my Granma is one of the activity leaders in her nursing home.”

  “Hallelujah!” he nearly shouted.

  Scott looked at his watch. “Two-thirty. She’s in crafts class right now. They’re painting canister sets for their children and grandchildren.”

  The rector burst into laughter. Painting canister sets! How ordinary and insignificant that would seem to the world. He wanted to clap and shout.

  “Some people,” said Scott, “ask if I prayed while she was in that coma. Once in a while, I’d say something like, ‘God, I’m really mad at You, but I still believe You’re God and You can do anything You want to, and I want You to heal Granma. Period.’ ”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think He healed Granma, just like I asked Him to. I think He did it with love, and He used us to help. He could have used anybody—a nurse, an old friend, maybe—but it was us, and I’m grateful.

  “I came away from that time in my life with a special sense of a couple of verses in second Corinthians:

  “ ‘For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, works for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.’

  “In my ministry as a chaplain, I try to look for the things which aren’t seen.”

  “Well done.”

  Scott stood up and stretched. “Excuse me, sir, but I haven’t been running in a while, and I can feel it.”

  “I’ve slacked off, too, in the last few days. How long are you going to be around?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should tell you the rest of the story....”

  “Please.”

  Scott Murphy sat back down and leaned against the wall behind the bench.

  “I think I got my calling to be a chaplain during the time we were visiting Granma. And so, when college came around, it just seemed the natural thing to do to go to Fuller, where a couple of uncles had gone. I got my M. Div. there, and did a C.P.E. year in a hospital working with geriatric patients.

  “Then I was hired as chaplain at a large eldercare center in Boston. It’s all in my résumé, sir, and I have several letters of recommendation.”

  “I look forward to seeing them.”

  “I’ve been at the center for three years, and I’ve worked hard and I’ve learned a lot, but somehow, it’s time to move on. All I can say is, I’ve been feeling restless, and I haven’t really known why.

  “I’ve done a lot of praying about where I’m supposed to be, and two or three months ago, I had a dream. In the Old Testament, God does some pretty incredible stuff with dreams.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “In the dream, this black curtain came down in my mind, with a word on it. The letters were white, and they were big and they were printed. ‘Mitford’ was the word.

  “Somehow, I felt this was the answer, but it sure didn’t come with any instruction manual. I didn’t have a clue what to do about dealing with this answer. So I went to the little neighborhood library down the street and cross-referenced that word ‘til it was chopped liver. Geriatric centers, military schools, you name it. Nothing. Then, I was looking through an atlas, because I like maps a lot, and it hit me—maybe Mitford was a place.”

  “Good shot!”

  “I found a lot of Milfords. They’re everywhere. But there’s only one Mitford in the whole country.

  “I did some research on the Web, and learned you’re building a five-million-dollar nursing home here.”

  Scott looked at the computer sitting on Emma’s desk. “Are you on the Web?”

  “You don’t want to know,” said the rector, grimacing.

  Scott Murphy laughed. “So, I waited for a four-day break, and I got in my car and I drove down here.

  “I won’t ask if that sounds crazy, sir, because I know it does. I spent last night in Wesley, and I’ve been walking around your town all morning, and I’ve just been up to see Hope House. It’s an outstanding facility, sir, the best I’ve ever seen. The space is filled with light ... everything about it lives up to its name.

  “I like your town a lot. People have been very friendly to us all morning, especially to Luke and Lizzie.”

  “Luke and Lizzie?”

  “My Jack Russells, sir. They’re two years old. You might say they work with me.”

  “Aha.”

  “The elderly love dogs, and Luke and Lizzie love them. So, we’re a team, sir.” Scott smiled. “Hope House, your town, the people ... it all seems right to me, Father. It all seems very right. I just lay it out to you like it is, with no window dressing.”


  Scott Murphy stood up from the visitor’s bench and put his hands behind his back like a schoolboy about to deliver a review of War and Peace.

  “There’s only one more thing I want to say, Father. And that is, I’d like very much to have this job.”

  The rector got up and walked over to Scott Murphy. He looked into the young man’s urgent brown eyes and shook his hand.

  “You’re hired,” he said.

  Good Lord! He had hired a man who should have been reviewed by the vestry, not to mention Hoppy Harper, and—last, but definitely, absolutely not least—Sadie Baxter.

  If Sadie Baxter, who was footing the bill, didn’t approve of Scott Murphy, Timothy Kavanagh was dead meat.

  “Scott, I want you to visit Miss Sadie Baxter for a half hour or so, and please don’t mention that I just hired you.”

  Scott laid his résumé folder on the rector’s desk. “Yes, sir.”

  He dialed the number on Lilac Road.

  “Miss Sadie, if it’s convenient, I’m sending over a candidate for chaplain. I hope you’ll give him a few minutes of your time.”

  “What do you think of him, Father?”

  He was tempted to say he thought Scott Murphy uniquely suited to the job. But, no. Something held him back.

  “Qualified. Good fellow,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Call me when you can.”

  If this didn’t work, he didn’t even want to guess the outcome. Bottom line, he would be retired long before his time.

  Two hours passed, then three, when the phone rang.

  “Father?” said Miss Sadie. “I think Scott Murphy is the one for the job. Hire him!”

  “Consider it done,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  And Many More

  FOXGLOVES HAD TO BE staked earlier than usual, and the hosta, growing in lush groves throughout the village, produced rows of tight; urgent buds along erect stems.

  Cream-colored bank roses bloomed along Old Church Lane, forming billowy clouds over the emerald grass. Pink and fuchsia climbers massed themselves on trellises, and in one yard, a vast stand of old shrub roses cast their rich, heady perfume on the air.

  The scoop on June was captured by Winnie Ivey, who was never much on words:

  “It’s a dazzler!” she was quoted as saying in Hessie Mayhew’s column.

  He could scarcely appreciate the dazzle, given the fact that another computer session awaited him at the office.

  He could, of course, fail to show up and let Emma take the heat. He could call in sick with the flu. He could fall in a ditch while jogging—heaven knows he had once done that very thing, and banged up his leg pretty badly.

  He knew Stuart Cullen wasn’t sitting over there at diocesan headquarters pushing a mouse around. No indeed, Stuart could dish it out, but ...

  Dave was waiting in front of the church office.

  “Hey, big guy! How’s it going?”

  “I’m over toolbars,” replied the rector, unlocking the door. “What’s the agenda for today?”

  “Typing and Revising, Finding and Replacing,” said Dave, obviously excited, “with a smidgen of Editing and Proofing.”

  If he were anything other than the responsible stick-in-the-mud that everyone knew him to be, he would get in his car and head for the county line.

  He had loaded a font, he had formatted a paragraph, he had bulleted a list, he had selected a font, he had embedded a graph, he had kerned a headline, he had set margins, and he was exhausted.

  He went home early, and did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

  With a cool spring rain drumming on the roof, he got between the covers without removing his clothes, where he slept until Cynthia arrived, looking pale from hours of labor over a drawing board.

  “Good idea,” she said, crawling in beside him and falling sound asleep.

  A fine pair they made, and newlywed into the bargain.

  They were getting dressed for Miss Sadie’s party, and Dooley was presenting himself to them in blue jeans, a starched shirt, and his navy school blazer.

  “Stunning!” said Cynthia. “Where’s the camera?”

  “Top shelf in the closet,” said the rector.

  “We’ll get someone to shoot us at church,” she said, taking it off the shelf and putting it in her handbag.

  “Can I take my TV to the farm?” asked Dooley.

  Were the boy’s loafers newly shined, or was he imagining things? “Well, sure.”

  “Thanks,” said Dooley, leaving the room.

  “He told me he’s helping Hal with a sick calf tonight,” said Cynthia. “He is compassionate, Timothy.”

  “Compassion for animals does not make up for being indifferent to humans.”

  She was silent for a moment. “This is a pressing day for you, dearest—two services, adult Sunday School, a major party, and Evensong—I’m making dinner at my house tonight and giving us a retreat.”

  He smiled at his wife, who was putting on something the color of his favorite clematis. “Terrific. When I retire, I hope we’ll have many retreats. ”

  “When you ... what?”

  “When I ... retire.” He had said it; it had slipped forth without his knowing.

  Cynthia’s eyes shone. “Well, I’ll be et for a tater!”

  “We’ll ... talk about it sometime,” he said, coloring.

  “Good! I love to talk about the future.”

  “Cynthia, Cynthia,” he said, putting on a fresh tab collar, “what don’t you love?”

  “Daytime TV, pickled onions, and cheap ballpoint pens.”

  He laughed easily. A retreat at the little yellow house. It might have been the south of France for the odd pleasure he took in thinking of it.

  Sadie Baxter had been a member of Lord’s Chapel for eighty years. Hardly anyone ever did anything, he mused, for eighty years. This was a blessing not to be taken lightly.

  The children lined up and stationed themselves behind Ray Cunningham, who stood at the open door of the parish hall with a video camera on his shoulder.

  The rector gazed at the eager faces of thirteen children, ranging in ages from four and a half to twelve years, all with their own excitement over the event.

  In today’s world, how many children got to mix with the elderly? How did one ever “learn” what it meant to grow old?

  In his time, all that had been in place, there were models for aging everywhere—up and down the street, talking on porches, working in the yard, sitting on benches—visible, out there.

  “Here she comes!” shouted Ray.

  Esther Bolick banged on a dishpan with a wooden spoon. “Quiet, get ready, here she comes!” Esther threw down the dishpan and took her place at the piano.

  “I hope I don’t break your camera!” said Miss Sadie, arriving with Louella and Ron Malcolm, and her best silver-tipped cane.

  “Hit it!” shouted Esther.

  Happy Birthday to you!

  Happy Birthday to you!

  Happy Birthday, Miss Sadie,

  Happy birthday to you!

  And many mo-oh-ore!

  “Happy Birthday, Miss Sadie!” chorused the children, holding up posters they had made for the occasion.

  The entire room burst into hoots, cheers, and applause as he offered his arm and led the guest of honor to a chair in front of the fireplace.

  “I’d better sit down before I fall down!” she warbled.

  Laughter all around.

  “Please come and pay your respects to our precious friend on the occasion of her ninetieth birthday,” said the rector. “Help yourself to the refreshments, and save room for cake and ice cream after the mayor’s speech. But first, let’s pray!”

  Much shuffling around and grabbing of loose toddlers.

  “Our Father, we thank You profoundly for this day, that we might gather to celebrate ninety years of a life well-lived, of time well-spent in your service.

  “We thank You for the roof on this house which was given by Yo
ur child, Sadie Baxter, and for all the gifts she freely shares from what You graciously provide.

  “We thank You for her good health, her strong spirits, her bright hope, and her laughter. We thank You for Louella, who brings the zestful seasoning of love into our lives. And we thank You, Lord, for the food You’ve bestowed on this celebration, and regard with thanksgiving how blessed we are in all things. Continue to go with Sadie, we pray, and keep her as the apple of Your eye. We ask this in Jesus’ name.

  “Amen!” chorused the assembly, who either broke into a stampede to the food table or queued up to deliver felicitations to the honored guest.

  He saw Buck Leeper, the job superintendent of Hope House, bow awkwardly in front of Miss Sadie and move quickly toward the door.

  He was enthralled to see the children approach her one by one, each with a small, wrapped box—all of which contained, he was told on good authority, peanut butter candy.

  Mostly, he loved the sight of Absalom Greer, who, to pay his earnest respects, and regardless of advanced arthritis, knelt by Miss Sadie’s chair on one knee.

  And many more! he thought, smiling. And many more, indeed.

  They walked home from church, Cynthia carrying a wrapped parcel of the peanut butter and jelly birthday cake, which had been a dubious hit.

  “Dooley,” she said, “you sang so beautifully, the top of my head tingled.”

  The rector put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “And I got cold chills.”

  “Miz Bolick hammered down on that piano pretty good. You ought to get it tuned.”

  “We’ll see to it,” promised the rector. “Run in and finish getting your things together. Marge and Hal will be along in a few minutes.”

  “I want to take that cage Jack used to stay in, in case I find a rabbit or anything hurt.”

  “Take it.”

  Dooley dashed into the rectory ahead of them, and they paused on the stoop.

  “How are you?” asked Cynthia.

  “Struggling.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Nobody knew it. The party was a huge success! Miss Sadie wept when Dooley sang, and everyone loved your poem.”