Pa’s speech is more polished now than it used to be. Of course, mine is too, and Zack’s. We have all changed over the years from being around the kind of people who talk in more refined ways. Pa has been in government nine years now, and I’ve been writing for newspapers even longer. But just like with looks, you don’t notice the changes in yourself as much as in other people. My writing has, I suppose, become more polished. At least that’s what Mr. MacPherson and Mr. Kemble have told me, but I hardly notice. I just write how it comes out.
But I noticed the change with Pa the day I got back, even though, like I said, it might have already been there long before. Why, Pa sounded almost like an educated man! I could hardly believe it. He still has his own peculiar ways of saying some things, and he still says ain’t sometimes and words like that. But otherwise, he could fit right in anyplace.
I see Pa reading more now too. He would always read the newspaper, but now he reads books about politics or history, even about mining . . . and of course the Bible.
And though he doesn’t talk about it all the time, because he’s still one to think first and speak later, I know that a lot of the change in Pa is because of how seriously he takes what being a Christian is to him. He’s not one of the kinds of people who gets to a certain point in life and just stays there, just the same year after year. Maybe it’s on account of everything that happened in his past and the guilt he had to struggle with for a long time over what he had been and done.
But for whatever reason, I see in Pa a real determination to grow and learn and better himself and to become a more compassionate and giving person. I can tell that he really works at trying to do what God wants him to, not just taking things as they happen to come. He’s I guess what I would call a determined and forceful Christian, and that’s how I want to be too.
Pa’s grown over the past few years, just like I have, just like I told you Becky has. He’s not just an important man because of politics. He’s a deep man too. And maybe that’s what has slowly brought about all the changes I seem to notice in him—his time walking with God.
Just two days ago I was up early, going for a walk up past the barn, along the creek, and up to where the old mine is, though it’s pretty much played out now and Pa and Uncle Nick aren’t mining it anymore. As I went I came upon Pa up there sitting on a rock. Do you know what he was doing? Not working, not planning some project, not writing a political speech, not whittling, not cleaning his gun, not even just thinking. He was reading his Bible—reading it so intently that he didn’t hear me when I came up and I startled him. Well, come to think of it, I reckon he was thinking! He was really engrossed in his reading, I could tell, trying to find the meaning of some passage.
He put it down and we talked awhile. But before I left him I just picked up his Bible from the rock where he had laid it and I thumbed through it absently. Every page was worn. The book hung limp like it had been used often, and just about every place I looked there were marks on the page in Pa’s hand. That was a Bible that had seen a lot of use.
I remember when Pa bought it. He was so proud of that new Bible when he came home with it from Sacramento. Now it was a tired and worn old book!
No wonder he’s changed, I found myself thinking. The Bible changes people when they study it and pore through it and try hard to put its principles into practice! Pa was a living example!
It’s kind of the same with Zack.
The changes I see in him are like what I’ve been describing in Pa. Zack is so changed from several years ago—I can tell just from looking at him! There’s such a light in his eye and such a steady calmness to the way he walks, I love to look at him! Zack’s a man! If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was five years older than me!
He was different when he came back home after his year on the Pony Express. Oh, I can’t wait for him to tell you about it—it’s such a wonderful story. That’s why I never have, because it’s best when you hear it in his own words.
This is the most wonderful part: I’d told Zack he ought to write down about his time with the Pony Express and Hawk Trumbull—that’s the man who took him in out in the desert and taught him so many things.
“I ain’t no writer, Corrie,” he kept saying to me over and over every time I’d bring it up. But I kept after him, telling him that all the rest of his family would like to read about it, especially Tad, and even his own kids someday.
Well, by golly if he didn’t just do it!
Most of the two years I was away—except when he was gone again—he worked on writing down things that had happened and conversations he’d had with Mr. Trumbull.
There’s a fellow I would sure like to meet—what a fascinating man. There’s hardly a day goes by that Zack doesn’t bring him up.
You’d think the rest of us would get sick of hearing about Hawk Trumbull, but we never do. Just like we never get sick of Alkali Jones’s stories no matter how many times we’ve heard them. (Have I told you about my father’s old partner Alkali Jones?)
Anyway, Zack’s been writing everything down all this time, and on only my second day back, he found a chance to talk to me when I was alone for a minute. He walked up to me with a sheepish expression showing through his beard.
“Corrie,” he asked me, “you recollect what you said I oughta do just before you left, about writing down about my time in the desert . . .
“Well, I tried to do it, just like you said . . . would you mind taking a look at it?”
“Mind! Zack, I want to see it immediately!” I said excitedly, starting toward the house.
“I tried to do what you said—you know, telling about your thoughts and feelings, besides all that you’re doing. I wrote a lot too about stuff me and Hawk talked about—about God and growing up and being a man. I learned a heap from Hawk, Corrie.”
“Oh, Zack,” I told him. “I’m so pleased! I can’t wait to read it.”
I have read it, Christopher—all of it. Oh, and it is good . . . so good! I can hardly believe that it came from the mouth of my younger brother. I think he’s as good a writer as me—certainly better than I was when I first started. And I’d had all those years of keeping a journal too, which gave me lots of practice in expressing my thoughts and feelings. Zack didn’t have that—and he’s a man besides! So I wonder if there’s writing in the Hollister and Belle blood someplace further back than Ma or Pa!
I am just so proud of what Zack’s done. I laughed, I cried, and I got frightened, when I read about all that had happened to him. So now he and I are going to work on it together to get it ready to send to Mr. MacPherson, the editor for the publishing house in Chicago. I just know he’s going to like it as much as me.1
But, like I already said once . . . this letter is getting long!
My, oh my! I just looked at the time. It’s past two o’clock! I’ve been at my writing table for over two hours . . . or is it three! I must get to bed.
But when the house gets so silent and I start talking to you, even though it’s just on paper, I almost feel like you’re right there, and I want to tell you absolutely everything I am thinking about—everything.
Do you ever feel that way?
Oh, Christopher . . . Christopher . . . there is always so much more to say! I could write all day and all night long, and it still wouldn’t be enough!
Blessings to you! I think of you nearly all the time!
With Love,
Corrie
1. For the story of Zack’s adventures, see Grayfox, A Companion Reader to the Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister.
Chapter 7
Dinner with the Rutledges
When I visited the Rutledges briefly on the Thursday after I arrived home, they invited me to dinner two days later, on Saturday. I was the only one they invited—they wanted to visit . . . just with me. That was another of the many instances of life being different now that I was back home—doing something like that alone instead of as one of the family.
“Hello, Corrie,” Ha
rriet greeted me at the door, “come in!”
I smiled and followed her inside.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Corrie!” said Rev. Rutledge, giving my hand a friendly shake.
“Thank you. I can hardly believe it’s been two whole years!”
“Neither can I,” replied Harriet. “As much as everyone missed you, now that you’re back, suddenly it seems like only yesterday that you left. Do you remember Corrie?” she asked their daughter, who nodded shyly.
“Hello, Mary,” I said. “You have grown since I saw you last.”
Still she didn’t say anything, but I did manage to coax a smile from her mouth.
“Well, come sit down, Corrie. Supper’s all ready.”
We sat down at the table.
“Lord,” prayed Rev. Rutledge, “we thank you so much for bringing our sister and friend Corrie back safely to Miracle Springs. We pray that your will continues to be supreme in her life, that she continues to grow in stature as your daughter, and that seeking and proclaiming and living your truth continue to be the motivations of her life. Thank you for Corrie, heavenly Father, for all she means to her family and this community . . . and to Harriet and me. Thank you also now for this day, for this opportunity for fellowship, for this food, and for all the abundant provision you make in our lives. In the name of your son, Jesus Christ, we pray these things. Amen.”
We lifted our heads. The room was silent just a moment. Harriet began passing the platter of sliced roast beef. I took a slice, then passed it to Rev. Rutledge.
Both Harriet and Avery Rutledge had changed in a different way than my family. Besides being just two years older, they seemed much more tired as well. They smiled and were full of cheerfulness, but neither of them seemed to have quite the energy that they had had before.
Harriet’s limp seemed more pronounced to me, and Rev. Rutledge’s face appeared to have aged more than just two years’ worth. I don’t know what his age was, but he was starting to look old, at least to my sight. His face was pale, and he looked several years older than Pa, even though I’d always figured them to be about the same age.
“Thank you,” I said after a moment. “Your prayer means a lot to me.”
“We are all so proud of you, Corrie,” said Harriet. “The whole town . . . what you have done. I suppose we all tended to think of you as our own little Corrie, but then all of a sudden we’d remember that you were back East and involved with important and dangerous things, and then we’d realize what an important lady you had become. Isn’t that right, Avery?”
“When one of your articles would be printed in the paper, why, the whole town would be talking about nothing else!” said her husband.
I smiled at the thought.
“Your own father most of all,” added Harriet. “You should have seen that man carrying around extra papers and giving them out!”
Now I laughed outright. “He didn’t really?”
“He did!” rejoined both Rutledges at once. “And there’s no use his denying it because the whole town witnessed it!” added Rev. Rutledge, laughing now too.
“I thought he had become the talk of the town, being in the legislature and all,” I said.
“To everyone but him, he was,” replied Harriet. “But his own pride was more directed toward you than himself.”
“Which is precisely why everyone thinks so much of your father,” remarked Rev. Rutledge more seriously. “I don’t think there’s a pompous bone in his body. He’s a humble man, and everyone loves him for it.”
We continued to talk as we ate, both seriously and lightly, laughing together but also growing pensive at times.
“Do you miss teaching?” I asked Harriet.
“Yes,” she answered, “but I have my hands full keeping a home and raising a family. And with the town and community still growing, it’s my other job that keeps me busiest.”
“Your other job?” I asked in surprise.
“She means as my wife,” put in Rev. Rutledge.
“I . . . I don’t think I understand what you mean,” I said, half laughing, but confused.
“There are two ways to be a minister’s wife,” Rev. Rutledge explained. “Some women take the view that the ministry is only their husband’s responsibility. They support and approve of what he does but do not take an active share in the work themselves. Then there is the other way . . . exemplified by my dear wife.”
He smiled across the table at Harriet.
“In other words, she’s involved in it with you,” I said.
“Every step of the way,” said Rev. Rutledge.
“Oh, Corrie, there are so many people with so many needs,” said Harriet. “How can I not want to be involved in their lives? We’ve seen the community grow so rapidly, and there are many new families. Avery has begun a midweek service at the church, and I have been instructing some of the women on Saturday mornings here at our home. We had a meeting just this morning. I didn’t mention it to you because you were just back, but I hope you will be able to join us. Almeda and Becky usually do.”
“I would enjoy that very much,” I said.
“There are other things too,” Rev. Rutledge went on. “With the growth of the community there are so many more marriages and births . . . and funerals, unfortunately, as well. There are more people with more kinds of difficulties who seek counsel from one of us. And as the church congregation grows, so do its activities—picnics and square dances and money-raising projects. Committees have formed about this and that. There are always decisions to be made. And rarely, if ever, is there unanimity of opinion.”
“Leading the church is more complicated than when you left, Corrie,” said Harriet. “To be truthful, both Avery and I sometimes miss how it was in the fifties, just after the church was built.”
“That’s true,” added the minister with a wistful tone. “At the same time, we wouldn’t trade the growth for anything. The souls of men and women need food, and God has placed us in a position to help bring it to them. We thank him for it all, and we have certainly grown ourselves. But Harriet is right when she says that it is wearying. The ministry is no vocation for the fainthearted.”
As they spoke, I could not help thinking of Christopher and the difficulties he had experienced during his time in the pulpit. And I could not keep from wondering what it would be like to be a minister’s wife, though not once in my hearing had Christopher ever broached the subject of going back into active church ministry.
The conversation slowed, and the three of us fell silent a minute.
“What are you going to do now, Corrie?” Harriet finally asked.
I didn’t reply immediately. Though I’d been thinking about nothing else but my future, I still didn’t have a ready answer to her question. Besides, my future had two halves—the Christopher half, which I couldn’t talk about yet, and the not-Christopher half, which I didn’t know what I was going to do about, and which I didn’t know how would fit into the Christopher half.
“I . . . I don’t really know,” I answered slowly after a moment. “All my thoughts were so bound up in just getting home, so now that I am here, I have to think about all the possibilities all over again.”
“Will you keep writing?” asked Rev. Rutledge.
I thought a minute.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably . . . how could I not keep writing? I’ll probably always keep a journal.”
“What about newspaper writing?”
“That’s what I’m not sure about. I might keep doing it some. But right now writing articles for newspapers just doesn’t have the same challenge it did when I first started. I still like to write and express myself and find out about things and tell people about them. I don’t know what this change is that I feel. Perhaps it was the war, and Mr. Lincoln’s being killed—maybe that took away some of my enthusiasm for it.”
It was quiet again around the table.
“At first when I wrote about things,” I continued, “I suppose
I was pretty idealistic. Maybe that’s what comes of being young . . . and being a girl,” I added with a laugh. “Mr. Kemble used to tell me that’s why women couldn’t make good reporters. Now I see that in a way he was right. I was pretty idealistic. I’m just thankful he put up with me!
“But seeing the war as close up as I did, and being at Gettysburg and helping Clara Barton and the others with the wounded in the Sanitary Commission brigade, watching men die with my own eyes, and then the assassination . . . how can you live through such experiences and not be changed?
“I still have hopes and dreams and things I’d like to write about. I still want to speak about truth, like you prayed for me, Rev. Rutledge. Yet I doubt I’ll ever be quite so idealistic again—not after living through that terrible war. And I’m sure I’ll feel differently once some time passes. But right now I’m not burning to get back to newspaper writing. After the war and the President’s death, somehow it seems there’s not so much worth writing about right now . . . and there are other things I have on my mind.”
“Other things . . . like what?” asked Harriet innocently.
I blushed. I hadn’t meant to say it like that. How could I tell her that what I’d been thinking about for the last several weeks was getting married and maybe even having children of my own some day!
“I, uh . . .” I fumbled.
“Corrie, there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there!” said Harriet, a womanly twinkle in her eye.
I couldn’t stop the blushing.
“If there is, I can’t tell you about it yet,” I said vaguely, but smiling too. “You’ll just have to wait along with everybody else. And in the meantime,” I went on, trying to change the subject, “I’ll answer your question by just saying that maybe I’ll go back to work for the Supply Company for a while. But I still haven’t made up my mind altogether.”
A Home for the Heart Page 4