That’s one of the things about growing up—there’s a melancholy that comes with it when you look back at how things used to be.
“Corrie!” a shout sounded behind me.
I turned. There was Christopher running toward us.
I turned back toward Almeda, then embraced her one last time.
“I love you, Almeda,” I whispered.
“Oh, Corrie . . . I love you so much,” I heard her reply softly in my ear. Then her arms pulled me tight and I could feel her strong embrace all around me. “May God give you the best life imaginable!”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I squeezed her once more, then we released one another, and I turned toward the new best friend God had given me—the husband who had given me his name, and to whom I had given my life and my love.
Chapter 47
New Start in Our Own Home
When the wagon was all loaded and the team hitched up, Christopher helped me up to the seat, then jumped up after me.
“We’ll follow you into town to help with the unloading,” said Pa.
“Give us an hour or so,” said Christopher. “We’d like to be alone for just a while there together.”
“All right, but just don’t do any of the heavy lifting till me and Tad get there.”
“I promise.”
“Are you two going to sleep in town tonight?” asked Almeda, “or will you be back out?”
“We’ll have to see how moved in we are,” I answered.
“You’ll have supper here with us?”
“That we will agree to!” said Christopher.
“I’ll make up one of the extra beds, just in case,” said Almeda.
Christopher flicked the reins, and the wagon jostled into motion behind the two horses.
“’Bye!” came choruses of voices behind us.
We all waved, Christopher and I in the wagon, and the rest of the family standing by the house in a group watching us go. They were still standing there, hands in the air, as we rounded the hilltop and went out of sight.
I turned back around toward the front, slipped my arm through Christopher’s, snuggled close to him. We rode most of the rest of the way into Miracle Springs in silence. There were a lot of things to think about. It was a time of change for us, and we both were aware of it.
Twenty-five or thirty minutes later we pulled up in front of the house that to most folks in town was still known as “the Parrish place,” in honor of Almeda’s first husband who had built it after they had arrived in California from Boston.
Christopher set the brake on the wheel, then jumped to the ground and helped me down beside him. He ran to the door, opened it, and ran back to where I was standing.
Without so much as a warning, he suddenly reached around my waist with one hand and under my knees with the other and scooped me off my feet.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.
“Merely complying with tradition, my dear,” he replied.
Holding me in his arms as though I weighed no more than a feather, Christopher walked toward the house, then sideways through the door.
“I know we’re not newlyweds anymore,” he said, “but since this is our first real home together, I thought it only fitting that I carry you across the threshold.”
“Oh, Christopher . . . you are a romantic!”
“And I hope I will always remain one—that is, if you don’t tire of me.”
“Never!”
He walked into the big, empty sitting room, stopped, and slowly turned me all the way around as we gazed upon the place where we would start the years of our life together. For several long moments we remained there, silent with our own thoughts.
“Well, Mrs. Braxton,” Christopher said at length, still holding me in his arms. “I think we’re home.”
He bent his face down and kissed me gently. As he eased back from me I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tight.
“I am so glad you picked me up off that road by Mrs. Timms’ farm,” I whispered into his ear. “I can’t imagine now that I lived so many years of my life without knowing you.”
Christopher laughed.
“I know what you mean. It seems like we’ve known each other forever, doesn’t it?”
I sighed contentedly.
“Oh, Christopher,” I murmured. “I am so happy to be your wife, and to be able to share the rest of life with you.”
“I share your happiness,” he said. “But I’m getting the best of the bargain.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Just look at all the Lord has blessed me with—the finest woman a man could ever want for a wife—”
“Oh, go on!”
“I mean it—you are! But let me finish.”
“I promise not to interrupt again.”
“All right then. He’s given me a wife, a home to call my own, even though it’s not really mine—”
“It may be someday.”
“Perhaps.”
“Almeda said we could buy it from her anytime we wanted, for no more than it cost Mr. Parrish to build it eighteen years ago.”
“She’s a generous woman—we’ll see. But you said you wouldn’t interrupt again!”
“You asked about the house!” I laughed.
“I did no such thing. In any case, God has given me a wife, a house, a partial stake in a gold mine, a family with brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and a father-in-law and whatever Almeda is to me who all love and accept me . . . and in addition a church to pastor.
“Goodness, Corrie! In all my wildest dreams, I never expected to be so blessed if I lived to be a hundred. When I met Corrie Belle Hollister, it was like discovering three or four pots of gold at the end of the rainbow . . . all at once!”
By now I was laughing again. I couldn’t help it.
“So do you see why I say I got the best of the bargain? I got all that, and all you received in exchange was a man—a penniless husband of soiled pastoral reputation.”
Again I wrapped my arms around Christopher’s neck, kissed him on the cheek, and then murmured into his ear.
“But what a man I got!” I said. “A man of God! And that is worth more to a woman than any ten gold mines or twenty houses!”
A moment more we remained in silence, then Christopher gently eased me down to the floor.
We stood for a minute in the middle of the room, arm in arm, without saying anything more.
“We are going to have a good life here, Christopher,” I said at length. “God is going to bless this home.”
When Christopher finally opened his mouth, he was not speaking to me.
“Father,” he prayed, “we want to take this opportunity again, as we have done in the past, to dedicate our lives, our future, our marriage, our ministry together, and this home and all that takes place under this roof . . . to you. We join our hearts and pray that you would accomplish good here through us. May hearts and lives be changed as the men and women of this community come to know you more intimately.”
He paused a moment, then continued.
“Most of all, Father,” he prayed, “accomplish your purposes in our hearts and lives. Transform us. Make us fully your son and your daughter, for we desire nothing but that the life of your Spirit flow in us and through us. Let us serve the people of this community. Give us opportunities not to be highly thought of, but to minister the foot-washing example of Christlike servanthood to the people who come our way. May this home be a refuge for all who enter its doors, where they may find peace, acceptance, truth, and love . . . and most of all where they may find your loving Fatherhood toward them. Give us obedient and humble hearts to do your will. Deepen within us the desire to seek after nothing but your will. We look to you, our Father, to supply our every need, and to make known the course you want our footsteps to take. We give ourselves completely to you, Father.”
He stopped, and it was silent again.
“Amen,” I said.
Yet a few seconds
longer we stood.
“Well, what do you say, Mrs. Braxton?” said Christopher, turning toward me. “Shall we unload that wagon and begin turning this place into the home of Corrie and Christopher Braxton?”
About the Author
Michael Phillips is a bestselling author of a number of beloved novels, including such well-known series as SHENANDOAH SISTERS, CAROLINA COUSINS, CALEDONIA, and THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER. He has also served as editor of many more titles, adapting the classic works of Victorian author George MacDonald (1824–1905) for today’s reader, and his efforts have since generated a renewed interest in MacDonald. Phillips’s love of MacDonald’s Scotland has continued throughout his writing life.
In addition to his fifty published editions of MacDonald’s work, Phillips has authored and coauthored over ninety books of fiction and nonfiction, ranging from historical novels to contemporary whodunits, from fantasy to biblical commentary.
Michael and his wife, Judy, spend time each year in Scotland but make their home in California. To learn more about the author and his books, visit fatheroftheinklings.com. He can be found on Facebook at facebook.com/michaelphillipschristianauthor/. To contact the Phillipses or join their email family, please write to: [email protected].
Books by Michael Phillips
Fiction
THE RUSSIANS*
The Crown and the Crucible • A House Divided • Travail and Triumph
THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*
The Heather Hills of Stonewycke • Flight from Stonewycke • Lady of Stonewycke
THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*
Stranger at Stonewycke • Shadows over Stonewycke • Treasure of Stonewycke
THE SECRETS OF HEATHERSLEIGH HALL
Wild Grows the Heather in Devon • Wayward Winds
Heathersleigh Homecoming • A New Dawn Over Devon
SHENANDOAH SISTERS
Angels Watching Over Me • A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton
The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart • Together Is All We Need
CAROLINA COUSINS
A Perilous Proposal • The Soldier’s Lady
Never Too Late • Miss Katie’s Rosewood
CALEDONIA
Legend of the Celtic Stone • An Ancient Strife
THE HIGHLAND COLLECTION*
Jamie MacLeod: Highland Lass • Robbie Taggart: Highland Sailor
THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER
My Father’s World* • Daughter of Grace* • On the Trail of the Truth
A Place in the Sun • Sea to Shining Sea • Into the Long Dark Night
Land of the Brave and the Free • A Home for the Heart
THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE AND CHRISTOPHER
The Braxtons of Miracle Springs • A New Beginning • Grayfox
THE SECRET OF THE ROSE
The Eleventh Hour • A Rose Remembered
Escape to Freedom • Dawn of Liberty
AMERICAN DREAMS
Dream of Freedom • Dream of Life • Dream of Love
The Sword, the Garden, and the King
Heaven and Beyond
Angel Harp
Murder By Quill
From Across the Ancient Waters
Angel Dreams**
SECRETS OF THE SHETLANDS
The Inheritance
Nonfiction
The Eyewitness New Testament (3 volumes)
The Commands
The Commands of the Apostles
George MacDonald: Scotland’s Beloved Storyteller
*with Judith Pella **with Chris Schneider
A New Beginning Page 22