Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  When they returned an hour later, the doctor’s face was alive with the glow of love. For Isaiah Wallace’s intensity was not limited to preaching or service or exhortation, but it also extended to the greatest gift of all. Robbie’s face was serious with determination and purpose and apparent decision. His talk with Wallace was one he would never forget, and now he knew what he must do.

  When they parted, it was with a firm handshake and a penetrating look each into the other man’s eyes. At last they each understood one another fully. It was a bond that would never be broken.

  Wallace crossed the bridge back to the compound. Robbie turned in the opposite direction and again sought the hillside. It was a lonely spot, rarely visited by the villagers and well away from any traveled thoroughfares, and in a short time had come to symbolize for Robbie the solitude of his soul. Solitude, yes. But perhaps even more, it was coming to stand for a decision he was about to make. Upward he trudged, with a strong and purposeful step, like the old Robbie might have used. But this was not the old Robbie. This was a Robbie Taggart on the verge of becoming a new man. And with that change all things would indeed be made new.

  Today the sky held no ominous portents. It was a clear slate today, a haze of blue and white, tinged all over with pink. By coincidence it was nearly the same time of day as it had been two days ago, and the farmers were packing away their tools into their carts; some were already trudging along the paths toward the village, others led an ox or a cow.

  For the first time in weeks, Robbie felt at peace. His peace stemmed from the fact that he now knew what had to be done. Moreover, he was resolved to do it. He was eager to do it, as he had never been before. Yet there remained a fear mingled with his anticipation.

  “Perfect love casts out all fear . . .”

  The words echoed in his mind, and at last he knew what they meant. There was no need to fear a God who had laid down His own life for man. It went even beyond that. For what God had done through Jesus He had done just for him—for Robbie Taggart. Not only for heroic, manly, exuberant, strong Robbie, but also the helpless, empty, confused, maimed and sometimes embittered person he had recently become. At last he knew that God looked only upon a man’s heart, and had sacrificed the life of His Son Jesus to clean the stains that were there—in the heart! That’s where manhood existed, where all true personhood began—in a heart made one with its Creator! It was there, in his heart, that Robbie could now enter into lasting fellowship with this God of love, and thus become, for the first time, truly a man.

  Robbie had reached the top of the hill now, and stopped. Tears crept into his eyes. For the first time since he was a young boy, he did not try to check them or hurriedly dash them away. Today he let the tears flow, for they were the cleansing tears of a broken and contrite and humble heart. Feeling the hot drops running down his cheek was a feeling he could not remember ever having before. For the first time, he took them, not as a sign of his weakness, but of his dawning manhood in God. How could Jesus, he wondered, in the garden of Gethsemane, have wept tears of blood? How could any but the strongest of men have been moved to such depth?

  “God,” he thought to himself, “make me a man in the image of your Son. And give me the strength to do what I know I must do.”

  For though Robbie’s were tears of joy and release, there was also pain in them. For still he had to make a sacrifice of his own. All that he had always thought important he now had to lay at Christ’s feet.

  Robbie sighed deeply. Why should it be so hard to do? Jesus had given up everything for him. He had only crumbs to offer in return. Yet it took an agony of will to yield even that small crumb, because it meant to relinquish all he was as a person. And if the promise was that he would receive an even greater personhood in return, it was not something his present vision could see clearly. It was something he had to trust God for in faith, risking humiliation before himself and others. And that was not an easy thing for any man.

  Quietly Robbie sank to his knees on the wet earth. He covered his face with his hand. Tears continued to run between his fingers.

  “God,” he whispered, trembling as he spoke the words aloud. For a moment he could not go on, then at last in a hoarse whisper continued, “God . . . I do need you!”

  He paused, then said again, louder this time, “Father!—I need you!”

  Now Robbie wept in earnest, tears streaming down his face. He had never before acknowledged deep personal need before anyone. Now he had done so before his Maker. And in so doing, at once it was as if a tremendous burden was lifted from his sobbing shoulders, even as a knife stabbed through his heart, putting to death a part of his very being.

  “Oh, God,” he sobbed, “God . . . God! Help me! Jesus . . . I give myself to you! Make me . . . your man! Make me the man you want me to be!”

  The words seemed to reverberate all around him, down the hillside and over the rice fields and mulberry groves below, even to the heavens, where they were received with triumphant joy. But Robbie no longer cared who heard his cries, in the world of angels or the world of men. For he was a new man. Slowly he rose to his feet and lifted his arms into the air. He looked at his whole right hand, and at the stub of his left wrist. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you for loving me . . . and for doing what you had to do to show me your love!”

  Heavenly rejoicing seemed to flood over his being for Robbie Taggart was a wanderer no more.

  53

  Letter From Afar

  It was on days like this that Jamie thought most poignantly of her dear Donachie.

  Snow had fallen during the night, covering the sooty Aberdeen streets in white purity. The city was suddenly clean and fresh and sparkling. But Jamie’s mind could not keep from straying to her beloved mountain. There, in February, the snow would be piled so thick and clean that she wondered that there was a rocky mountain under it at all. Oh yes, the bitter cold kept her imprisoned indoors most of the time. But how much more deeply she appreciated spring as a result!

  She would, of course, thrill at the coming of spring to Aberdeen. In those northern climates of Scotland, April brings with it enormous quantities of hope and optimism: there is still warmth somewhere in the world, and it is on the way! The city would shine then, and Jamie had learned through the years that the sea had its merits, too. She could just catch a glimpse of it from the dayroom of her Cornhill home where she now sat. Today the waters of the chilly North Sea were slate blue; she could almost feel the cold emanating from its surface.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was almost noon; the baby would be waking soon. Perhaps, if she bundled him up well, and put two or three extra layers on Andrew, they could play in the snow a bit after lunch.

  She returned her attention to the household accounts with renewed resolve at the anticipation of the afternoon’s outing. Life was comfortable for Jamie these days, though she never lost sight of those years in the ancient stone cottage on Donachie, or even the dim, cramped room she had occupied in Sadie Malone’s place.

  Her new baby was a joy, as Andrew, at seven, continued to be also. Edward made a good living as a partner in an Aberdeen law firm. Their staff of servants was small, consisting only of the two who had come with them from Aviemere, Janel the parlor maid, and their loyal housekeeper, Dora Campbell. But Jamie’s own serving spirit made it quite difficult, if not impossible, for others to wait on her. Therefore the three women shared most of the household duties, and the staff had become friends and fellow-workers rather than servants.

  From time to time there were indeed more employees in the house, but they were usually folk to whom Jamie opened up her home because of their need rather than hers. During the previous Christmas Season there had at one time been fully ten persons employed at the same time. Edward had laughed that Jamie even bothered calling them employees at all, for there was precious little for them to do in the small household. But despite his amusement over his wife’s propensity for taking in waifs, he enjoyed
having some small part in this life of service.

  Neither Jamie nor Edward gave a great deal of thought to Aviemere. Their life was too full to pine over the past. As Jamie had once testified to Robbie, God had taken nothing away that He did not replace tenfold. Derek Graystone still controlled the estate, though there had been word that he had again rejoined his regiment, losing interest in the agrarian life. He had asked, through the family lawyer, for even he had not the nerve to ask Edward to his face, that Edward return. But of course Edward Graystone did not need Aviemere any more, and politely declined the offer. Only by specific direction from the Lord could he ever return there again.

  All at once Jamie realized her thoughts had strayed once more.

  The accounts must be done, she told herself, though this task was one of her least pleasurable duties as manager of the home. Dora had made it clear that she would willingly undertake the job, but Jamie felt it was a good discipline for her to continue with it. She had only to remind herself to give thanks to God for her ability to do such things at all, for it was not that many years ago when she could not even write her own name, much less run a household and family.

  Just as she lowered her gaze once more to the papers before her, determining to continue on, Dora entered the room.

  “I don’t want to interrupt, my lady,” she said, “but the mail just arrived, and I was sure you would like to have it.”

  “You’re not interrupting at all,” Jamie replied. Then she added with a grin, “I’m only doing the accounts.”

  Dora’s eyes twinkled and her lips broke into a smile. She knew only too well her mistress’s plight. She handed the small stack of letters to Jamie and departed.

  Jamie shuffled through the envelopes, expecting nothing to detain her from the job at hand. It was not often the mail brought anything of great interest—all the return addresses seemed to be from people she knew in Aberdeen.

  But wait—what was this? This strange looking letter had Chinese symbols on—

  Robbie!, Jamie exclaimed, seeing for the first time the name on the reverse.

  Dear Robbie . . . what can this mean? Jamie’s sudden joy turned quickly to anxiety. Robbie had never in his life written her before. What could be wrong? She breathed a hasty prayer, then tore open the envelope.

  Dear Jamie and family,

  You must wonder why I should break my long and unthoughtful silence just now. How I wish I could be there with you to see you and to share face-to-face all that is on my heart. But I will have to resort to this method I have used all too seldom in my travels.

  Shall I begin by saying that your prayers for me have been answered? For I know you have faithfully held me up to your Lord . . . who is my Lord now also. Yes, dear Jamie, as difficult as it may be to believe—and I can hardly believe it myself—I have at last laid down my wandering spirit and put myself in the hands of our God. You were so right in everything you said to me—why did I resist so? But how I thank you for never giving up on me! Yet God has his time for everything, and I suppose he had to wait until I was willing to sit still long enough to hear his voice. That time for me came when I was forced to admit my great need for him, and it took a severe accident for that to happen. I am in good health now, though I lost my left hand about an inch above the wrist. It is hard at times, I must be honest. But I am learning every day that the grace of God is sufficient for what I count my own weakness. And every day I try to give him thanks, for the loss of a hand is surely a small price to pay for true life!

  There is more—if that is not enough.

  God directed me to a small village in China, and here, I believe, my itching feet will at last find rest! I am at the Wukiang station of Christ’s China Mission. Of all places for God to lead a poor heathen sailor! Of all places for that sailor to find renewal, respite, and love! I do not know when you will receive this letter; it is fall as I write—late September—though it will no doubt be mid-winter in my bonnie Scotland before you receive it.

  I hope you are sitting down, Jamie! I am planning to be married soon! I never thought I’d find a woman to match you. But I have, and I will not let her get away from me. She is Chinese, the adopted daughter of the director of the mission, with whom I am now working. Hsi-chen is so much like you, and yet so different also. God has made you both unique—my sister and my wife to be! I tremble at the sound of the word wife, but not in the way I used to. Now it is with awe that I should have such a gift, and wonder that I should have for so long shied away from it. I am somewhat intimidated at the responsibility which will now be mine—for a wife, perhaps a family, and even for the work of the mission. Can you believe it is the footloose sailor Robbie Taggart writing these words? I hope one day you and Hsi-chen can meet, but . . . that must be in God’s hands.

  We do not know what he has in store for us, but we are content with the present, and trust him for the future. Perhaps I should be clear, for even as I tell myself I am protecting you from sorrow on my behalf, I think the truth is that I am only trying to protect myself. You see, Hsi-chin has a rare illness which her father, a doctor, fears may one day prove terminal. We live, not knowing how long we may have together. But God has filled our lives to overflowing, so how can we live with regrets over a future that has not even happened?

  I do have many questions about trying to live as a Christian. For so many years I measured my worth as a man by how others saw me on the outside and what people thought of me. Breaking those habits and learning to see true worth by the stature of one’s heart toward God and toward one’s fellowman, that is no easy task! Thank God a true giant of the faith and compassionate servant of Christ’s, Dr. Isaiah Wallace, is here to encourage me. Not to mention the others at the mission, and Hsi-chen herself.

  See how richly God has answered your prayers! And now you are in mine also.

  Please give Lord Graystone my regards, and Andrew also. He is a special young lad, and I will always remember fondly that day we spent together in London.

  I must close now, for the mail packet will be casting off soon. Please continue to pray for me as I seek God’s direction for my life, and as I become more and more a part of the work here at the mission.

  I have never written a letter this long in my life!

  My love to you, dear Jamie, and to your family!

  Robbie Taggart

  As Jamie read the final words, she sat back and closed her tear-filled eyes, trying to allow all Robbie had said to sink in through her quiet prayers of thanksgiving. She could not feel sorry that such pain had to befall him. For he was now where she had long prayed he would one day be. And he was happy and content; what else could matter?

  In the years she had been praying for Robbie, she had always harbored a quiet sense that he was one whom the Lord intended to use in a great way. Some Christians had been called to simple walks of faith, as Jamie herself had—to touch, however profoundly, a small circle of those immediately around them. But others were set apart to influence multitudes, nations, armies, as had the Apostle Paul.

  Jamie could not guess what God intended for Robbie Taggart, but she somehow knew he would do great things.

  She had begun to fold the letter and replace it in the travel-stained envelope when the dayroom door flew open and a small figure bounded in. Jamie smiled and held out her arms to young Andrew, now seven, who skipped to her.

  “Mother!” he exclaimed, “did you look outside? It’s snowing again!”

  Jamie had completely forgotten about the weather. She turned toward the window to behold a fresh snowfall descending on the city of gray granite.

  Sensing his mother’s change of mood, the boy turned pensive. “What’s wrong, Mother? You look sad.” His sensitivity toward others mingled with his own tendency toward introspection made it occasionally difficult to remember that he was just seven.

  “No, dear, I’m not sad,” answered Jamie. “These are tears of joy you see in my eyes.”

  “What’s happened?” he asked; crying for joy was
still a difficult concept even for Andrew to grasp.

  “Look,” said Jamie, holding up the letter. “It’s from Robbie Taggart.”

  “Really, Mother? From Uncle Robbie? Did he ask about me?”

  “Yes, he did,” laughed Jamie.

  “You must tell him I still have his hat.”

  “I will. In fact, we can both write him a letter right away. He is very far away from us, in a place called China.”

  “Will he ever come to visit us again?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s pray that he does.”

  Andrew frowned. “Well, if he doesn’t, I’ll go visit him,” he said firmly. “I’ll wear his hat and sail a ship to see him!”

  There was a deeply earnest quality in the boy’s words. As much as Jamie would ordinarily have been amused over the announcement, she somehow sensed that the statement might be more prophetic than she was yet prepared for. Ever since the two had met a year before, Andrew had never ceased asking about Robbie. At the same time he had developed an obsession with ships. Jamie constantly found him buried in picture books of the sea and ships and faraway places, and when his own books failed him, he begged Edward and Jamie to read to him out of whatever adult books they could find. At first it had seemed only childish fancy. But the longer it had continued the more there grew to be something in his look when he spoke of the sea that brought motherly anxiety to Jamie’s heart. As much as she loved Robbie, she could not help hoping that Andrew would not follow in his footsteps—at least at such a tender age. Yet he was in God’s hands, and there was no better protection, wherever in the world his feet might one day go.

  She gave Andrew an extra hug, sighed, then rose from her now-forgotten accounts.

  “Let’s see about lunch,” she said, “and I will tell you all about Uncle Robbie’s letter. Then we can go out into the snow.”