Land of the Brave and the Free

by Michael Phillips

  It’s different with people. Wholeness in people isn’t that easy to see.

  Maturity isn’t the kind of thing you can see from the outside. Neither is wisdom, although there are hints of it in the eyes. But it takes mature eyes to discern mature eyes, and wise eyes to see them in another. They’re not the kinds of things you can detect just from hearing somebody talk either. Even Cal’s smooth words fooled me into thinking he was a more complete person than he really was.

  I don’t know if I can exactly put my finger just on what makes a man mature and wise, or a woman too for that matter. How they make decisions . . . how they carry themselves . . . what things are important to them . . . how unselfish they are . . . whether they do the things they know, or are content just to know them . . . I reckon there’s all sorts of things you could look at.

  After reading Christopher’s letter, I found myself thinking a lot about the faces of the two men—Cal Burton and Christopher Braxton. Images of both of them filled my memory, looks I remembered, things they’d said, hearing them talk and laugh, listening to their serious sides, recalling things each had said to me about his passions and dreams—for they both had a passionate side that desperately hungered to reach certain objectives.

  But how different were the two men, and the directions they were going in life!

  Cal’s passion was opportunity. . . . Christopher’s passion was truth.

  Cal lost no chance to do anything that would help advance him. . . . Christopher lost no opportunity to help others.

  Cal’s goal was to get and achieve all he could. . . . Christopher’s goal was to serve.

  Cal looked at people in terms of what he could get from them. . . . Christopher looked at people and asked what he could do for them.

  Cal was a taker. . . . Christopher was a helper.

  Cal’s life was himself. . . . Christopher’s life was God’s.

  It was becoming more and more obvious to me every day that I had indeed met the real thing, the valued diamond, the eyes reflecting the depths of maturity and wisdom behind them, not a perfect man but a whole man, whose purpose in life was established.

  By now whatever remaining images lingered from the memory of Cal’s face faded altogether. Only the quiet, smiling mouth, penetrating but sparkling eyes, and light brown hair of Christopher’s countenance remained to fill my imagination out to the very edges of my brain.

  I had to talk to him, touch him, communicate to him, respond with my heart to the words out of his heart that he had given to me! If paper and pen were the only way to reach across the miles and touch him, then I would use them.

  But I would still have his bright face in my mind’s eye to light up every word!

  Dear Christopher,

  I received your letter. But as you will see I am no longer in Washington. Mrs. Richards forwarded it to me in Pennsylvania. I am with the Sisters of Unity at the Convent of John Seventeen that I told you about.

  After the funeral train bearing the President’s body left the station, to take him to his burial in Springfield, I realized that there was nothing remaining to keep me in the capital. There were many, many things on my mind, one of which, I have to admit, was the silence and awkwardness that you mentioned in your letter. I forgive you for anything, as you asked, though it seems a mite strange to say it. But even without that, suddenly Washington felt to me a little like you described Richmond—a place without much life. I needed to find some time to pray and think with God about what’s to become of me next, and the first place I thought of was the convent. So I came here, and here I am, and you can see the post box number if you care to write me again. I would like it if you did.

  When I met Sister Janette on the train, I wondered what it was like to be a nun—many young girls do, I think. I’d never thought of it much before that. But once I was here, and I saw what lives of dedication the Sisters live to the Lord and to one another and to their friends and neighbors and other Christians, something deep in my soul hungered to give myself that completely to Jesus, too. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stay here. But I knew I had to come back and at least tell the Lord I’m willing to if he wants me to.

  So that’s what I’m doing here, and that’s what I’m telling God. And I am also asking about writing, and, well . . . lots of others things that are on my mind, too. I feel as if I’m going through a tunnel and I can’t see to the other side. The light at the other end of the tunnel is my future, and the place where I entered the tunnel is everything that happened up to the end of the war. Now I’m walking from one end to the other. But I can’t see too much of what’s ahead.

  This is a short letter. I kind of ran out of things to say. I’ll try to write you again. Please write.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cornelia Belle Hollister

  What an uninteresting letter, I thought to myself as I laid down my pen. He’ll never write back if I send him that!

  It sat for two days. Finally I hurriedly stuffed it into an envelope and gave it to Sister Mary to mail before I had the chance to have any second thoughts.

  Eight days later another letter came for me. My trembling fingers were back!

  Dear Corrie,

  Should I address you, as you so formally signed your letter, as “Cornelia”?

  I too know something about tunnels. There are certain aspects of tunnel darkness surrounding my vision of things ahead now also. It is not the first time such darkness has occurred in my life, however, and I have learned that God has appointed such times for our maturing. That is not to say that I enjoy the process, only that I recognize the spiritual benefit to be derived from our human eyes being unseeing for certain seasons, enabling us to learn—if we will—to trust to the sight of the Father, who sees even when all to us is darkness and who always sees what is for our best. I have also learned that if we see too much with the eyes of our flesh, we often mistake what we may want for a higher “best” that we cannot then see. By taking away our sight for a time, the Father forces us to stretch out our hands and place them in his. Then he leads us, even in our sightlessness, to the best he has purposed for us from the beginning.

  So in my own tunnel, I wait quietly for the Father’s guidance and trust his step to go before mine. I encourage you to do likewise. For light will surely dawn in time, and the very best always comes to those who trust him.

  I do not mind a short letter. To hear from you is a delight. I imagine your voice speaking your words, and see your face as well. I thus receive a threefold blessing—through my eyes and ears, and into my heart.

  I understand what you say about the convent, although it was my impression that most young women wanted to get married and have a family. I was always fascinated with the thought of the monastery when I was young, and I thought more than once about being a monk. The solitude appealed to me. But I am not Catholic. And as much as I relish being alone, still I crave the company of people too. There must be someone to serve! So I became a minister of the gospel instead. And yet now I curiously find myself almost living the solitary life of a monk!

  And so we are back to the subject of tunnels and not being able to see the far end of God’s design. In the matter of my ministry too, therefore, I wait, and all will be well.

  Did you read that Booth was located and shot? The fellow named Herold surrendered at the same time. They have apparently taken some others into custody and set a large investigation underway to round up the entire conspiracy. I have heard nothing about the two fellows you mentioned, however, in connection with it—Burton and Surratt, weren’t they?

  This too is short . . . for me at any rate. As you know from looking over my journal, I can be a long-winded preacher when the right bee gets trapped inside my bonnet.

  Cordially,

  Christopher

  This time I didn’t even wait a minute. I pulled out a sheet of paper and my pen and bottle of ink and began my reply immediately.

  Dear Christopher,

  No, don’t call me Cornel
ia.

  I will take encouragement from your words about tunnels as you told me to. Sometimes you sound like Almeda and Rev. Rutledge put together. But you being just about my own age makes it easier to remember you are still learning about the things you talk about, just as I am.

  Maybe our tunnels will cross in the dark, and we’ll be able to help each other out if we stumble over the rocks.

  I’m glad you became a minister instead of a monk. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been there to save my life. I’d be dead. And worse, I’d have never met you. Now that I think about it, I suppose it’s even good they made you leave that church. Good for me, that is, because if they hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been at Mrs. Timms’, and there I’d be—dead again. Is that what you mean, about everything always turning out for the best?

  About being a nun . . . I don’t know about other girls when they start getting old enough to think about such things. I reckon you’re right about most of them wanting to find a man to take care of them and be married and have a family. But I think many girls are afraid no man will want to marry them, so they secretly figure that if they join a convent, then that’ll keep them from having to worry about it. If you’re a nun you won’t get married, but it protects you from the humiliation of waiting and waiting and then finding out no man wants you. Then you’re an old maid, and people talk about you behind your back and wonder why you never found a husband. Girls who become nuns choose the lesser of two bad things that can become of them, and at least they have a place to live and belong and some friends who aren’t married either.

  For me, thinking of joining the convent here had nothing to do with marrying or not marrying. I figured that had already been sort of decided for me a long time ago. One of the first things I remember my ma saying to me was that I wasn’t likely to fetch a husband so I ought to take up writing or teaching so I’d be able to take care of myself. I think she meant I wasn’t comely enough, and I always accepted that as the way it was meant to be, because my ma was a pretty smart lady. And that’s how I got started writing.

  Speaking of my ma, an idea came into my head just two days ago and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’m not so very far from where we used to live with my ma and pa, before Pa left and we went to California. I might take a trip up to New York to see if I can find our old farm and see who’s there now. I may never have the chance again.

  The sisters here don’t know you, but they see me getting letters from you and writing back, and they send you greetings in Jesus. I wish you could know them. They are such wonderful ladies! I want to be a servant like they are, wherever the other end of my tunnel leads.

  Bless you. Write!

  Corrie

  I signed the letter, put it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote Christopher’s address on the front, then laid it on the table by the door. I went out for a walk.

  It always felt so good to communicate, to say things from deep down, to put on paper what you really felt. How could anybody not want to be a writer, I thought, or at least keep a journal!

  I walked and walked, far across the fields, through a wood, along a little stream. I felt good, free, contented. I hadn’t felt this way for a long time. Maybe I couldn’t see what was out there ahead in my future, but the feeling was gradually coming back to me that there was light ahead, and that the Father saw, and that he was guiding and leading me, just as Christopher had said.

  Christopher had told me to take encouragement from his words. And I did. I suppose it felt good, too, just to know someone was there to care about me and to tell me something like that to do. It was a little thing, for him to give me that advice. But it made me feel a little less alone, as if there were people—friends, brothers and sisters in the community of believers—who were sharing life, even the tunnel, with me.

  Suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks.

  All at once I realized what I’d done.

  I can’t send that letter talking about marriage and what Ma said and the fear of being an old maid to Christopher! I thought with a sudden sense of panic.

  What could I have been thinking to have let myself get so free and open with my words! I had no intention of saying all that!

  A dread feeling swept over me. The next instant I was running as fast as I could back to the convent. It took me fifteen minutes to get there. I’d been out well over an hour, lazily walking all over the place.

  I burst panting through the door and glanced down at the table.

  “What is it, Corrie?” asked Sister Janette.

  “The letter . . . I had a letter here,” I gasped.

  “Yes, I put it with the other mail. The postal carriage was here thirty or forty minutes ago.”

  The thought of Christopher reading what I’d written was mortifying!

  The rest of the day I tried to enter into some of the work around the convent. But I was too distracted to do anybody much good.

  If I had any intention of being a nun, I chastised myself, I’d better figure out some way to quit being so preoccupied with a man! Nuns didn’t act like I was behaving.

  The next morning I had an idea.

  I asked if I could borrow a horse. I saddled one of the riding mares and took her into Lancaster as fast as I dared but without galloping her the whole way.

  I located the Western Union office, tied the horse outside, and walked in. I already knew exactly what I wanted to say.

  “I’d like to send a telegram,” I told the fellow behind the counter.

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  “Richmond.”

  “Virginia?”

  I nodded.

  “Lots of lines down in the South. Might take a few days.”

  “How many days?” I said.

  “Oh, some places been running three, four—”

  “How about Richmond?”

  “I’d guess two, three at the most.”

  “And mail?”

  “Mail’s usually three or four days.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t have much choice. “I’ll go ahead with the telegram,” I said.

  “Write it down there,” said the man.

  I took the paper and pencil on the counter and wrote out: To Christopher Braxton. Urgently request you to not read next letter. Corrie.

  I handed it to the man and gave him the address. He counted the words while I stood there dying of embarrassment, hoping he could somehow send it without reading what I’d said, then told me how much it was.

  I paid him, watched him send it over the wire, then left.

  Lancaster was a long way to come for a five-minute errand, but now I found myself breathing a little easier.

  All the way home I thought about what I’d told Christopher in the letter about going up to New York. I had been thinking about the war and the article about the two generals I had started. More and more it had come to me that maybe what the war meant had to do with the country coming of age, growing up out of the infancy of the Revolutionary War and the early 1800s into young adulthood, and then finally adulthood itself. Maybe this war we’d just fought with ourselves was the country’s way of doing just that—coming into adulthood, having to fight, like I had said about Lee and Grant, as brothers who eventually learned to put the conflict behind them, shake hands, and become men. Maybe it was necessary as part of that process for a nation to look at itself, even to look inside itself, to find out some things about itself that it didn’t know before—adult things, the kinds of things without which you can’t become fully mature unless you know about yourself.

  And maybe the process was the same in people—that process of looking inside yourself to find out what’s there, maybe looking into corners of yourself you’ve never looked at before, looking at them in a new way, and asking yourself what it all means, and what kind of person you are. It seemed like maybe there wasn’t any other way to really know yourself all the way down to the roots without that kind of self-examination. Maybe that’s part of what growing up was all about.
<
br />   How could I know what God wanted me to do now, for the rest of my life, or at least for the next chapter of it, if there were still things about myself I didn’t know fully.

  The more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that there couldn’t be any better place to ask the Lord about myself, and about what he wanted me to do, than the very place where my life had begun. I remembered thinking a lot about New York on the stagecoach two years before, and looking backward toward the past with different and more mature eyes. I’d even thought of a visit back then, but had become so busy with everything that had happened since that I’d forgotten. But now at last the time seemed right. It was time to “look back with different eyes” and see what I could see. I reflected on it all the way back from Lancaster. And by the time I arrived back at the convent late that afternoon, I’d decided to do it. Ever since the idea had come to me, a sense had grown steadily stronger that more than idle curiosity was behind it, that it was something I needed to do, that the Lord had urged it upon me in answer to my prayers, and that perhaps the clarity that would light my path toward the future would come as I went back and took another look at the past where I’d come from.