Just last Sunday, the epistle lesson had been taken from Hebrews 11, and when he had stood to read it, he could barely get the words out: By faith they subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness . . . escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong. . . . But others were tortured, stoned, sawed in two, slain with the sword. . . .
The words tore at his soul . . . taunted him. All of these saints, Dix recalled with a flash of humiliation, were approved as faithful unto God—whether they were victorious or not. The outcome didn’t matter. It was the motivation that counted in the sight of God.
Not because it’s possible, Amethyst had said, but because it’s right.
What was the difference, he wondered, between what happened in Germany and what was happening here, now, in Mississippi? The death camps were worse, certainly, in terms of the sheer horrifying numbers of the slain. But the principles were similar: a dominant, powerful group inflicting cruel, even deadly sovereignty over those they perceived as inferior.
Guilt crested over him in a wave. He didn’t need a voice from heaven to tell him the answer.
There was no difference.
The fact was, he had not been an Aryan Christian in Germany, facing down Hitler’s storm troopers. The choice to aid and rescue Jews had not been given him. But he was a white Christian in the South, and all around him black people—human beings, created in the Divine image—were being harassed, beaten, burned out, even killed, simply because they weren’t members of the “correct” race. A Klansman’s noose had the same effect as a Nazi’s rifle.
For weeks Dix had been praying about what he should do, what his response as a pastor and a Christian should be. Now even the prayers he had offered shamed him. Of course God hadn’t answered him. The answer had already been given, centuries ago—in the example Christ set by embracing the outcasts of society, in the way God extended love and acceptance toward all. In the cross that hung behind him every Sunday when he stepped into the pulpit.
He had been praying for the wrong thing. He had asked for wisdom, for direction. But he had his direction. What he needed was the backbone to follow it.
He set aside his glass of lemonade, put his head in his hands, and prayed. But this time his prayer was different: Lord, give me courage.
He barely had time to get the thought out when a voice broke into his consciousness. “Dix? There are some people here to see you.”
He glanced up to see Amethyst gazing down at him. She looked ridiculous—soot-covered from head to toe except for one little swipe on her nose. Wisps of graying hair stuck out in all directions from beneath her bandanna. Without warning, a fierce longing overtook him—to hold her in his arms, to tell her he was sorry for being such a coward and ask her forgiveness. The idea shocked him, and he tried vainly to push it aside.
“Dix? Are you all right?” She put a hand on his shoulder, and a rush of warmth pulsed through his veins. He pushed up from the pile of debris and smiled down at her. “I am now. Someone wants to see me?”
She nodded and led him around to the front of the house, where a group of his parishioners stood in a cluster next to the magnolia tree. For a split second his heart soared. Then he took another look.
It could have been a board meeting. Most of the leadership of his congregation had assembled on Amethyst’s front lawn. And from the expressions on their faces, Dix could tell they hadn’t come to help. They had come to confront.
The church moderator, a venerable, white-haired old man by the name of Edward Shoemaker, stepped forward. “We’d like an explanation,” he said tersely.
Dix watched him guardedly. “An explanation about what, Ed?”
“About what you think you’re doing. We were under the impression we had hired a pastor, not some kind of civil rights activist. We’re not sure we approve of the idea of you attending rallies put on by the NAACP, or associating with people who do.” The old man slanted a reproving glance in Amethyst’s direction. “Your place is in the church, doing the job we pay you to do.”
Dix suppressed a smile. Well, he thought, I guess some prayers are answered more quickly than others. He lifted his head and looked Shoemaker straight in the eye. “Being a pastor is not a job,” he corrected, “it’s a calling. And the first responsibility of that calling is to be obedient to God. My second responsibility is to be a model of Christlikeness among you.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “I have something to confess to you—to all of you. I haven’t been the kind of model I’d want you to follow.”
An expression of relief swept over Shoemaker’s face, and a wave of murmured assent went through the group. “Well, Pastor, we accept your apology,” the old man said. “We had hoped we could resolve this and put it behind us.”
Dix held up a hand. “Allow me to clarify. I have long believed that prejudice of any kind is wrong, an affront to the Almighty. I just haven’t had the courage to stand up for that conviction, to put my life and reputation on the line for it.” He waved off Shoemaker’s attempt to interrupt him and continued. “We have a choice before us—to follow the example of Christ, or to live by the standards our society sets for us. I, for one, intend to do the former. So you need to know that from now on, First Presbyterian will be a church that welcomes all God’s people without regard to the color of their skin. You can go or stay as you see fit, but if you stay, expect to have your preconceived notions challenged, and expect to see your pastor taking a stand whenever justice is denied to any human being.”
Shoemaker stood there for a minute, his jaw slack and his eyes wide. Then, without a word, he turned and left, with the others trailing in his wake.
Dix watched them go, then looked down to see Amethyst holding his hand.
“Do you think you’ll get fired?”
He didn’t withdraw his hand from hers. It felt good, this human touch, this connection. As if, at long last, he belonged.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe. But at least I’ll have my integrity.”
Amethyst stood in front of the bureau in her bedroom. She had been through every drawer, looked everywhere she could think of.
The amethyst brooch was gone.
She had found the velvet box she kept it in—tossed carelessly under the bed, smeared with soot and spotted with water. And empty.
She sank into the small rocker by the window and bit her lip to hold back the tears. So far she had done pretty well handling her shock and grief over the fire. No one had been killed; no one had gotten hurt. “Things can be replaced,” she had told Silvie.
And she believed it. Despite all appearances to the contrary, blessings were already beginning to emerge from this misfortune. Friends had rallied around her in her time of need. It appeared that the folks Rube Layton had brought to help were beginning to view Bailey and her other boarders as individuals rather than as stereotypes. And Dix Godwin had discovered courage in the midst of his own spiritual crisis.
But to lose Grandma Pearl’s brooch! Amethyst shook her head. It was too much. . . .
Hot tears, dredged up from the deep well of her soul, broke through her resolve and spilled over. She wept silently, clutching the velvet box to her chest. For a long time—she didn’t know how long—she sat there, rocking and crying.
Then she heard a noise—a small, faint gasp.
“Mother?”
She blinked back her tears and turned to see Conrad standing in the doorway between the parlor and her bedroom.
“Mother, are you all right?” He ran to her and knelt on the floor beside her. His arms went around her, and he pressed against her the way he had done when he was a little boy and needed comfort. But this time he was comforting her. “Don’t cry,” he whispered over and over again. “Please, don’t cry.” But he was crying, too, choking on his sobs, mumbling something about being so, so sorry.
Amethyst dropped the velvet box and laced her fingers through his hair. She held him that way, caressing his hair, until he got control of himself an
d looked up at her.
“Mother, what’s wrong?” he asked. Then he laughed at himself and swiped at his eyes. “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”
She gazed down at him. He had Harper’s eyes, and one little dimple that was the Wainwright legacy. It tore at her heart, seeing him again. He had changed so much in such a short time. Her little boy had become a man.
“The brooch,” she said quietly. “Grandma Pearl’s amethyst brooch. It’s gone.”
A stricken look came over his face, followed by a shadowed, inscrutable expression. He pulled away from her and sat cross-legged on the floor, lowering his face so that she could only see the crown of his head. A shock of hair stood up, that unruly cowlick she had combed down a thousand times when he was a child. Now she smoothed at it again, but he brushed her hand away.
“I should have come sooner,” he said, his voiced laced with misery. “I wanted to, but—” He paused, took a deep breath, and raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, Mother. Sorry for everything.”
She wanted to ask, Sorry for what?, to encourage him to confess, to begin the process of healing and reconciliation.
“You know I was here the night Dooley and the others burned a cross in the yard,” he went on after a minute or two. “Bogey told me you had seen us.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to come then, I really did.”
“Because you had participated in such a horrible act, or because Clarence Bogart told you I saw you?”
He shrugged. “Both, I guess.”
Amethyst sighed. At least it was an honest answer.
“I was there, but I didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt. And now this—” He waved a hand at the devastation that surrounded them.
“The fire wasn’t your fault, Conrad.”
“No, but—” He shook his head. “I should have come long before now. You probably hate the sight of me.”
“Conrad, I could never hate you. You’re my son. I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“But you wish I were more like my father, more like your grandparents, and less like Grandpa Abe.”
At first Amethyst tried to deny it, but she knew he was right, and the truth stung. “Is that what you think?”
He nodded. “It’s all I’ve heard, all my life. My great spiritual legacy, the models I should emulate. But I don’t know if I can be like them—or like you. I don’t even know if I want to be. It’s not always easy, being the son of a saint.” He gave a brief, wry smile, and then his expression sobered again. “Still, I’m sorry for hurting you. Sorry for the stupid things I’ve done. And I’m sorry about the brooch.”
He got to his feet and looked down at her. “I need to go talk to Bailey. And then I’m going to pitch in and help clean up this mess.” He shrugged. “I’m not much of a handyman, but I guess I can carry wood and fetch water.”
Amethyst rose and pulled her son into a close embrace. He wasn’t a child any longer. He was nearly grown. She had done her best to sow seeds of goodness and faithfulness and truth in his life. Whether they took root or not was up to him, in the choices he would make for himself. He would always be her son, and even if he disappointed her, she would always love him. But the course of his life was not hers to decide.
As she let him go, she felt a burden lift from her soul. Whatever kind of man her son became, it was between him and God now.
44
The Offering
September 1946
From her accustomed place in the fourth pew on the left, Amethyst watched as Dixon Lee Godwin entered from the side door of the sanctuary and stepped onto the platform. She had always thought he cut an impressive figure in the pulpit, but her perception of him had changed over the past few months. No longer did she merely see a tall, rugged-looking fellow with hair graying nicely at the temples or hear the low, vibrant tone of his voice as he spoke.
She had looked into his heart, had heard the resonance of conviction that reverberated through his soul. She had watched him put his beliefs into action with passion and determination, had seen him take a bold, unflinching stand for justice.
And she loved him.
The organist had begun the prelude—a soul-stirring rendition of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Amethyst closed her eyes and sang the words in her mind: All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.
When she opened her eyes and looked down the pew, she was reminded again of the truth of those words. To her left sat her son, Conrad, with several of his buddies from the university. Con turned to Clarence Bogart and whispered something that made Bogey smile. At the far end, much to Amethyst’s surprise, hunched Dooley Layton with his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor.
Dooley looked a bit the worse for wear this morning. His right cheek was bruised, his lip was cut, and a bandage hid most of his nose. Clearly the boy had been in a fight—and pretty recently, if his wounds were any indication.
Then Conrad reached for a hymnal, and Amethyst caught a glimpse of his right hand. The fingers were swollen and a little blue, the knuckles skinned down to the flesh.
She grimaced, but before she could get Conrad’s attention, the organist began playing the introductory bars of the first hymn. She rose to her feet and slanted a glance at her son. Con was pointing at the order of service, and he and Bogey were elbowing each other and grinning.
Amethyst took up her own bulletin and scanned it. Dix’s sermon title this morning was “Fighting the Good Fight.”
Well, that boy is in for a good talking-to, she thought automatically. Then she remembered. She had given him up to God. Amethyst didn’t approve of fighting, but Con had to make his own decisions now. And if he had been duking it out with Dooley Layton, maybe he had a good reason.
When the hymn had ended, Dix stood up, faced the congregation, and smiled. His eyes lingered on Amethyst for just a moment, and she felt a warm flush creep up her neck.
“I want to welcome you all to this service of worship,” he said. “Especially those of you who are worshiping with us for the first time.” His gaze focused on the back of the church. “Some of you, I see, are still waiting to be seated. Please, come down front and join us.”
All eyes turned, and a hush fell over the congregation.
It was Bailey Blue, gripping Silvie’s hand. Behind them, a cluster of black faces surveyed the crowd.
Amethyst’s heart jumped in her chest. She held her breath. And then, without a word, Bailey and Silvie came down the aisle and slipped into the pew next to Amethyst. The others scattered throughout the congregation.
Behind her, Amethyst heard a rustling noise and turned to see Will Tarbush getting to his feet. A tall Negro man, with his wife and two little children in tow, had just invaded Will’s pew. He slammed his hymnal into the pew rack, squeezed past the man and his family, and lurched out into the center aisle. “I didn’t come to church to sit next to no coloreds,” he declared at the top of his voice. He stomped down the aisle, made his exit, and slammed the door behind him.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Dix picked up his Bible from the pulpit and cleared his throat. “In the gospel of John, chapter 6, Jesus presented some very difficult teachings to those who were following after him—teachings that seemed to fly in the face of their long-held traditions. Some of the disciples, verse 66 tells us, left him and no longer followed him. Interestingly enough, Jesus did not go after them and beg them to come back. Instead, he turned to his disciples and asked, ’Will ye also go away?’ It’s as if the Lord were saying, ‘if you want to leave, now’s your chance. Make your decision to stay or go.’”
His gaze swept over the congregation, and with a surge of pride Amethyst saw the expression of fearless conviction in his eyes. “We face that same decision today, this moment,” Dix went on. “Whether we will bend to the teachings of Christ and let our hearts be changed, or hold on to attitudes from the past. If you want to leave, now’s your chance.”
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Someone in the back coughed. Feet shuffled. Papers rustled. But no one moved to go. Not even Dooley Layton, who still sat at the end of the pew with his eyes downcast.
Dix looked around. “Fine. Now, let’s all rise and greet one another in the peace of Christ.”
Amethyst stood up and turned to Silvie. “The peace of the Lord be with you,” she said.
Silvie’s arms went around her, and they stood there hugging while others milled around them, shaking hands and murmuring welcomes. It was a familiar embrace, one Amethyst had experienced many times over the past forty-five years. And yet here, today, in God’s house, it seemed warmer somehow. More significant. More right.
“I feel like I’ve waited for this day forever,” Silvie whispered in Amethyst’s ear.
“So have I,” Amethyst responded. “It’s about time.”
Amethyst had difficulty focusing her attention on the rest of the service. She rarely drifted when Dix was preaching, but this particular morning, with Silvie’s hand clutching hers, her mind swirled with memories.
How would Silas and Pearl have felt, she wondered, if they could see her at this moment, sitting in the house of God next to Booker’s granddaughter and her handsome, educated husband-to-be? Her grandparents had longed, prayed, given their lives’ energy for such a time as this. Amethyst suspected—she hoped, at least—that from their vantage point in the presence of God, they would know that their labors had not been in vain.
In her mind’s eye, she could envision the two of them, standing on the front porch of Noble House, hand in hand, just as she and Harper had stood on the day of their wedding.
She could see Harper, too, but in her vision his crippled limbs were straight and strong, the scars on his face erased by the power of love. The dimple in his cheek deepened as he smiled, and his blue eyes radiated joy. She could almost see him wink and nod to her, as if offering a benediction on the growing love between Amethyst and Dixon Lee Godwin. Harper would approve of Dix, she knew instinctively. She had put her grief behind her and moved on, but Harper would always be a part of her, reaffirming the truth that it was the heart, not the outward appearance, that mattered in the sight of God.
The Amethyst Heart Page 36