A Woman Named Damaris

by Janette Oke

  “He is lost and doomed to hell,” a voice said.

  “And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more,” her own bitter voice answered.

  “Is that a Christian attitude? Would Jesus have responded in such a manner?” asked the first voice.

  Damaris did not answer. Though she knew what the answer would be.

  That night when Damaris knelt beside her bed to pray, her soul was heavy.

  “God, I need help,” she whispered, tears coursing down her cheeks. “I can’t carry this load anymore. I can’t. Bitterness weighs down my soul. It will destroy me if—if something isn’t done. But I can’t let go. I can’t. I’ve tried. I can’t let go.”

  Damaris cried into her pillow again, but her heavy burden was not made lighter.

  ———

  Gil brought the sad news to Damaris and Miss Dover. Mrs. Rudding had passed away.

  “What’s going to happen to the children?” Damaris asked quietly.

  Gil shifted his weight, his face drawn. “They are to have a hearing sometime next week to decide,” he answered.

  Miss Dover daubed at her eyes with a lace hankie and then blew delicately. “Poor little souls,” she said with deep compassion.

  Damaris reached for her shawl. “Do you mind?” she asked Miss Dover, her hand trembling. “I think I need a little walk.”

  “Go ahead, dear,” responded the woman with an understanding nod.

  Damaris did not allow her eyes to lift to Gil’s. She passed him as quickly as she could. She wasn’t sure where she was going but she needed to get out. To think. She walked the length of the town street with brisk steps. Something had to be done but she had no notion of what it was. Into her mind came the face of little Abbie, eyes big with pain and grief. And then there was William, skinny and undersized for lack of nourishing food. And little Tootles, still confused and whining for her mama.

  Life seemed so unfair. Damaris might have gone under with the cruelness of it all had she not had two years of walking and talking with her Lord. Even now, she was deeply troubled.

  “What’s the meaning of it all, God?” she asked, her face lifting to the sky. “Why is the world so heartless? So painful?”

  Damaris was surprised when she looked up to find herself a few yards from the broken-down shack that had belonged to the Rudding family. She hesitated, not wanting to go near, and then moved forward slowly, as though compelled.

  So much clutter. So much—mess. Mess. That was it. The whole place was a mess—inside and out. Just like the lives of the people who had lived there.

  Damaris lifted her skirts so as not to drag them through the debris and found a large rock at the back of the property. She sat down and studied the scene before her. She still could not think. Could only pray in broken, disconnected thoughts and sentences. On her heart was one thought. What will happen to the children?

  Their mother, father, and baby brother were all gone. What deep and painful scars would be left on their young lives?

  Damaris prayed and cried by turn, but she got no closer to a solution.

  “May I?” asked a male voice behind her.

  Startled, Damaris jumped.

  “Sorry,” apologized Gil.

  “That’s all right. You just caught me off guard,” she explained.

  Gil moved forward and took a seat on the ground beside her. He said nothing. Just let his eyes gaze over the wreck of a house before them.

  “I wonder who lived here,” said Damaris after several minutes of silence.

  Gil turned quickly to look at her. His eyes asked the question he was afraid to put into words: Had all the distress caused her to block the Rudding family from her mind?

  Reading the question on his face, Damaris explained, “I—I mean—before. Before the Rudding family moved in. They haven’t been here that long, you know. And nobody seems to know where they came from.”

  Gil nodded. “Well, I remember a widow living here. She had about ten kids—or so it seemed. And a big garden. The place looked much different then. Neat and trim with a little picket fence out front. And chickens. I remember chickens. Some of those fancy little ones that strut around and make all the fuss.”

  “Bantams?”

  “Bantams. That’s it.”

  Damaris laughed in spite of her heavy thoughts.

  “Ten kids?” she asked next. “Where did she put them all?”

  “Well, it seemed like ten. Actually there might have been only three—or four,” answered Gil truthfully.

  Damaris laughed again.

  Her eyes drifted over the wreck of a house and yard. “Was it kind of cute then?” she asked wistfully.

  Gil studied her face for a moment. “I guess so,” he answered. “I never really gave it much thought. But it was neat. Boy, those little rascals had to work.”

  Damaris smiled—but laughter did not come. When she spoke again she surprised herself with her daring question. Really she had no right to ask for the information.

  “Miss Dover said you grew up in an orphanage. What was it like?”

  Gil’s eyes darkened for a moment; then he turned to her and answered candidly, “Not nice. We each had our own little bed, our own shelf area for our one change of clothes, our own dish at the table, our own second-hand pair of shoes.”

  He paused.

  “But that wasn’t the hard part,” he went on. “The hard part was not having anyone on your side. All of the kids stood alone, like we were afraid to stick together. Each individual against the entire force of—of disciplinarians.” He paused longer this time.

  Damaris was busy with her own thoughts. Then Gil went on. The words seemed hard for him. “I—I’ve always wondered—in the back of my mind—if I have brothers or sisters—somewhere.”

  Damaris looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes and the working of his jaw. He picked up a small stone and tossed it at an old tin pot lying half-buried several feet away. Then he went on. “They called it a ‘home.’ But it wasn’t. Not in any sense. The rules were rigid. The discipline tough. We were not even allowed to cry.”

  Damaris shuddered. She didn’t even want to think about it.

  “So I ran away,” he said frankly. “Just as soon as I found the opportunity.”

  There was silence again until Gil picked up a twig of wood and snapped it between his fingers.

  “I ran away, too,” said Damaris.

  Gil did not even look up. He broke another piece of the twig and nodded in understanding.

  “But it wasn’t from an orphanage. It was from a—a home. And I wasn’t alone. Not really. I had my—my mama. We sorta—stood together—though we never talked of it. Never.”

  Gil nodded again and waited for her to go on.

  “Looking back now I realize—I realize that Mama sorta told me to go. Oh, not in so many words, but she put the idea in my head. I—I think she wanted me to get away from it. I don’t think she wanted me—wanted me locked into what she had endured for all those years.”

  “Have you heard from her?” asked Gil.

  “No,” said Damaris sadly. “I haven’t even dared to write for fear it would make more trouble for her with Pa.”

  “The whiskey?”

  Damaris nodded, her eyes misting.

  They sat quietly for a few more minutes and then Damaris broke the silence.

  “Are you bitter?”

  Gil’s head came up and he looked directly into the deep brown eyes. “Bitter? Why?” he asked frankly.

  “Well—about life? About your circumstances? I mean—you had nothing to do with your folks dying. Just like I had nothing to do with my pa drinking.”

  Gil waited to answer. Then he spoke softly. “Guess I was. Once. Before I met Miss Dover. Then after—after she finally broke through the barrier I had put up, and taught me from her Bible, well, after I had accepted God’s Word as truth and asked for forgiveness for my own wrongdoing, then I was slowly able to forgive others too.”

  “I can’t,�
�� admitted Damaris. “I still can’t. I’ve tried—but I just can’t.”

  “I don’t suppose we ever can—on our own. Only God can work that miracle.”

  “But how? How do you let go?”

  “I suppose each person has to work it out in his own way,” said Gil slowly. “For me—it was—well, the realization that all things happen for good. Oh, not the orphanage really, or the drink, either. That wasn’t part of God’s plan. But even the bad in life has a purpose, I think.”

  “A purpose? What good can possibly come from—from so—so much bad?”

  “I’m not sure how to—how to say it. But thinking of it like that—it helped me get over my hurt. I—well, I said to myself—that if I accepted my past—put it to use in my life—then it wouldn’t be wasted. I mean—it seems to me that painful experiences can be used to better prepare us for heaven. You see, if we let it, even pain can shape us—make us better people—get rid of some of the ugly parts of our humanity.”

  “It only strengthened my ugliness,” confessed Damaris.

  “But it doesn’t need to,” insisted Gil. “It can make us stronger, more compassionate, more understanding—more like Jesus—if we allow it to. And the more clutter we get rid of in our life here—the more we will be able to enjoy heaven—when we get there. So, pain can have a purpose.”

  Damaris still looked puzzled.

  “Well, I know I don’t explain it well—but—say—say two people are going on a journey. One prepares. He buys the right clothing for the climate. He reads all he can to learn about the area. He studies about the people. Learns the language. He gets himself prepared the best he can. The other fella—he just goes. They both get there—to the same place. But which one do you think will enjoy it the most?”

  “I s’pose the one who prepared,” admitted Damaris.

  “Exactly. I think that is why—why God allows hard things in life. To prepare us. To knock off rough edges—pride, bias, envy, selfishness—so that when we get to heaven we will be more in tune—more able to enjoy the beautiful things we’ll find there. Maybe that’s what the rewards will be. A deeper appreciation of what we are given—what we are a part of. Do you understand what I am muddling through?”

  Damaris nodded her head slowly. “I—I think so,” she answered.

  “Well, I don’t know if it makes any sense to anyone else—but for me—well, it gives a special purpose—a meaning for suffering. If we take it right—let it shape us and cleanse us—then we are better prepared to enjoy the glories of heaven.”

  Damaris sat silently, thinking on his words. She had not allowed suffering to do any refining in her life. She was still filled with bitterness and anger. If she didn’t give it up to God, the whole thing would defeat her. She didn’t want that. She wanted to turn it around. To make it produce something of worth in her life.

  “You’re right,” she said at last, a tear coursing down her cheek. “Do you—do you mind if I spend some time alone?”

  Gil stood. “Of course not,” he whispered.

  “I just need to do some praying,” Damaris said.

  Gil reached a finger to wipe the tear from her cheek. “Mother and I will be praying too,” he told her, and then he was gone.

  ———

  Damaris did not spend long in her prayer time. It did not take long. She was weary of her heavy burden of bitterness. She wanted to make her past, with its pain and disappointments, into a stepping-stone for growth in her life.

  “Take it, Lord,” she prayed. “Please, take it from me. Cleanse my heart and help me to forgive. Might I be able to use my experience to be more understanding, more compassionate, more loving. Might it make me a better person so that—so that I might appreciate heaven more when I arrive. Make me more like you, Lord Jesus.”

  After a time of unrestrained tears and earnest prayer, the terrible burden lifted.

  “Mama—I love you,” Damaris whispered softly, even though she knew she was all alone. “I—I wish that I would have told you so. I—I hope you know.”

  And then Damaris had a new thought. She never stopped to reason it through before, but her heart swelled with the knowledge of it now. Her Mama loved her. Yet her mother had never spoken of it either.

  “That’s why. That’s why you—you gently urged me to go. You loved me. You didn’t want me to be the victim anymore. You—you decided to take it all—yourself.”

  Damaris leaned her head into her hands and cried harder.

  “If—if only Pa didn’t—” began Damaris, then stopped abruptly. “I—I guess he was a victim, too,” she said aloud. “I had never thought of that. Never wondered what made him who he is. Never even thought to ask him what kind of home he grew up in. I wonder if—if his pa beat him. I wonder when drink got such a hold on him.”

  Damaris ran a shaky hand through her heavy hair that had come unpinned.

  “Oh, God,” she prayed silently, “help me to love Pa. Help me to—to somehow forgive the terrible things he’s done. Help me to pray for him—like I pray for Mama.”

  After a few more moments in tears, Damaris wiped her eyes on the hem of her dress and reached to pin her unruly hair into some sense of control.

  “I must write Mama,” she reasoned. “She’ll be wondering if I am all right. I must tell her—and Pa—that I’m fine. I must send her my love.”

  Damaris rose from the place where she sat and brushed her skirts.

  “I’m a mess,” she observed, one hand stealing to her hastily pinned hair as her eyes dropped to survey her wrinkled dress—and then she smiled. “But I’m in better shape on the inside than I have ever been.”

  She lifted her eyes to the clear sky above her and drew in a deep, contented breath, “Thank you, Father.”

  Then Damaris started for home, anxious to find pen and paper so that the letter to her folks could be quickly posted.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Children

  She had seen Abbie only once since the death of the girl’s mother. Mrs. Jasper had come to the store and had brought the little girl with her. Abbie was clean. Even her hair had been washed and braided. But the hand-me-down dress she wore was way too big and the shoes on her little feet slopped with each step. She looked pale and troubled and ran to Damaris as soon as they entered the building.

  Damaris held her close, not trusting herself to speak.

  “She’s such a solemn little thing,” said Mrs. Jasper in front of the child. “Never laughs or plays—only sits and looks woebegone.”

  Damaris rose. She wondered how Mrs. Jasper could expect anything else from the child.

  “Well, the hearin’ is tomorra—and then I’ll be done with it,” the woman went on. “We got no room in our house for another. Maude had to share her bed—and didn’t think much of it, either.”

  Damaris still said nothing but felt a mixture of excitement and sadness. Abbie was not wanted by the Jaspers.

  ———

  The problem of the children was spoken of freely by the town folk. Everyone who entered the store seemed to have a solution.

  “I wouldn’t mind takin’ thet littlest one,” one woman observed. “But the boy—he don’t look healthy. Don’t know what one would ever make of him.”

  “Thet littlest one,” someone else said, “she’s a real little whiner. Can’t stand a child who whines all the time. I’d rather have the boy. He might be skinny—but he keeps quiet.”

  “Thet oldest—she’s kinda pretty—but by the time they get thet age they usually have picked up all the bad habits of the home.”

  “Poor souls. Poor little souls,” another woman said, the tears running freely down her cheeks. “Just wish we had more room.”

  Damaris wished to shut out all of the comments but she could not. Her heart became heavier and heavier as the day went on.

  “Well, tomorra it will all be decided. Maybe they’ll have to load ’em up and take ’em all to the city,” said one unfeeling man. “There’s nothin’ of worth at
the house to pay a fella fer their keep.”

  Damaris walked home from the store with a heavy heart, but by bedtime she had made up her mind. I’m going to ask for Abbie, she pledged.

  “I’m going to ask for Abbie,” she repeated as she prepared for bed. “I don’t know how I will manage, but I’ll find some way—with God’s help I will find some way.”

  As Damaris knelt by her bed to seek God’s will in the matter, she could not block out the skinny face of little William, or the troubled eyes of tiny Tootles. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “may someone want them, too.”

  She climbed into bed and began her reading of the Bible.

  “I would have to pick that,” she said in annoyance as her eyes fell on the words of Jesus: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

  “That might be so, Lord,” whispered Damaris, “but we are still on the earth. It seems that not many folks feel that way in our little town.”

  As Damaris closed her eyes to sleep, she still saw the words before her. “Suffer the little children to come….”

  ———

  The day of the hearing dawned cold and bright. Winter was approaching and everyone could feel the sharpness in the air. It was another reminder that each one would be hard put to care for the needs of his own family members.

  “If it were spring—with the promise of crops and gardens—people might feel more generous,” allowed Damaris as she walked the short distance to the sheriff ’s office where the hearing was to be held. “With winter—no one knows how difficult it might be to make it through. No one wants to take chances.”

  Damaris was surprised as she opened the door and stepped into the room. Already the place was crowded with people. Perhaps there were more interested in taking the children than she had expected.

  The three little ones were at the front of the room, clinging together on a little wooden bench. All three faces were pale. All eyes large with fright. William looked even paler and skinnier than ever, and Tootles cried until trickles from her eyes and nose streamed down her face together. Small Abbie held them both, a look of defiance on her baby face, as though she would challenge anyone who tried to take them from her.