The Bluebird and the Sparrow

by Janette Oke

  Berta stirred restlessly.

  “Take another look at yourself, Berta. Others see you as—”

  “I don’t care what others think,” Berta cut in sharply.

  To her surprise Glenna laughed again.

  Then she sobered. “Oh, Berta,” she said, and there was affection in her voice. “That’s one of the things I have loved about you. Have even envied. You have never cared what others think. It doesn’t bother you a fig. I’ve spent a—a lifetime—trying to please—everybody. Trying to be pleasant. Sometimes I think it’s a load no one should have to carry.”

  “Then why did you?”

  Glenna sobered and shrugged. To Berta’s surprise her sister’s eyes filled with tears. She put her teacup down and reached for a hankie.

  “Because,” she said with a shake of her piled-up curls, “because—it would have made so much—so much unhappiness—for others. I couldn’t have stood that.”

  “That’s where we’re different. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

  There was silence.

  Berta broke it. “But you surprise me,” she said, and her tone had lost its sharp edge.

  Glenna just looked at her, still blinking away unwanted tears.

  “I always thought that you were just naturally—sugary,” said Berta.

  “Naturally? Oh no. No, it’s not natural. Not even easy. I’ve been—shamed so many times by—what has gone on inside. Oh, I try so hard to be—sweet and—good—but sometimes I don’t feel at all sweet—or good, either. I want to say ‘Why me?’ or ‘That’s your problem.’ ”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “It amazes me at times how dreadfully—selfish—I feel inside. I need to—to constantly be praying for God’s help to—to say the right thing—do the right thing. Even as a child, I constantly was asking God to help me. I know it’s dreadful to be so—so self-seeking—when—when God has given so much—of himself—for me. When there is so much—need all around us. When people hurt and—and I still desire to please myself.

  “But God does help me—He really does—when I ask Him, when I take the time to pray.”

  Berta could only stare. She would never have guessed that her sister had worked so hard, at such personal sacrifice, to be good. To be what she felt her God wanted her to be.

  “I never knew,” she said slowly. “I just thought—but I admire you for—for—”

  Glenna sniffed and blew.

  “I just thought,” Berta said again awkwardly, “that you were as—as prissy as you were pretty.”

  Glenna smiled.

  “I guess we have never been able to—to tell each other how we really feel.”

  “No,” agreed Berta, shaking her head. “I guess we haven’t. We haven’t even tried.”

  “Do you think it’s too late?” asked Glenna frankly. “I mean, do you think we could learn to talk? Could be—friends?”

  “Well, I—I—” began Berta. “Friends?”

  “Forget the past misconceptions?” prompted Glenna.

  “Misconceptions?” echoed Berta. “I guess there may have been—sort of—misconceptions.”

  “I do love you, Berta,” said Glenna softly, and her eyes filled with tears again. “I always have.”

  “And I—I guess … ”

  But Berta could not finish her statement. She crossed to Glenna, who had already risen from her chair and moved toward her, her arms reaching out for her embrace. They wept on each other’s shoulder. It was the first time Berta truly allowed herself the comfort of tears.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Decision

  “Come in, Miss Berdette,” the minister said and pointed the way into his office. “It’s a very pleasant day, isn’t it? A nice day for a stroll.”

  Berta nodded agreement and took the chair the pastor indicated. She unbuttoned her coat and pushed it back. Already she felt too warm.

  “How is your mother?” he asked with genuine interest.

  “She’s just fine now,” Berta answered.

  “So Doctor Oliver’s assumption was right. It was the combination of herbs she had been using?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Well, I’m glad the solution was found before real harm could be done,” the man said.

  Berta nodded.

  It wasn’t her mother whom she had come to discuss, but she did not know where to start.

  “You asked to see me,” said the minister. That helped a bit. Berta took a deep breath.

  “I’ve—I’ve been trying to—to sort through some things,” she confessed honestly. “I have come to the conclusion that I need some—guidance.”

  The minister nodded.

  “There have been so many things,” said Berta, letting her gaze fall to the clenched hands in her lap.

  The minister waited.

  “When you first came—first started your—your sermons on God, I was so excited. I knew that I had—that I needed to learn more about Him—who He is and how He—what He wants of me.”

  Berta was stumbling along. She didn’t know if she was even making any sense.

  “And then there was that library fire and I got so busy—and I sort of—dropped out. I mean—I stopped reading my Bible. I didn’t even pray some days. And pretty soon I—I was right back where I started.”

  “And where had you started?” the minister asked softly.

  Berta bowed her head.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. She looked up at the man across the desk.

  She decided to start at the beginning.

  “I was the firstborn,” she said and seemed to think her words would explain something. The man listened carefully.

  “And then Glenna was born.”

  He nodded again. Berta dropped her eyes.

  “Well—I was—Glenna was beautiful—right from the beginning,” explained Berta.

  “And you weren’t”

  “No. No—I was always plain.”

  “I see.”

  “Everywhere we went, people all fussed over Glenna.”

  Berta was silent again.

  “You felt—left out?”

  “Well—yes—I guess I did. I think that it—angered me that Glenna got all the attention. I think I was hurt.”

  Silence.

  “You can understand that, can’t you? I was just a child. I needed to know—I wanted people to notice me, too.”

  “Of course,” said the man.

  “It was like that all our growing-up years—Glenna getting fussed over. Me—?” Berta shrugged.

  “Did you take it out on Glenna?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Were you mean to her? Did you show bitterness?”

  “I suppose I did—some. But not much—given the circum-stances.”

  “The circumstances?”

  Berta swallowed. Silence again.

  “So, how is this troubling you now?” asked the man.

  Berta shook her head. “I—I don’t know. I can’t really explain. It’s just that lately—lately I’ve—I’ve been talking to people—I’ve done a great deal of thinking.”

  “Yes … ”

  “Thomas said that children often misinterpret incidents in their childhood.”

  “I agree with Thomas.”

  “And Mama went on and on about how she has always—counted on me. I’ve been her—dependable one.”

  “She’s told me the same thing,” said the pastor. “Many times and in many ways.” He smiled.

  “But I wanted to be loved—not depended upon,” declared Berta.

  “And you don’t think she loved you?”

  Berta shook her head. “Not like Glenna.”

  “Perhaps we should leave Glenna out of this for the moment,” the minister said.

  Berta wondered how Glenna could be left out. Wasn’t that the whole issue?

  “Did your parents ever tell you they loved you?” asked the minister.

  “Yes, of course,” admitted Berta.

 
; “Did they say they would love you ‘if’—or love you ‘when’—or love you ‘because’?” asked Pastor Talbot.

  “No … never,” she said slowly.

  “Then why did you find it so hard to believe them? Why did you think they would lie to you?”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t lie,” Berta quickly responded.

  “But you didn’t believe them.”

  “Well—I—I’m sure that they thought they loved me. I’m sure—”

  “But you didn’t think they did?”

  Berta shifted in her seat. It was terribly warm in the room.

  “I—I’m sure they did,” she admitted. “I—mean I didn’t really feel—unloved.”

  “Just not loved as much as Glenna?”

  It was an embarrassing question.

  “Let’s go a step further,” said the minister. “Because of this—feeling in childhood, how do you feel about yourself now?”

  Berta thought about this question. It was very difficult to answer.

  “I—I still—still struggle,” she admitted.

  “Your confidence is threatened?”

  “I—I guess so.”

  He smiled again. “I’m sure most people would be as surprised to hear that as am I. You seem so self-assured.”

  “It’s false,” said Berta rather sharply.

  “Making us feel inferior—unworthy—is the devil’s work,” went on the pastor. “He even tried it on Christ himself. ‘Prove that you’re somebody,’ he taunted Christ. ‘Make the world take notice of you.’ I think in one way or another, he says that to all of us. Along with it comes the subtle message, ‘You’re a nobody, and you know it.’ ‘You’re really not worth anything.’ ”

  Berta looked surprised.

  “But that isn’t what God says,” continued the man. “God says each of us is special. Created for a special reason—to fulfil a special task. He loved us so much that He sent His Son, Jesus, to die. Now if we are that important, we must be worth a great deal—to Him.

  “You are special, Miss Berdette. Not just to your family—but to God himself. Do you believe that? I mean, can you honestly claim the love of God?”

  Berta felt herself begin to tremble. Did she really believe that God loved her?

  “I—I—need to work on that,” she admitted. “It’s hard for me—”

  “It’s hard for any of us—but if we really, really can take in that truth, we are free to be whatever God wants us to be.”

  “In spite of the circumstances of the past?” asked Berta candidly.

  He nodded. “Our past really has less to do with it than we might think,” he said, and drew out a sheet of paper and picked up a pencil. As he talked he scribbled notes on the paper and drew little diagrams to emphasize his points.

  “You see—we do have reasons to be doubters. First of all—we are born into a world that has been spoiled by sin. It was a good world—God himself called it good, but then sin entered. And sin remains—so sin has ruined the world we live in, and even though we ourselves can be forgiven our sin—sin still affects the world we live in.

  “Secondly, we come to the world as children. We have no previous knowledge of our world. Of relationships with others. We gather our information as we go, but we have little knowledge or base on which to build—so, like Thomas said, we often make mistakes in our judgments, in our interpretation of what we gather. And children are so impressionable. Those false assumptions are often magnified.

  “Thirdly, Satan always makes the most of all wrong information. He makes sure that it is reinforced, time and again, until he uses it against us, convincing us that we are just what he has told us we are. Useless. Unloved. To blame. Guilty. Whatever it is that he has been trying to impress upon us.

  “Now, we can’t undo the past—and how we have read the information we’ve gathered. Maybe we have been right. Maybe we have been wrong. But regardless, we—as adults—must come to a time when we take an honest look at who God says we are and make our own decision based on His.”

  “One can change?”

  “We really are who we decide to be. That is how God has made us. With a free choice. If we were totally the victims of circumstances—God would be dreadfully unfair. But we can choose. Two people—given the same set of circumstances—can choose—one for good, the other to his own destruction. It all comes back to one thing. Our choices. Our attitude.”

  “Attitude,” said Berta. “That’s what Mama said.”

  The pastor nodded.

  “And our attitude can show up very early in life,” continued the pastor.

  Her mama had said that too.

  Then to Berta’s mind came the words of her mother from many years before: “Berta, I fear to think what that defiant spirit might cost you. ” Berta felt close to tears.

  “So it’s been me—all along,” she said, her voice soft and trembly.

  “Understanding ourselves is the first step,” said the minister. “And it is a big step. If we understand our motives—our attitude—it gives us opportunity to accept—or to change—how we think or what we do with our lives. All of us have some things that we need to change. Only with God’s help can we do that.”

  The remainder of their time together was spent searching through the pastor’s well-marked Bible, studying verses that suddenly came alive for Berta. She began to see herself in a totally different light.

  ————

  Over the days that followed Berta spent much time in prayer and study of her Bible. More and more she was understanding God—but she was also understanding herself

  I have refused to love because I thought myself unlovable, she admitted one night after reading of God’s great love for her.

  Even little Jamie. Even Jamie. I could not even tell Jamie that I loved him.

  Berta lowered her head to her folded arms and wept.

  ————

  Little by little Berta began to change. Rosie and Anna seemed to notice it. They ran eagerly to greet Aunt Berty each Sunday. Berta even dropped by mid-week, just to chat with her nieces or share in a child’s tea party. She didn’t notice her mother and Glenna exchange tearful glances.

  Little Tyrone tottered toward her when she made an appearance and sometimes even squealed with glee at the sight of her. Berta held him and even whispered words of love—words that she wished with all her heart she had spoken to Jamie.

  As the weeks and months passed by Berta began to feel renewed, alive on the inside in a way she had never known. Set free from some inner hidden bondage.

  ————

  “You’ve changed,” Thomas remarked one Sunday as they walked by the swollen creek to see if the year’s first violets were blooming.

  “How’s that?” asked Berta innocently.

  He looked at her, his eyes studying her face. “I’m not sure. You’re—rather—aglow.”

  Berta smiled. That was a lovely compliment.

  “What is it?” asked Thomas. “I don’t mean to pry—but I’d love to know about—your—happy discovery.”

  He smiled at her and Berta felt joy flood her heart.

  “Yes,” she said confidentially. “Yes, I guess it was—is—rather a discovery. I’ve—I’ve learned to—to accept Berta.”

  She laughed. Then continued, “Oh, I still might not like some things about her—but I have accepted her—and I am willing to—help her work through those things that she needs to change.”

  She laughed softly again.

  “Well—I do hope you won’t change her—too much,” he responded seriously. “I have always rather—liked her—the way she is.”

  Something in his voice made Berta become serious again.

  “Oh, Thomas,” she said, “I—I have changed. I—do understand some things now that I didn’t understand before. I talked to Pastor Talbot and he—helped me to see what I’ve been carrying around inside me. I didn’t like the picture of my attitude toward life and toward people.”

  She hung her hea
d.

  “I’ve been—selfish—and mean and spiteful. I’ve always been able to blame it on—someone. Mostly poor Glenna. But—but I did make my own choices. I see that now. Assuredly, over the years, I—I created my own—unhappiness—discontent.”

  “I think you are being hard on yourself,” said Thomas, reaching for her hand.

  Berta did not pull away.

  “My life may have shaped me as a child,” she went on. “My plainness—Glenna’s sparkle. But I’m an adult now. I have to take responsibility for who and what I am. I can no longer afford to—pout. And I am beginning—just beginning—to understand—myself.”

  There was silence. His grip on her hand tightened. He said, “So—if you now know Berta—as I have always known Berta—you must know that she is a pretty special person.” His voice was soft.

  She looked at him, and for the first time her eyes spoke a promise.

  He seemed to hold his breath.

  “Do you think that the—the new Berta could find a place for me—in her life?” he asked softly.

  Berta drew in her breath. That he could still care after all of her distance, all her rebuffs, amazed her. Her eyes filled with tears. She could only nod her head, her gaze still holding his.

  For a long moment he looked at her, and then he drew her close.

  “You don’t know how long I have prayed for this,” he whispered against her hair. “And now—I can scarcely believe it’s true. After all the years—I—”

  She turned from him slightly and gazed away from the creek, out over the seemingly endless fields of new prairie grass that stretched beyond them. In the distance, small dark blots that she knew to be cattle moved so slightly that she could have wondered if her vision was affected by the late afternoon haze. She turned back to Thomas.

  “You’ve been more—patient than I’ve deserved,” she admitted. Then feeling that she should explain, should share with him her deepest feelings, she went on, “I have—have finally accepted who—I am. I’m me. I’ve always been me. Oh, I know that sounds foolish, but it’s true, and important somehow. You see, I thought, I mean, I felt—well, that I really had no say. That I was formed and forged by—circumstances—things beyond myself—and that’s true—to some extent.”