by Ruth Glover
“Lissen, my fren’,” Gregor said, seriously. “All dat voman needs is prober handling. You godda know da prober vay to vork mit her. Some peeble don’t . . . ain’t . . .” Gregor was at a loss for the “prober” words to express himself. But he tried. “What I mean iss, she’s been left to run vild over peeble all her life. I betcha she done it to her ma and pa; I betcha she done it to her husban’. I betcha it made her unhappy, doin’ it! Ever’body needs to know where da boundaries iss. Animals need ’em, shildren need ’em, peeble need ’em. Yah?”
“Well, I knew her husband a little; he died soon after I came. He was a good man by all accounts and very good to Della. But you’re right, he didn’t stand up to her. As for Dudley, well, kids are taught to respect their elders. Until recently, Dudley has been as tame as a house cat. Seems he’s finally getting a backbone, and I’m glad for him. It’ll make the difference between a miserable existence as an underdog, or becoming an independent man with a life of his own.”
“Dat Gladdy,” Gregor said admiringly, between sips of scalding hot coffee, “ain’t she somepin’?”
“Dudley’s a lucky young man. I predict a good life for them. A hard one, but a good one. When are they leaving, by the way?”
“Two, t’ree weeks. Now, Connor, vat aboud dat udder young voman, Kerry Ferne? Ain’t we been prayin’? If you don’t get a move on, my fren’, she’ll be gone. Den vat? You’ll be a lonesome old bachelor once more, vit no hopes of anyt’ing bedder.”
Connor was silent for a moment. “I know,” he said finally. “But it’s not right, somehow. I’ll just keep praying and waiting, if that’s what it takes. Not everyone is as lucky as you, Gregor, to fall into the hands and lands of the ‘prober’ female.”
Gregor roared his mighty laugh. “Hah, Hah! Vell, I may be on her lands, my fren’, but I ain’t in her hands!” And he slapped Connor on the shoulder until Connor’s cup slopped its coffee, and the chair on which he was sitting shook and wobbled.
“Easy, you great wooly mammoth!”
“I bedder get back home, or dere von’t be no more ubside-down cake for me. Dat would teach me a lesson! Yah!” Gregor grinned, and his huge frame trembled in mock fear of the dreaded Della.
“Upside-down cake! You’re turning her world upside down! Yah!”
“Take your Bibles,” the pastor said, “and turn to the first verse of the Gospel according to St. John.”
There was a shifting of the congregation as they opened their well-worn Bibles. Rough fingers parted the fragile pages tenderly, locating the proper selection.
“‘In the beginning,’” read Parker Jones, “‘was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’”
Reading from her neighbor’s Bible, Kerry heard the words as thunder in her ears. The Word was with God, the Word was God.
What did it mean? Using words from the Bible as she did, having memorized as many of them as she had, still the meaning of the Word escaped her.
But Parker Jones was not done.
“The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us,” he explained earnestly. “His name was Jesus. He came down and lived among us, and men beheld His glory—”
And women, Pastor. And women! cried the listening Kerry silently, her mind just beginning to recognize and her heart just beginning to behold.
“—the glory that was his as the only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth.”
In that instant, in a blinding insight, Kerry understood that she had known the word, but not the Word. Acquainting herself with the one, she had overlooked the other. Filling her head with the word, her heart had been barren of the Word. And how barren it was! How starving! Like a flower that has sprouted beside an oasis but has never partaken, she thirsted. Parker Jones was continuing, enlightening her further, and she drank it in.
“John tells us that the world didn’t know Him, didn’t recognize Him, didn’t receive Him. This holds true in our day also. Though we have our churches, our preachers, our Bibles, men and women still live in ignorance of the Word. ‘But as many as receive him,’” the voice of the pastor lifted with the good news and Kerry’s hopes with it, “‘he gives the right to become the children of God—children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision, but born of God.’”
How can it be?
“It’s called the new birth,” Parker Jones explained, straight to Kerry’s heart. “Born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which lives and abides for ever.”
Parker Jones preached on, and it was good and true, but Kerry was caught up in the marvel of the Word so simply revealed. Phrases and verses tumbled together in her mind, organizing themselves into reality and truth—the entrance of thy word giveth light . . . thy word have I hid in my heart, that I might not sin against thee . . . there are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost, and these three are one.
And “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Did Parker Jones say it or was it, again, the thunder in her ears? Her ears and her heart?
When Parker Jones gave what he called an “invitation” and explained that the rude front bench was for repentant sinners—should they need to lay their sins and burdens there—Kerry discovered that the sins and burdens of her own poor heart had already lifted and gone, and that by believing in and accepting the Word, she had believed in and accepted Christ.
Perhaps it was her copious tears and her sniffling nose, perhaps it was her lifted head and her trembling smile, but God’s people understood and reached for her, arms going around her, hands patting, faces pressed close in similar tears and smiles.
Peace! peace! wonderful peace,
Coming down from the Father above!
Sweep over my spirit forever, I pray,
In fathomless billows of love.
The third time the congregation sang the song, Kerry had it memorized; her quavering voice joined theirs, and she sang it as a testimony. For here was the peace! She hugged it to her like the treasure it was.
Finally she turned to leave, feeling that she did indeed experience “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” trusting that it would indeed keep her heart and mind through Christ Jesus.
Smiling brothers and sisters in the Lord passed her along from hand to hand, down the aisle, out the door, to the sunshine beyond.
Peace . . . peace . . . jangle! Waiting for her, meeting her face-to-face—Connor Dougal.
There he stood—Connor Dougal. There he stood, the man who had shamelessly wooed Franny, breaking her heart and her spirit, and taking her to her grave. There he stood, hat in hand, smiling and more handsome than any man had need to be, a reprobate if ever she saw one.
There he stood, and all of heaven waited, it seemed, for Kerry to move. For her to speak or not speak, to forgive or not forgive, to leave retribution to the Lord or hold stubbornly to her right to it. Having just prayed “Forgive me my debts,” would she also pray “as I forgive my debtors”?
Only a second did she hesitate. The Father’s forgiving was too sweet to jeopardize, His peace too hardly bought to risk losing. Only a second, but in it Kerry remembered the Scripture, “Let the peace of God rule in your hearts.” Let . . . allow . . . do not hinder or stop the peace. The choice, it seemed, was up to her. Only a second, but in it Kerry made the decision that put the vengeful spirit from her; she sensed it drop away as surely as a heavy weight might leave her shoulders. Oh, but forgiveness was sweet; sweet to receive, and sweet to give.
With a heart as light as the dandelion thistle floating on the air around her and as happy as the birdsong erupting from the bush, she stepped forward and took Connor’s extended hand. New tears, tears of relief and unspeakable joy, welled into her eyes and needed to be stopped before they ran down her cheeks and onto her gown. Her own handkerchief already being sopped, Connor Dougal pulled his large one from his pocket and tenderly mopped the eyes that, in the brilliant noonday sun, shone more pur
ple than black.
“This will be a day of special celebration,” Molly Morrison declared at Kerry’s elbow. “Remember, our invitation for dinner is a standing one. Today of all days, we want you there with us. You come, too, Connor. And Dudley and Gladdy. Where’s Gregor?”
The big man was talking to someone, standing at his horse’s head, prepared to leave as soon as Della was in the rig. For the first time, he had brought her to church; Dudley was using the Baldwin rig to pick up Gladdy. Though the walk from the stopping place to the church was short, he relished being with her. Kerry had walked to church with Ida.
Now, standing beside Gregor’s buggy, one hand holding her Bible and quarterly and the other pinching her skirt and holding it up out of the way, Della was ready to ascend the one step into the rig. Tapping her foot, Della waited. All of Bliss’s congregation noted and waited with bated breath.
Casting a calculating eye toward Gregor Slovinski, Della lifted her voice and called sweetly, “Oh, Mr. Slovinski!”
“Chust a minute, missus,” he answered politely, “and ve’ll be on our vay.” And Gregor returned to his conversation.
That familiar, frosty look and those flaring nostrils might have alerted Gregor to the state of affairs. Perhaps he wasn’t looking. Certainly it alerted Dudley, who had been branded Dud by Della in an identical situation. It alerted the good folk of Bliss, who could recall hearing Henley scorchingly called Hen for the same oversight—not helping Della in or out of the buggy. How would she deal with Gregor Slovinski? They weren’t long in finding out.
As though she had a bug on a pin, Della had Gregor where she wanted him—at a disadvantage before the watching eyes of Bliss.
Into the silence, a hushed, waiting silence, Della’s voice warbled clear and strong: “Oh, Slo, I’m waiting!”
Gregor, all three hundred pounds of him, turned as quickly and lithely as a roused lion. In a split second he was at Della’s side.
“You called, missus?” Like a playful lion he roared it, not a foot from Della’s face. Startled, she took a step back, dropping the hem of her skirt into the dust, blinking her eyes.
“Yah!” he bellowed joyfully.
Before she could move, he reached for her. His two hamlike hands gripped her around her waist; he gave a mighty heave, and much as a child would toss a rag doll, he swung her up and around, her skirts swirling and her feet flying high into the air. This extraordinary demonstration culminated in Gregor swinging her over the wheel, into the buggy, and onto the buggy seat. The buggy bounced, Della’s hat tipped over one eye, and her hair, having escaped its pins in the wild curvet, fell in loose, unaccustomed liberty around her astonished face.
When the buggy had stopped rocking and Gregor had seated himself at Della’s side—the expression on his broad face as pleased as though he had taken part in a celebration—a hesitant clapping was heard from the back of the crowd. Within seconds the acclaim swelled into a grand round of applause and a few hurrahs.
“I feel quite certain,” Angus Morrison said to Parker Jones, “that we’ve just witnessed the beginning of a great and mighty miracle. It’ll be a long day before she considers belittling Gregor in public again.”
“It was a drastic measure,” Parker Jones said, awed by the performance, hesitant to approve it, but recognizing its possible therapeutic value. “But I think you may be right. For Della’s sake, I hope so. I have a feeling she is in a pit of her own digging and doesn’t quite know how to get herself out. Gregor may be just the man to do it. We may yet see a different Della.”
“God grant it,” Angus said piously, adding more wickedly than he ought, “and Gregor.”
The congregation, with two stories to relate—one of blessing, perhaps the other also—made their way homeward to dinners that had been left roasting in the oven, a much needed and relished Sunday nap, and the never-ending evening chores and figured it had been a memorable day.
On the way to the Morrison home for Sunday dinner, Parker Jones rode with the family. Dudley took Kerry and Gladdy in his rig, though Connor had invited Kerry to ride with him. Kindly but firmly she had chosen to ride with Dudley.
In his buggy by himself, Connor thought of Gregor and the statement he had made by his amazing reaction to Della’s attempt at establishing her authority over him. It didn’t exactly seem the Christian thing to do! And yet it was done with such good will, so spontaneously—or was it spontaneous? Connor believed Gregor may have acted with purpose, with the best of intentions. And it might just work. Gregor could well be the very man for the taming of the shrew that was Della Baldwin. Connor regretted that Gregor was missing Sunday dinner with the Morrisons; hopefully Della, with her eyes opened and her thoughts settled, would feed Gregor her oven’s roast chicken and vegetables as well as a generous serving of upside-down cake. Upside down! Connor found himself laughing with great good humor at the recollection of Della’s first flight through air.
Connor trusted Gregor. Though he would never be a doormat for feet to be wiped on, he was capable of great compassion, sympathy, and gentleness. Moreover, he was a godly man—a combination worthy of any woman’s attention. Connor checked his thoughts at this point concerning the future of Gregor and Della, although he had a suspicion of what it might hold.
In Dudley’s rig, a wary and uncertain Gladdy watched Kerry secretly from time to time as they made their way to Morrisons and dinner. This step of Kerry’s meant the end of her plan for revenge, of that Gladdy was quite sure. Unsympathetic toward it anyway, and having advised Kerry to let bygones be bygones, Gladdy breathed a sigh of relief and felt the coming moment of their separation—she northward, Kerry eastward—would be easier for her if Kerry were free of that terrible need for retaliation. It had happened because of a prayer! Gladdy found it hard to grasp.
Once, catching Gladdy’s perplexed eye, Kerry drew a quivering breath and gave her first “testimony”: “It’s real, Gladdy. And it’s . . . oh, so precious.” It seemed as if Kerry were about to puddle up again, and Gladdy quickly changed the subject.
Arriving at the farmhouse and climbing down from the rig and joining the others, Kerry’s good news was shared again, this time with Kezzie Skye, “Mam” to the entire group, herself so recently forgiven and cleansed of a terrible wrong that had cast a dark shadow on her life for years. Together they rejoiced, and Gladdy and Dudley, watching, felt wretchedly as if they were outside of some blessed circle. And wondered if there was room for two more in it. Wondered, and said nothing.
Wondered and smiled, and ached inside. Talked about their plans to leave, and felt bereft. Held hands under the table, and felt alone. Ate heartily of the roast beef, and felt empty, so empty.
Sitting at the dinner table, side-by-side with Kerry once again, Connor tried, fervently now, to engage her in conversation. Here, at last, was the woman he had looked for and hadn’t quite located.
Where, before, there had been a brittle, bright, contrived response on her part, now there was a gentle sincerity. Her great pansy-black eyes turned his way from time to time, and they were guileless, lacking the purpose he had read in them before. Her shining black head tipped attentively in his direction when he spoke, but the little by-play that a man recognizes, the open invitation that had been in her eyes, was missing. Her smile was genuine; there was no flirting.
Here was the woman he had looked for and had not found. Something warm and validating rose in Connor’s heart. With any luck—with God’s help, he hastily amended—she could be persuaded to stay, could be wooed, and could be won!
But try as Connor would, he could find no answering response from Kerry. The previous interest she had shown in him was missing, and he was puzzled. Why had this morning’s experience turned his heart toward her, and hers away from him? For, as the meal wore on, it became very clear indeed that Kerry, though gracious and polite, had removed herself from him in any intimate way. Strange!
But still—because of the morning’s spiritual victory—Connor felt convinced that h
ere was a young woman worthy of pursuit. He even dared think that God was in it—after weeks of prayer about it, he could believe that indeed God was in it.
At his side, in answer to an inquiry, Kerry had just stated that she would be leaving in a couple of weeks. He couldn’t let any grass grow under his feet, so to speak.
And he made a real effort, only to find, again and again, that the door to anything close and personal with Kerry Ferne was shut. Perhaps locked.
On her part, Kerry was torn by a mix of feelings. Oh, that Connor weren’t so attractive to her!
How could she find him attractive—in manner, in speech, in face and figure—when he was a hypocrite at heart? She groaned at her own foolishness. She would be kind to him; she had forgiven him as God required but pursue him any longer? Of course not! She felt sick with shame when she thought about her previous actions. And now, when she had changed and would no longer play at that misbegotten game, he was—if she could read the signs—giving her definite signals of his interest. It was a cruel situation. He had rejected her, for some reason; now she would reject him.
Surprisingly, she was swept by an occasional rising of rage against him. Silently crying out to God for help against this unacceptable attitude, Kerry began to understand what forgiving “seventy times seven” meant. However many times it was required of her, she would do it! So she prayed for grace, smiled on him, hardened her heart against him, and forgave him, all at the same time. No wonder she was sadly torn.
Too bad, too bad, to find a gem of a man and know he was false at the center of his being!
Dudley and Gladdy, across the table, were more quiet than usual. The glad talk of spiritual things—did it make them uncomfortable? Loving Gladdy as she did, Kerry wanted so much to include her and Dudley too in her present joy. A matter for prayer! Already Kerry was learning.
Someone asked that the gravy be passed down the table. Dudley, being closest to the gravy boat, reached for it. His unbuttoned coat fell open as he leaned forward. Shining across his vest, winking golden in the light—swung a chain. A chain with a small round charm dangling from it. A chain with a charm that was a . . . compass.