Seasons of Bliss

by Ruth Glover

And was he, Robbie, in any position to claim a personal relationship with God? Didn’t one need an introduction to Him or something like that? Robbie, at his prayer times, brief and desperate as they were, felt like a voice crying in the wilderness, a wilderness of ignorance and blindness.

  But for the first time in his life Robbie Dunbar was attending church with some regularity. True, his purpose was to get a glimpse of Tierney, but the Word, sown faithfully by the pastor, was being planted and, as promised, some of it fell on good ground—the ground of his empty heart—and took root. New at farming, still Robbie could grasp the concept of rooting and sprouting.

  Robbie felt the stirrings of the new growth and, at times, pondered the seed. Now, thinking of his miserable fix where Alice Hoy and her property were concerned and his need for peace about it all, he recalled Pastor Parker Jones’s recent sowing—“Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).

  Needing the rest—badly needing the rest—he hadn’t done the coming. “Come unto me,” Jesus had said. This must be the invitation to the introduction.

  But this was a workday morning and no time to ponder Scripture; it was no time to question his arrangement with Alice.

  With a sigh Robbie turned to the work that awaited him, and him alone.

  “Come along, laddie,” he said. And to Alice, “Maybe there could be a bite of sum’mat at noon . . . if ye feel up to it? That way I can keep on wi’ the rakin’, hopefully gettin’ done today.”

  But it was not to be. Having barely begun, Barney perching happily on Robbie’s lap, it became obvious that something was wrong.

  Robbie and Barney climbed down and examined the dumping mechanism.

  “This lock lever is as perfect as they come,” Herkimer had said. “And the teeth should raise easily with a slight movement of the foot.”

  The teeth—twenty shining steel teeth—seemed to grin wickedly at Robbie, stubbornly refusing to dump.

  “Practically a self-dumper, is it?” Robbie fumed, quoting Herkimer. “Well, Barney, lad, it looks like I’ve got to try and free up this lock system. Or somethin’.”

  Already wise in some ways and cautious about injury so far from a doctor, Robbie unhitched the team from the mower, not about to have twenty shining steel teeth take an unexpected bite out of his anatomy.

  Barney watched for a while. Robbie, grim-faced, was fiddling with the dumping mechanism.

  “What about me, Robbie?” the boy asked, restless and whining.

  “Ah, laddie . . . why’nt ye run an’ get me a drink o’ cold water. That’d taste good aboot now. There’s a fine mannie . . .”

  Barney turned away, a mutinous expression on his face.

  Noontime came, and Robbie was no nearer an answer to the mower’s problem than when it happened. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he turned toward the house, and dinner.

  “Is there a problem?” Alice asked brightly as he stepped into the house, and Robbie, who was beginning to know her well, recognized the effect of her “medicine.” Moreover, on the table, laid out ready for him to take to the post office, was an envelope addressed to the catalog’s headquarters.

  Though Barney had rattled on about chicken eggs and catalog orders, Robbie was quite sure the order was not for Granula.

  “Where is the spalpeen?” he asked, missing Barney’s welcome.

  “Isn’t he with you?”

  “Na na. The mower broke down, and I’ve been workin’ on it for a coupla hours.”

  Alice sat down heavily onto a kitchen chair. “Then where is he? What do you suppose he’s up to?”

  Come, Molly,” Grandma Kezzie wheedled. “Lay aside your work for a few moments and sing for me.”

  “Mam” Kezzie Skye had lived a long life without knowing the saving grace of the Lord Jesus Christ. She was a newcomer to His blessings, and all His springs flowed joyously through her ancient body and lifted her old heart to realms never known before, and only imagined. Not able to do much physically herself, she was now coaxing her granddaughter to pause in the day’s activities and take a moment to worship. And what better way than by song?

  Being Molly’s confidante to some extent, and observant as well, Mam knew something was bothering her “bairn.” It didn’t take much insight to suppose it had to do with Parker Jones. If Molly could be brought to a decision to cast her worry on the Lord, she could once again go smiling about the house, a joy to all who knew her.

  “Good suggestion,” Molly said, brushing a wisp of her vibrant black hair out of her eyes and laying aside the butter mold—such labors would keep; Mam would not always be with her. But oh, praise God!—they were united in praise as in purpose now, and a few minutes to remind themselves of this would do them both good.

  Sitting at the little pump organ, pedaling steadily and running her fingers over the keys, Molly’s hymn choice began satisfactorily:

  Awake, my soul, to joyful lays,

  And sing thy great redeemer’s praise,

  He justly claims a song from me—

  His loving-kindness, O how free!

  Molly sang, lifting her voice and her eyes heavenward; Mam hummed along, her spirit soaring.

  But there came a verse that, in spite of good intentions, rang with dire truth and hollow praise:

  When trouble, like a gloomy cloud,

  Has gathered thick and thundered loud,

  He near my soul has always stood—

  Trouble, like a gloomy cloud. Molly’s hands fell from the keyboard to her lap. Her head bowed, her slender shoulders shook, and even from her chair Mam could see the tears sparkling on her lashes, breaking free, and running down her face.

  “Come, love,” Mam said gently, and Molly slipped from the stool to her grandmother’s side, falling onto the rug at her feet and laying her dark head on her Mam’s knees.

  With a gesture as old as motherhood, Kezzie stroked Molly’s forehead, brushing back the lively hair lovingly. With the other hand she tendered a handkerchief, and Molly mopped her tears.

  “I’m just being silly, I know,” Molly sniffled at last, her voice muffled in her grandmother’s skirt. “But, Mam, I was so sure—so certain that God wanted me to be a preacher’s wife. I felt as called, in my way, as . . . as—”

  The tears threatened again. Eventually Molly drew a deep breath and straightened herself to continue with her thought.

  “You know, Mam, that Parker, like other ministers I’ve heard about, referred to his ‘call.’ It brought him here, to Bliss, with definite purpose. He seemed, at first, so sure of himself. Then there came this little nibble of uncertainly—it happened when Henley Baldwin died, you remember, and Parker learned of the miserable life he had led with Della and hadn’t even known about. He blamed himself for not being involved enough in his parishioners’ lives. That’s where it all started—this questioning, wondering, this dissatisfaction.”

  “Aye,” Kezzie, Scottish through and through, said in her thick brogue, “I ken.”

  “And now another death and more questions. This time, he was off . . . off somewhere with that . . . girl.”

  And fresh tears threatened.

  “Aye.” There was no use Kezzie denying what she already knew to be true. “Aye,” she said again, “an’ he’s struggling with his conscience, feels he failed Sister Finnery and God.”

  “We all make mistakes . . . if it was a mistake.”

  “Aye. I think it was a mistake, a’ reet. And I think that’s what has his heart so twisted and his opinion o’ himsel’ so low.”

  “His whole ministry is in question, Mam. His ministry . . . and my future. He’ll be here soon, and I don’t know how to help him. I can’t give him any advice when my heart is . . . is so torn up over it all.

  “You see, Mam,” she continued earnestly, “regardless of what he does, I’ve got to know what’s right for me. That’s the only way I’ll have any peace. Pray with me, Mam!”

  Two curly heads, so much alike except th
at one was black and the other white, bent in earnest petition to the One whose Word advised, “Give diligence to make your calling and election sure.”

  And, as always happens when hearts are sincere and willing to trust, rest came, with the assurance This is the way, walk ye in it!

  “I know what’s right for me,” Molly said eventually, getting to her feet, her voice calm and her eyes peaceful. “And that’s enough.”

  This assurance held her steady when she and Parker, late in the afternoon, walked down the lane side by side.

  “It’s so peaceful,” Parker said, breathing deeply. “At moments like this I wonder why I wrestle so with my call. This seems God’s perfect plan for me, and Bliss seems like the ideal place. And then . . .”

  “Then,” Molly supplied, “the tempter comes with his suggestions and his lies.”

  “Do you really think it’s that? Can it be that simple? Is that why I have these terrible moments of doubt—about myself, about Bliss, about—”

  “About me, Parker?” Molly asked quietly.

  “Never! Never about you, Molly,” Parker said, and said it with such passion that the small misery that Molly had been carrying around in her heart was stilled.

  “About the future. The future that I want to be yours as well as mine . . . our future, Molly.”

  “And what is that future, Parker? Where is that future?”

  “That’s what I’m struggling with, of course.”

  “You’ll find the answer, I know you will. You have so much ability, Parker, so much to offer, and a long life ahead of you in which to serve God’s people. No wonder Satan tries to sidetrack you! Can you just hold steady until the answer comes, clear and simple?”

  “I have no choice,” Parker said simply. “I’m miserable this way. I’ve got to come to some conclusions. Will you wait with me, Molly, and pray with me?”

  “Yes—to both.”

  Parker reached out, almost as a drowning man, and took the slim hand that was waiting for him.

  “Show me, Lord!” he said, and it was half groan, half prayer.

  Molly’s squeeze was reassuring. The walk back to the house was peaceful, their hearts lighter than they had been for a long while.

  “Now,” Parker said reluctantly, “I’ve got to go to the Condons’. It’s been hanging over my head like a dark cloud for days. I don’t know what that girl—Vivian—has in mind, but she won’t let up until I go by there and listen to her. Maybe,” he said, without much hope, “she is interested in salvation.”

  “Maybe,” Molly repeated and hoped her skepticism didn’t show.

  Through the kitchen window Molly saw Parker’s return as he rode back up the lane. Horse and rider moved briskly; if looks spoke at all, it had been a satisfying meeting. Perhaps some serious spiritual business had indeed been attended to. Somehow she doubted that, but thinking it, her heart reproached her.

  Molly went outside to greet him. Parker swung from the back of the horse, tossed the reins over a post provided for the purpose, and turned toward Molly. “Let’s sit down somewhere,” he said.

  Beyond the garden was a large poplar, and it was on the grass under this tree that Molly and Parker settled themselves. Angus, at the barn, waved and went about his duties. Somewhere a calf bawled, and then silence reigned.

  Molly eyed Parker cautiously. What could possibly have happened to perk him up so? She felt quite certain that Parker was not drawn physically to Vivian Condon. What then did the girl use, almost like some magic spell, to disrupt his life?

  She waited for him to speak. Parker, on the verge of doing so, seemed restless, shrugging himself into place, drawing up his knees, putting them down again, leaning back on his elbows, straightening up, plucking grass, and tossing it loose without thought.

  “I had supposed,” he began, “when I left here, that things were getting more settled in my mind, that I was close to a decision. Now . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Still she waited. Her own peace of mind, so recently sought and won, should not be disturbed, nor her conclusions changed. Challenged, perhaps, but not changed. Molly felt she knew the Lord’s will—for her.

  “She—Vivian, that is—didn’t have a personal need or problem that she wanted to talk about,” Parker said finally, opening the subject that was on both their minds.

  “No?”

  “What she had was . . . this.” Parker pulled an envelope from his pocket, held it in his hand uncertainly.

  Molly made no move to take it. Rather, she looked at Parker steadily, waiting for him to make what explanations he would.

  “It’s a letter from Mount Moriah. Have you heard of Mount Moriah, Molly?”

  “In the Bible—”

  “Not that Mount Moriah. This one is located on Prince Edward Island, near the city of Summerside. It’s not a mount, of course, but a . . . place named for the biblical Mount Moriah. Actually,” Parker cleared his throat, “actually, it’s a Bible school. That’s why I thought you may have heard of it.”

  “No, I never have.”

  “No reason why you should have. There are a few Bible schools dotted over the country now; this one is the most easterly. It offers two-year courses to young people wanting to prepare for Christian work. Anyway,” Parker turned the full gaze of his dark eyes on Molly, “this letter is an offer to join the faculty.”

  “I don’t understand,” Molly said slowly. “Why would they offer you a place? How did they hear about you? What’s the . . . the connection?” Asking, Molly thought she knew, and she returned his gaze steadily.

  “It’s Vivian, of course. She has an uncle who is on the board of regents there, or some such place of responsibility. She recommended me—”

  Vivian had been two months or so in Bliss, and she recommended him?

  So thought Molly. What she said was, “And what is your reaction?”

  “Molly, it may be the answer to my cry! Think of it—just when I’m so full of uncertainties, here comes this—”

  “This ‘out’?” Molly wanted to say but didn’t. Being so sure, so very sure of her own place in God’s plan, she could afford to be quiet. Parker Jones would have to find his answer for himself.

  “Just think of it, Molly—a teacher! A teacher of the Bible! Helping young people get ready to serve the Lord. And, Molly—”

  “What else?”

  “A salary. Not large but regular. Large enough to get married on! What do you think of that, Molly?” Parker’s voice bordered on exultant; certainly it was urgent, hopeful. His eyes, turned on Molly, were bright and questioning.

  “It sounds . . .” Not knowing how to answer, Molly’s feeble response faded away to nothing.

  “It could be our answer, Molly!”

  “Our answer, Parker? Do you mean . . . what I mean is . . .”

  Parker had spoken words of devotion before this. He had broached the subject of marriage, he had walked all around it—the pros and cons, the inadequacy of the small house, the uncertain salary—but this was the first time he had put it into anything definite.

  “I mean, Parker . . . is this a proposal?”

  “It is! Molly—will you marry me? I love you, Molly girl! Will you go with me to Mount Moriah? What do you say, darlin’ Molly?”

  It’s Rob Dunbar,” Lydia said, laying aside her book and pulling back the lace curtain at her side.

  Incapacitated much of the time with her aching joints, Lydia would have much preferred to be crocheting, or knitting, or engaged in tasks she felt were constructive and helpful. Reading! It was for idle hours—and who, in their right mind, could expect any of those?

  Still, she was reduced to sitting, rocking, flexing her twisted fingers gently, hoping and praying for better health, trying to do a little mending, and reading. In the meantime, she thanked God daily for Tierney Caulder. Not only was she a willing worker but a cheerful, pleasant person, made more so, no doubt, by the One who indwelt her.

  But how long, Lydia thought with a sigh, could they kee
p her with them? Lydia sometimes watched the faces of Tierney and Quinn Archer, looking for signs of a secret attraction, for some clue that there was some magic at work between them. Quinn was a gem of a man, capable and reliable. Quinn would make a wonderful husband and father. He was mature, seasoned, thoughtful, a man of humor and wisdom. And fine looking!

  At times Lydia was sure she intercepted a glance that was more than casual between her two hired people. Being an inveterate romantic at the core of her staid English being, Lydia found opportunities, made opportunities, for Quinn and Tierney to be together—sending Tierney to the barn or field with messages, arranging for Tierney and Quinn to make trips to Bliss together, occasionally seeing them off to church alone when her health forbade her going and she persuaded Herbert to stay with her.

  Now, having announced the rider who was approaching the house at a gallop, Lydia turned to study Tierney: slender, taller than many women of the day, with curves in all the right places (Lydia knew where they should be, though she couldn’t boast of them herself), a mass of auburn hair that continually strayed from its pins to riot in abandon around a face that was piquant, Tierney was filled with the love of life and smiled often. Yes, Quinn Archer would be blind and dumb not to see what was set deliciously before his very eyes every day.

  Just now, her hands in a dishpan of hot, soapy water, washing up the noon dishes, Tierney’s lips were moving, as though she were praying, perhaps. And that was best of all—Tierney Caulder, not too long ago, had given her life to the Lord Jesus Christ and knew Him on a personal basis. Her witness was bright and clear, her mind and heart fervent in their devotion.

  With a start Tierney lifted her head. “Who . . . who is it?”

  “Robbie Dunbar. I wonder what he’s doing here this time of day. And in a hurry, too,” Lydia said.

  Even as she spoke, Robbie was springing from the horse’s back, striding across the porch, knocking at the door.

  In a wink Tierney had it opened.

  “Robbie . . .”

  “It’s Barney,” Robbie said, stepping quickly into the house. “I’ve come for help. Barney is lost—”