Seasons of Bliss

by Ruth Glover

“What kind of man do you suppose Boaz was before he married?” he asked chattily, leaning close to Vivian’s pearly ear to speak intimately.

  Vivian jerked away, put a hand up to adjust her hair and her hat.

  “Ruthless,” Herkimer said happily, supplying the answer to his riddle, and Vivian looked as though she would commit murder, if such a thing were allowable.

  When the singing began, Herkimer cheerfully shared his hymnbook with her, his off-key bass rising above her obvious distaste for all things associated with the large man at her side. It didn’t help any to note the curious glances of those seated around them: A few people nudged each other or shrugged; a few smiled; and one or two—knowing Herkimer well and wondering what he was up to now—tittered. Once, fishing around in his pocket until his elbows dug into her sides, Herkimer produced a mint, much the worse for wear, and offered it to her.

  Vivian’s fury was hard to contain. “Put that away, you lout!” she hissed, and Herkimer good-naturedly popped the rejected sweet into his own mouth.

  Parker looked out over the assembled group and found the attendance good. Already winter’s chilling breath threatened, and they all knew there would be Sundays soon when it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to get to church. “Make hay while the sun shines,” had a great deal of meaning to the people of the north. And yet they were willing to lay work aside for the Lord’s day and felt the blessing of the service was reward enough.

  At the proper moment, Parker Jones opened his Bible, prepared to announce his text. All week he had labored over Jeremiah 8:20: “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.”

  With the Jurgenson boys in mind, Parker meant to expound on the swift passing of time, the certainty of the harvest, the seriousness of the reaping. And as he had hoped, the three Jurgenson boys sat—shining of face, clean of shirt, slick of hair—before him, having laid aside their usual worldly Sunday pursuits in favor of church attendance. Surely God had a message for them.

  Instead, he found his attention given to another portion of Scripture, one that had plagued his mind all week, but which he had ignored and turned aside as being his own thoughts, certainly not God’s message for the church.

  Now he found himself reading the worrisome verse. Perhaps his ponderings on it during the week would not be silenced and were struggling for attention. Whatever the reason, it seemed the Scripture rang in his own heart; perhaps it would be meaningful to his listeners.

  “For the gifts and calling of God,” he read from Romans 11:29, “are without repentance.

  “More clearly stated,” he explained, “is to say that God doesn’t take back His gifts, doesn’t take back His callings. They are irrevocable; that is, they are unalterable, incapable of being revoked. That’s good news. If you’ve been the recipient of any of God’s gifts, you may claim them with your whole heart—the world can’t have them; Satan can’t take them from you; God won’t take them back—they are yours.

  “The same may be said for God’s calling—”

  Parker could hear himself speaking, could hear the very answer he was seeking as it came from his tongue. Part of him spoke God’s truth; another part of him listened. Listened, accepted, and marveled. How simple it was, after all. What was it the Bible said? “The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart” (Rom. 10:8).

  The answer! He had known it all along—God’s plan hadn’t changed; God’s call hadn’t changed. The problem was his questioning heart, his doubting spirit. In this moment when the Scripture came close and searching, the light dawned.

  Somehow Parker finished his message, his own heart lifted; he could only pray that his people found what he said as helpful as he did himself. But if no one else listened, on this day, Parker had a congregation of one—himself, and felt the time not wasted.

  Now came the serious moment, the time for honesty, for soul-searching. Having faced himself and his recent bout with unbelief, his toying with disobedience, Parker gave what he termed an “altar call,” urging the sinner, the backslider, to make peace with God, and found that, once again, he was speaking to himself. And when the congregation stood and sang the old favorite, Just As I Am, with lusty voices, Parker, forgetting the Jurgenson boys and their need, sang to himself and for himself.

  And then they came to a verse that needed, in Parker’s case, to be prayed:

  Just as I am, Thou wilt receive,

  Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve;

  Because Thy promise I believe,

  O Lamb of God, I come! I come!

  And the Bliss congregation saw a sight never seen before.

  The singing faltered, faded, dwindled away as Parker Jones laid aside his hymnbook and stepped toward the rude bench, called the “mourner’s bench” by some. There, alone, he knelt—to pray, to repent, perhaps to weep.

  Startled, amazed, even humbled, his people watched. Time passed, and still Parker prayed. People began gathering up their Bibles and, slowly, as though undecided, moved toward the door. Silently they dispersed, casting glances back, creeping away to the family wagon, clambering aboard and wending their way home, discussing around the dinner table the moving sight of the seeker-pastor who had knelt at his own altar.

  Only a few lingered with him, sitting quietly in their seats or kneeling, waiting and watching with Parker Jones in his time of repentance and his hour of victory.

  Finally, looking up, Parker was surprised to see the dear ones who had watched and waited with him. Rising to his feet, it was to turn toward them a countenance of peace.

  “Woe is unto me,” he quoted, “if I preach not the gospel!” But it was said with such joy and complete lack of woefulness that his people smiled with him; a few laughed aloud, sharing his joy, and a few said “Amen—so be it!”

  Herkimer, during all of this, had refused to budge. Silently he had waited with his friend and pastor, and the Condon three, wedged in against the wall, had no choice but to stay, without creating a scene.

  “Now,” he said, rising, his face almost as peaceful as Parker’s, “we will go home.”

  “And home I shall go!” the irate, flushed Vivian gritted. “I mean back home—out of here—and as soon as I can pack! And,” she said in a fierce undertone to Herkimer, who, with an innocent expression on his face, was listening politely, “I’ll thank you to keep your distance from me and never to speak to me again!”

  Humbly, hat held against his chest, his whiskers quivering suspiciously, Herkimer took the tongue lashing, though a close observer might have seen a twinkle in his eye. Still on Vivian’s heels—in spite of her tirade—he followed the small group from the building. Treading closely, he kept in step right up to the Condon wagon, Vivian glaring over her shoulder, her hurrying steps availing nothing—Herkimer clung like poplar sap all the way.

  As for Parker Jones, he received the hugs of numerous members of his group, the hearty handshakes of others, then gathered up his Bible and turned toward the outside. Molly was climbing into her buggy.

  “May I?” a well-loved voice asked at her elbow. “May I drive? And Molly girl—”

  Parker couldn’t wait for a more convenient season, a more romantic setting. “Will you,” he asked softly, earnestly, his voice thick with a depth of feeling that would not wait for a more propitious moment, “throw your lot in with mine, Molly girl? Will you become a poor, foolish, pastor’s wife?”

  “No, I will not,” Molly answered with spirit. “But I’ll become your wife, Parker Jones!”

  And without hesitation Molly turned the reins over to her future husband.

  The small group watched, smiling, content, as their pastor drove away, Molly Morrison at his side, as was right and proper. If the buggy wasn’t out of sight when Parker turned her toward him, drew her to him, and kissed her with all the vigor and passion that any woman could have dreamed of, only a few people saw, and no one, no one, was surprised.

  Their departure coincided with a deep breath, a mighty sigh, heaved b
y Herkimer Pinkard. Now at last he stepped back, watching as Vivian Condon flounced her way up and into her uncle’s wagon, not an easy thing to do.

  Nostrils flaring, face scarlet, breath short, she turned one last furious glance on her would-be suitor, and said—and all her superficial graces fled in a second—“Good-bye, Mr. Herkimer Lumpkin!”

  Herkimer lifted his hat in a salute of sorts and said politely, “As Mr. Abraham Lincoln said, ma’am, ‘When you have got an elephant by the hind leg and he is trying to run away, it’s best to let him run.’”

  Tierney had lived through her first threshing, though there were moments when she wondered if she would fall asleep on her feet or keel over from sheer exhaustion.

  The work on the Bloom farm had started before dawn. It seemed to Tierney that she had just blown out the lamp for the night when the whistle of the arriving engine rent the darkness, calling the household awake. Soon lights were twinkling all over the house, everyone was astir, and with the kindling of the fire in the range, work was underway for breakfast. Men were gathering in from surrounding homesteads, moving from farm to farm until the district’s harvest was complete, each man helping his neighbor. It not only strengthened the bonds between them, and was the wisest thing financially—the only wages paid out were to the owner of the threshing machine—but was scriptural: “They helped every one his neighbor; and every one said to his brother, Be of good courage” (Isa. 41:6). Almost without exception, the people of the bush recognized their dependence on each other, and on God.

  And, on threshing day, it was not only the men who gathered in to help. Women came, too, knowing how very much they, in turn, would depend upon their neighbor in the mammoth job of feeding workers three meals a day plus lunches taken to the fields morning and afternoon.

  Lydia and Tierney had been busy for days. With threshing time in mind, barrels of sauerkraut (chopped by a new spade), had been put down when cabbages were ready in the garden. Cucumbers and tomatoes, in turn, had been pickled and were waiting in stone crocks; butter churned and hung down the well to keep sweet. Thick cream was on hand for applying to nearly every dessert served; pails of eggs were ready and waiting for breakfast. Finally, the baking was done—cakes, pies, cinnamon rolls, doughnuts.

  On the last evening, Lydia and Tierney had prepared for the morning rush. The table had been opened full length, spread with oilcloth, dotted with butter dishes, sugar bowls, cream pitchers, and, in the table’s center, the cranberry-glass cruet with its salt and pepper shakers, its mustard, vinegar, and oil bottles. Bacon had been sliced, potatoes peeled and waiting in huge pots of cold water. Frying pans were assembled for pancakes, for scrambled eggs, for onions. Coffeepots—their own and those borrowed—were filled and ready to be pulled to the front of the stove as soon as it was hot.

  Already Tierney had caught the importance of the kitchen and its output; the reputation of the lady of the house was at stake! Pity the woman who bumbled and failed, who was unprepared for the awesome responsibility of threshing day, allowing the menfolk of the district to be wretchedly fed. She was as much an object of scorn as the expectant mother who had no flannel in the house when the baby came.

  In Bliss and surrounding districts, first thing upon arising on threshing day, the sky was checked for signs of rain; clear skies called forth fervent thanks lifted to the Lord above. Many prayers had gone up from earnest hearts for days, even weeks; every pulpit in the land had voiced the concern of one and all that the Almighty look with favor upon their need of good weather for harvesting. Knees unused to kneeling, mouths unaccustomed to praying, now bent, now spoke, in heartfelt petition for enough rainless time to get in the crop.

  On this morning, though under pressure to get breakfast started, the cooks could not resist stepping outside to watch the threshing machine’s arrival. The powerful engine, replacing the three teams of horses needed in years past, hauled the thresher, followed by the water tank; the earth was deeply patterned by the huge wheels as the outfit came down the lane, past the house and farm buildings, heading for the nearest field.

  The ladies turned from the exciting sight back to their tasks, but the hustle and bustle in the kitchen could not completely shut out the distant chuffing of the machine, a constant reminder of the appetites raging in the hardworking crew.

  When everything was set up in the field—the men in place, a hayrack of sheaves waiting—the “pitcher” climbed into position to begin throwing the sheaves to the platform below where the “band-cutters” waited with their knives. The great belt turned, the white canvas of the carriers began to revolve, the “feeder” tossed the sheaves into the machine. What a sight—golden straw arcing into the air, golden grain cascading into a wagon!

  All this Tierney was able to observe firsthand when, in the middle of the morning, she loaded a cart with big jars of ice-cold lemonade, piles of sandwiches, dozens of doughnuts, and went to the field. The men, having shed their shirts early on, labored over the mighty monster, feeding its voracious appetite, appeasing its hunger. Scattered across the field among the stooks, other men and boys loaded the racks, pitching sheaves high into the air where another worker layered the load precisely. One by one the loaded hayracks were trundled to the threshing machine, pulling into position at the proper moment and followed closely by another, so that there was no break in the process.

  It was a marvelous example of teamwork. Looking around at the men, like ants busy everywhere, Tierney was awed. At the same time, back at the house, equally hard at work and equally coordinated, half a dozen women perspired in the blazing-hot kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of the last meal while preparing the next. Dishes, washed and dried, were carried right back to the table and put into place again. Frying pans were emptied only to be filled again, the only difference being that they held chicken rather than bacon. A huge pan of rice pudding bubbled in the oven; pies cooled in the pantry, vast loaves of bread awaited slicing, fresh grounds were added to the big enamel coffeepots clustered on the range top. Someone was kept busy trotting to the well for water, carrying out the potato peelings and other slops, feeding wood into the cookstove, shaking down the grate, filling the wood box. It was no place for shirkers.

  Just outside the door, benches were set up with numerous basins, bars of soap, and stacks of towels. Pails of warm water must be ready and waiting when the crew came in covered with sweat and layered stickily with chaff. When they made their way, shining of face and damp of hair, to the long tables, even the sturdiest house shook with the vibrations of their boots—oil grain two-buckle plow, seam-riveted western, best Kip with bellows tongue and dirt excluder, fully warranted spring heel plow. Their tread was businesslike as they approached the spread boards. Very little was said as they passed the bowls and platters, filled their plates, and shoveled in the food that had taken so long to prepare and which disappeared in a matter of minutes.

  About to go around the table with the coffeepot, Tierney paused, her heart coming up into her throat, her eyes smarting with something more than heat from the kitchen. Seated among the men of Bliss—Robbie Dunbar, her one love and her great sorrow.

  Tierney had tried, over the months, to expunge the passion of feeling for Robbie Dunbar that had affixed itself, years ago, to her heart. She had loved Robbie Dunbar for so long it was as if he were part and parcel of her very being. No words had been spoken over them, making them one; no kiss had been exchanged. But if love were a flower to be seeded and grown, Robbie Dunbar was planted, entwined, established, in Tierney’s heart, and try as she would, pray as she did, work at it as she might, Robbie Dunbar would not be rooted out.

  I am Robbie Dunbar’s, she had finally admitted to herself. Admitted it helplessly and hopelessly. He might never be hers, but she was his and his alone, and for all time.

  I’m doomed. Blessed—and doomed! she had thought. I’ll never be heart-free in all o’ me life. Oh, Robbie!

  “More coffee?” she asked him now, seemingly as cool as the bowl of sliced cucum
bers in sour cream on the table. But the coffeepot, as she poured, was unsteady, and with his thick head of hair so close and his bronzed cheek only a few inches away, Tierney was captured by thoughts other than of coffee, and the cup overflowed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she gasped and leaned to mop at the stain spreading on the oilcloth.

  Robbie’s face, as she bent past him to the task, was as tight as an Indian drum. His nostrils flared, his dusky skin deepened in color, his breath shortened. One would almost think his head reeled.

  Fortunately the other eaters were absorbed with their plates and, after a glance at the accident being repaired at one end of the table, gave it no heed. But the little drama continued.

  Robbie, perhaps unable to stop himself, turned his head slightly and looked at Tierney. Pulling back from the spill, Tierney’s face was only a few inches away from his—kissing distance. For a second that seemed an eternity, their eyes met.

  Tierney and Robbie, for as long as they could remember, had communicated by glance. Very little—back in Binkiebrae—had been said, very little needed to be said, their feelings were as plain to be seen as to be stated. A glance said it all, said it poignantly, said it graphically. There was sweet certainty in waiting. And there was time—or so they had thought—time for the fulfillment of the love between them. Were they not destined for each other? Would they not spend their lives together? Would they not grow old together?

  Now, again, at an oilcloth-covered table in the middle of the bush country in a remote northern district called Bliss, the language of the heart was blazoned between them, by glance. One short glance—a volume of meaning.

  Knowing it was wrong, that he was promised to someone else, still it happened. In spite of tight reins and good intentions—it happened. Like a spark from a struck anvil, it happened.

  The moment passed; someone called for coffee, and the moment passed.

  Trembling like a Saskatchewan aspen in the spring breeze, Tierney moved on, Robbie turned blind eyes on his plate, and life went on.