There Is a River

by Thomas Sugrue

  “Well, drink your coffee, then, and stop dreaming. Lee will be wondering what happened to you.”

  He felt much better.

  —

  The year turned its face to the west and died. With his mother gone, the squire’s last interest in farming faded. He decided to move to town, and his wife agreed with him. In Hopkinsville the girls could attend school regularly, and the terms would not be hampered by planting and harvesting. Moreover, it offered more opportunities for some sort of work when they were finished with school, and provided a better environment for meeting prospective husbands.

  The squire decided to sell insurance, and also got a job with the building and loan association.

  “Well, Old Man,” he said to his son, “what are you going to do? Coming up to the big city to seek your fortune?”

  He would have liked to go to town, if it meant more school, but it didn’t. It just meant a job, probably in a tobacco warehouse.

  “I think I’ll stay on the farm,” he said. “Uncle Clint wants me to go over with him. I’d like to learn farming before I try anything else. Then I can always come back to it.”

  “Excellent idea,” the squire said. “Well, we’ll miss you.”

  They left on a cold January day. All their belongings were piled in one wagon, with the girls holding it down. Behind, and dropping more and more in the rear as mile after mile went by, he drove their cow. They reached town at dusk, and he stayed with them that night in the house they had taken on West Seventh Street. There was a barn for the cow, and the back yard stretched, unfenced, to good grazing land.

  Next morning he walked through the town, looking for a lift down to the country. The place was too busy; he didn’t like it. He got a ride with one of his cousins and went back to his uncle Clint’s farm.

  He liked his work, especially when spring came and he could get out of the barns and into the fields. He was alone most of the day then, plowing, fallowing, planting. He had lots of time to think about being a preacher, and about the vision, and the dream of the veiled lady and the cloth of gold. Mostly he thought about being a preacher.

  He knew he had to get more schooling, but he thought he could manage that. First he would save some money of his own. Then, if he had a start, so that no one could doubt his good intentions, perhaps some friend, like Mr. Wilgus for instance, would let him borrow some. He could work while he was going to school, and if the lady continued to help him he could sleep on his lessons and get through all the classes before the regular time.

  Mr. Wilgus still came down to hunt with him, and always looked at the little mark on his face where a piece of shot from his gun was lodged. It wasn’t anything; one day he had been too close when Mr. Wilgus fired at a bird, and a piece of lead bounced and hit him. But Mr. Wilgus always seemed to be sorry about it.

  “I hate to take you out with me when I’m going to shoot,” Mr. Wilgus would say, “but there’s no use in going alone, because by myself I never find anything.”

  Yes, Mr. Wilgus would probably help him, and some of the preachers would do what they could, because they seemed to like him. In the meantime he could keep reading the Bible and teaching Sunday school. Someday his chance would come. His father might even make a lot of money in Hopkinsville.

  One day in late August Uncle Clint sent him to plow a cornfield, giving him a mule that belonged to one of the men who had been hired for the tobacco harvesting. All day he followed behind the mule, guiding the plow. Once he stopped to mend it. Kneeling, he suddenly was aware of a presence. He knew who it was, though he saw nothing.

  “Leave the farm,” she said. “Go to your mother. She needs you. You are her best friend; she misses you. Everything will be all right.”

  He knew that she was gone, after that, but he hesitated to look up. When he got to his feet he grasped the plow handles and kept his eyes on the ground.

  When evening came he mounted the mule and drove to the farmhouse. As he came up the men looked at him queerly. The owner of the mule ran to him.

  “Get down!” he shouted. “That mule will kill you!” He got down, bewildered.

  “She’s never been ridden,” the man said. “Won’t let anybody get on her. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I just got on and rode her home.”

  One of the men said, “She’s too tired to fuss. Good time to break her in. Give her a try yourself.”

  The owner mounted the mule. The mule threw him off. The men looked at the boy. Sick at heart, he turned and walked away. After supper he packed his belongings and walked to town.

  FOUR

  It was a lonely life in town. He had no friends, there was nothing to keep him up at night, and no one got up until seven o’clock in the morning. From long habit he rose at dawn, though his new job at the bookstore did not require that he be at work until eight. To fill in the time he did chores for his mother. He liked to bring in the cow and milk her: she was an old friend, and she seemed to sympathize with his distrust of the town. She didn’t like it either. Frequently she wandered during the night from the back yard to the bottom land a few hundred yards from the house, where no habitations were visible and a creek like the one at home meandered along.

  He went there to hunt her one spring morning and saw a man sitting by the creek, reading a book. He was a well-dressed man, apparently not from Hopkinsville. He looked as if he might have come from a big city, such as Louisville or Cincinnati. He looked up from his book and smiled.

  “Looking for a cow?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” The book he was reading had a familiar look to it.

  “On the other side of the creek, just beyond that patch of brush.”

  “Thank you.” The book looked very much like a Bible.

  When the cow had been led across the stream the man looked up again.

  “Nice animal you have there,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. She’s a fine cow.” It was the Bible. “Excuse me, sir, but isn’t that the Bible you’re reading?”

  “Why, yes. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve read it”—he tried to make his voice sound casual—“eighteen times, once for each year of my life.”

  “Well!” It sounded as if he wanted to say, “What for?” but he smiled again and closed the book.

  “Can you sit down here and tell me about yourself? I’m interested. My name is Moody. Dwight L. Moody. I’ve come to town to preach a few sermons.”

  “At the Sam Jones Tabernacle? Wait until I stake out this cow.”

  “Yes, I’m to be at the tabernacle.”

  The cow preferred to stay near him. She was lonely and wanted to be milked.

  “I was going to the meeting tonight. I like to hear preachers!”

  “Good. Now tell me how you’ve managed to read the Bible so often.”

  “Well, it was just an idea I had, so one day . . .”

  The cow waited. Now and then she went up and nuzzled her master, trying to coax him away.

  “So now it’s easy. I just read three chapters a day and five on Sunday, and I’m finished in a year.”

  “Have you thought of being a preacher, perhaps a missionary?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s what I want to be most of all. But there’s one question I’d like to ask you. You’re a preacher. Has God ever talked to you? Have you ever had visions?”

  Mr. Moody smiled.

  “Can you come here tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. I’d like to very much.”

  “Be here early, and we’ll watch the sunrise together. Wherever I am I like to find a quiet spot such as this and come each morning to watch the day begin. Come tomorrow and I’ll answer your question.”

  They parted; the cow led the way home, anxious to get to the barn.

  His mother was waiting with the milking pails.

  “I was talking to Mr
. Moody, the man who is going to speak at the tabernacle. He was down by the creek, reading his Bible.”

  “Mr. Moody? Why, he’s a famous evangelist. What in the world was he doing talking to you?”

  “We were talking about the Bible. I asked him if God had ever talked to him and he’s going to tell me all about it tomorrow morning. We’re going to his meeting tonight, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, your father has the tickets. Come, now, let’s get the milking done.”

  She laughed.

  “If you don’t get into the worst mix-ups with your Bible! Did you tell him that you’re missing the first twenty chapters of Genesis because a sheep ate them?”

  The tabernacle, a gigantic auditorium seating five thousand, built by and named for the great evangelist Sam Jones, was filled that night when Moody appeared on the platform. For two hours he held his audience spellbound. Next morning when he reached the creek at the edge of town the boy he had met there the day before was waiting.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said. “You made a very fine sermon last night. Everyone was talking about it.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Edgar. How did you like it?”

  Edgar . . . it was strange to be called that name. He had always been just Old Man to the folks he knew. Edgar sounded nice, even dignified, coming from Mr. Moody. It didn’t sound sissy, the way he had always thought of it as being. It would be a good name for a minister: The Reverend Edgar Cayce will now deliver his famous sermon on The Bible and Its Meaning to Me.

  “Oh, I liked it, sir. It was the finest sermon I ever listened to.”

  “Then it was a great success for me, too. If I really make an impression on one person with each sermon, I’ll be doing well, very well.

  “Now, I’ve been thinking about the question you asked me yesterday. What made you ask it? Have you heard God talking?”

  “I don’t know. I heard something. I don’t know what it was. You see, when I was reading the Bible one day . . .”

  They sat on a log, facing east. As the red edge of the sun came up the story unfolded—the vision, the voice, the dream, the lessons conquered by sleeping on books, the mending of the plow, the riding of the mule.

  Mr. Moody listened, staring at the whirling, pitching, eddying water of the creek. When the story was finished he said:

  “You’re not crazy or queer. Lots of people have told me of visions and voices and messages from the beyond. Some of them are fooling themselves. I am sure you are not doing that.

  “The Bible tells us about spirits and about visions. It seems that there is a difference between these things. The Bible speaks of being possessed by evil spirits and says, ‘A man or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death; they shall stone him with stones: their blood be upon them.’ Then it speaks of visions, which seem to be the voices or messages of good spirits. God tells Aaron and Miriam: ‘Hear now my words: If there be a prophet among you, I the Lord will make myself known unto him in a vision, and will speak unto him in a dream.’

  “So it seems that we must be careful to differentiate between one and the other.

  “But let me tell you of my own experience. That will answer your question about God speaking to me, and perhaps it will help you to understand the things that have happened to you.

  “Some years ago I was in Cleveland. I had never before preached in that city, but the meetings were well attended and I seemed to be building up a following.

  “Then one night I had a dream. I heard a voice say, ‘Close the meeting and go to London, England.’ I had never been to London; I had never been abroad. My managers were astonished when I said I was going to close up and leave. They said I had an open field in Cleveland and could consolidate my position with the people. They were very exasperated when I insisted, especially as I would give no reason for my action.

  “I went to London, wondering what was to happen to me. Not knowing where to go I roamed the streets. I chose the poor districts—I felt more at home there.

  “The houses were shabby, but one day I saw a tenement window with a flower box, full of geraniums. They had such lovely colors that I stopped to admire them. Then I heard a voice—a child’s voice—singing ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer.’

  “I was impelled by something to enter the tenement. I walked up the stairs. The door to one of the flats was open. From inside came the child’s voice.

  “I went in—at the window, by the box of geraniums, sat a little lame girl, singing.

  “‘May I join you?’ I said.

  “Then I got the surprise of my life.

  “‘Oh, Mr. Moody, it’s you! I know it’s you!’ the little girl said. ‘I read about you in one of our papers and I’ve been praying ever since for you to come to London. You are Mr. Moody, aren’t you?’

  “My meetings in London began in that tenement room. I knelt down and prayed for the little girl.

  “That’s the answer to your question—if it is an answer. Certainly some good force directed me to London.

  “So, you see, I don’t think your dreams and visions are foolish. They mean something. Perhaps you are meant to be an evangelist. This part of the country has produced some fine preachers.”

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s always been my ambition to be a preacher, and sometimes I’ve thought that I’d like to be a missionary rather than stay at home. There was a preacher who had been a missionary stationed at our church once, and he told me all about his experiences in Africa and taught me to say the Lord’s Prayer in Yoruba.

  “But I haven’t enough education, and I don’t know how I’m to get it. I’ve got to stay with my mother and help her, especially while my sisters are young. I haven’t the money to go away to school anyhow, and even if I did I have high school between me and college. I never went further than ninth grade. Still, I know I could learn quickly once I started, and I’m planning to start just as soon as I can.”

  Moody smiled and nodded understandingly.

  “You’ve got to stay with your mother,” he said. “That’s a son’s first duty. But don’t give up hope. You may have to begin late, but that doesn’t mean you won’t succeed. Your love for the Bible and your visions mean something. The first and only real qualification for the service of God is the desire to be of service.

  “You can do that even if you never go to school again. You can be an example to your fellow men. You can live a Christian life. And you can do charitable work and teach Sunday school.”

  “How can I teach Sunday school in this town? I did it in the country, but all the boys and girls in my church have either a high school or a college education.”

  “They may know a lot about books,” Mr. Moody said, “but they don’t know this one.” He tapped his Bible. “You do. You can teach it. Remember, Edgar, Christ didn’t pick His apostles from the university professors. In fact they would have nothing to do with him because He did not agree with their theories. He chose simple fishermen.”

  Edgar—the name somehow seemed to be his own, at last—didn’t feel any better. The time of Jesus and the Bible was far away. Things were different at the Ninth Street Church, which he attended, and the well-dressed, well-educated boys and girls in the congregation were far beyond his reach. How could he dare to teach them?

  “Anyhow, keep the faith,” Mr. Moody said. “If God wants you to serve Him he will make it possible for you to do so. We cannot penetrate His wisdom. We must have faith. I will think about your problem. If a solution to it occurs to me, I will get in touch with you.”

  They shook hands and parted. Edgar followed the cow to the barn and milked her. When breakfast was over he left the house and walked to the center of town.

  The residential streets of Hopkinsville were shaded by tall trees that made frames for white-fronted houses sitting back behind long, shrub-studded lawns. When West Seventh Street
reached Main Street the trees disappeared, and in summer the sun beat down without opposition on the courthouse and the squat, red-brick buildings of the business section.

  The town was not yet a hundred years old—it had been laid out in 1799—but it seemed as if it had been there forever. Everything had an air of security, and the church spires seemed genuine symbols of eternity. When Edgar turned the corner into Main Street he felt that the stores and buildings he passed were as permanent and unchangeable as the hills and fields of his grandmother’s farm. They were even more unchangeable, for the hills and fields were different with each season and each crop, and such things as new trees, a field fire, or a freshly painted fence were constantly changing the lines of the picture. On Main Street it was always the courthouse on the west corner, the Hopkinsville Bank on the east corner. Then came Wall’s clothing store, Hoosier’s tailor shop, and Hopper Brothers bookstore, where he worked. Beyond it was Thompson’s hardware store, and across the street, Hardwick’s drugstore. Just below the drugstore were Latham’s dry goods store and Burnett’s shoe store.

  He entered the bookstore with his passkey and raised the summer shades that covered the windows. Then he let the awning down. The sun was already warm, and books and pictures had to be protected or they would fade.

  The front portion of the store was occupied by showcases displaying framed pictures and bookcases containing current literature. Beyond, along the walls, were bookcases filled with textbooks for the local high school, the schools of the county, South Kentucky College, Baptist Girls College, and Ferrell’s School for Boys, the town’s principal seats of learning. In the rear were stationery and miscellaneous school supplies, picture frames and samples of picture molding, and a large rack for unframed pictures. Along the back wall were Mr. Will Hopper’s desk and a safe. In the corner was a stairway leading to the balcony portion of the store, where the work of making picture frames was done and uncut frames were stored. A partition guarded a space fixed up as a bedroom, where Mr. Will slept.