“So . . . are you convinced it is true?” persisted Jocelyn. “Do you now consider yourself a Christian?”
Again Charles was silent. “That is an involved question,” he replied at length. “I’m not sure one ever comes to a distinct point in time when you say, ‘Ah ha!—all at once suddenly I believe.’ It’s a gradual process. You look back and realize your thinking has progressed. Timothy has helped guide me along in that without applying any pressure. He’s enough of a modernist himself that I feel his sympathy with my doubts and questions. That’s one of the things that makes me trust him. He brings such an astute, contemporary outlook to the discussion. Yet now I wonder . . .” Charles’ voice trailed off.
“You wonder what?”
“I wonder if perhaps I have come to that point, or even gone beyond it, without realizing it. I think probably—if you take the thing purely on the intellectual level . . . I think I can say that I do believe. I hadn’t stopped to put it quite so definitely as that before now. Yet when I hear those words coming out of my own lips . . . I’m not sure what it means . . . what it’s supposed to mean. What does it mean for a man actually to say he believes in God?”
Again Charles paused.
“What is it?” asked Jocelyn.
“All at once the McFees came into my mind,” he replied.
“Why them?”
“Along with Timothy’s modern and erudite approach, perhaps some old-fashioned religion might do me good as well,” replied Charles, “—to balance the picture, so to speak. I was thinking of Bobby and Maggie as I rode home this evening. It just may be that they have the answer to what I just asked . . . about what belief actually means.”
“Why would you think so?”
“They used to talk to me about God when I was young. I hardly paid much attention then, yet all of a sudden it seems very important to talk to them. I think it’s time for a visit. Will you join me?”
“Of course.”
“Then we shall go out to the cottage tomorrow!”
33
Old Friendship Renewed
In early afternoon, with Catharine down for a nap, George contentedly occupied, and Amanda under the watchful eye of Constance Dimble, Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford struck out on foot across the open space at the back of Heathersleigh Hall toward the woods. The McFees’ cottage stood about a mile distant.
Charles’ fatigue from the previous evening was gone, and he was in high spirits. Though she had no interest in going on a walk, the fact that she was not included in the outing put Amanda in a sour mood. This unfortunate fact would add considerably to the otherwise cheerful Miss Dimble’s vexation on this day. For Amanda would vent her annoyance by making the nanny’s life very difficult indeed.
“We’re going to be talking about grown-up things, Amanda,” her father had said at lunch. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
His words were enough to make her insist on accompanying them. Charles’ persistent refusal insured a grumpy disposition for the remainder of the day. Her father never used to refuse her anything.
“What do you think, Jocie,” said Charles as they went, unaware of the tempest they were leaving behind, “can you imagine a more wonderful place on the face of the earth than Devon in July?”
“I have not seen enough of the earth to say that with complete authority,” she replied with a laugh. “And yet I would venture to agree with you.”
“Have I ever shown you my little hideaway off there in the woods?” he asked, pointing to the left as they walked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t recall your mentioning it. As long as we’ve been here, do you mean to tell me there are still places you haven’t shown me?”
“I just remembered. I’d forgotten about it myself. More and more things from my past are coming back to me these days.”
They reached the woods and continued through them. By and by they approached the cottage. Maggie saw them through her kitchen window.
“Master Charles, it is wonderful to see you!” she exclaimed, running outside to greet them. “Lady Jocelyn—it is an honor to have you here . . . come in, come in.—Bobby!” she cried. “Bobby—we have guests . . . Master Charles is here!”
Charles was already laughing at the exuberant welcome as they followed Maggie inside.
Ten minutes later all four were seated together with cups of tea in hand, visiting like the old friends the three Devonshire natives were. After a few more minutes a lull came in the spirited conversation. A thoughtful expression spread over Charles’ face.
“I’m not exactly sure why we’re here,” he said. “Jocelyn and I were talking last evening, and somehow I knew I needed to see the two of you.”
“We know why,” said Maggie with significant expression. She and Bobby glanced at one another.
“Then perhaps you can tell me,” laughed Charles.
“The time has come, hasn’t it, Master Charles?” she rejoined. “God’s been getting under your skin and speaking to you like we always said he would?”
“How could you have known?”
“We been praying for ye,” said Bobby.
“You once told me the time would come when I’d remember Maggie’s flowers and would know that God was God. I suppose that day has arrived.”
“Lately we sensed the Lord was trying t’ get hold o’ ye. Didn’t we, Maggie?”
Maggie nodded.
“Well, you were right,” said Charles. He went on to explain briefly what had happened in London, then told them of his new friendship with the pastor Diggorsfeld.
“He sounds like one o’ God’s true men,” said Bobby.
Charles nodded. “But I can tell I need to do something else,” he said. “Maybe there’s a decision I need to make. Mr. Diggorsfeld told me I would eventually have to decide which party label I wanted to wear, so to speak. I think my intellect is convinced. Intellectually I would have to say I do believe. I am comfortable with the recognition that God is God. But I don’t know what to do now. As Jocelyn and I were talking last night, I realized I didn’t really know what belief actually meant. I think I believe. Mentally. But I have the feeling there is more to it. I felt the two of you might have something further to tell me.”
Charles paused and chuckled. “I said that you would be the first to know if I changed my mind about God. Maybe that’s another reason I am here.”
The small cottage fell silent. It was Bobby McFee who broke it.
“Do ye recall, Master Charles,” he said, “when I told ye long ago that the Creator gave ye yer intellect t’ help in yer journey, but it was yer heart that had t’ go the last distance alone?”
“I do remember,” replied Charles, nodding his head. “I was just thinking of that conversation last evening on my way home.”
“The Lord likely brought it t’ yer mind on account o’ it being time now that he wants ye t’ complete that journey he’s brought ye on t’ this point.”
“Complete it—how do you mean?”
“’Tis all well an’ good t’ talk about spiritual things, and t’ talk about whether God be real or not. All that work o’ the brain’s necessary. But the time comes when a body’s got t’ go the rest o’ the way with what it means t’ believe.”
“And what is that?”
“Becoming one o’ God’s family—becoming his son or his daughter. That’s something that can’t be done with the head, only with the heart.”
“Isn’t everyone his son and daughter?”
“In a manner o’ speaking. He made us all, so we’re his children in that way. But most aren’t acting like sons and daughters, not living under his roof, if ye get my meaning. They’re not living the way his family lives. That’s the kind o’ children he wants—sons and daughters that are living with him, as part o’ his household, with him as their Father. That’s what life’s about—getting back under the Father’s roof. It’s kind o’ like God has two families—the one that’s everybody in the whole universe, far-off relatives that d
on’t really even know him, and the close-by family that knows he’s their Father and are actively living with him every day. The one’s the close-in family, the other’s just distant relations.”
“How do you become part of the immediate family—one that’s living as a son or daughter?”
“Open up your heart t’ him. Let him inside. Tell him ye want t’ live with him and for him now, instead o’ for yerself. Tell him ye want t’ take up residence again inside the family home.”
“Do you mean, pray and say those things to him?”
Bobby nodded.
“But what do you mean about being part of his household?”
“Ye see, Master Charles, God’s the best and most loving Father there ever was. He made us because he loves us. He loves us more than we can think. But because we’re a dull-witted and stupid lot, we don’t pay attention t’ how our Father wants us t’ live. So we live our own independent ways without asking him about what he might have t’ say in the matter. We go about our lives as if we hadn’t got a Father above us at all. We just figure that since we’re alive, we ought t’ be able t’ do whatever we want. We never think that maybe we’re supposed t’ be part o’ a household and family that belongs t’ somebody else, and where somebody else is in charge. Ye see what I mean about us being a stupid lot?”
Charles laughed.
“So we forget that God loves us. Pretty soon we forget he’s there at all, ’cause his is a quiet voice. And though he’s everywhere, and speaking t’ us all the time, it’s easy not t’ see or hear him if we close our eyes and ears. So we forget all about him. We live our own way. We don’t ask anyone what to do or think—we just do what we happen t’ think is right, which may or may not be what he wants us t’ do. When we live like that, all we’re doing is cutting ourselves off from him and from the family we’re supposed t’ be part o.’
“Now nothing can really cut us off from him, because we couldn’t breathe a second without him. We’re still his creatures, because he made us whether we call him our Father or not. But we’ve forgotten t’ be sons and daughters. We drift away and forget, and become those distant relatives I was talking about. We’re still part o’ the family o’ God’s created world, but we’ve forgotten all about whose world it is, and what it means t’ be one o’ his creatures.
“So t’ help folks who’ve forgotten, the Father sent his Son Jesus t’ the earth t’ remind us that we’ve got a heavenly Father, and t’ show us how we’re t’ live in his family. And that’s what folks’ve got t’ do—come back into the Father’s intimate family like Jesus told us, and then t’ live as part o’ that family.
“He’s a good and loving Father, the Father o’ Jesus and our own Father too. He’s waiting for us to say, ‘God, I want ye t’ be my Father again. Ye are my Father, because ye made me. But now that I know ye as my Father, I want t’ start living like yer son.’ But there’s something else that has t’ happen too. Ye see, the Bible says we’ve not just drifted away from his family—’tis that we’ve been in rebellion against his fatherhood. So we have t’ repent o’ that, to stop our rebellin’ and go back the other way.
“’Tis what’s called repenting o’ sin. And we’ve got t’ ask his forgiveness for being wayward children. But when we ask, he does forgive us. ’Tis what Jesus dying on the cross was all about.
“Ye see, Master Charles, ’tis up t’ us t’ come back under the roof o’ the family. There’s nothing he can do till we do that. But once we decide t’ do it, Jesus makes the way possible.”
“How do you live as his son?” asked Charles.
“Do what Jesus said. That’s why Jesus came—t’ tell us how t’ live as God’s sons and daughters.”
“Back to my first question—is that what it means to believe?”
“Believing is more than just saying with yer head, ‘I know God is God.’ ’Tis also saying with yer heart, ‘God, I want ye t’ be my Father, and I want t’ live as yer son.’ It’s both things together. Believing means t’ live as God’s son or daughter. Ye can’t do that without both the head and the heart working together.”
It was silent a long time.
“I want that,” said Charles at length. “I do believe with my head, and I want to live what I believe in my heart too. I want to be a member of the immediate family, not the distant one. But . . . well, it’s been so long, I don’t really know what to say, what the right prayers are. Can you show me how to pray to him?”
“We could pray with you, and help ye through it, Master Charles. But I think ye’d be better t’ go t’ the Father yerself, just the two o’ ye. Find a quiet place—an’ ye too, Lady Rutherford, if ye’re o’ the same mind as yer husband. For there can’t be any more wondrous thing in the world than a man and a woman together giving their hearts t’ the Father o’ them both, and together coming back into his family.
“So just find a place where ye can be alone. It doesn’t matter where, or if ye close yer eyes or how ye do it. Just talk t’ God like he was yer very own kind and loving Father, ’cause that’s what he is. Talk t’ him out o’ yer heart. Tell him whatever ye want t’ tell him. Thank him that his Son Jesus died for ye, t’ bring ye back t’ his family. Then ask him t’ show ye how t’ be his son and daughter. Open up yer heart as well as yer brain. Ask him what he wants ye t’ do. And then when he shows ye, make sure ye do it. And the way he’ll tell ye is from how Jesus lived and what he said. That’s how ye live in God’s family, ye do what Jesus said. If ye ask, he’ll show ye what t’ do.”
34
A Newly Changed World
Charles and Jocelyn returned from the cottage in silence. Charles wanted to ask Jocelyn what she thought, and if she would pray with him. But he was reluctant to intrude. For the first time he began to sense something he had not considered before now—that perhaps she herself was struggling with doubts about this new direction.
For the rest of the day Charles had a sense of approaching change. The following morning, Sunday, he awoke early.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was fifteen till six. Jocelyn still slept.
He rose, dressed quietly, descended the stairs, grabbed up his favorite walking stick from the hall tree by the door, and went out into the stillness of the morning.
The sun was only recently up. Her rising left behind a rainbow trail of purples, oranges, reds, and yellows in the eastern sky and a sparkle of dew on the carefully tended lawns surrounding Heathersleigh Hall.
The gardener, Harlan Latimer, always kept the place looking well-groomed, as befitted such a stately and historical residence. But today, as Charles gazed about the meadows and fields around him, which were silent in anticipation of the day and overspread with the glories of the sunrise, all was new. His eyes looked toward the thinly forested hills in the distance. Reminders of childhood romps drifted into his brain and heightened the quiet pleasure of the early hour.
He breathed in deeply of the morning air, then set off across the lawn toward the open countryside, with no particular destination in mind.
There could be no doubt, he thought as he went—everything about his outlook was altered.
Nature—indeed, so many aspects of life—had begun to weave a spell upon him, from flowers and sunrises, to smiles and music. A simple nod from a stranger walking along Whitehall in London, the handshake of a colleague, a smile from dear Sarah Minsterly, the happy tones of the Mozart country dances Jocelyn played on her spinet—any was sufficient to make his heart swell with a vibrant and pulsating love for all humankind. The face of humanity had become dear to him!
Surely, he thought as he walked casually along, this world could be no mere random accumulation of matter, heaped together to produce a meaningless thing called “life.” The grass gradually lengthened under his feet as he moved farther from the house. How could he have been oblivious for so long, and not seen what the final paragraph of the Origin hinted at, yet which even Darwin himself fell short of grasping in all his years of study.
&
nbsp; A live Heart existed at the center of all things, breathing the wonder of life into every inch of the universe!
Why had it taken him so long to recognize that most simple, most obvious, most profound, yet most overlooked fact?
It was a huge thing he had never considered until a few weeks ago. Christianity had to be true in a deeper and more personal sense than conveyed by the mere facts which he had long dismissed as irrelevant. And now came again the question of implications he had been considering all weekend.
What obligation did recognizing the reality of the Christian truths place upon him? What might it require that he would have to do in consequence?
Charles Rutherford was enough of a thinking man and rationalist to recognize that consequences were involved in everything. For him to embrace a personal God, who had a claim upon him in very down-to-earth ways, would most certainly involve significant consequences. What would it mean in his personal life? What would it mean to his family? How might it change his priorities and attitudes and perspectives? What would it mean to his career?
Already he had begun to feel a modification in how he looked at things. The honor of knighthood had brought with it little of the satisfaction and sense of achievement he had expected. Indeed the whole political realm in which he had long been involved was beginning to lose its fascination and interest. London—the great city which he had always loved so dearly as the center of his activity, the apex of the world itself—shone now in his eyes with less luster. He had formerly risen on Monday mornings with a sense of eagerness to get back to the city. Now he regretted that he could not remain at Heathersleigh longer, and all through the week anticipated his return on Friday.
Along with such alterations of orientation, he found himself drawn in the most peculiar directions, desirous of taking long walks rather than sitting in his study, wanting to help Harlan with the lawn or prune a hedge himself rather than work on his motor or other devices. Was this the difference between intellect and heart Bobby had spoken of? Were these whisperings of nature being spoken to his heart rather than his brain? Everything upon which his eyes fell reminded him of Diggorsfeld’s statement about the fingerprint of God.
Wild Grows the Heather in Devon Page 18