Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Without his realizing it, Charles’ walk had brought him to the edge of the heather garden. It had been part of the estate as long as he remembered, lying to the southeast of the house at the edge of a small wood, and containing what his mother once said were over fifty separate varieties of the plant. At least one of those subspecies was in bloom year round. It stood some seventy-five or hundred yards from the house, but neither he nor Jocelyn had paid the area more than passing heed. Nor had he instructed Harlan to bring it within the domain of the rest of the grounds. As a result it was now completely overgrown, the various plants running wild over one another, with weeds and brambles throughout.

  Charles had always considered heather little more than an uninteresting wiry shrub, notwithstanding that it gave the Hall a proud name. Now he found himself considering how he might personally cultivate the patch, prune back some of the overgrowth, and see if he could reestablish the pathways he remembered winding through as a child.

  This was precisely the kind of change he kept noticing in his thinking. The new thoughts were subtle at first. Yet he could feel them probing steadily more deeply into the soil of his consciousness, stirring up new questions about old values and convictions. Where would it all lead? Would it result only in increased attentiveness to a heather garden . . . or would the winds of newness blow through his life in more sweeping ways?

  Something told him that even had he tried to forget what had happened last month in London, even if he tried to return to the way his life had been before, he couldn’t do it. Somehow he knew that he could not continue along the same pathways as before.

  The fact that the Creator was now close . . . that astounding fact must alter everything!

  35

  Purple Messenger

  Charles was now a good way from the house, walking aimlessly across a grassy meadow. The sun had put enough distance between itself and the horizon to have left behind all traces of its spectacular waking, and was already beginning to make its warmth felt over the earth.

  Nearly in front of him a hint of color low down in the midst of the green arrested his step. He stooped to investigate.

  A tiny violet peered out from amid the meadow grasses, casting its happy face up toward the sun as if to gain its strength for the day. Charles did not know the little meadow-lady of the morning’s name was “violet.” But he found her face no less lovely because he knew not what to call her.

  He bent onto both knees to examine the four delicate petals more closely. In their center, a tiny heart of yellow pollen flung narrow rays of darkest purple radiating out into the lighter hues of the petals. The simplicity of the arrangement and colors, all in such miniature, was spellbinding. And to think, he might easily have walked by and never even seen it.

  He lowered his head, bringing his nose almost to the ground, and allowing what scent might be contained in the tiny purple thing to invade his nostrils. Its fragrance was distant and faint, speaking not of perfume, but rather of the earth whence it came. It reminded him of . . . of something . . . far off . . . something he could not quite lay hold of.

  A pang seized Charles’ heart. The same feeling that had possessed him on Oxford Street when sniffing at the girl’s clump of broken flowers laid hold of him anew. A lump rose in his throat.

  He lifted his face from the ground with a sigh, remaining another moment on his knees.

  Let evolution explain that! he said with a smile.

  Oh, one of Darwin’s disciples could no doubt manage to explain the evolutionary purpose of the fragrance, and how the atoms and mutations and weather and geologic conditions all combined to produce this particular flower at this particular time and place with this particular aroma.

  But let science explain why his heart leapt at the faint and mysterious aroma! That fact could be accounted for by no chance dance of atoms and random mutation of organisms!

  Someone must mean it!

  Where else could such a feeling originate but in the heart of a Creator-Father. He had blurted out several weeks ago that the rainbow must mean God loved them. Now he knew the tiny flower meant the same thing. Both bow and blossom came from the same Source.

  If the God of Christianity was indeed living and active in the affairs of men as that “Someone” . . . then what did he mean by making men weep at the fragrance of rose or violet, or by invading his heart with love at the smile from a passing stranger?

  What could He possibly mean other than to speak soft reminders of his creative presence, as Diggorsfeld had said?

  But why?

  Why else than to turn the hearts of men—however their minds argued against His very existence—toward the One who had made them?

  The language of nature was the language of the heart. Bobby and Maggie McFee had said the heart would take over when the intellect could go no further, speaking what rational intellect was incapable of apprehending. That was the message of the tiny violet!

  It was not enough, both Diggorsfeld and his friends in the cottage had told him, mentally to admit to such truths. The Creator desired a personal response.

  “The time comes when a body’s got t’ go the rest o’ the way with what it means t’ believe,” Bobby had told him, “—that’s becoming his son or daughter.”

  36

  Private Sanctuary and Decision

  Charles rose and continued on his way, striking now across a faded path which had not been trod by his own feet in years, but which he remembered from boyhood.

  Walking along the overgrown trail reminded him again of the secluded corner in the woods in which he had played as a boy. A longing to visit the old haunt he had told Jocelyn of yesterday rose up within him. His pace began to quicken.

  Within ten or fifteen minutes he was scratching his way through the brushy entrance, now overgrown and nearly lost to view. Presently he was standing in the middle of the meadow hideaway, the years tumbling away, remembering with fondness the day he had discovered it so long ago. Around him on all sides rose an enclosing circle of tall trees and tangled brush. The tiny meadow, however, was clear of all but a soft green carpet of sunlit grass. The gurgling music from the small stream running through its midst sent him momentarily back to his boyhood.

  He stood absolutely still for two or three minutes, drinking in the silence. The quiet of the morning, and the solitude of being completely surrounded by trees, invaded his spirit with the same sense of awe he had felt upon first entering New Hope Chapel in London several weeks ago. On that day the sense of presence had confused him. Today, however, he realized what—and Who—was responsible for it.

  This was no imaginary sensation. He was not alone. An almighty Personage was present with him.

  At last Charles Rutherford also knew that he was ready to say yes to him.

  But he felt no hurry. He strolled casually about, remembering this and that about the place from years gone by. Gradually the sense of presence deepened. Through his mind flitted fragments of many conversations. Bobby and Maggie said a moment came to all when the eyes of the innermost being were opened.

  He knew that for him that day had at long last arrived.

  “Just talk t’ him,” the Irishman had said, “like ye would t’ the perfect Father, as if ye knew such a one loved ye more than ye had ever been loved by anyone before. Don’t make great efforts t’ make great prayers—just talk t’ him. Tell him honestly, sincerely, and humbly that ye want t’ be his . . . that ye are ready t’ be his son. Ye’re not giving a speech, Master Charles, ye’re talking t’ yer Father.”

  Charles stopped, then slowly sunk to his knees.

  “God,” he said in a whisper, “I cannot say I can see you or even know what you are like. But I feel you here in this place with me. I know now that you are in all places, and that I can no longer ignore your existence. I am sorry so much of my life passed when I foolishly did not recognize the many ways in which you were speaking to me. I am sorry I was blind to your presence, and I thank you for the circumstances you brought
to open my eyes to the truth that you have been right beside me all along.”

  He paused momentarily, took a breath, then continued.

  “Therefore, I want to tell you that I acknowledge you, and I am at last ready to be your son. I don’t yet even know what that means, or what is involved. But if you will show me, I will do my best to do what you want, whatever it may mean. I acknowledge, too, as Bobby said, my waywardness, my sin. Forgive me. Thank you that your Son, Jesus Christ, died so that my sin could be forgiven. I want to follow him, though I can hardly say I know where he is leading. I am ready to be your son as well. I want to live, as Bobby said, in your house, as part of your intimate family, with you as my Father. Show me what you want me to do, and I will try to do it. Continue to open my eyes to your presence, your fingerprint as Diggorsfeld calls it, both in the world around me and within my own self. I will need a great amount of help because I don’t know much about what it means to be a Christian. But if you will teach me, I will try to learn.”

  His voice fell silent, and he let out a deep sigh. Three weeks ago he may have been a reluctant pilgrim, but now he felt a sense of satisfaction and peace. Beyond that, he felt only a sense of having done what he had to do, of doing what he wanted to do, because it was the right and only reasonable way for an honest man to respond to the truth.

  He rose and breathed in full lungs of the fresh morning air, which, if possible, smelled even better now. Then he turned to leave.

  Bobby McFee had said God would show him what to do.

  And then the radical thought came to him as he walked back—after breakfast they would all go to the church in the village!

  37

  God Can’t Love Me

  The carriage ride back from Milverscombe to Heathersleigh Hall after the service was quiet. Amanda and George had seemed glad of the outing and curious about the unfamiliar church service, but Jocelyn was strangely subdued. Charles began to wonder if he had done something to offend her.

  He tied the reins to the post in front of the house as the children scampered down.

  “Let’s go for a walk, Jocie,” he said. “Just let me tell Hector we’re back.”

  He disappeared around the side of the house for a minute or two, then returned. Jocelyn still stood by the carriage unmoved and expressionless. Charles led her across the entryway to the grass south of the Hall’s west wing. A few minutes later they were strolling amongst low-growing shrubs and scattered birches.

  Charles groped for a way to begin. Something was obviously bothering her. But what could account for it? As they walked, Jocelyn’s arms remained close to her side.

  “What did you think of everything the McFees said yesterday?” Charles asked.

  Jocelyn shrugged. One of her hands unconsciously went to the marred side of her face.

  “I went out into the woods early this morning,” Charles went on. “I prayed, like Bobby said.”

  He paused and took in a breath as he glanced to his side. “I want to say I’ve never been happier in my life,” he said. “It felt good to tell God I wanted to live as his son. I knew it was the right thing to do. But . . .”

  He hesitated. Still there was no reply from Jocelyn.

  “You seem so distant all at once, Jocie,” Charles went on. He could tell his wife was aching inside, and he hurt with her. “How can I be happy if you are unhappy?”

  Still she said nothing. They continued to walk. Charles did not want to push.

  “Jocie, what’s the matter?” he finally blurted out. “You’ve hardly spoken in twenty-four hours.”

  Jocelyn was fighting back tears, though Charles had no way of knowing it. She was afraid that uttering a single word would unleash a flood.

  “I thought you were on this new road with me. All this time I’ve been telling you about my talks with Timothy . . . has it bothered you?”

  No reply.

  “Do you not like my talking about God? Jocie, why are you like this? Please . . . tell me what you’re thinking. Don’t you want to enter into this new life?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she finally replied. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe I don’t.”

  Charles looked at her, waiting. Several long seconds passed.

  “What’s wrong with how things were?” she asked finally.

  “It isn’t that something was wrong,” Charles replied. “Improving something doesn’t necessarily mean it was wrong, only that you’ve discovered something better. But once you discover the better, it seems it might be wrong to hold back. Now that we know about life with God, it would be wrong for us to hold back. Now that we do know, how can we not go forward?”

  “Why? Why do things have to change?” insisted Jocelyn. “I’ve been happier these years here at Heathersleigh with you and the children than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t want that to change.”

  “Even if it’s change for the better?”

  “Who says it will be change for the better? I like our life the way it is. I don’t want anything to upset it.”

  “But don’t you see, Jocie—it can only get better. When I told God that I wanted to belong to him, I was filled with an altogether new . . . I don’t know, a contentment and satisfaction. I felt, as Bobby said, that I had become part of a family, that I had a new home.”

  “But we are home,” Jocelyn blurted out. “We have a family. Heathersleigh is home for me. This is the only place I’ve ever felt at home and at peace.”

  She drew in a long steadying breath. She was obviously struggling with great emotion.

  “I can believe that there is a God out there,” Jocelyn went on. “That’s not an intellectual problem for me, as perhaps it has been for you. Maybe it’s more natural for a woman to believe in God, I don’t know. But that’s where I want to leave it. Why can’t that be enough?”

  “Enough,” he repeated. “How can it be enough?”

  “I am satisfied with my life.”

  “Even when more is out there waiting for you?”

  “Maybe you can’t think that way. But I do.”

  “Even if it means holding something of yourself back?”

  “I’m not like you, Charles. I’m not always on a crusade to find more. And I don’t want religion taking over our lives. In my own way, I suppose I’ve always believed in God without even thinking about it. But why does that have to change everything?”

  “But what if there are things down there deep inside us that need fixing?”

  “What’s wrong with being good enough?”

  “Because everyone has to grow. Change is part of life.”

  “I don’t want to have to get fixed.”

  “Do you want to be God’s daughter?”

  Jocelyn did not answer immediately.

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” she replied at length. “Maybe . . . maybe I don’t. But I don’t want someone trying to make me different down inside.”

  “Even God?”

  “I just want to be myself.”

  “He couldn’t want anything but to make you a better person. I know that if I could improve who I was as a man, nothing would keep me from it.”

  “I suppose more than anything, I just want to be left alone.”

  “I’m not sure we have that option indefinitely. What if God wants more for us?”

  “Oh, Charles, why do we have to make such a fuss about growing and improving all of a sudden?”

  “Because we’ve never given our lives to him—well, I have now. When you give your life to him, it does change everything. It can’t help it. You can’t just say, ‘Oh, I believe in God now,’ and leave it at that. You can’t just take him or leave him, like . . . well, like . . . like a tomato at breakfast.”

  Jocelyn could not prevent a slight smile creeping over her lips.

  “If you believe he is there, and you believe what Bobby and Maggie say about him making us and loving us, then you have to do more than just believe. I don’t see what else there is to do but give yourself to him�
�all of yourself. I can’t see how there can be any middle ground with God.”

  Jocelyn’s brief smile vanished. The look of distance had returned to her expression, and with it a sudden pang of loneliness.

  “You can embrace something wholeheartedly,” she said, “and give yourself to it. I can’t do that. I don’t open up all the way like you. I have to protect myself . . . I don’t trust anybody else.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “What’s wrong with keeping him out there?” said Jocelyn, evading his question.

  “It’s the difference between the immediate family and the distant relations, like Bobby said.”

  “Maybe I don’t want God to be in my immediate family. I have you—why do I need him?”

  “Jocie—you’re not making any sense. Why wouldn’t you want God to be close, to be a loving Father? I can’t imagine not wanting such a wonderful thing.”

  “Who says it’s wonderful?”

  “It has to be. God is good.”

  “You’ve changed, Charles. It’s all those talks with Reverend Diggorsfeld—now you’re starting to sound like a preacher. How do you know we can trust what he says about God . . . or trust God himself for that matter? I don’t know that.”

  “He couldn’t be anything but a good and loving Father.”

  Again Jocelyn fell silent. They continued to walk for some distance through the trees. They were nearly down to the main road now, and gradually turned eastward to begin circling back up toward the open fields in back of the house.

  “I can believe God is there . . . that he exists . . . that he is out there somewhere,” said Jocelyn at length in a measured voice. “But I don’t know that I do believe all that about him loving us so much and being good. I don’t know, maybe he is in control of everything, and—”