Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Though he had never had a child of his own, the pastor understood a father’s heart—because he knew God—and he could therefore empathize with Charles and Jocelyn. But because he was not personally involved, he could also see much that his friends could not. He was keenly aware that they had been privileged to share in the ageless retelling of Jesus’ story of the prodigal . . . and to live out the loving and prayerful parental role in it. He hoped, by his presence, his encouragement, his friendship, and his prayers, to help the mother and father come to see the blessing contained in such a sharing of the divine grief.

  The three friends talked late into the Friday evening of Timothy’s arrival about matters of high import in their hearts.

  “Sometimes, Timothy,” Charles said, “I find myself wondering if we are making too much of all this. I pick up the paper, and I read of an axe murder or a bank robbery or some other atrocity. Then I think of the parents of the individuals who commit such crimes, and I realize how much greater must be their suffering than ours.”

  Timothy nodded as he listened.

  “You make a valid point, I suppose,” he replied. “It is no doubt good to remind yourselves that there are those who have it far worse. Such a realization is always an aid to gratefulness when we begin to feel sorry for ourselves.”

  He paused momentarily.

  “On the other hand,” he resumed, “all parental grief is unique, in whatever form it comes, and whatever the circumstances giving rise to it. No one’s pain can be rightly compared with any other’s. Your Amanda has rejected you, your faith, your life as a family. She has rejected your influence as a father and mother. She has said cruel things to you. Of course, in your hearts you have already forgiven her. You await with open arms any change she might make. Yet who can say that the pain you feel is not deep and genuine—fully the equal of what the parent of a criminal, for example, might feel? The parent of a robber and the parent of the silent rebel are both parents together. It grieves the parental heart when a son or daughter walls himself or herself off from parental love—whatever form that wall may take. Our heavenly Father has sons and daughters in many kinds of rebellion against him. Who is to say his grief is not just as great for those who turn from him quietly and invisibly as it is for those whose rebellion is more visible?”

  Charles and Jocelyn listened intently, seeking whatever fresh understanding might help them grow and trust God more completely.

  “Your experience,” Timothy went on, “has caused me to read the story in the fifteenth chapter of Luke with, I pray, new insight. I see in it a family situation far more similar to yours than, say, that of the axe murderer you have mentioned.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at the parable more closely, Charles. It is, quite simply, a story about a respectable family, a family of means, whose son leaves home.”

  “I never considered it in that light before.”

  “The story follows the prodigal to what is called the far country,” Diggorsfeld continued, “where we see him foolishly spending his every penny. How much time passes, we do not know. Was it months, years . . . ten years? And all that time, the Lord gives no hint as to what the lad’s dear parents were suffering. What was the father thinking as he waited on the road, scanning the horizon for the return of his son? And the mother! Not a word about her—but oh, how deep must have been the parental grief! How she must have wept for his immaturity!—”

  He broke off with an embarrassed look on his face. “But I did not come out here to give you a sermon,” he said. “I suppose it is a hazard of the trade, to wax eloquent. But I came to give you help and support, not to review my Sunday sermon notes with you.”

  “No, no!” protested Charles. “You must go on. I find this extraordinarily helpful.”

  Timothy glanced at Jocelyn. She nodded solemnly. So he took a deep breath and continued.

  “Well, then, you must understand that the boy became no criminal. He was not thrown in prison. We have no indication that he was an excessively wicked young man. Well, it says he lived riotously—I suppose that doesn’t sound very good. But his chief immaturity was simply that he wanted his inheritance prematurely. He suffered from that malady that is at the root of all sin—the pride of independence. And for that alone he is known for all time as the prodigal. He left his father’s home. He squandered his inheritance. He lived out in one life that great story of the human race. He did that which we all have done toward our Father in heaven.”

  Here Timothy paused. The silence was lengthy. They were all thinking of Amanda.

  “And yet,” he went on at length, “a moment came when, as the Lord says, the young man came to himself. He came to his senses. He woke up. The fog of self-delusion lifted. He matured. He began at last to see things clearly. And the first truth he saw was his father.

  “Suddenly he saw the truth to which he had been blind—such an obvious truth, no doubt obvious to all who knew this family. The son’s rebellious independence had caused him to turn from it. But now he saw what a fool he had been. The eyes of his heart were opened at last to see that he had been hasty and unwise.

  “Actually,” continued Timothy, “I believe he perceived two huge truths. He saw that his father was a good man. And he saw that things had not really been so bad at home. And with those realizations, already he was on his feet. His rebellion was behind him. The image of his father was before him. ‘I will arise,’ he said, ‘and go to my father.’

  “To my mind, these are eight of the most beautiful words in all Scripture, encapsulating the one and only solution to the entire human dilemma.

  “‘Father,’ the prodigal says, ‘I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ It is the salvation prayer. And here is salvation indeed! Such is the prayer we must all pray—we are not worthy to be God’s sons and daughters, for we have sinned against him. Yet he accepts us, his arms thrown wide to embrace us! How great indeed must be God’s love!

  “Does not your heart swell to envision the scene? The dusty road . . . the father waiting . . . the figure approaching in the distance. The father’s heart leaps! Can it . . . but . . . yes! Already he is beginning to run, shouting behind him—‘Wife . . . wife!’ he cries. ‘Come . . . come quickly!’

  “Now the figure in the distance throws bag and staff to the ground . . . he is running forward . . . there is no mistaking him now!

  “The woman emerges from the house. There before her eyes she beholds the scene about which she has dreamed night and day, only half believing the day would ever come. She runs after them now . . . tears flowing down her face . . . her son’s name on her lips. Ahead of her, father and son embrace in the middle of the road. She weeps with such joy that she can scarcely continue. . . .”

  A sob broke at last from Jocelyn’s lips.

  “Oh, Timothy—if only I could believe such a moment will come to us!” she said.

  “But you can believe it . . . you must believe it.”

  “But how can I?”

  “You can believe it, Jocelyn,” replied Timothy, “because God is good. He is the father, and it is he whose house Amanda has left and whose inheritance she is squandering, not yours.”

  “His house?”

  “Of course. Amanda is his daughter first of all. She has only been given to you for a few brief years, but she is his for all eternity. The two of you have been granted the wonderful privilege of joining in the divine fatherhood, of sharing in the pain and joy depicted in Luke fifteen. I truly believe it is a privilege, an opportunity to partake of the heart of God, to pray a prodigal back into the family of God. It is not a privilege the Lord gives to the faint of heart, for it is a high calling.”

  They considered his words for a minute in silence.

  “What exactly do you think God wants us to do?” asked Jocelyn at length.

  “He calls upon you and Charles merely to wait, patiently and prayerfully and expectantly—gazing down the road in hop
e, feet ready to run, smiles prepared to break from your lips, forgiveness alive in your hearts, arms aching to embrace in welcome, fatted calf waiting in readiness.

  “Ah, but he—the Father whose bosom Amanda has left even more than she has left yours . . . he is already pursuing her to the far country. There he will woo her among the swine husks. You must wait, but he will woo. Silently and invisibly will he speak truths into her heart about her Father’s home and the inheritance that awaits her there. He will woo her, and win her . . . as he woos and wins all prodigals in the end.”

  Quietly Jocelyn wept. Timothy said no more. The three rose. Their hearts were full of many things to contemplate before the Lord.

  96

  Father and Son

  The next day, Saturday, Charles, Timothy, and George went for a long ride into the hills. Ordinarily Jocelyn and Catharine would have accompanied them. But on this day, knowing from their boisterous spirits that the three men were ready for a romp and would lose no opportunity to tear off over the Devonshire downs at breakneck speeds, mother and daughter remained behind. They planned to take a small carriage over to the McFees,’ where everyone would meet later for tea. By the time the men left for the stables, Jocelyn was already packing a basket with sandwiches and some of Sarah’s pastries and jam. Both Maggie and Bobby were beginning to show signs of their age, and Jocelyn was determined not to put Maggie to any extra work.

  As mother and daughter made their preparations, the three riders rode hard. Some five miles north of Milverscombe, they neared a crest from which they would just be able to make out the blue of the sea in the distance.

  “Race you to the top!” cried George. The next instant his mount, a chestnut gelding named Admiral, was tearing over the grass with such speed that huge clumps of turf flew up into the faces of the two who followed.

  Charles, on Celtic Star II, dug his heels into the grey mare’s sides. He called out in exhortation, and bolted after George. Timothy followed, though at some distance. He was a fair horseman. But when father and son set themselves head to head in a challenge, no one for miles could keep up.

  Charles turned the mare to the left to escape the pelting clods, then cried and whipped and kicked and urged her up the hill after his son. George glanced back. He knew his father would cover his sudden sprint, for his father had faster legs under him than his own. George could only hope to hold him off long enough to gain the summit.

  “George!” cried Charles after him. “That was a daring ploy, but dangerous!”

  George laughed, but threw his energy into the race rather than a reply. He bent low over Admiral’s neck. The only sound now was the thunderous beat of hooves over the ground.

  Slowly Charles gained. By the time Celtic Star’s nose came within whisking distance of Admiral’s tail, however, the race was over. George reined in, and Charles drew even. They cantered up onto the crest. Both were laughing in sheer delight.

  “Why was that dangerous?” said George, turning in his saddle.

  “Jumping out to a quick sprint like that,” replied his father, “—you know I’ll always make up the ground.”

  “Getting a quick lead is the only chance I have!” rejoined George. “I may be half your age, but I’m still no match for you in a dead sprint—at least, not when you’re on Celtic Star. Besides—it worked, didn’t it? I beat you to the top!”

  “That you did, George, my boy!” laughed Charles. “You will be gone soon,” he added, growing more serious. “I am going to miss our rides and long talks when you go back to university.”

  “So shall I, Father,” replied George as Timothy rode up.

  “The two of you are a couple of madcaps in the saddle!” he cried as he approached.

  “Just say race, and all bets are off—it’s one of us tearing after the other,” replied Charles. “I’m afraid, however, that George has age on his side of the fence now.”

  They sat a few minutes in silence, all three horses breathing heavily.

  “It’s beautiful up here!” exclaimed Timothy quietly. He gazed all about, gradually taking in the complete 360 degrees of the panorama. “The gentle hills and fields of the Devonshire downs spread out behind us, the faint blue of the ocean in the distance, mingling with the sky so that you can’t quite tell where one leaves off and the other begins . . .”

  “This is one of my favorite spots,” said Charles. “Jocelyn and I used to ride up here often when we were younger.”

  After some minutes, they turned to head back down. The pace remained leisurely and the dialogue increased, George adding to the discussion not only his spiritual insights, but also his own developing youthful wit.

  By the time they arrived at the cottage in the late afternoon, their mood had grown more thoughtful—this owing perhaps to the fact that they had worked hard along with their three exhausted mounts. Bobby ambled out to meet them. He took the three sets of reins as they dismounted. The horses would make vigorous use of the respite of water and grain and would enjoy the cool shade of Bobby’s barn. Later in the evening, George would accompany Catharine in the carriage back to the Hall, while the three friends would ride the horses home.

  When the men entered the cottage, a sumptuous tea was already spread out upon Maggie’s kitchen table. Jocelyn poured, and conversation flowed freely and jovially as they enjoyed the pastries and sandwiches.

  Timothy Diggorsfeld was gratified to see everyone’s spirits high, though Jocelyn still seemed a trifle wan. The previous evening’s conversation, though portentous, had put much into perspective for Charles, and Timothy felt sure that Jocelyn’s peace was not far behind.

  An hour later, as the sun moved toward its appointed daily burial behind the trees west of the cottage, the seven friends, truly brothers and sisters now, though their ages ranged from fourteen to almost seventy, sat in the McFee sitting room. And gradually the talk, as it usually did these days, turned to Amanda.

  97

  Prayers for a Prodigal Daughter

  You know,” said Jocelyn as the discussion progressed, “I was praying for Amanda this morning, and a thought came to me that I haven’t been able to get out of my mind since. I’m wondering if it may be a truth from God.”

  All the rest waited expectantly.

  “I was awake early—you remember, Charles . . . you asked me how long I’d been up when you came down for tea.”

  “I found her in the sun-room,” Charles added, toward the others. “I could tell something was up. I knew she’d tell me when she was ready.”

  “The moment I woke, I felt a strong tug in my heart for Amanda,” Jocelyn continued. “Before I even left the bedroom, I sat down on the edge of the bed and began to pray. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘look after our daughter. She is so blind right now to who we are and to the depths of our love for her. Yet she’s your daughter even more, Father. Fill up the holes caused by our parental mistakes and shortcomings. Make up for the gaps in our training and our love. Fill the places in her that we weren’t able to fill. Draw her to you.’”

  Jocelyn paused and drew in a breath.

  “Of course, we’ve all been praying for Amanda,” she went on. “I pray for her every day, sometimes almost every minute. She is constantly on my mind. I know all of you are praying too. Charles and Catharine and George and I pray for her together at every meal, and sometimes more often. But there was something different about this morning. I felt the Lord might perhaps be revealing a new way for me to pray.

  “I left the bedroom and went downstairs. As soon as I got to the sun-room and it was barely light, I found myself praying again, this time for clarity and focus. ‘Lord,’ I said, ‘perhaps it is too much to ask that Amanda’s whole life be turned around miraculously in huge repentance and vision. I know you can do so. But perhaps you want her eyes to open slowly, so as to grow used to the light by degrees. Perhaps a brilliant flash of illumination all at once would blind the eyes so long accustomed to shadows. So I am going to ask you simply for a tiny miracle—not for you
to change her life all at once, although I hope that will come in time . . . but for one moment of clarity. Give her just a glimpse, Lord, of the reality of what she is doing, even if just for a second. Send in just the amount of light she is capable of seeing today. As Amanda’s mother, even though she is not here with us, I take authority and bind any deaf or blind spirit that is preventing Amanda’s seeing and hearing the truth, so that God’s light might penetrate, however briefly, the darkness surrounding her. Allow clarity to penetrate. Give her illumination of truth, one small bit at a time.’”

  The cottage fell silent.

  All seven felt the prophetic impact of Jocelyn’s words.

  “I knew almost immediately,” she added, “and somehow in a new way, that God was indeed watching over our daughter. I felt a deeper sense of peace than I have felt since she left. God loves Amanda. Everything you said last night, Timothy, is true. He is her Father. He will care for her.”

  “Amen!” said Timothy. “We can be certain of that. He has promised—”

  He paused and glanced about.

  “Is there a Bible handy?” he asked.

  Maggie rose and took her mother’s Bible from the ornate secretary. She handed it to Diggorsfeld. He opened the ancient book carefully and flipped through the pages.

  “Yes, here it is—Psalm 121,” he said. “‘He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep,’” he read. “‘The Lord is thy keeper.’”

  He glanced up, closed the Bible, then added, “He has promised that he never sleeps in his care for us. I believe this is especially true for his lost sheep.”

  Again silence fell. It was Bobby McFee who broke it, speaking in his unrepentant Irish brogue.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, “that ’tis a true revelation ye’ve had, Jocelyn. Fer from a thousand instants o’ clarity like the one ye’re describing, one added t’ the other, will come the insight t’ make bigger repentance possible. They all pile up. From one moment o’ true seeing, the next such moment can add a little more light. ’Tis a way o’ bringing yer prayers down t’ something ye know God can do right now, this very day. What do ye think, Master Charles?”