Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  “I wud gie my verra life tae open them for ye, Ally. I wud hae ye go inside in my place, an’ bide oot in the darkness mysel’ gien I cud. I’d gang tae hell itsel’ for ye gien it meant ye’d be saved yersel’.”

  “Ye’d do that for me, ye’d let me gang in yer ain place?”

  “Aye, wud I, Ally. Gien I cud. But I canna.”

  “Why for no’?”

  “God doesna open his gates like that. His hert’s aye open, jis’ like his arms are waitin’ for ilka prodigal wha’s ready tae admit what he is an’ come hame. But he’s no’ luikin’ for folk fa comes bein’ dragged in. A body canna git intil heaven bein’ pulled by his feet.”

  “I’m no’ spierin’ ye tae drag me, Ranald, jis’ gie me a helpin’ han’.”

  “’Tis anither, no’ me, wha’s hand’s oot tae lead ye, Ally. He’s taken yer place ootside the gates, taken yer place in the verra darkness o’ hell itsel’, so ye can come tae the licht as he leads ye till his Father.”

  “Ah, I ken wha ye mean.”

  It was silent a moment. Then Alasdair looked over at me.

  “Do you remember, Marie,” he said, “that first day I heard the sound of your harp over the wall, coming from the churchyard, how I followed the sound of it and listened to it on the other side of the wall?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “I told you that it was your music that began to wake something inside me.”

  Now he looked toward Ranald. “Isna there somethin’ in the Bible, Ranald, aboot God drawing men till him?”

  “Aye, Ally. Jesus said that no one comes till him wi’oot his Father drawin’ him.”

  “I was just thinking,” Alasdair went on, looking at me again, “that maybe it was God drawing me, way back then—drawing me through your music, Marie. I suppose I was more than a little stubborn about it at first. I didn’t want to get drawn all the way. So I stood on the other side of the wall. Then when you came to the castle I kept on the other side of the partitions, afraid to show myself. Maybe all that time I was afraid to get too close to God. Kind of cowardly, now that I think of it. Maybe I’ve always been that way—keeping up the partitions, staying on the other side of the wall, keeping myself isolated.”

  “You’ve not been that way with me,” I said, struggling to keep my voice under control, “or with the farmers and villagers or Ranald. You’ve opened yourself like no laird I know of ever has. Isn’t that right, Ranald?”

  “Aye, ye speik trowth, lass.”

  Alasdair smiled and nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “It has been rather wonderful for me, too. But I still haven’t quite taken down all the partitions with God, have I? I’ve still got the barrier up blocking the way to my innermost soul—exactly like I hid from you and kept you from seeing me in my private sanctuary that first day you played for me.”

  I did not reply. These were questions only Alasdair could answer.

  He paused and closed his eyes briefly, then took in a deep breath. “Maybe I’m finally ready. Tell me what to do, Ranald.”

  “Ye maun gang in wi’ him through the door in the wall o’ yer ain free wull,” said Ranald. “’Tis jist like the door ye had broken through atween the castle an’ the kirk—ye maun open a door jist like that atween yer ain hert an’ God’s. ’Tis yer ain free wull, wi’ Jesus leadin’ ye, that’s the pathway through those gates intil God’s hert.”

  “Div ye think I’m a prodigal, then, Ranald?”

  “Aye, ye are, Ally. Jis’ like me. We’re a’ prodigals. ’Tis why we maun gang till oor Father. ’Tis why Jesus put the words intil the mouth o’ the prodigal, ‘I wull arise an’ gang till him.’ ’Tis what we a’ got tae do. Ye’re nae mair worse a prodigal nor me.”

  “What’s a man like me tae do, then, wha’s waited sae lang?”

  “Jis’ take the Lord’s han’, an’ pray yersel’. Ilka man an’ woman’s got tae pray it for themsel’s. We’re a’ prodigals, Ally. We got tae say, ‘I wull arise an’ gang tae my Father,’ an’ then go tae Jesus an’ say, ‘Tak me tae yer Father,’ an’ then say till God, ‘I’m ready for ye tae make a son o’ me.’”

  “But there’s nae time for him tae do the makin’…nae time left for me.”

  “He’s already been doin’ the wark, Ally. Ye’re a changed man. But there’s mair tae do, an’ there’s all eternity left tae make ye his son. He’s jis’ spierin’ yer leave tae du a’ he can noo so that ye’re on the richt road whan ye meet him—the road o’ sonship. He canna du it wi’oot yer leave, no’ until ye’re ready yersel’. ’Tis a beginnin’ ye’re wantin’ tae make, but no’ exactly a beginnin’, but a closin’ up o’ the everlastin’ life circle he began when he first made ye mony lang years syne.”

  Alasdair looked over at me. “It’s just what you told me on the deck of the Gwendolyn,” he said, “that he’s waiting for us to be ready. I am sorry, Marie,” he added, “that I wasn’t ready sooner. I’ve been stubborn as well as proud. But I think I am ready now.”

  Again he turned to Ranald. “Tell me what to pray, Ranald,” he said, in the same tongue he had used in speaking to me.

  “Pray till him yersel’, Ally, fae yer ain hert,” replied Ranald.

  “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Ye dinna need me tae put words intil yer mouth. Pray live, livin’ words, Alasdair, my son…my dear frien’—yer ain words.”

  “You don’t make it easy.”

  “’Tis the simplest thing a man can du—talk tae his Father. He’s closer than ye ken. Tell him ye’re ready tae be completely his son—no’ jist dabblin’ at the thing fae a distance for Marie’s sake, but gaein’ a’ the way wi’ him ’cause ’tis fit ye want tae du yersel’. Tell him ye’re sorry it took ye sae lang. Tell him ye’re ready tae follow his Son, Jesus, in learnin’ hoo tae be a son. Then spier o’ Jesus tae teach ye.”

  Alasdair glanced over at me and reached out his hand. I took it in both of mine. He closed his eyes.

  The prayer he prayed was so simple yet profound, a humble acknowledgment of spiritual childness, with a willingness to see things in new ways, an eagerness to set right what lay in his power, and such an innocent trust in God to see to those things that didn’t, I could not help weeping. I had never heard such a prayer from the lips of a man in my life. I imagined that God was smiling and weeping even more than me. I had known Alasdair only four years. God, the Father who made him and loved him, had known him all his life, and had been drawing him and waiting for this moment all that time.

  When he was through, Ranald looked toward me with a loving smile. “If ye dinna mind, lass,” he said, “I would like tae talk tae yer man alone.”

  I nodded and left the room, still wiping my eyes. I waited in the sitting room next to the bedroom, my mind and heart so full I could not possibly have put all I was feeling into words. After the beautiful exchange I had just witnessed, I tried to convince myself all over again that Alasdair would surely recover—that God would not take him just when he had finally taken the last step toward intimacy with him.

  The two men were together thirty or forty minutes. When the door opened and Ranald came out his eyes were red and wet. He was folding several sheets of blue paper and putting them inside the pocket of his coat. He sat down beside me.

  “I am sae sorry, Marie,” he said.

  “Is he…,” I began.

  “He is sleepin’ comfortably. I think the dear man is content.”

  He paused, then looked at me with a sad but tender smile. “I ken hoo hard this maun be for ye, lass.”

  “I don’t understand why this is happening, Ranald,” I said. “I am happy for him, of course—what a beautiful prayer! I am glad he is at peace with God. But why do such things happen? Why now, after poor Alasdair has changed so much and is trying to do good, and be good. It doesn’t seem fair that this would come upon him now.”

  “Sich things are part o’ life, part o’ man’s condition. Maybe this is what it took tae awaken him all the way tae his need o’ his Fathe
r. He’s aye been comin’ awake a lang time. Wakin’ up’s whiles a slow process o’ the hert. Doesna come in a flash, whate’er some o’ the auld preachers like tae say at their altars. The altar may make a beginnin’, but ’tis only life that can bring the full wakin’. An’ I think noo at last Ally’s a’ the way awake.”

  “But it is so hard to understand.”

  Ranald nodded thoughtfully. “But ’tis no’ hard tae understand why God brought ye till us here in this little oot-o’-the-way village in Scotland. Ye an’ yer wee harpie brought life an’ healing an’ reconciliation tae this whole community.”

  He paused, thinking. “Div ye mind my tellin’ ye aboot Iain speakin’ o’ the prayer o’ Christlikeness?” he said after a moment.

  “No, please do.”

  “He always says that prayin’ tae be made like Jesus isna a guarantee o’ a life o’ ease. Jist the opposite. We are sma’, an’ sometimes oor prayers are sma’. There are times when God canna du as we want in the matter o’ sma’ prayers, ’cause he’s waitin’ for us tae pray big prayers. Big prayers swallow sma’ worries an’ lift them tae higher places. The prayer o’ Christlikeness is the biggest o’ the big prayers. Whan we pray tae be like oor Lord, we gie up oor rights tae pray for things that might suit oor ain convenience, e’en oor ain happiness, or tae be spared life’s pain. When things dinna turn oot as we might like, ’tis those circumstances that God uses tae answer that big prayer in oor lives.

  “God’s desire for Alasdair, as for us a’, is that he be a son—a humble son o’ his heavenly Father. ’Tis the biggest, maist important thing in life. Gien a mortal illness is what it takes for God tae achieve that end, though pain an’ grief come wi’ it, then God willna spare’t. He doesna mind the pain, even pain tae himsel’ when it leads tae the sonship o’ Christlikeness. Think hoo Jesus suffered. Yet in his sufferin’ his sonship was perfected. Hoo can we complain whan God takes us upo’ the same road o’ sufferin’?”

  I continued to cry softly. After a minute Ranald rose, took me in his arms, and held me.

  “Be strong, lass,” he whispered. “I’ll bide a wee doonstairs gien ye need me again,” he said as he left the room.

  I went back in to sit at Alasdair’s side. I remained with him about forty minutes. He was dozing. After a while he became alert once more and asked if Ranald was still at the castle.

  “He is downstairs with Alicia,” I said.

  He asked to see him again.

  When Ranald appeared, Alasdair held out his hand toward him. Ranald approached, took it with a tender smile of fatherliness, held it a moment, then sat down.

  “I need to tell you something, Ranald my friend,” said Alasdair in a weak voice, “something that happened a long time ago.”

  “If it’s aboot the Dove’s Cove ye’re thinking, Ally,” said Ranald, “Iain telt me aboot it mony years ago, fan ye were in England tae the university.”

  An astonished look came over Alasdair’s face.

  “Ye ken?” he said.

  Ranald nodded.

  Alasdair continued to stare at him from the bed. “But ye teld naebody?” he said at length.

  “I think my Maggie kennt,” answered Ranald. “An’ it ate at her through the years. But there was naethin’ tae be deen. No one wud hae believed us. Tales full o’ innuendo had already begun tae circulate that wud hae thwarted anythin’ we might hae deen. The maitter was best left tae God’s hand.”

  Alasdair laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. I had no idea what they were talking about. “But there is still the matter of my own conscience to be dealt with,” he said at length.

  He looked over at me. “I’m sorry, Marie,” he said, “but I need to ask you to step out again. There is something we need to discuss alone.”

  The two men were alone together for an hour. When Ranald left this time, Alasdair was exhausted and immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Surprise Letter

  The settin’ sun, the settin’ sun,

  How glorious it gaed doun;

  The cloudy splendour raised our hearts

  To cloudless skies aboon.

  —Lady Nairne, “The Auld Hoose”

  Life’s troubles so often come in waves.

  In the midst of my grief to see Alasdair weakening and trying to keep my spirits up for his benefit, a letter arrived one day from the last quarter I had expected.

  The familiar handwriting immediately sent me back to my college years and receiving the perfunctory twice-yearly letter.

  Dear Angel Dawn,

  You have now been married, what is it, two or three years. I hope and trust you are happy. I am sorry my schedule has not been such as to have permitted me to visit you and meet your new husband. A real duke! Just imagine, my little girl married to British royalty!

  I am afraid I have some regrettable news. I would rather not have to tell you, but realize you must know and I want to tell you before it is too late. Last month I was diagnosed with cancer. I have been to a round of specialists and have begun chemo treatments. But it is more a prolonging than a cure. It is the same old story—too busy to take the time for regular colonoscopies, and then when finally forced into it by my doctor after complaining of bowel irritation…by then it was too late. They think the colon cancer has begun to spread to my liver.

  The long and the short of it is that I probably have less than two years. Even two years is optimistic. I hope I will be able to see you before then. I have some things I need to discuss with you. Unfortunately it does not look like a trip to Scotland is in the cards for me, so it will be up to you if you can find time to get over to Portland.

  Sincerely,

  Your father,

  Richard Buchan

  The single sheet dropped from my hand and I began to cry. They were tears containing many mixed and confusing emotions. What a horrible time for this, was all I could think. How could he do this to me now? I had my hands full with Alasdair. How could I possibly leave for a trip to America?

  I suppose it revealed a lot about me that my first thoughts were of myself, not my poor father. How selfish we can be, even unknowingly at times when other people need us the most. I’m not proud of that reaction. But I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not. My reaction was selfish, pure and simple—feeling sorry for myself.

  Now it might be me needing the counseling services of my harping friends. Still crying, I went to find Alicia. The look on my face said most of what there was to say.

  “Oh, Marie,” she said in alarm, “what is it?…Is Alasdair—”

  I shook my head and handed her the letter.

  She read it, then opened her arms and held me tight. I broke down and wept harder than I had in years—maybe ever. I wasn’t even weeping for my father, or because he was suddenly dying. I wept for the years of a relationship that had never been right, never been complete, never been whole. I don’t even know how to describe what had been wrong with it, or whose fault it was. Maybe it was my fault—though I’d spent my whole life blaming my father and never considering my own half of the relational equation. But when you get to the age I was, things begin to look different. You don’t see all your own past motives in such an idealistic light. My initial self-centered reaction was compounded as suddenly a lifetime of doubts came rushing over me like a flood. Inexplicably, one of the emotions I felt was guilt. I’d been in the habit of blaming him, not myself. Why did I suddenly feel guilty?

  Alicia led me to a chair. I sat down and she pulled another chair over and sat down opposite me.

  “Alicia,” I said, “you’ve got to promise me to say nothing about this. We have to keep it between ourselves, at least for now. Alasdair must not know. It would only make him anxious and sorry for me. I can’t do that to him, not now. He is my first priority. I’m sorry he’s got cancer, but…it’s probably a terrible thing to say, but my father just doesn’t matter to me as much right now as Alasdair.”

  Alicia nodded. “Wh
at are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know!” I moaned. “I’ll write him I suppose, though what will I say—‘Gee, Dad…sorry you’re dying, but I’m busy now. See ya’? We haven’t had the kind of relationship that fostered much honesty or reality. All those years he was too busy for me…How ironic that now I’m too busy taking care of a dying husband for him. Life is so cruel sometimes. I really wish I could care more deeply, but the honest truth is, my feelings are…just sort of a numbness. I don’t know that I do care. What a terrible thing to say. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him.”

  “Will you tell your father about Alasdair?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I’ll have to give some reason for not dropping everything and rushing over to see him. But I don’t want to unburden myself to him either. He’s got enough to worry about without me dumping on him with my problems that he’s never cared about before now. How did you deal with it?”

  “I didn’t have to,” replied Alicia. “My dad died suddenly. There was no warning or preparation. But we had a good relationship, so I had no regrets. With my mom it’s different. With her Alzheimer’s she doesn’t even know who I am.”

  “But you go see her twice a week.”

  “Out of duty, not because of anything I really believe she is getting out of it—or me either, for that matter. Frankly, it’s depressing.”

  “But you do it.”

  Alicia nodded a little sadly. “You do what you have to do. And usually, I think, most people try to do the right thing. I’ve never made any pretense of being a saint. But I try to do the right thing. So will you. I hope that matters to God when my time comes. So, tell me about your father,” she said.

  The directness of the question caught me off guard. Suddenly our roles were reversed. I suppose it’s that way in most friendships—no one person is always the strong one. The roles of strong and weak in a friendship of honesty and transparency are fluid and changing as two people grow together. Marriages are like that, too; husbands and wives lean on each other in different ways and at different times.