Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  The poignant and beautiful plea in verse 13, “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away,” expressed the longing of his own heart.

  As never before, he felt the Lord’s heartbeat through the sweetness and strength of verse 14: “Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.”

  He found his cheeks wet with tears; it had all been too much—the breaking of the weather, the anticipation of his marriage, the message of the Lord. Parker Jones, overcome with thanksgiving and filled with expectation, slipped from his chair to the floor, where he knelt and communed. Communed and praised.

  A cheery “Helloooo” brought him out of his happy worship and up off his knees. He knew the sound; it was Molly, calling from the cutter.

  Opening the door, he stepped out, saluting her with a welcoming smile.

  “Can you come?” she called. “I’m going to Bliss. Get your coat and come with me, Parker.”

  They were already in the community of Bliss; she was going into the hamlet of Bliss, perhaps to the one general store, perhaps to the post office, most likely to both, since the post office was in a corner of the store. It was a very small hamlet, just the store and post office, a barbershop in the home of the local barber, the Stopping Place, a few cabins and houses, the massive grain elevator. And at the edge of town—the small white building that was school and church. Here children from all over the district gathered for learning; here the faithful congregated on Sunday for worship.

  Small though it might be, the hamlet was the center of Bliss life, and the school/church was the center of Bliss.

  Of course, even as Molly called to him to join her, Parker knew it wasn’t quite so simple as snatching up a coat. Overshoes must be pulled on, not only for warmth but because of the wet condition of the snow, sure to ruin shoes. And Parker had one decent pair. Gloves must be located—probably from a warm spot under the stove where they had been drying. A hat or cap was essential. A scarf . . .

  Then there was the delay while he put wood into the stove, closed the damper, pulled the coffeepot back where it wouldn’t go dry during his absence. Finally, deeming everything shipshape, Parker could turn to the door with a light heart. It suited him exactly to be getting out into the exhilaration of the chinook.

  It was an exhilaration experienced by the entire district, he knew. Having shared their winter, he could understand and share their exultation in the promise of spring. He could imagine faces, reddened and chapped by winter’s harshness, raised joyfully to the blue of the sky. Eyes, weary of squinting into glare, would be catching a glimpse of color again as woodpiles reappeared, as chicken coops rose, like the phoenix rising from ashes, out of oblivion into newness and life once again. Cheeks, frost-nipped, would crack into smiles when caressed by the pleasant wind.

  A stanza of a poem learned in earlier days rose in his mind:

  There’s a promise of spring in the air today;

  It starts with a chirp, and then

  It breaks on the land in a roundelay,

  All fury and sound, and the signs all say,

  It’s the time of beginning again.

  Yes, it was the perfect season for a sermon on the time of the singing of birds. He’d call it “The God of Another Chance.”

  Stepping out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him, Parker knew instinctively that the conditions were perfect for snowballs. He scooped a wet handful from the railing of the porch and pressed it in his gloved hands, turning it over and over speculatively, strongly tempted.

  “Don’t even think of it!” Molly warned from the cutter, breaking the spell.

  With a joyous laugh Parker drew back his arm, gave a mighty heave, and sent the missile sailing straight and true to the outhouse, the only other building on the place. With a splat the snowball hit the weathered boards, clung momentarily, slid slowly to the ground.

  “Marvelous control,” Molly commented when he tramped out to the cutter. But whether she meant his aim or his decision was anyone’s guess. Her grin was impish, and one supposed that, had she not had the horse to consider, she might have leaped out and engaged in a riotous free-for-all snowball fight for a few minutes.

  “I’ve had a nagging aggravation with that outhouse,” Parker explained. “It cants to the east.”

  “If you keep bombarding it like that, you just might straighten it. Or—topple it completely,” Molly observed and pulled the blanket back invitingly. The sun might be bright and the temperature rising, but there was still a definite nip in the air.

  Parker was kicking a foot against the side of the cutter, freeing it of the wet, clinging snow. Stepping that foot into the cutter, he kicked the other foot until it too was free of snow, then slid onto the seat and pulled the cover over his knees.

  Only then did he turn and smile into the blue and blazing eyes of his true love for a long moment, his own face tender at last. Leaning slowly toward her, anticipating the moment, he kissed her rosy cheek, then her lips. Apparently they were not too cold to function properly, and the sweet contact lingered until the horse tossed its head restlessly, pulling at the reins in Molly’s lax hand, catching her attention at last.

  Molly’s cheeks were pinker, her eyes brighter, her lips redder than ever—a colorful picture against a world leached and bleached of color and life.

  “Here, you drive,” she said, handing him the reins, and if her voice was ragged and her hands uncertain, it only served to enhance the moment.

  As many a lover knew, cold bodies did not mean cold hearts; icy winds couldn’t quench heated emotions. Though a geranium on a windowsill, cherished and pampered, rarely survived the season, love endured and blossomed, rarer and more fragrant, perhaps, because of the barren backdrop of winter.

  Feeling like a king in a gilded chariot, Parker Jones turned the nag toward the road, a worn horse blanket over his knees, with no destination in mind save a backwoods handful of log buildings almost lost to the world in their remoteness and unimportance. But with the call of the Lord upon him in rich measure and the bride of His choice beside him, Parker did indeed feel himself to be a man of title: The Lord’s Elect; Servant of the Most High God; Husband-to-be of Molly Morrison.

  In his pocket, ready to be mailed, was the letter to the Bible school. It was the result of last night’s board meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” Parker Jones had said to his assembled board of four, “we are here today to do the Lord’s business in a very special way. I speak concerning the need to obtain an interim pastor for our church.”

  “Has Molly agreed, then, to your being gone?” Brother Dinwoody asked rather anxiously. Parker’s entire congregation had watched with interest, concern, sometimes despair, and prayers, the romance of their pastor and their own Molly Morrison. Though they had come to love and respect him, their loyalty was to their own: Molly should not be toyed with; Molly should not be disappointed; Molly should never be hurt. And yet, to a man, they understood Parker’s present dilemma and concurred with his decision to go to his mother’s assistance.

  “Brethren,” Parker said, and though his face glowed, he spoke humbly, “Molly has agreed to marry me and to accompany me out.”

  Angus, Molly’s father, nodded confirmation.

  “Well, then,” Bly Condon said with relief, “we can be sure you’ll come back. Or,” he said sharply, thinking that once Parker got Molly out into the marvels of the world, she might never be satisfied again with the backwoods, “will you?”

  “That’s our pledge to you, brethren,” Parker affirmed. “Aside from the Lord’s intervention in some way that we can’t see at this time, we’ll be back. But we’ll need about six months.”

  Angus didn’t seem to be worried about the return of his child, so the other three determined to rest in the confidence that their much-loved pastor would indeed return to them, bringing Molly with him, of course.

  “Well, then,” Brother Dinwoody said, “I move we get the letter written and get thi
s project underway.”

  “The sooner the better, I suppose,” offered Herkimer and seconded the motion.

  “Where shall we write—I mean to whom? Do we have a certain Bible school in mind? What do you say, Parker?”

  “I suggest the Bible School of the Dominion.”

  “Never heard of it,” Bly said doubtfully. “The Dominion?”

  “A play on Dominion of Canada, of course,” Parker explained. “Except in this instance it means the Dominion of Christ. It’s a small school but has turned out some good men and women dedicated to serving the Lord in the Canadian Dominion.”

  “It’s in the East, I suppose?” Everything that had to do with civilization, it seemed, was either in the East or on the West Coast where Vancouver Island was a bastion of all things English.

  “Ontario,” Parker said, “near London. Yes, it’ll be quite a journey, but no farther than I came. And many of you. And to get a man with a spirit of adventure, a heart for the West, will be exciting, not only for us but for him.”

  “We need to be praying about the exact right fella.”

  Brother Dinwoody, as secretary of the board, balked at writing the letter. So as the four sat grouped around, Parker—with a little help and a lot of unnecessary suggestions—wrote, addressing himself to “The President of the Bible College of the Dominion, Dear Sir—”

  “First tell him who you are,” Brother Dinwoody, reluctant writer but ready instructor, advised. So Parker explained about the newly organized church at Bliss near Prince Albert in the Saskatchewan Territory and how he himself had been called as pastor—

  “Better tell him about your father’s death,” Bly prodded as Parker paused. “Otherwise he’ll think something is wrong here and may hesitate to send someone. A lamb among lions sort of thing.”

  “Six months,” Herkimer prompted. “Tell him to send someone prepared to stay all summer and probably into the fall, maybe winter.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Herk?” Bly asked. “Could be off-putting to anyone having heard about our winters here.”

  “It might be well,” Parker wrote, “for the ministering brother to be prepared to stay into the winter months . . .”

  “Say we’ll take good care of him.”

  “Tell him about the new parsonage.”

  “No, don’t mention that! No man wants to get into a building project first thing. Especially if he doesn’t know beans about logs.”

  “Well, you better explain about the cabin he’ll have to live in. Otherwise they might send a married man.”

  The possibility sent the board into another spate of debate.

  “The present parsonage,” Parker wrote as delicately as he could and still be truthful, “is fine for a single man but would be of doubtful suitability for a man with a wife and family.”

  Finally, as the board sat modestly by, Parker stated, “The good people of Bliss will provide faithfully for the man you choose to send. He will find them devoted to serving the Lord and of kindly, godly natures. We believe the field is ripe unto harvest, and a rich ministry is possible.”

  “That should be a challenge,” Angus said, nodding.

  Parker read the letter over, made a few changes as directed or suggested, and rewrote the epistle, and Brother Dinwoody, with a flourish and without hesitation, signed it as secretary of the Bliss board.

  No one knew how long it would take to be delivered or how long an answer might be in coming back to them. Weather always had to be considered; storms ruined schedules, bringing trains to a standstill, buckling tracks.

  “If they overlook our request or haven’t got anyone for us,” Bly said grimly at the last, “we’re in big trouble. There’s certainly no one around here—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Parker said warmly. “Any one of you could fill the pulpit if you had to. And you may have to. Be prepared, gentlemen.”

  “I move,” Herkimer said with feeling, “we all go into intercession, deep intercession, immediately.”

  “And what are we going to Bliss for?” Parker asked as they skidded along, the runners slipping on the wet snow.

  Molly dimpled. “For the mail, Parker. Unless there’s some delay I haven’t counted on, my order should be in and ready to pick up.”

  “And it is—” Parker prompted, knowing, but wanting to hear it again.

  “The material for my wedding dress!”

  The announcement called for another kiss, another blinding revelation of the fact that it was really, finally, going to happen: Molly was about to become Mrs. Parker Jones.

  “Tell me again,” Parker insisted.

  “It’s to be navy blue in color, of high-grade Kersey. It will make a wonderful suit for traveling, Parker.” And unspoken—it will wear for years and years.

  “Wise, I’m sure,” Parker said, confident his Molly could do no wrong.

  Molly’s decisions, even now, were shaped by the thought of her new status as preacher’s wife—nothing too expensive or too stylish in design. Parker rebelled at the strictures Molly placed on herself, but she was adamant. “I might as well get used to the idea, Parker. Everyone will be studying me; some will criticize . . . are we spending their tithe money appropriately? Am I an example of the godly woman? And on and on.”

  Parker sighed and submitted to her wisdom. One thing he knew, Molly Morrison would be a beauty in whatever she chose to wear.

  The package, in and waiting, was much larger than Parker had supposed; Molly was such a slender girl to need so much material.

  “Remember,” she said, her eyes starry, “it’s going to have a four-yard sweep to the skirt. Do you think,” she asked suddenly, a worried frown on her face, “that’s worldly?”

  Parker hastily reassured her on the matter.

  “If styles change and skirts go slim, I can always cut it down,” Molly said happily, seeing many years of wear ahead for the navy Kersey suit.

  Molly did a little shopping for her mother, visiting with the few people who were in the store. Everyone commented on the weather; feeling was high in Bliss at the moment.

  Parker handed his letter over to be mailed. A small act, but it served to convince him that, truly and at last, he would be marrying Molly.

  “I know all about the four-yard sweep,” Parker said on the trip home. “But still, why is the package so, so bulky?”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever ordered everything necessary for a dress, Parker. This is no flour-sack costume! And it’s not so simple, getting all the necessary materials together. The catalog lists everything needed and calls it a Finding Set.”

  “And what’s in this Finding Set, may I ask?” Parker asked, casting a speculative eye on the package in her lap.

  “It won’t make sense to you,” Molly said. Nevertheless, at Parker’s urging, she continued, “Two yards of Selisia waist lining—”

  “Selisia?”

  “I said you wouldn’t understand! Now do you want me to continue?”

  “Please do,” Parker said humbly.

  “Four yards of cambric skirt lining; one and a half yards of

  “Canvas?” Parker asked faintly. Married life would reveal secrets he had never dreamed of.

  “One spool of sewing silk,” Molly continued, as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “Two spools of buttonhole twist; one pair of dress shields; one set of sateen covered dress stays . . . and, let’s see—”

  “There’s more?”

  “Oh, yes, one yard of wigan; and I can tell by the look on your face you don’t know what that is. Right?”

  “Right,” Parker answered cheerfully, certain he would soon be informed.

  “Wigan is a stiff, plain-weave cotton fabric used for interlining.”

  Lining, interlining, binding—how complicated to be a modern woman!

  “One card of hooks and eyes—the hump kind.”

  “Hump kind?”

  “They have . . . um, a hump to them. They’re not your flat eye, in other words.
Easier to get the hook into.”

  Parker silently considered hump versus flat eyes.

  “And that’s all. Oh, wait—four yards of velveteen skirt binding.”

  Parker was speechless, more overwhelmed than anything. “You find all that excessive, perhaps?” Molly asked, worried. “Not at all, not at all,” Parker reassured. “I was just thinking—how am I going to find my girl in all of that folderol? You will be in there somewhere, I presume.”

  Molly’s laugh rang out across the bush—a happy promise.

  The wilds of Canada—the back of beyond; remittance men—the dregs of British society. Allison struggled to make sense of it. Standing in a well-appointed room in a solid stone house set in the English countryside, with every advantage known to modern man her daily privilege, cosseted, gently reared, innocent of life beyond the four walls of Middleton Grange, she could have no understanding of either threat mentioned by her father—Canadian wilds or remittance men.

  She may not have understood—but her mother did.

  “Quincy!” she gasped. Not the best, the most involved, the most caring of mothers, still she quailed at what her husband had said. “You can’t mean it!”

  “Oh, I mean it,” Quincy said firmly. And neither his wife nor his daughter doubted it.

  Letitia half rose from her chair, her face shocked, unbelieving. This ultimatum, even from Quincy, was beyond grasping.

  “Sit, my dear,” Quincy ordered, and Letitia sank back as though collapsing.

  Her mother’s reaction, coming on top of her own ignorance of what her father had meant, shot a bolt of fear through Allison’s heart. There was something dreadful, obviously, about the Canadian wilds, about remittance men. About her father’s decision.

  Quincy’s attention swung to his daughter. Seeing what he interpreted as unconcern on her face but what was in reality the blankness of incomprehension and being dissatisfied with it, he took it upon himself to add fuel to the fire.

  “Remittance men,” he said. “In case you haven’t heard the term, remittance men are a group of uncontrollable young men who are an embarrassment to their families—” Quincy’s emphasis and his glare spoke of the intensity of his feelings.