by Ruth Glover
“What is it, Allie?” Georgie asked, concerned, pausing in her task of clearing the table.
“It’s, it’s me,” Allison said miserably. “I find myself dreaming, making all these grand plans, and then, and then I remember—”
“Remember?” Georgie prompted.
“Remember that, after all, I’m a . . . remittance girl.” There was deep, deep hurt, even shame, in Allison’s voice, and Georgie, about to make light of the problem, recognized it as a serious one.
“Did you ever think, Allie, that Jesus knows exactly how you feel? In a way, he was a remittance man.”
“Whoa!” Allison unconsciously found use for David’s word and found it a good one. “Jesus? Whatever do you mean, Georgie? He wasn’t guilty of anything.”
“He was stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. He was oppressed. He was despised and rejected of men. Does that sound familiar, Allie?”
“Yes,” Allie said uncertainly.
“Do you know what the word remittance means, Allie?” Georgina was intent now, earnest.
“To send money, a payment.”
Breathing a prayer, Georgie set aside the dishes she held, sat down, fixed her eyes on Allison’s, and said, “Remit has more than one meaning. As well as payment of money, remit means to release from guilt or the penalty of sin.”
Allison looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“The Bible has many references to the remission of sins,” Georgina continued, “and remission is the act or process of remitting. Do you see the connection?”
“I’m trying . . .”
“Here, let me read it to you.” Georgie picked up the Bible so recently laid aside by David. “It’s right here in Romans 3:23. It’s all about righteousness through Jesus Christ. Listen: ‘All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ And sin would mean separation from the Father, right?”
“Right,” acknowledged the separated one.
“Let me read the next few verses: ‘being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation’—that means an atoning sacrifice—‘through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past.’ Did you hear that, Allie? Sins that are past!”
A wondrous light was kindling in Allison’s eyes, replacing the darkness. “My sin—gone, remitted through Christ.”
“He made the payment, Allie; He paid the price.”
It was cause for tears, tears of happiness; it was cause for tremulous praise; it was grounds for victory.
“Now,” said Georgina, with mock severity, rising to her feet and once again gathering up the dirty dishes, “never let me hear you fret because of the past again. You’ve gone from remittance girl to daughter of the King, all in a moment.”
Allison, helping, reached for the drying toast scraps, feeding on the true bread from heaven; she picked up the greasy butter dish and, like Job in his good days, felt her steps were washed with butter; the sticky syrup container was honey in the rock to her.
“They’ll be arriving soon,” Georgina reminded, and the girls fell to with a will, getting the “housekeeping” jobs out of the way. They had baked and cooked the day before, and the dugout table was stacked with goodies awaiting the meal that would be served in the middle of the day, covered with tea towels against a horde of flies or any dirt that might happen to fall from the ceiling.
It had felt good to Allison, since arriving in Bliss, to use her young muscles, to be engaged in physical effort, and she looked forward to helping with the building. Whatever this “chinking” was, she could do it if other women could, she determined.
In preparation she had dressed in the plainest gown she owned, having first, with Georgina’s help, ripped away as much of its trimming as possible. Still, if she’d only known it, its rosy coloring did ravishing things to her dark eyes and hair and the caramel cream of her skin from which the sunburn had receded. Fully recovered from both the sunburn and the scalp injury, she looked the picture of vibrant young womanhood. What’s more, the joy of the Lord, so recently released, brightened her features like sunrise . . . Sonrise.
Down the road they came, appearing through an opening in the bush—the buggies and wagons of Bliss. Men, women, numerous children, waving, calling greetings, pulling into the Mikovic—Abraham—yard, ready to give of their time and strength to help a neighbor.
Brother Dinwoody, preparing to go to the bee, gave instructions to his sons concerning the work to be accomplished that day. Vesta, his wife, who would accompany him, admonished Victoria about her tendency to dream and dally and reminded her of the cream to be churned, the weeds to be pulled.
Brother Dinwoody climbed into the wagon, into which the boys had tossed the tools he would be using at the log-raising. Vesta, and Eliza who would accompany them, placed the basket of food in the rig and climbed up, taking their places alongside Brother Dinwoody on the spring seat.
“In the cupboard are samples of everything I’m taking,” the loving mother said, looking down at the children left behind, and four young faces brightened.
“But don’t go in there and gobble it down now; wait until noon to eat it,” the wise mother warned, and four faces fell.
“Well,” the compassionate mother added, “eat a doughnut now, and save the rest for later,” and four faces shone. Goodbyes were barely over and the wagon down the driveway before the children scrambled for the kitchen and the doughnut plate.
It was good, and pleasant, riding along with one’s wife at one’s side, and one’s daughter, too. So thought Brother Dinwoody. It was at that moment of contentment he heard Vesta clear her throat; it wasn’t a normal sound. Having been married to the same woman for more than a quarter of a century, Brother Dinwoody figured he knew a normal sound when he heard it; he also figured he knew an ominous sound when he heard it.
Alert now, Brother Dinwoody, glancing at his wife to see if he could determine the cause of the ominous sound, intercepted a meaningful glance passing between his wife and his oldest daughter.
Alarm bells rang in the bosom of Adonijah Dinwoody.
“Beautiful day,” he offered . . . quavered, for he dreaded confrontations with his nimble-witted wife. And she’d been far too docile about her upswept hair for too long; Brother Dinwoody felt certain this was about to change.
If he wasn’t mistaken, the corner of his eye caught the movement of Eliza’s elbow as she nudged her mother.
“Adonijah—” Vesta began, and Brother Dinwoody’s heart sank.
Vesta called him by his given name only in the most portentous moments. It had begun with “I take thee, Adonijah” and had continued through all the solemn occasions of their married life. Otherwise it was “Ijah.”
“Adonijah, do you think you might pull off and stop for a bit?”
“We’ll be late—” he began desperately, feeling the net tightening around him.
“Eliza and I,” Vesta said, “have aught against thee.”
Without a doubt, she had his attention. Aught? Aught? Brother Dinwoody was far from ignorant of the Scriptures and recognized the word. But to have used it in everyday speech, or to have heard it used . . .
“Aught?” he asked rather feebly. This was more serious than he had supposed. Finding a wide spot in the road, he pulled off, stopped the team, turned with dread toward the adult females of his family. “Aught?” he repeated.
“It’s Scripture,” Vesta reminded him. “You’re very free at giving out Scripture, Adonijah—topknot come down, indeed! We’ll see if you’re as good at taking it as you are at giving it out.”
“Well, of course—” he began defensively.
“Now, Adonijah,” Vesta began, with Eliza nodding at her elbow, “we, Eliza and I, want you to know that we’ve had enough, more than enough.”
“Enough?” he quavered, his eyes going from one accusing face to the other.
“Enough of this interfering with our personal li
ves. We love you for caring, but you care too much! We want you to be head of the family and give us guidance, but leave our footsteps up to us!”
“Head . . . footsteps . . .” Brother Dinwoody was perspiring, and the sun was barely up.
“This hairdo,” Vesta was continuing. “I’m sick and tired of wearing it up like this, but I can’t take it down if you are going to gloat victoriously because of it. I want to take it down and wear it in any way that I choose.”
Vesta was taking out the hairpins, shaking down her hair, gathering it into a bun, and fastening it to the nape of her neck in the old style. “I’m doing this because of my own free will, not because of your misguided opinion. Will you henceforth kindly leave my hairstyles up to me, whether up or down?”
More than ready, Brother Dinwoody had no trouble giving that assurance.
“And, Papa,” Eliza said, bravely, beseechingly, “provoke not your children to wrath!”
Nailed to the wall, the busybody father could only acknowledge his interference in his daughter’s life, foolishly so, unnecessarily so.
Brother Dinwoody, his eyes closed, admitted to himself that he had been a meddler. Vesta had always shown good sense in all that she did; Eliza had been an obedient daughter in all ways. Whatever had possessed him!
But he knew. A small man in stature, insignificant in most ways, or so he always felt, he had allowed pride to creep in, giving him a feeling of exaltation, a false sense of importance. Speaking from the pulpit—the glorious awareness of people listening to him raptly, the sensation of power and position, the feeling of authority—had been his downfall. The exultation of that experience flickered to life for one final moment before he snuffed it out.
Where, he wondered in the honesty of the moment, had been his acknowledgment of God’s leading? Where the recognition that to God be the glory? Brother Dinwoody groaned and, not reluctantly, laid aside his fleeting moments of importance in favor of his old, usual self, inadequate as it might be.
But Vesta was saying, “Ijah, please just be your old, sweet self. That’s the man I fell in love with, and that’s the man I’m happy to live with.”
And Eliza was adding, “You can trust me, Papa, not to be wayward, not to do anything to disappoint you and Mama. But please go back to being my dear papa once again! I love you, Papa!”
In losing we win, Brother Dinwoody thought dimly as he promised to be himself—his dear self—once again, and he was amply rewarded by a few tears, tender smiles, warm kisses.
Vesta never looked prettier than she did that summer morning with her hair pinned rather precariously to the back of her head. And when they pulled into the Abraham yard and lanky Lars Jurgenson came bounding to the side of the wagon to help a rosy-cheeked Eliza down, Brother Dinwoody gave the lad, very freely, a warm greeting.
Such excitement! Georgina greeted each wagon and buggy, each rider, and David helped secure the horses and rigs. The men of the district swung down, tools in hand or belt, and went to work with a will; most of them knew what they were doing. A few greenhorns were instructed and supervised, put to work notching logs, lifting them into place, assisting in numerous ways.
Four stakes had been joined by twine to outline the size and shape of the house. A trench lowered the first logs for an ideal base; soil would be piled around it by wintertime to add warmth. The corners were fitted as closely as possible for the same reason. The doorsill meant skilled labor, and the windowsills, but experienced hands made short work of them.
Girls stood by, ready to stuff moss and mud mixed with straw between the logs as soon as the men gave the go-ahead signal. Eventually the walls would be plastered with clay and whitewashed.
It would be a simple, snug building, a warm, beloved first home.
Georgina and the Bliss ladies were busy setting up for noon dinner. The fire was kept going in the range to keep the kettles of food hot, either on top of the stove or in the oven. Boards were laid across sawhorses, cloths stretched over them, and dishes set out in preparation of the feast to come; bread was cut; butter, jam, jelly, and pickles were ready. Radishes gleamed like jewels; sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and onions tantalized appetites jaded by winter’s limited cupboard and titillated by summer’s bounty.
Allison never knew she could be so happy, so released. She never knew she could feel kinship with people of the earth. Filling a pitcher with water from the well, she delighted in taking refreshing drinks to the perspiring builders. When it was time for them to come down and eat, she handed out fresh toweling for dank and damp male bodies as the shirtless men splashed water on themselves at the basins set out for them. She filled plates for the children and helped settle them on grass or stumps or wagon tongues to eat. With a knife clutched awkwardly in her hand, she helped with the unaccustomed task of slicing cakes and pies and bread.
Helping, serving, never had she felt more fulfilled; never more contented.
Once and once only she murmured, “Isn’t this fun?” only to be met with puzzled glances. These women, she realized humbly, still had to go home to backbreaking labor and unrelenting responsibilities.
“You’re right, of course,” Mary Morrison said, and a few others nodded belated agreement. “The change, the being together—of course it’s fun. It gives us pleasure to see another home go up. It’s pleasant to eat together, to talk things over.”
“I know I need to learn to relax,” one mother harried with three small children admitted. “To enjoy time off without feeling guilty about it.”
“So don’t give in and give up,” women of experience admonished, perhaps determining to go home giving thanks for blessings rather than bowing under burdens. Both were abundant.
Getting acquainted, working, the day was half gone and the men back to work before Allison realized it. She, with the other women, gathered around tables mostly denuded of food and looked ruefully at the scraps remaining. They hadn’t eaten, and it didn’t look promising.
“Cheer up!” Georgie said. “I set aside a couple of pies, a pot of baked beans, and a plate of garden stuff.”
“Smart woman!” Praises for Georgina’s foresight abounded. “The workman . . . woman . . . is worthy of her hire,” someone misquoted and heard no correction.
Gathered around, filling their plates, settling down comfortably, someone glanced down the road and remarked, “Say, isn’t that the preacher?”
Those who had met him and might know, shaded their eyes. “Sure looks like it. He said he might show up; he had to check on Grandma Jurgenson first. She’s under the weather, the boys said when they rode up.”
Allison righted the cup of a careless child and refilled it with milk.
“Whoa!” The plodding horse pulled up and came to a stop, and someone hurried over to greet the pastor as he dismounted, to ask him if he’d eaten, to urge him toward the table.
Allison, napkin in hand, was cleaning the face of the youngest Polchek when Georgina, with the pastor in tow, stepped to her side, called for her attention.
“Allison, I want you to meet our preacher, Ben Brown.”
Allison looked up. And up. And blinked into the sun shining behind the tall man’s head, giving him a halo of sorts, an other-worldly appearance, as though from a different time and place.
“It’s you!”
There was, in the preacher’s voice, a ring of exultation such as a prospector might use when he struck gold, holding it aloft and publishing his find to the world. A ring such as a father might use when he holds in his arms his first child. A sound that a shepherd might make rejoicing over a lost sheep.
A hand, two hands, reached out to Allison. Two warm hands gripped the ones she automatically, numbly extended. Two hands drew her close.
“It’s you,” the voice said again, exultant, fraught with feeling, rich with emotion. “I’ve prayed; God alone knows how I’ve prayed . . .”
It was unreal; it was wonderfully, marvelously real. By the grip of the hands, holding hers and not about to let her go,
Allison counted it real.
For a brief moment she had the sensation of yesterday falling away as though it had never bound her; of tomorrow stretching out to the horizon and promising fulfillment with blessings and bliss beyond measure; of today, and happiness held—sure and secure—in the palm of her hand . . .
Ebenezer.
Ruth Glover was born and raised in the Saskatchewan bush country of Canada. She has written many poems and books, including the Wildrose series for Beacon Hill. Ruth and her husband, Hal, live in The Dalles, Oregon.
Also by Ruth Glover
A Place Called Bliss
With Love from Bliss
Journey to Bliss
Seasons of Bliss
Bittersweet Bliss