Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  There was a pause. Terry didn't seem very happy at the thought of Mr. Robinson coming to see him.

  “Ruth,” he said at last, “where's the picture—the one you gave us?”

  “Oh, you mean my picture?” I answered. “I don't know, Terry. I suppose your mother's got it.”

  “I'd like to look at it again,” he said. “I told Mum to take it away because it upset me to see that sheep stuck on the rocks and wondering whether maybe the Shepherd couldn't reach it. But as it's Jesus, I expect He could reach anywhere, couldn't he?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered, feeling very sure of myself. “Jesus can reach anywhere. Nobody could stray away so far that Jesus couldn't bring them back. Mr. Robinson told me so, so you needn't worry about the sheep. It's quite all right.”

  “What I'd like,” went on Terry rather dreamily, “would be a picture of that sheep after the Shepherd had picked him up, when he was safe in the Shepherd's arms and being carried home. I'd really like that.”

  “Would you, Terry?” I asked eagerly. “I'll try to get you one. I'll look everywhere and see what I can find.”

  Terry gave a sad little smile and seemed too tired to talk any more, so we sat in silence until his mother came up to settle him for the night, and I slipped downstairs to see whether Philip had finished his lessons.

  I did not forget my promise to Terry, and on the first Saturday of the autumn term I set out to ask Mr. Robinson's advice about the picture. Philip had stayed at school to play in a football match, so I had to go alone.

  Mrs. Robinson was sitting at the window sewing, so I stopped and had a chat and a chocolate biscuit with her. The twins were rolling about in the playpen, and I had a game with them, so when at last I reached the church where Mr. Robinson was getting ready for the Sunday services, it was quite late in the afternoon, so I told him straight away why I had come.

  “Mr. Robinson,” I started, walking up the aisle very fast, “do you remember that picture you gave me?”

  He stopped what he was doing and sat down on the steps. I sat beside him. It was one of the nice things about Mr. Robinson—he always gave you his whole attention.

  “Indeed, I remember it very well,” he replied. “As you know, I have the same one hanging in my room.”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered, “Of course you have. Mr. Robinson, I want to get the next picture to that one. Do you think it would be possible? Do you think there is such a picture?”

  Mr. Robinson looked very puzzled. “I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean by the next picture,” he said gently. “Do you mean another picture by the same artist?”

  “Oh, no,” I answered. “I don't care who's painted it. I mean a picture of what happens next, after the Shepherd has picked up the sheep, and when it's safe in His arms. You see, Terry doesn't like my picture. It makes him feel unhappy because he says he can never feel sure when he looks at it that the Shepherd will really be able to save that sheep. You see, the Shepherd's arms don't look very long and the sheep is a long way down the precipice, and sometimes it bothers Terry so I thought I'd try and get him the next picture, where the sheep is safe, and where there's nothing more to worry about.”

  Mr. Robinson's eyes never left my face while I was speaking, and when he answered, his voice was very serious. “I will try my very hardest to get Terry the next picture,” he said. “But, Ruth, you mustn't let Terry think that about the sheep. Do you think you could teach him a verse from the Bible if I taught it to you first?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered, “I'm sure I could. I've taught him lots already. Is it a Shepherd verse?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mr Robinson. “At least, it doesn't actually mention the Shepherd, but it's about Him all the same. It's this: ‘He is able to save completely those who come to God through Him.’ However far the sheep had strayed, however high it had climbed, however low it had fallen, the Shepherd could still reach it. There are no people in the world, however naughty or however far away from God, whom Jesus cannot save as soon as they ask Him.”

  I looked up quite satisfied. “I'll remember all that,” I said, “and I'll tell Terry. Then he needn't worry about that sheep any longer. Thank you, Mr. Robinson.”

  “On Monday,” my friend promised, as we left the church, “I am going over to Herefordshire and I will look in the shops and see if I can find the picture you want.”

  I told Terry all about it that night, and he was glad to learn the Bible verse. He promised to feel quite certain about the poor sheep getting safe home, because now he understood that even the worst precipice couldn't stop the Shepherd from finding that sheep.

  But poor Terry was very tired that night—so tired that I only stayed a few minutes. His face looked even whiter than usual, and he kept screwing it up as though the pain was very bad. His mother had hardly left him all day, and Aunt Margaret had been cooking really nice things to try and get him to eat something, but it was no use. Terry turned his face to the window and lay silent and uninterested.

  Several days passed and the beech leaves outside began to fall rapidly. Terry hardly spoke, but he liked watching them whirling about, and although his mother sat beside him most of the time, he usually lay looking outside. The doctor came two or three times during the week, but each time he looked so sad and serious that I dared not ask him how Terry was getting on and when he would be able to play again.

  One afternoon I came running in from school to find that Philip was late. Flinging down my school bag, I skipped upstairs and then opened Terry's door very softly, for during the past few days even I had come to realize that I must be quiet here.

  I stopped in amazement in the doorway, for beside the bed sat Mr. Robinson, and Terry's thin face was turned toward him with a sort of smile on it, while he listened to a story about a tiger.

  I pulled up a chair and listened, too, until the end of the story. Then Mr Robinson took out a flat parcel from under his coat. “We waited till you came to open this, Ruth,” he said.

  With eager hands I tore off the paper and string while Terry watched, and when it was unwrapped, it was so beautiful that we both just gave a little gasp and sat staring at it. We were so pleased.

  It was a framed picture of a meadow full of clean white sheep all walking one way and nibbling the grass as they went. In front of them walked a Shepherd with a crook, and in his arms lay a little lamb, peacefully asleep.

  It was Terry who spoke first. “Where's He carrying him to?” he asked suddenly in a worried voice.

  “Home, Terry,” answered Mr. Robinson, with a look on his face that I did not understand then. “Safely through each day until they get home.”

  “Where's home?” went on Terry.

  “It's the place where the Shepherd lives and where we see Him face to face,” Mr. Robinson replied. “Shall I read you something about home, Terry?”

  The boy nodded, and Mr. Robinson took his New Testament from his pocket and read in his slow, clear voice about a place where God lived.

  “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”

  There was another long silence, then Terry spoke again. “Cor!” he whispered thoughtfully. “No more pain! That would be brilliant!” After a minute's thought he added, “Can everyone go, or just good people?”

  “Why, yes,” answered Mr. Robinson. “The gate is open for everyone who wishes to go in and who belongs to the Good Shepherd, whether they've been good or bad. You see, the Good Shepherd died to make every one of us fit to go in. There is an old hymn which goes:

  He died that we might be forgiven,

  He died to make us good,

  That we might go at last to heaven,

  Saved by his precious blood.

  There was no other good enough

  To pay the price of sin.

  He only could unlock the gate

  Of heaven, and let us in.”

  There was another silence,
then Terry whispered, “Tell me some more about them tigers.”

  While he lay listening to the tiger story, Terry fell asleep with his hand on his picture, and Mr. Robinson and I tiptoed out of the room.

  Philip and I went shopping the next Saturday. We bought two daffodil bulbs for Terry, and some fiber to plant them in. We thought we would put them in a bowl on the windowsill so that he could watch the green shoots and the golden flower blossoms next spring. We sat on the floor burying them in the pots, and Terry lay watching us listlessly.

  “Funny,” said Philip suddenly. “You wouldn't think there was a daffodil hidden down inside this dead-looking old thing, would you?”

  “No,” I replied, “you wouldn't. There hardly seems room to pack it all inside. I'm going to bury mine near the top, and then it will come up quicker.”

  “It won't make any difference,” said Philip. “It won't come until its proper time, and when that comes, however far under the earth it's lying, it will shoot up at once.”

  I was about to argue about this when I caught sight of Terry's face. It was even whiter than usual and all twisted up with pain. I wriggled nearer the bed and took hold of his hand.

  “Oh, poor Terry,” I cried. “Is it very, very bad? Shall I fetch your mother?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “She gets so upset when the pain's real bad.” Then, with a sob, he added, “Wish I could go to that place where there ain't no more pain.”

  Philip and I were very upset, for we had never seen Terry like this before. He was such a brave little boy and hardly ever mentioned how much he was suffering.

  “I think,” said Philip softly, after an uneasy silence, “that we'll ask God to take away your pain and help you go to sleep—like in the Bible when people came to Him and He stopped their pains. Kneel down, Ruth, and let's try.”

  Philip had never prayed aloud before, and the words came very haltingly.

  “Dear God, please take away Terry's pain. Please make him well soon. Please let him go to sleep. Amen.”

  Then we opened our eyes and looked hopefully at Terry, for we almost expected to see the pain gone immediately from his face. Terry's eyes were open already and fixed on his picture, which hung just above his bed.

  There were many footsteps up and down the house that night while we lay asleep, for Aunt Margaret and Terry's mother did not go to bed at all, and the doctor arrived just before midnight. But no one heard the feet of the Good Shepherd when He drew near and picked Terry up in His arms.

  Philip's prayer was answered in a way we had never dreamed of. Before the sun had risen again, while the stars were still high in the sky, Terry left his twisted, suffering body, and all his pain, behind him forever.

  The Shepherd had carried him home.

  Mr. Tandy Explains

  The path to the wood was almost overgrown with yellow bracken and tree branches, but I pressed on because I wanted to get right into the heart of it, far away from everybody, where I could sit and think about the strange things that had happened since Terry died.

  I walked a long way—just wandering, kicking at the damp leaves, brushing aside the yellow bracken, and trying to forget that we had left Terry alone in the earth. But I could not forget. When at last I came to a clearing where a great chestnut tree spread out its branches, I lay down on the roots, and resting my head against the trunk I began to cry, and my tears fell thick and fast on the moss.

  I was so tired and so miserable that I never heard slow, heavy steps rustling through the leaves. I jumped when a well-known voice above me spoke to me.

  “Ruth, Ruth,” said the voice, “what is all this about? You'll catch your death of cold lying there on the ground.”

  It was Mr. Tandy. He stooped down and wrapped his big, rough coat about me just as if I had been one of his own stray lambs. Then he sat down on the root, and I snuggled up against him and gave a very big sniff.

  I had not seen Mr. Tandy for several months because he had left our district to go and work at the Cradley folds. I was very pleased to see him, and very glad to have someone to talk to after my lonely walk. I told him all about what had happened. “I prayed so hard Terry would get better,” I said sadly, “but it didn't do any good. God didn't listen, and he died.”

  “Ruth,” replied Mr. Tandy slowly, “if you come to me and say, ‘There's a little lame lamb over there that can't run about because the pasture is too steep and the stones sharp,’ and I come down and pick up that little lamb and carry him in my arms to another pasture where the grass is sweet and the ground easy to run about on, you wouldn't tell me that I hadn't taken any notice of you, would you, now?”

  I gazed at him dumbly. I was beginning to understand.

  “Ruth,” he went on, “the Shepherd took His lamb home, that's all. You've no need to worry.”

  “But,” I cried, my eyes once more filling with tears, “it didn't seem like that at all. They buried Terry in the earth and we left him there, and it seemed so sad and lonely. How can Terry be with the Shepherd when we left him lying in the earth?”

  The old man did not answer for a moment, and then he started scraping about with his hands in the leaves as though he was looking for something. His search was rewarded and he held out a shiny brown chestnut in one hand and an empty seed shell in the other—a withered old thing with green prickles turning brown.

  “Now tell me,” he said in his slow, thoughtful voice, “what's going to happen to the chestnut, and what's going to happen to the seed shell?”

  “Oh,” I answered, “the shell will get buried in the leaves and then I suppose it will just wither away. It isn't needed any more. But the chestnut will grow roots and leaves and turn into a chestnut tree.”

  “That's right,” said Mr. Tandy encouragingly. “You couldn't have said it better. Now tell me this, Ruth. When you see the young chestnut tree waving its little new leaves in the sunshine next spring, with the birds singing around it and the rain watering it, you're not going to worry anymore for that old seed shell that's crumbled away under the leaves, are you?”

  “No,” I answered with my eyes fixed on his face. Once more I thought I understood.

  “Well, then,” said the old man joyfully, “you stop worrying for what you laid below the ground. It was just the shell. Terry's growing strong in the sunshine.”

  His kind old eyes lit up with joy as he spoke. He threw down the chestnut and seed shell and rose stiffly to his feet, because his knees were “full of rheumatics,” as he had once told me. Then he took his coat off me and told me to go home.

  “If I don't get along,” he said, “I shan't get that gap mended, and my sheep will be straying out again. Good-bye, Ruth, and God bless you.”

  I watched him as he moved off into the golden shadows of the wood, and then I stooped down and picked up the chestnut and its shell. Clutching them tightly in my hands, I set off for home rather fast, for I was cold and tired and dusk was falling. When I reached our fields again, the sky was aglow with orange light, and against the sunset stood a little black figure. It was Philip, and he had come to look for me.

  I ran to him and slipped my hand into his, and we walked along in comfortable silence. As we climbed the stile, he glanced at my other hand.

  “What are you holding so tightly?” he asked curiously.

  I opened my hand and held out my new treasure.

  “It's a chestnut and its shell,” I said shyly, “and it's like Terry. Mr. Tandy told me so.”

  “Why?” asked Philip.

  “Because,” I answered, finding it difficult to explain, “what we put in the earth is like the shell. It doesn't matter because Terry didn't need it anymore. The inside part that's alive has gone with the Shepherd, so I'm not really sad about it now. Mr. Tandy said it was like a lamb being taken to another field where the grass is nicer.”

  Philip nodded understandingly. “I see,” he said, “and I'm glad you're not sad anymore.”

  When we got home, we found that Aunt Marg
aret had lit a fire in the nursery, and she, Terry's mother, Philip, and I were going to have supper. It was a lovely, picnicky sort of supper with hard-boiled eggs and treacle, gingerbread, rosy apples and pears, and hot chocolate. I had been for a long walk, and Philip had been playing football, so we were both starving! We wriggled nearer the blaze and rubbed our shoulders together to show how much we were enjoying it. Even Terry's mother smiled faintly.

  When we had eaten all we possibly could, Aunt Margaret, holding out her hands to the blaze, said softly, “Terry's mother and I have been making plans.”

  “Have you?” we asked, very interested. “Will you tell us?”

  “Yes,” said my aunt, “because it's a plan that you can both help with. In fact, I shall need your help a great deal. You see, now that little Terry has gone, we want to do something in memory of him. Terry was weak and ill, and we couldn't help him get better. But there are other weak, ill children whom perhaps we could help to get better. Now that I have Terry's mother to help me in the house, and Ruth is getting so handy, I was thinking we'd try to find some of these children and have them here during the holidays. I used to know someone who worked in a prison in London, and I think he could help us. I thought I would write to him and ask him to find two or three little children who needed good food and country air, and invite them here for Christmas. We would give them as lovely a time as possible. Would you like it, Philip and Ruth?”

  We thought it was a wonderful idea, and both of us began to talk at once, eagerly planning what we would do to make it a happy Christmas for them. It was a great relief, for somehow, since Terry died, we had almost felt as though we should not talk about other things. Now we could talk freely and happily about this, for it was all because of Terry and somehow part of Terry.

  So we planned about Christmas stockings and Christmas carols and Christmas dinners and Christmas trees, and our cheeks got redder and redder in the firelight and our eyes grew brighter and brighter.

  “Auntie,” I cried at last, cuddling up against her, “it is a good idea. How did you think of it?”